Delivering Death: A Novel (Riley Spartz) (5 page)

“I’m almost off duty, Nick. Why don’t we grab dinner and I’ll fill you in on the mall’s upcoming venture. It might pose some special security challenges.”

That sounded like news so I scrambled to my feet and put myself back into the conversation. If I couldn’t deliver a curfew story, maybe I could appease Bryce with some other Mall of America idea. Preferably one I could hand off to another reporter.

“So what’s ahead for the mall, Velma?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said. “But here’s a hint: Hollywood loves weddings.”

They both said good-bye to me, following in the bridal party’s shadow, I waited, just in case Garnett glanced back at me to wink, or even roll his eyes. But he kept walking, so I headed in the opposite direction alone, resenting Bryce for making me come there.

At the mall entrance, a security guard was still checking teens for curfew. A woman with a large pile of packages and bags with designer labels waited for a ride. She was leaving, proud of her shopping spree, while I was leaving heavyhearted and empty-handed.

I ducked back inside to buy some gourmet chocolate caramels from a shop near the door—even though I suspected St. Apollonia would disapprove.

T
he drive south to my high school reunion the next day took me past the headquarters of Hormel Foods. The best proof of the political clout wielded by the corporation was the seven freeway exits in a town with about 20,000 residents.

Having failed to RSVP, I essentially crashed the party, but nobody seemed to care. Some people had changed—gaining weight or losing hair—but I had no trouble recognizing who was a classmate and who was a mere spouse.

I could tell by their talk. And it all came down to one word: Hormel.

Anyone who grew up around Austin, Minnesota, pronounced the giant meatpacking company as HOR-mal, rhyming with “normal,” just the way founder George A. Hormel did more than a century ago. Outsiders called it Hor-MEL. The change came about when an advertising agency taping a radio commercial thought Hor-MEL sounded better. Most people in the area continued to pronounce it the same way their ancestors did, despite the rest of the country making the switch.

“Riley Spartz!” A group of classmates flagged me over to the keg for a glass of foaming beer.

I waved back, mouthing, “No, thanks.” I wandered over to the buffet table and saw a sad spread of sloppy joes and potato chips.

“Good to see you after so many years.” A former cheerleader gave me a superficial hug, then glanced behind me. “Are you here alone?”

I realized high school had ended long ago, but I briefly regressed back to my teenage days grappling with the question of why no one had asked me to prom yet. At this stage of my life, I sure didn’t want to admit I had no husband, no children, and not even a boyfriend. So I lied.

“He had to work tonight.”

The funny thing was, if Garnett and I had remained a couple, he would have insisted we attend my reunion. He was a family history buff and would have considered it part of my—and thus our—life story. He would have paged through my yearbook ahead of time, asking who was popular, who was smart, who were the bullies, and which boys I had crushes on.

I shifted my thoughts back to the present when a former teacher mentioned seeing me on the news the other night. “How’s life on TV?”

“Terrific.” I continued to lie, rather than rob him of the belief that one of his students held a glamorous job. “News is one thing we never run out of.”

That halted a nearby discussion on the price of corn and opened a rant on what’s wrong with the media in America.

“Every time I watch your station, you seem to be reporting on crime,” said Maureen Noterman, editor of the weekly newspaper. “Maybe you should try reporting good news. That’s what
our
readers want.”

Easy for her to say since her coverage area was far removed from most real lawlessness. And there was no sense in trying to explain that good news wasn’t always
real
news, so I diplomatically agreed to pass that suggestion onto my boss and used the old ploy of needing to find a restroom to end our conversation.

The community bulletin board in the lobby caught my eye. A flyer with a photo of a dog stood out from the upcoming rummage
sales and church dinners. It read
MISSING
across the top, while the bottom offered
REWARD
in the same bold letters.

It was a cute spaniel. Too bad.

“That’s the second dog to disappear in two months.” Maureen had followed me. “No sign of either of them. Maybe you could put it on the news.”

