A Far Gone Night (23 page)

W
hen I exited Mike’s Asylum I was amazed at how cold it had become. I hopped into my truck and cranked the engine and the dashboard told me it was 22 degrees. That meant it would be in the teens tonight. Good to know.

I drove over to the Pony Club, circling the block and watching. It was too early for the club to open, but there were two cars in the Employees’ Parking area. One was a Jaguar and the other was a Honda Civic. I made the decision to wait for Ivan because the Jag was clearly Ted
Hornung’s
wheels and Ivan would not fit in the Civic. I figured employees would start showing up before long.

I parked two blocks from the club by a wooded vacant lot, got out, shrugged into my pea coat, and hid my shotgun inside the coat, secured upside-down by a loop I had sewn in for just that purpose years ago. I pulled my hoodie down over my head and sauntered over to a place in some bushes across the street from the Pony Club. It was cold, and I was not much interested in waiting around, but I had a hunch Ivan would show up before long. I slipped on my gloves.

He did appear, but not before three other vehicles came, parked in the employees’ lot, and disgorged their passengers. I recognized them all from the rumble Moon and I had had a little over a week ago. They were the black security force. They went inside.

When a big Chevy S10 extended cab pickup truck came around the corner, I stepped behind a tree to avoid being seen, but allowed myself an angle to observe who was driving. It was Ivan. He pulled into the parking lot even as I quickstepped in his direction, pulling my hoody down over my face, hiding me from the cameras in the parking lot. Ivan shut off the engine and sat there, behind the wheel, for a couple of minutes, probably meditating on his past sins and seeking forgiveness, giving me time to slip up nearby out of sight from his mirrors. When he gingerly eased himself out of the truck, obviously still a little tender from my applications of force a little over a week ago, I was waiting for him.

He looked surprised when he saw me, said, “What the f—”

By way of greeting, I punched him hard in the ribs on his left side where I had struck him with the baseball bat. Ivan yelped and bent over, trying to cover up. His face was a rictus of pain and I was glad. If Marty Rodman’s information was accurate, I had found the key to solving Cindy’s murder. I punched him in the same place again, bringing his head down to my level. The man was huge, but I had him.

I said, “Straighten up and do what I say. I’m going to get in with you and then we’re going for a little ride. Don’t even think about messing with me or I’ll kill you.”

To encourage his cooperation, I shoved hard against his broken ribs. This time he cried out in pain. But he followed instructions. I hurried around and got in the passenger’s side, unlooping Elsie from inside my pea coat. Ivan turned his head and saw the shotgun pointed at him. I admit it, Elsie looks malevolent and terrible, a weapon built for close quarters killing.

“This gun can go off at the slightest pressure, Ivan, and if you try anything, slam on the brakes, drive into a tree, I promise you she will go off. You’ll be a mess. Just an explosion and tremendous noise and a great sense of pressure, then knowing that you’re going to die quickly; that is, if you live long enough to have a thought.”

“How do you know my name, and what the hell do you want?” he asked, his right arm snaking across him, holding his side. His face was pale.

“I want you to do as I say,
Ivan
,” I said as I cinched in my seatbelt. “Turn on the ignition and follow my instructions.”

He cranked the engine and it roared into life. I glanced at the interior of the cab. It was messy with candy wrappers and bits of food, a couple of empty Miller Light beer cans, a bottle of water. A heavy, hooded sweatshirt slung between the seats. A pack of Winston Lights had fallen to the floor on my side, matchbook tucked into the cellophane. I told him where to drive and he did, and in minutes we were heading north out of town, then into the deep woods. Ivan drove in silence with an occasional, furtive look in my direction.

I was glad I had broken his ribs because a healthy Ivan in that cab would have been a potential problem for me if he decided to be noncompliant. But he was broken up and in fresh pain and I had the shotgun pointed at his belly. At that point, I was pleased with my position.

“There’s a dirt road coming up shortly, just a few miles from here. Turn there and keep going,” I said after we had driven a while.

Ivan grunted and nodded his head, slowing as we approached the road. He turned left, the only direction available, and continued. The road looked neglected. It had a grassy spine and no indication of traffic in a long time. There was no snow on the ground now, melted away by a couple of days in the upper 30s. But it was cold today. We rode in silence, a potentially rough ride smoothed out by the big truck’s weight and shocks. Another road, no more than a nearly-invisible path, led off to the right. I told Ivan to take it. He hesitated,
then
turned.

“You forgot your turn signal,” I said.
“Time for a citizen’s arrest.”
Then I laughed.

Ivan shot me a worried look. “Where are we going, man?”

“Shut up and drive, Ivan. We’re going someplace people don’t go, and probably never will. It’s very private. I don’t think you’ll like it.”

After another mile or so, I told him to stop next to a white birch tree. He did. I told him to get out. He did. I got out, bringing my tote bag with me, and walked around, looking in the back of his truck. There was a gas can and a large metal tool box, tire chains, and a pair of jumper cables. Good to know that Ivan seemed resourceful. He would need to be.

“Okay, Ivan,” I said approaching him, “go stand against the tree and put your hands at your sides.”

“I
ain’t
doin
’
nothin
’ like that, you fuck!”

