“Actually, that is right.” He looked across at me, with those same eyes I’d seen for more than four decades. “Your only role in this is as the attorney for the estate, Johnny, nothing more. Just keep me in the loop, if you get a call from Frank.”
I shifted my gaze to the black-and-white photographs on the wall. “So now I’m like an answering service for the Lakewood Police.”
Bernie spread his arms. “Hey …”
“Don’t worry.” I waved him off. “And I think he’ll call. He’s eager for his share, no doubt.”
Bernie folded his hands on the table. “Of course, we both know that you might not hear from him anymore. He could have decided that the rest of his inheritance isn’t worth the risk of drawing the attention of the Andar Feo. He could’ve just disappeared. Or, he could be in a position where he can’t make a call, if you get my drift.”
“Yeah, I’ve thought of that. Poor bastard.”
Bernie leaned forward, cradled the cup in his hands, and rested on his elbows. “Remember that time, freshman year, you got all fucked up, pissed at your old man again, and climbed that trestle out in Bay Village? You were screamin’ at the top of your lungs that you were the King of the Fucking World, acting like a damn lunatic, and … you’re kind of on edge now.”
“Bernie, c’mon …”
“This is a friend talkin’ here. None of us become kings, right? We wind up with mortgages and marriages and jobs we’d like to shove. And findin’ Oyster … that kind of thing can throw you for a loop. I think you should see a priest, a counselor, whatever you have to do.”
“Okay, Bernie.” I wondered if Cathy had called him and had a little chat.
“I’m gonna tell you something now that the public won’t know, something about the killing in Shaker Heights. I want you to understand that you’re in way over your pay grade.”
I leaned forward.
“It wasn’t just his head that was cut off, Johnny. Butcher did somethin’ new with this one. Sliced his dick up like a banana, left the pieces in his gut.” He abruptly stood and grabbed his jacket. “Now, you focus on Cathy and Molly and walk away from this shit. Got it?”
I took a swig of the tepid coffee and nodded.
12
As I pulled out of the lot, I called Marilyn and arranged to take the rest of the day off. Waiting on Frank was eating at me—I couldn’t imagine even a lowlife like him being used for carving practice by the Andar Feo. And I had no idea what to make of his guarded comments about his sister. Instead of sitting around and waiting for his call, I decided to take the initiative. Maybe Jennifer had forgotten something, some detail of his life, that might help us figure out a clue to finding him.
Or perhaps there were other reasons that I wanted to talk with her. The previous day, following our tense discussion after her birthday dinner, Cathy and I had exchanged few words. More than once, my mind had drifted to a recollection of Jennifer’s tender kiss. As I began dialing her number, my thoughts were once again of her sensual embrace, her lips. My finger wavered over the last digit, but I completed the call.
I immediately thought better of it and nearly hung up, but she was suddenly on the line.
“It’s good to hear from you, John.” Hearing her voice was like tasting maple syrup. “And I’m doing better. Talking to you helped.”
“Good, I’m glad we talked too.” I turned toward Clifton Boulevard to avoid the annoying series of traffic signals on Detroit Road. I’d thought about our call, our kiss too much. “Look, I just saw Bernie Salvatore, and he asked about Frank again. They’ve run into a dead end. I think it’s time to get proactive and quit waiting on Frank.”
“What do you mean? He’s—”
“I’m going to try to find him.”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “This is a matter for the cops, John. You already told me that.”
“Yup, but like I said, they’re getting nowhere.”
“I don’t know …”
“And it makes handling the estate easier, too. If I can get him to buy into your decisions about what to liquidate, what to distribute …”
“I’m not worried about that, John. No matter what, I’ll be fair.”
“I know that. Still, the way he is, who knows what he might try to claim later?”
She sighed. “But searching for him? It just sounds risky.”
“I’m only talking about asking around, that’s all.” I turned right at an intersection marked by a landmark restaurant built to resemble a lighthouse and headed east to reconnect with Detroit. “We know where he last lived; I’ll start with the neighbors. Someone might know him and have some idea where he’d hang out.”