While I’d had considerable experience covering missing people, missing dogs were a whole different issue. Dangerous things regularly happen to dogs out in the country. They can be hit by cars. Or bullets. Even poisoned. Savage animals can tear into their hides and leave them bleeding to death out of sight.

“Whose dogs?” I asked.

“The Kloeckners and Mertens,” she said. “Not too far from your parents’ place.”

Like most news directors, Bryce liked animal stories because viewers like animal stories. That’s why zoo babies get so much airtime. But I knew it would be an impossible pitch.

For starters, two missing dogs were
not
a trend. For all we knew, they ran away.

Most rural residents, including my parents, let their farm dogs run loose. It really isn’t practical to chain them up, because part of their job is to keep wild creatures away from the buildings and bark an alert if strangers drive in the yard. To do that, they need freedom to roam.

Next, my hometown was far outside of Channel 3’s broadcast area, which made it difficult to get stories approved because rural viewers watching the news on satellite television are less desirable to Twin Cities advertisers.

“Seems like a better fit for your paper,” I said.

“We listed for readers to be on the watch for the pets, but we can’t do much more. We cover school, sports, and community events. We don’t have much of a staff. Mostly just me. We count on readers to send us news.”

“The town’s lucky to still have a local newspaper.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry for how I sounded earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it, Maureen. I hear worse from viewers all day long.”

“I have the same problem with constituents.” A thin man in a plaid flannel shirt and jeans was holding a beer and listening to us talk.

Phillip McCarthy had also graduated in my class. He flashed me a smile, which was more attention than he had paid me all through high school. His claim to fame then was bringing home a state trophy for running the hundred-yard dash. A few years ago, Phil had been elected to serve as a state legislator when the current lawmaker from that district resigned midterm after a sex scandal.

“How are things going up at the Capitol?” I asked.

I seldom covered state government unless some kind of corruption was afoot, and only asked to be polite so he could sound important in front of our classmates. He went on and on about how the other political party wouldn’t compromise. It was becoming tedious, and just when I was about to use that old ploy again about having to look for a restroom, he asked me out on what sounded like a date.

“How about you and I get together for dinner sometime, Riley?”

Just then the band started playing our prom song—“Everything I Do, I Do for You”—so I pretended I couldn’t hear him. He pulled me out on the dance floor anyway, and during an instrumental part of the ballad, suggested again that we get together socially. “We could talk about old times.”

By then I mustered a suitable answer that would save face for both of us. “Sorry, Phil, it could pose a conflict of interest, especially during the legislative session.”

Other than sharing our single status and hometown, I doubted we had much in common and had no interest in getting in bed with a politician.

I
nmate 16780-59 hit the floor after being sucker-punched by a swaggering thug with a long braid of hair hanging down his back.

“If anyone asks,” the brute whispered, “tell them you tripped.”

“Tripped,” a fellow ruffian echoed. “That’s a good name for a clumsy punk like you. Trip. From now on, that’s your handle. Understand?”

The first hood hauled him to his feet and pushed him against a wall. “So what’s your name, punk?”

He wanted them to just leave so he could puke. “Trip. My name is Trip.”

“Prove it.”

He was confused and tried again to comply. “Call me Trip.” He even smiled at them, hoping to pass their test.

“
Not
until you prove it,” the man insisted.

“Fall on your face, idiot,” the other man ordered. “
Trip
.”

So the inmate dropped to the floor and curled his arms over his head, trying to make himself invisible as he waited to be kicked.

The larger man leaned over him. “That’s what I want to see happen anytime we meet. You hitting the ground.”

The goons snickered as he limped back toward his cell to barf in the sink, and curl up with a thin prison pillow on a narrow
vinyl mattress. His bunk mate was about half his age and called Kilo because he had landed in the slammer for dealing coke. Kilo had played nice by letting the old guy have the lower bed, but offered little sympathy regarding bullying behind bars.

“New guys, they get roughed up.” Kilo shrugged at the inevitable. “Wait em out, Trip. When a new new guy arrives, they’ll forget about you. Kind of like college hazing.”

