Dying Embers (20 page)

Still no joy.

I ripped the phone out of the wall and threw it into the wastebasket.

T
HE IDEA OF A HEART-TO-HEART
conversation with Hank Dunphy suddenly held considerable charm. The errand got off to a slow start. I stashed a couple of spare magazines in my pockets and after some scouting and deliberation I settled on concealing my pistol in a Mickey-D's burger bag rescued from Marg's trash can.

A white Chevy Suburban wallowed in the shade at the back of the parking lot. The front end sported a flat black push-bar covering the grill and, painted on the side, a gold leaf “Cable News” sign, which left you wondering if they were collecting news or installing cable. When I pulled my car over to the dumpster a man in a “Cable News” ball cap and blue coveralls stepped out of the truck with a video camera. I never should have talked to the news director on the telephone.

Once I had the corner of my windshield loose—I had to kick it from the inside—the rest of it peeled out of the tracks like a big stick of gum. I tossed it in the dumpster and chased it with the chunk of concrete. What's newsworthy about that I don't know, but the man with the camera kept grinding away.

The crap Shephart had scattered around went back in the glove box, and I brushed the glass off the seat with the snowbrush the boys gave me for Christmas. My bag of McPistol went under the armrest. When I was younger, I always had a convertible. No windshield is a lot windier than no top.

The Suburban showed up in my mirror at the stop sign at Forty-fourth Street. I signaled a right turn. So did he.

Twenty years ago Forty-fourth Street had been the back road to the airport. Now it's a commercial strip that sprawls from the airport in the east to Jenison in the west. The traffic is usually crazy, but at lunch time it's psychotic.

“Never do anything in traffic that requires someone else to have brakes.” Good advice when my father gave it to me, but advice I ignored to rocket through eastbound traffic into a slim opening, turning left into westbound traffic. The woman driving the car in my rearview mirror flashed me a well-deserved bird.

I got my eyes forward just in time for a panic stop. The traffic light was red at Kalamazoo. I stole another glance in the mirror. The cameraman had jumped out of the Suburban and run up to the corner to eyeball me until his partner could get the van up to the corner. I cut through the parking lots to turn north. At Thirty-sixth I cut back east—no more white Suburban, but a red Dodge sedan made the turn with me.

Just to be fastidious I turned north again at Breton and the Dodge came with me but laid way back. I slowed, but the Dodge wouldn't close up, so I went east at Twenty-eighth. At the Beltline I went north again; so did the Dodge.

The Beltline is a boulevard that skirts the eastern side of the Grand Rapids metropolitan area. It moves pretty good until about three o'clock when the commuters tie it up as they head for the northern suburbs. I burned a couple of yellow lights. The Dodge burned the reds to stay with me.

I took the left lane and honked on it as we approached Michigan Avenue. The Dodge had to come out or give me up. I watched the mirror. The Dodge pulled out and cranked on, and I veered into the left turn lane. The car in front of me didn't take the yellow arrow. I stopped and the Dodge was first in line behind me. The driver ducked his head like he was digging for a station on the radio but I made him anyway: Fidel/Andy.

I put my hand into the burger bag and dog-eyed him in the mirror. He kept his face tipped down. He was losing hair at the crown of his head. “That ain't no halo, Andy, ole buddy,” I told him in the mirror.

They had worked hard to gaslight me, but a suicide at a stoplight would be hard to sell. He had to be an idiot not to know he was toasted. On the outside chance that he was still chilly I decided not to get out and screw my gun into his nose.

We got the green arrow and turned onto westbound Michigan Avenue. After we cleared the light, Fidel junior lagged behind until he had a couple of cover cars. As we went east, Michigan Avenue opened up from a quiet residential into a four-lane commercial strip.

Downtown Grand Rapids is located in the Grand River valley. Eastbound traffic gets a postcard-scenic view of Grand Rapids as Michigan Avenue rockets down a long steep hill into the legal and financial hub of the city.

At the top of the hill, across from the hospital, I pulled into a carwash. The Dodge took a parking meter on the downgrade, a half block past the carwash—just before some orange safety cones blocked the curb lane for a road crew laying fresh asphalt.