“Haven’t the police already done that?”
“Sure, but the type of people he’d know don’t enjoy talking to cops, let alone giving them tips. My angle will be different, a little Irish charm. If nothing else, when he hears that I’m looking, he might decide to call.”
There was a pause on her end, and then she said, “Maybe I should go with you.”
I expected that if Frank knew Jennifer was on his tail, he would vanish. “You know what he said about you. If he hears that you’re searching—”
“Let’s not make his imaginings our problem, John.”
I wanted to avoid an argument, so I shifted my approach. “I expect, despite everything, that you’re worried about your brother. But it’s not safe. I’m headed through Gordon Square now, and it gets pretty rough from here on.”
“Don’t misunderstand; I’m not worried about him at all.” There was steel beneath the timbre of her voice. “But I don’t believe for a second that Dad gave him that money legitimately, and I want the truth.”
“Not a good idea.” I passed a few popular restaurants near the revived Capitol Theatre, but I knew that the stretch of gritty blocks ahead hadn’t exactly jumped on the urban renewal bandwagon. “Someone who looks like you, going into the places where your brother probably hung out …”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, John, but c’mon. Where should I meet you?” Her tone was beguiling.
She had chutzpah, for sure. “Let’s compromise. There’s a diner near Frank’s old hood, Ed’s Eggs on Detroit. The food’s nothing special, but the crowd’s not bad, and the parking lot’s lit. Drinks on me.”
“All right, Senor Hero, we’ll do it your way.”
“Can’t stay late. My wife’s upset about this Butcher scare and … my kid—I want to be there to tuck her in.”
“Of course. You just be careful out there.”
There was a genuine concern in her voice that touched me, not to mention the fact that I melted at the hero bullshit and had to admit that I wanted to see her, at least for a while. We arranged a time to meet at Ed’s Eggs, and I slowed to turn onto West Forty-Second, the location of Frank’s last known apartment.
I dodged a few potholes on the rugged street and found a place to park. My Buick contrasted with the beaters lining the curb. The houses were an arm’s length apart, mostly duplexes that cried out for coats of paint and a rehab crew.
I soon wearied of flashing my photo of Frank at unreceptive residents. Just when I was about to call it a day, though, some ape-man, backed up by a slightly more hairy pit bull, let on that he’d seen my elusive quarry at a bar called the Alley.
I knew of the roughhouse joint, but only because the crime reporters for the PD often mentioned the name. The ape-man gave me curt directions, and I soon found myself pulling to the curb in front of a yellowed concrete building with a single darkened window. Scrawled white lettering on a faded red sign, bolted onto a black door, announced that I’d found the right place.
Inside, the ambiance was equally charming. A timeworn wooden bar along one wall hosted a scruffy collection of patrons, mostly clad in leather and jeans. Long hair and unkempt beards seemed to be the fashion code. Four top tables were sparsely occupied, and a couple of tattered dartboards hung on cheap paneling. The decor consisted of posters feat
uring gorgeous chicks, draped in revealing strips of leather and splayed across gleaming motorcycles.
The bartender was a sweaty, fat guy with a pockmarked face and a black ponytail. He eyed me up and down as I moseyed to the bar. “Need something?”
“Budweiser, thanks. Draft.” My eye caught a couple of scraggly dudes in black leather vests playing pool with two waifish girls, both parading garishly colored hair and bare midriffs.
He ambled over and drew the beer, unconcerned about a generous amount of foam. A golden earring in the shape of an Iron Cross dangled from one ear. Marilyn had much better taste. “Buck twenty-five.”
At least the price was right. “I’m looking for somebody—”
“You a cop?”
“No, a lawyer.”
“Ohhh, sorry, coun-se-lor.” He raised his eyebrows and mugged for the creepy barflies, who laughed. Every set of eyes seemed to bore into me.
“The guy’s name is Frank Frederickson. I’m told he hung out here.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Thin guy, little mustache, some tats. Here’s a pic.”
He barely glanced at the photo and rolled his eyes at the other barstool guys. “Like I said, nope.”