I set my bag down and walked up to him. As I got within reach, he did what I knew he would do. He grabbed for the shotgun. Anticipating that, I swung the gun around and cracked the barrel against the side of his head as hard as I could,
staggering
him. Then, while he was still dazed, I slapped the barrel up against his head again, same place, and he sat down hard. I pulled off his sweater and tossed it aside. He was wearing a threadbare gray t-shirt with
Property of Chicago Bulls
in black print across the chest. An orange basketball was centered below the printing.

“Get up. Do what I said.” I gestured toward the white birch tree. Ivan struggled upright, glared at me, touched his fingers to his head and looked at the blood on his fingers.

“You’re crazy, man,” he said. I pointed Elsie at his face. He wobbled over to the tree and stood with his back against it.

“What’re you
gonna
do?” he asked.

“Maybe nothing.
Maybe kill you.
Maybe something in between.
It’s up to you. You’re in charge, the master of your fate, the captain of your ship. I have some questions and you’re going to answer them correctly or die.” Then, sotto voce, I said, “Some of the images involved in your situation may not be suitable for children.” I laughed again, a short, hard laugh.
“That good enough for you?”

Nothing.

I ordered Ivan to put his hands against his sides and stand still or I’d kill him right off. He appeared convinced.

I fished out two rolls of duct tape from my New York Public Library tote bag, got the duct tape started, pressing it against the back of the tree, then, all the time training Elsie on his belly, I quickly made several circuits around his gut, binding him to the birch. I finished that roll of duct tape, took out the other roll and taped his legs to the tree, then more tape on his torso. He looked snug when I finished.

“Thanks for helping!” I chirped, wiggling my eyebrows like a demented Groucho Marx.

Ivan looked troubled.

“What happens next, Ivan, depends entirely on you. I am not going to waste time and dance around. It’s too cold out here. Below freezing, and the sun is going down and it’s
gonna
get
real
cold real soon. Street people will be spending the night in meat lockers just to stay warm. So don’t impede my progress by saying dumb stuff, like ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I can’t remember.’ You’re not a member of the government. You can’t take the Fifth Amendment. You’re just a man out here in the middle of nowhere with someone who is really pissed off about what you and your pals did to my friend’s niece. Understand?”

“Fuck you.”

“I had a hunch you’d say that. You are choosing to not cooperate and, in a way, that makes me happy, because now I can use some of my cool ideas to see if they work. Remember, what is about to happen to you is for entertainment purposes only.
My entertainment.”
I faked another giggle, pulled up my left pant leg, and unsheathed my
Ka
-bar knife. I walked up to Ivan and spoke. I said, “If you go wiseass on me again, I am going to cut something off your body. It won’t be your ears; that went out with Viet Nam. And it won’t be your scalp, that’s something reserved for you Indians. Guess what I’m going to cut off?”

Ivan looked down.

“No, Ivan, I won’t cut any of your manhood away. I’ll
cut off your damn lips!
” I screamed. I feinted with the knife toward his face.

The big Indian startled and pulled his head back, banging it against the tree and said, “I’ll be good,” as if he were a little child. I had a hunch I was getting inside his noggin.

I stepped back. “That was wise, Ivan, because if I cut off your lips, no amount of plastic surgery will help fix it. You’ll look like a leering maniac the rest of your life. No more kissy-face with beautiful women, no more smacking your lips after eating pumpkin pie, you won’t even be able to do this.” I gave him a Bronx cheer. I couldn’t help but laugh, genuinely so. I was starting to have fun as I morphed into my sadistic side. The look on his face was beyond any price, and my laughter just reinforced it. “So, now that you’ve agreed to be civil, we can proceed.
Okey
dokey
?”

“You’re crazy, man,” he said.

I said, “You have no idea,” and then I chuckled a little, then a lot, then threw back my head and cut loose, laughing my head off. When I stopped, I noticed in his dark eyes the look of someone who was wrestling with basic life issues, instincts, and permutations on his situation.

“Now, Ivan, this is the
big
question. Your lips, your miserable life depend on your answer. Who killed Cindy Stalking Wolf?”

“I don’t know, man. I don’t!”

I said nothing. I walked up to him, took my knife, and sliced away his right pants leg from high up on the thigh, then I slit it down the side and cut it into two strips. I tossed them aside. Superficial scratches appeared on his bare leg where the knife had barely grazed him. A little bit of blood beaded out from the marks.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. He didn’t realize he was bleeding.

“I’m the one who asks the questions. But, since your question was politely provided, I will tell you. I’m making tourniquets for you.”

“What?”

“How tall are you, really, Ivan?
Six-six, six-seven?”

“I am six-eight and a half,” he said, pride in his voice, as if he had decided, when he was in third grade, if he got that far, how tall he was going to be,
then
achieved it through willpower.

“You won’t be that tall in just a little bit because I’m going to take my shotgun here and shoot your feet off just a smidgeon up from the ankles. Don’t worry, you’ll still be tall, but your dancing days will be done for. No more soccer, no more pirouettes on the dance floor. No more walking tippy-toes when you sneak up on innocent girls to turn them into whores. The tourniquets will be applied to the bottom of your legs so you won’t bleed to death. You’ll live, but you’ll be much shorter. Now,
wanna
tell me who killed Cindy Stalking Wolf?”