Frag Box (3 page)

Chapter 3

Nighttown

The cop and the kid had a big head start on me by the time I got back from Lefty’s, but rush hour had been over for a long time and the snow continued to fall, so there weren’t a lot of competing footprints to confuse things. I followed them east for four or five blocks, then north and east, across a bridge over the Interstate ditch and into an area of old factories and warehouses, somewhere near Railroad Island. The streetlights got very far apart there, and about a block past the bridge, they disappeared completely. I was beginning to wish I had hit Lefty up for a flashlight as well as a piece.

Over behind an old industrial building that had been partly made into artists’ lofts and partly abandoned to squatters, some street people were huddled around a trash fire in an old barrel. They were a younger and tougher-looking bunch than the usual pack of lost souls and dehorns that hang around in that area, and if I’d been smart, I’d have probably just kept walking. But there was no more pristine snow, and no more distinct tracks. They were my last hope for picking up the trail again.

I headed over to see what I could learn from the great unwashed.

“Here comes another one.”

“Another what?” A second shapeless bundle of rags looked up from the fire.

“Sit-ee-zen, man, what you think?”

“Nah, this one ain’t no citizen. This one ain’t got no ramrod up his ass, like that last dude.”

“Bet he ain’t got no badge, neither.”

“Does he gots money, is what the thing is.”

“I can think of some ways to find out.”

“Think of one that don’t get us all busted.”

“Shit, man.”

“Shit is right. You think I’m playin’ y’all here?”

“Shit.”

That seemed to be the consensus, all right.

There were five of them altogether, and I found their talk about
another
sit-ee-zen more than a bit interesting. But before I was likely to hear any more of it, there was some physical protocol to take care of. A little respect, a little threat, a little reward. Not the way the cops do it. Let them know you’re not afraid of them, but let them wonder if they should be afraid of you. Easy, easy. First, though, find a place where they can’t get behind you.

I caught the eye of the big black guy who was doing most of the talking, held up my last twenty from the pool game, and let him get a good look at it. Then I went over to a niche in the back of the closest industrial building, an inside corner by a loading dock. He looked at his buddies as if wanting their approval. They didn’t react, which was good news. It meant they probably weren’t a regular gang. The big guy shuffled over to me, and the others followed about five yards back.

“Rough night to be out,” I said.

“’Pends on if you with you friends, man.”

“Yeah, well it’s always good to have friends,” I said. I took the .38 out of my pocket and let my arm hang by my side, partially lost in the folds of my coat. Then I rotated the piece outward, toward him, giving him just a bit of a look.

“I’m real scared, man. So what you lookin’ for, with your big-assed strap and your little bitty double sawbuck?”

“Two guys, a cop and a big kid, came by here maybe fifteen minutes ago, tops.”

“You shittin’ me? That’s it? You ain’t lookin’ for ol’ Cee Vee’s squat?”

That got my attention, but I tried not to show it too much. I tore the twenty in half and gave him one piece of it.

“First, the cop and the kid,” I said.

“For that crappy piece of paper? Go fuck yourself.”

“Listen, man, what’s your name?”

He glared at me for a while, just to show me he didn’t have to tell me if he didn’t want to. Then he did it anyway.

“Linc.”

“Okay Linc, tell me. You know about the stick and the carrot?”

“What’s that, some rock group?”

“That’s the two things you can get, to make you feel like talking to me. Twenty is all the carrot I’ve got. After that’s gone, we go to the stick. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

“You a cop?” said one of the other worthies, who was sidling his way up to me along the dock face.

Didn’t I wish? If I were a cop, I could call for backup. I took a deep breath and tried again.

“No. I’m also not a fed or a social worker or a preacher or a politician. And that means I don’t have anybody I report to or any damn procedure I have to follow. Think about that for a minute.”

Number three continued to crowd in on me, and the momentum started going the way I had hoped to avoid. Oh, well.