“Hey, I hate botherin’ you, man, but this is important.”
“We get all sorts of important shit in here.”
I turned to his audience. “C’mon, any of you know who I’m talkin’ about?”
The bartender raised a hand. “Nobody comes down here to get no third degree. Take a fuckin’ hike.”
“Thanks for nothing.” I shoved away from the bar.
I’d taken about two steps when somebody grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around. I was face-to-face with a big son of a bitch wearing a white muscle shirt and a chain knotted around his waist for a makeshift belt. One pumped-up bicep sported a tattoo of a red skull with yellow flames shooting from the eye sockets. I guessed he was the bouncer when he leaned over me and said, “Like he told you, get the fuck out.” His breath smelled like he’d been eating cigarettes.
All conversation had died. Other patrons watched us now, enjoying the intimidation of a middle-aged white dude. A Hispanic guy at a table in the far corner stared over his shoulder, and the back of his denim jacket read Andar Feo. Jesus Christ, someone had told them about the Alley too. I had to call Bernie.
“Hey, be cool. I’m leaving.”
Hearing the tremor in my voice, the bastard sneered. The steps toward the exit seemed to take forever as every hard eye burned into my back. Once outside, though, I stopped dead. Two more Hispanic guys, clad in Andar Feo jackets, stood near the curb. Strolling away as nonchalantly as possible, I pulled out my cell and scrolled to Salvatore’s contact info.
He picked up, thank God, on the second ring. “Bernie, it’s John. I’m at the Alley Bar—”
“The Alley? Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”
A hand gruffly landed on my shoulder and spun me around again. The bouncer’s fist drove into my nose and knocked me backward, into the hard ground. The cell went flying. I pressed a hand against my face and felt the smear of blood.
“Just a reminder not to come back.”
I stood up. The guy had a couple of inches and a lot of muscle on me. All I had on him was a lot of hard-lived years and the occasional jog. Despite Jack’s coaching, fighting was not my strong suit. The bouncer leered, daring me to try something. Maybe it was the Butcher, maybe the tension at home, maybe everyone asking if I was okay, but I clenched my fists. He smiled and motioned me forward. He seemed surprised when I threw a right hand at his chin, but he blocked the punch and hit me once, twice, in the gut. My butt was planted on the grass again, the wind knocked out of me.
The bouncer loomed, his tattoo visible in the streetlight, and then hauled off and kicked me in the ribs. When the Andar Feo guys chuckled and strolled over, the bouncer said, “Guy’s a lawyer.”
The Mexicans exchanged a glance that seemed to say well, that explains everything. I prayed that the three of them didn’t gang up on me and that neither of the Andar Feo guys felt like honing his carving skills. My ribs were on fire, but I sat up and bluffed, “The cops know I’m here.”
They laughed like hell, as though I wasn’t worth their time, and strolled back into the bar. I crawled around to find my cell and catch my breath. Bernie had disconnected but had tried calling, twice. Rolling to my knees, I stood up and pressed the callback.
“Talk to me, John.”
“Some fucker coldcocked me.”
“What the hell were you doin’ at the goddamn Alley?”
I pressed my hanky against my nose. “A guy gave me a lead on Frank—”
“You didn’t call me? You fuckin’ promised.”
“I wanted to check it out.”
“That worked real well.”
“Bernie, Jesus. The Andar Feo were here, three of ’em. That’s why I called.”
“Wow. Why don’t you see if you can buy them a beer, ask if they’ll wait around to chat with some cops?”
“Bernie …”
“You get another damn tip, you call me. Maybe now you’ll figure out you should be home with Cathy, not runnin’ around, getting into street fights.”
“I’m only tryin’ to help. I’m the one Frank’s talking to, nobody else.”
“So that means you should play detective. The Alley? What the hell.” He took his time spitting out each word. “Thought you had your ass kicked enough in high school. Get the fuck home!”
“I hear you, Bernie.” Home, sure, but not right away. I’d promised Jennifer that we’d meet at Ed’s Eggs, but that was nothing my old friend needed to know.