“Please don’t call me Trip. My name is Jack.”

“Not if they say it’s Trip. Trip’s what I’m calling you. I got to watch my own back.”

That exchange wasn’t reassuring for an incarcerated rookie who feared an escalation of violence. He inhaled deeply and told himself to stop acting like a patsy and start thinking like the Jack Clemens who used to rule Minneapolis finance circles. He had honed shrewd instincts about gauging who wielded real clout in business negotiations. He was used to making deals happen. And his future now depended on his ability to close one inside prison walls.

“Maybe we could look out for each other?” he suggested.

“Keep me out of it,” Kilo replied. “Your problems are your problems.”

“But say I wanted to discuss protection with someone, who?”

“Protection? In a place like this? Protection sometimes buys more trouble at a steep price. Better to stay out of their way.”

“There must be someone running that type of operation.”

Kilo paused and lowered his voice. “Okay, there’s this guy—Scarface—but don’t mention me.”

“Scarface? You mean like in the Al Pacino movie?”

“I mean he has a scar across his face. I don’t hand out the nicknames, Trip, I just use them.”

•  •  •

The next morning, his head and gut still ached. And when Trip surveyed the damage to his face in a steel mirror mounted on the
wall of the cell, he discovered a bruise over one eye. He touched the black-and-blue mark, wincing.

He kept on lookout for his tormentors and for deliverance from them. Later, in the lunch line, amid meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and brown gravy, he spotted a burly man with a twisted scar across one cheek in the company of an apparent entourage.

Trip carried his tray over toward the man, being careful not to get in his space. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a minute to chat?” He was reluctant to address him as Scarface without being introduced. After all, what if only his close personal friends were invited to use that name?

The man snorted impatiently at his dining being interrupted. “What does a skinny hood like you got to say that I want to hear?”

Trip struggled to answer even though he had practiced his pitch the night before in his bunk. But dressed in a prison-issued green shirt and pants rather than a dark custom-made wool suit and silk tie, he knew he resembled a pest instead of a seasoned dealmaker. He glanced around the room to make sure none of the man’s associates were close enough to hear his hushed words.

“I got money. On the outside.”

Scarface looked skeptical, but motioned for his gang to hang back and indicated that Trip should set his food on the table and take a seat. “Why you telling me this?”

“I’m hoping we can work out an arrangement. For protection.”

“Protection?”

“Yes. You take care of me inside and I’ll take care of you outside.”

The man bit an apple from Trip’s tray as he sized up the situation. “You certainly seem in need of protection.” He put the fruit down and reached across the table for Trip’s chin and pulled him close to get a look at his battered face. “We take care of our
brothers. You’re a stranger. Maybe even a snitch. You should show me this money. You might be all talk.”

“It’s hidden away. Outside. When I get out, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Scarface’s expression darkened. “You asking me to
loan
you protection. I run a business. I expect to be paid for my services.”

“I understand,” Trip said. “Maybe we can negotiate a generous amount of interest.”

“No.” The man sounded firm and final. “I need to be paid up front.” He grabbed a hard boiled egg from Trip’s lunch and took a bite before setting it back on the tray. “So what did you say your name was?”

Inmate 16780-59 weighed how best to answer. “Jack. Jack Clemens out of Minnesota. And you?” he stammered. “Sir?”

“Call me Scarface.” He pointed to the blemish with pride. “That should be easy to remember. So, Jack Clemens, if you have money, you have people. Have them take care of the financial details.”

He disliked the man playing games with him. “You know I can’t reach my people from in here.” His voice squeaked in agitation, and he quickly shut his mouth to avoid appearing vulnerable.

The man smiled at his frustration. “Calm down, Jack. I’m trying to chow here.”

He felt on the verge of vomiting again, but forced himself to sit silent. Bite by bite, the big man finished his new client’s meal, then used the last bit of bread to wipe gravy from the plate and handed the morsel to his nervous companion, who swallowed it wordlessly.