I made a sudden jerky movement, as if I were trying to get away from the guy. He took that as an invitation, which it was, to stick out an arm and lunge for me. I grabbed the arm and pulled him in the direction he was already moving, only a lot faster than he wanted to go. As he lurched by, I kicked his legs out from under him, letting him sprawl on the ground in front of me. Then I put one foot on his neck, hard, swung Lefty’s .38 up into full view, and pointed it at the guy who had been moving in from the other way.

“Five guys, six bullets,” I said. “I can make that work. Or you can all split an easy twenty bucks and get the hell out of here.” With my left hand, I waved the torn bill in front of me. “Your choice. You don’t look stupid to me. How do you want to play it?” And I gave them about two seconds of a totally phony smile.

“Cool,” said the big one with the other half of my twenty.

“Cool what?”

“What I says is we all play it cool, man.” And he held up his hands, palms toward me, and backed away half a step.

“I think you’re smarter than your buddy under my foot here,” I said. “So how about cop and the kid?”

“Yeah, okay. They come by here, jus’ like you say. Then they take a cab.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Somebody in a big black set of wheels come by and picked them up, is what.”

“What kind of wheels?”

“Big, is all I know. Not a stretch, but a 98 of some kind. One of them high mothers.”

“Like a SUV? Escalade, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe. I dunno.”

“Was the kid in cuffs?”

“Nah, they was tight, man. Wasn’t no bust or shit goin’ down. Them rims come for them, is all.”

“And which way did the rims go?”

“That way.” He pointed toward the gulch, deeper into Railroad Island.

“You’re sure? They didn’t head back into town?”

“What I said, man. Back that way. That enough?”

“We’re getting there. Now tell me why you asked me about Cee Vee’s pitch.”

“She-it, man, that’s the flavor of the day. First a couple of suits come by askin’, back this afternoon, a dude and a broad. Broad was bad, too, but she didn’t bust a move or nothin’ and they didn’t pay us. They just flash around these fancy ID cards an’ all, wasn’t even real badges.”

“Feds?”

“Maybe, some kind.”

“And who else?”

“Short, fat dude with a big overcoat and a funny hat, maybe two, three hours ago. He didn’t have no fancy ID, but he gave us fifty presidents.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“You got fifty, man?”

“I already told you I don’t. We’re almost home free, man. Let’s make it work, here.”

“Yeah, well, we didn’t really have no cipher to give him, no how, so we made up some shit. Kinda like the shit we tole the suits. Tole them Cee Vee’s box was down under the viaduct, whatever the fuck that is, ‘cause that’s what he allus use to say. An’ we tole them the viaduct was down in Sheeny Gulch, which who the hell knows?” He hooked a thumb in the general direction behind his back.

“So, what did they all do?”

“Do? What you think, man? They all go down there, is what they all do.”

“What about the guy with the ramrod up his ass?”

“Who?”

“Aw, hell, and we were doing so well there.” I stuffed the half of the twenty back in my pocket.

“Oh, you mean
that
dude, the one we was talkin’ bout when you come up? Looks like a jarhead with a cheap suit? He got out of the wheels.”

“The wheels that picked up the—”

“Yeah, yeah, that one.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me about him?”

“I thought I’d keep the story short, you know? He didn’t talk much, no how. I s’pose he coulda been making sure nobody followed the wheels. Thought he was hot shit, gives us a hard stare for a while like he’s lookin’ to rumble some. Finally he just splits.”

“Let me guess…”

“Down to the gulch. It was like a regular fucking parade, man.”

“This is good,” I said, and I handed the other half of the bill over to him. “Thanks, Linc.”

“You gonna let Mingus, there, up?”

“He fuckin’ well better,” said the head that was down by my foot, “or when he does, I’m unna—” I stepped down a bit harder, and he grunted a bit and then shut up.

“Back off thirty paces, and he’s all yours.”