The attendant had a spray-wash wand in his hand. He was in his late teens wearing a rock groupie T-shirt, frayed cut-off jeans, and yellow rubber boots with black soles.

He told me, “You ain't got no windshield, man. We can't wash a car what ain't got no windshield.”

“You wash cars here?”

“Well, yeah but …”

“Wash this one!”

“We can't be responsible for damage to your car, man. There's a big sign over there.” He pointed to a large black and white block-lettered sign with a wide red border.

I said, “I'm pretty sure that my antenna and rearview mirrors are safe.” I pushed the shift lever up to park, stepped out, and telescoped the antenna into the fender.

“I got to ask the manager, man.” He shook his head.

“Good idea,” I said. “Go get him.”

“You got to pull it outta line.”

I opened the door and took the burger bag off the seat. “Park it anywhere you want,” I told him. “I got to use the rest room.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” asked the attendant. He spread his arms. “Where are you going? You got to move this car.” The lady in the car behind started on her horn.

“I'll be right back, pard. I got an urgent call of nature. The keys are in it.” I gave him a nod, stepped through the back door of the carwash, and walked along the line of sudsers, waxers, and blow-dryers to the front door.

Fidel/Andy, already out of the Dodge, eased cautiously up the sidewalk toward the carwash. He wore black shorts, a blue floral Aloha shirt, and black felony flyers—high-top tennies with a red ball logo on the ankle. He had spent some time as a brushbeater. Hauling a heavy combat pack had given him legs so muscular that wearing trousers had rubbed the hair from the back of his calves. His shins were a mass of scars from the knee down.

He stopped, hauled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and turned toward the car-wiping crew like he was turning his back to the wind. He took his time lighting up and stared at the cars and men over the top of his lighter. Finally he exhaled a cloud of smoke and strolled toward the back of the carwash.

When he passed, I went out the front door. Traffic on the street by the rear entrance to the carwash was backing up and punctuated with a lot of horns and squealing tires.

Fidel/Andy's Dodge wasn't locked. I climbed into the passenger seat. The automatic shoulder belt hummed down the track above the door and strapped me diagonally across the chest. In the glove box I found a cellphone. The “low battery” light was on. I pushed redial.

“Intelligence Research Associates,” a woman with a husky feline voice purred into the telephone.

“This is Andy,” I said. “Let me talk to the boss.”

“Mr. Cameran isn't in,” she said. “I can take a message.”

J. William Cameran. I knew him! Yet another retired FBI type. Smug. Aloof. At Michigan PI Council meetings he sat in the corner and pouted like a kid kept in at recess, but he never missed a meeting.

The J. Billster had embarrassed an industrial client out on the lake shore. The company found itself the subject of a lawsuit when a secretary discovered a camera he'd installed in the ladies' room. They fired him and hired me. I managed to ferret out their substance abusers without resorting to stupidity. J. William was not impressed. He went around and bitched to guys in the trade that I'd snaked his client.

“Just tell him that Andy called,” I said.

“Andy who?”

“You know which Andy.”

“No sir, I'm sorry, this is just his service. You're getting scratchy. I think
your battery is low.”

“No message,” I said. “I'll call back. What's a good time?”

“He picks up his messages in the morning. Maybe you can catch him then.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

The Dodge had a trunk popper. I pushed the button. Nothing happened. I jerked the glove box light loose and pulled off the positive lead. Another pull got me enough slack to reach the trunk button. I touched the hot lead to the negative soldered weld on the back of the button. The trunk clunked open.

I found my gym bag, the one taken in the burglary—loaded with my radios, video camera, and Kevlar vests. I slammed the trunk and punched nine-one-one on the cellphone.

“Grand Rapids Police,” said the lady dispatcher. “What's the nature of your emergency?”

“My name is Art Hardin,” I said. “My offices were broken into a couple of days ago. A man has my property in the trunk of a red Dodge parked on the hill on Michigan Avenue just west of the carwash. The car is just a couple of blocks up the hill from the police station.”

“What's your name?”

“Art Hardin.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“A cellphone. I'm standing on the sidewalk next to a red Dodge on the north side of Michigan Avenue.”

“How do you know your property is in the car?”

“I saw it.”

“What's the license number on the vehicle?”

I read it to her.

“Your battery is fading,” she said. “Can you give it to me …” She was gone.