The nosebleed seemed to have stopped, although a few drops had trickled onto my beige shirt. My nose and ribs throbbed. But the beating would be worth it if only Frank would surface. I had to stare into his shifty eyes, probe every word he said, and determine for myself if Jennifer was telling me the truth.
13
“Jesus,” Jennifer said as I took the seat across from her. The bright lights of Ed’s Eggs seemed to illuminate my swollen nose and the drops of blood on my shirt. It seemed as though customers at every table and the Formica-topped breakfast bar craned their necks in my direction. “What happened?”
“Some asshole jumped me outside a bar where Frank might have been.”
“Looks like he didn’t buy your Irish charm.”
“I know I look a mess, but I didn’t want to stand you up.” A waitress who looked like she could have played for the Browns lumbered toward the table and gave me a long look. We ordered drinks but declined her proffer of discolored plastic menus. Although Ed’s had a reputation of catering to people who were sloshed enough to eat hubcaps, the food wasn’t really that bad. I just wasn’t hungry.
Jennifer scrutinized my face. “Should I take you to the ER?”
“No, it’s okay. Not the first time I’ve been punched.” Truth be told, my last fight was in ninth grade. After that, luckily, everyone understood that Bernie was my protector. “All I learned about Frank was where he used to drink. But the Andar Feo, they were there.”
“You called the cops?”
“Yeah, but that gang’s not hanging around to chitchat, and if they did, what would they say?” The fact that the Andar Feo had been nearby was chilling. I pictured Jennifer with no lips, only a stark grimace of skeletal teeth.
She reached over and gripped my hand. “At least you tried.”
Her touch was warm and tender. How could someone so sensitive be the ghoul that Frank claimed to fear? The waitress returned with our drinks, and I took a sip of the whiskey, which reduced the throbbing in my head by a degree. Jennifer pulled out her own photo of Frank; he looked just as homely in her pic as he did in mine.
“Ever see this guy?”
“I think so.” The waitress scrunched her face together, the fat forming thick crests under her eyes as her jowls rose. “He might hang with Mary sometimes.”
“Could we see her? He’s my brother; it’s important.”
She shrugged as she turned away. “Okay. Soon as she’s back from her break.”
“Christ, I should’ve started here.” I raised my eyebrows. “Might have saved me a nose.”
Moments later, a lean girl pushed through a set of double doors from the kitchen. The waitress waved and pointed at us. “These people wanna talk to you.”
Cautious, Mary approached. She was pleasant looking, if not exactly pretty, with thick shadow, the color of spinach, rimming her eyes. Jennifer explained who we were and handed her the headshot of Frank.
Mary’s green-ringed baby browns widened just a hair, and she studiously examined the photo for a long while. Then she grimaced and said, “Sorry, can’t place him.”
“Look, I’m his sister, and I need to talk to him.” She tipped her head in my direction. “He’s our lawyer.”
Mary eyed me. “When I got divorced, the lawyer came out of it better than me.”
Great. Some sleazebag with a briefcase had made it less likely that she’d trust me. “Sure you don’t recognize him?”
“I’d like to help, but …”
“Believe me, we’re here for his own good.” I handed her my card and drained the whiskey. “Office and cell. If you see Frank, have him call me, okay?”
She twisted my card gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, as if she were trying to avoid the taint of lawyer. “Okay. If I see him, I mean.”
Before we left, I went to the bathroom and rinsed my nostrils of dried blood. Goddamn but my face felt raw, and the splashing water stung. The mirror prodded me to suck in my gut and tuck in the bloody shirt. When I returned, we made our way to the parking lot. “She’s lying,” Jennifer said. “She knows where he is.”
“My guess is that she knows a way to reach Frank, maybe even where he is. The ball’s in his court then.”
“Just like it’s been.”
We reached her car, and she turned to face me. I didn’t want the evening to end, particularly not on a discussion of Frank and the Andar Feo. “If things were different, I’d take you someplace else, someplace nice for a nightcap …”
The Company of Demons Page 8