They walked backward, back to their trash barrel, and I slowly lifted my foot. Mingus, if that was really his name, pushed himself up fast to a hands-and-knees position, looking pissed. But before he could jump up to his full height, I stuck the barrel of the .38 up against his nose and let him have a good look at it.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Mingus.”

He stared cross-eyed at the piece for a moment, then shook his head vehemently. I let him get the rest of the way up, and he hustled off to join the others. When they started their own muttered, low conversation again, I turned and walked away, toward the reportedly popular gulch.

I let out the breath I’d been holding for longer than I could remember.

Fifty yards later, I was in a totally unlit area of weeds, rocks, and trash. A short way ahead, it got even darker, as the snow gave way to the utter black of Connemara Gulch, gaping below and beyond me. Or maybe it was just some railroad ditch. I wasn’t that sure of where I was anymore. I couldn’t tell how far it was to the bottom, but the way down looked steep and treacherous. There had to be a better route. Right or left? I picked left and walked along the edge of the gully for a while, and sure enough, I came to a crude roadway with a gate across it where it dropped down into the hollow. And standing with one hand on the gate was a guy who must have been the ramrod-ass that the village people had liked so much. Stiff posture, military-style brush cut on his light hair, and a dark topcoat that hung on him like a tent that was one size too big. And even in the dark, I could tell he wore a look that said, “I’m in charge here, and you are lower than whale shit.” One of my favorite types. I wondered if I could find an excuse to shoot him.

“This road is closed,” he said.

No “mister,” no “sir,” not even a “please.” Wow, he really did want to impress me with what a badass he was. And for all I knew, he really was. He was big, anyway. He had his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, and I had the impression I did not want him to take them out.

“Because you say it is? Who are you, exactly?”

“You have no business here,” he said, in non-reply. “Move along.”

“I asked who you are,” I said.

“I’m Mister Colt.” He opened his coat and let me see that he had two semiautomatics in holsters, in addition to a compact submachine gun that he had just pulled out of a pocket. “And your name is Mud. Some people are about to get hurt here, and unless you haul ass now, you could be one of them. This has nothing to do with you.”

That was way too much firepower for me. “Thanks for the warning,” I said. I kept my hands at my side, turned around and walked back into the shadows.

In the black gulch below, somebody was switching on powerful flashlight beams. They looked as if they were on the bottom of the ocean. Then there was a bunch of shouting that progressively got louder. Some of it sounded hysterical, all of it angry. Soon there were crashing noises to go with it and then sporadic automatic weapons fire.

And there was the smell.

What the hell was it? A gasoline smell of some kind, but not like what you whiff when you fuel up your car. Kerosene, maybe, or the kind of gas they use in camp lanterns.

As I thought about it, the gulch below lit up with the orange glow of tents and sleeping boxes and piles of rags being torched. Somebody, or rather several somebodies, were moving through the gulch, setting fire to everything in sight and driving a frantic clot of ragged derelicts in front of them.

I stared, dumbfounded, transfixed. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and my ears roared with my own pulse. Why the hell did they have to use fire? I hate fire. Let me die any way but that.

For a while, I watched the pyrotechnics display and the shadowy crowd of refugees move farther down the gulch, away from me. And seeing nothing to be gained down there but trouble, I turned away. I didn’t know where Square Head was by then, but I decided he was right: I had no business down there.

As I walked back the way I had come, fresh out of ideas and purpose, I found the snow shovel.

Chapter 4

Business as Unusual

The next morning, I blew the dust off the remote for my TV and listened to the early morning news as I worked on my first caffeine fix of the day and my nourishing, balanced breakfast of White Castle hamburgers and bread-and-butter pickles. The incident at the trash barrel bothered me. I had pulled a gun on a man I did not really want to kill, and that can’t happen, ever. Once a gun is out, it takes on a life of its own, and all your careful plans for anonymous existence can suddenly be nothing but yesterday’s daydreams.