A patrol car passed eastbound on Michigan Avenue. I waved both arms and shouted. The car turned left into the back of the carwash. Fidel/Andy came out the front door of the car wash and walked over to the pay phone on the front wall of the building and appeared to drop coins in the slot. He sidestepped the length of the phone cord so that he could look down through the now empty tunnel of a carwash bay.

I climbed into the Dodge through the passenger side, slammed the glove box door after the cellphone, and hit the electric door locks. I had to
shrug out of the auto-seatbelt to get into the back seat. Laying on the floor I got my McBang-Bang in both hands and rolled my eyes up to watch the side window above my head.

Love that new car smell, but the red Dodge soaked up rays fast. I blinked against the sweat that stung my eyes. Sweat dripped into my nostrils. I shook my head. Someone pulled on the driver's door and then cursed. I couldn't see a thing.

Keys jangled and then worked the door lock. The car sagged as someone climbed into the driver's seat, and I got a blast of cool air. Fidel/Andy banged the door shut. The seat belt hummed along its track and the engine cranked to life.

The words I had to say were easy: You're under arrest, I have a gun, put your palms flat on the ceiling and keep them there until the police arrive.

I couldn't see the words. My mind showed me a picture of Annie-fannie laid out on an autopsy table, gutted like a rabbit.

I sprang onto my knees, grabbed the seatbelt with my left hand, wound an extra turn around Fidel/Andy's neck and tugged hard. His hands shot up to claw at the strap of fabric. I put my lips next to his ear and whispered, “I've had just about enough of you.”

I
N THE PROFESSION OF ARMS, LIFE IS LIKE A ROW OF DOMINOES
.
Get angry, you make a mistake. Make a mistake, bad things happen. I got angry. Fidel/Andy head butted me, which split my lip and, as I found out later, broke my nose. From that point, bad things just sort of fell one upon the other.

I clubbed Fidel/Andy across the forehead with the Detonics. The blow drove his head into the driver's window, but it gave him some slack in the seatbelt I'd coiled around his neck, and I think he got a breath there.

Andy's eyes were open but the vacancy signs were on. Nonetheless he managed to get an arm around my head and flopped me into the front seat. Pulling me over the seat jammed his foot on the gas pedal, but it was my elbow that hit the shift lever. The tires squealed. We launched down the hill.

I hung tight to Fidel/Andy's seat belt—turning his face blue—and knocked the shift lever up with the pistol. Pulling on the belt, I got my head high enough to see over the dash. A ten-yard dump truck loaded with asphalt sat rooted to a red stoplight half way down the hill.

The Dodge made a series of jerks. Andy still had the gas nailed. A dull thud came from under the floorboard announcing the failure of the transmission,
and we were freewheeling. The stoplight changed to green, but the truck was still showing brake lights. Andy let go of the seat belt and elbowed me in the chest.

I switched off the ignition and pulled out the keys. My back was on the front seat. I pulled my knees up to protect my chest. That's when I saw the double-edged fighting knife in Andy's left hand. I brought the Detonics up.

“You're under arrest,” I told him. Given my split lip and the fact that my mouth had filled with blood, I'm not really sure what it sounded like, but it made a spray of blood that settled on my face and his shirt.

I heard the driver's door open and felt a rush of air. Fidel-Andy cut the seat belt where it crossed his chest, from the top down toward his body. The knife—very sharp—parted the seat belt, the aloha shirt, and probably some of Andy.

The seat belt whipped loose from his neck, and he turned toward me with the dagger raised to strike. I clicked the safety off the pistol, got it at an up angle over my chest and squeezed off. Deafening. Gunpowder stung my forehead.

The driver's window exploded as the door swung wide. Andy disappeared. I got my feet off the ceiling and knees on the floor. The asphalt truck had started a low gear lurch into the intersection. Jerking on the steering wheel did no good; it was locked in place. I dived onto the brake pedal with my hands. Antilock brakes caused the pedal to vibrate and I resigned myself to the crash, but the Dodge stopped with only a jolt. I hauled myself up off the floor. The nose of the Dodge had wedged itself between the mud flaps of the asphalt truck. It rose and then fell as it peeled loose from the tandem rear wheels.