As troubling as all that was, the fires down in the gulch were worse, if only because I had no idea what to make of them. The media, of course, wouldn’t know how to tell me the complete or accurate truth if their ratings actually depended on it. But they might at least tell me something about the superficial events. That would be a start.

But the early news said nothing about a commando raid on homeless people or any mysterious fire in Connemara Gulch. On three different channels, male-female anchor teams flirted ever so mildly, giggled at their own inane jokes, chatted about the latest squabbles between the City Council and the Mayor, and offered advice on how to prepare your lawn for winter. They also promised to give me the morning traffic reports and some high-powered weather information after only sixteen or twenty more commercials. I quickly remembered why my remote control is all covered with dust. How can people listen to that shit every day?

Before I left for my office, I called the non-emergency number for the police and got a female desk sergeant with a phone voice that radiated don’t-mess-with-me with thorns on it.

“A man named Charles Victor was killed outside Lefty’s Pool Hall last night,” I said. “I’m wondering if I could talk to the detective who has that case.”

“And your name is?”

I told her.

“Are you calling from your own phone?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And you have information on what case, again?”

“The murder of Charles Victor.” I almost said I didn’t have any information, but I could see how far that would get me. As it happened, it didn’t make any difference.

“We have no such case on record, sir.” If her voice had been any colder, my phone would have been icing up.

“Maybe you just don’t have the name. He was a homeless person.”

“We have more than one John Doe homicide currently open, sir. Could you give me some more information?”

“This man was beaten to death last night, in front of Lefty’s Pool Hall.”

“And you were a witness?”

“No. I just have some information about the victim. I’m a bail bondsman, and he used to be a client of mine.” I also had the shovel, of course, but somehow I didn’t feel like sharing that information with her.

“That would be Detective Erickson’s case, sir. He’s very busy right now.”

“How about if we let him decide that? Could you transfer me, please?”

“I’ll tell him you called, sir. If he needs your information, he will get back to you. I have other calls to take here.”

“Can I talk to some other detective, then?”

“To which detective did you wish to speak?”

“I have no idea. Any detective.”

The line went dead, and I could swear the receiver was flipping me the bird. I wondered what time the shift changed at the cop shop, so I could try again with a different professional asshole. Meanwhile, I wrote down the name of the detective, put on my coat and headed for my car.

Outside, I was able to figure out, even without Super Duper Doppler Radar, that last night’s snow was melting, though the sky was the color of dirty dishwater and could spit some more of the stuff at any time. The sun was nowhere in sight and there was just enough wind to get your attention. It was all very October.

I took my usual route downtown and parked the BMW 328i in the Victory Ramp. I mostly park there because I love the name. I like to think Winston Smith would have parked there, if the Thought Police had let him have a car. Then he could have made it with his darling Julia in the back seat, and he wouldn’t have had to worry about all those nasty rats. It may not be great literature that way, but it’s a favorite fantasy.

Walking from the ramp to my office, I bought copies of both the
St. Paul
Pioneer Press
and the
Minneapolis Star and Tribune
from some paperboys disguised as tin boxes. If they contained anything about the fires in the gulch, it wasn’t on the front page of either. A quick flip of pages showed me that it also wasn’t on the first page of the Local News sections. What on earth was going on here? The
Strib
was often a day late in reporting local events on this side of the river, though they sometimes made up for it with better detail. But the
Pioneer
should have caught it. Hell, it was practically in their back parking lot. On a slow news day, which it was, it should have made big headlines. Or Charlie’s murder should have.

As usual, Agnes, my indispensable Lady Friday, general manager, and confidante was at the office ahead of me. I think she does that just to make me feel guilty. She isn’t aware of this, of course. Someday I’ll explain it to her.

She had already opened the mail and was having a nice dialogue with her computer, while off in another corner, Mr. Coffee was talking to himself in some belchy-gurgly appliance creole.

I threw the newspapers on my desk, hung up my coat, and picked up a letter from the top of the stack. It was hand written on three sheets of lined yellow legal paper, the kind that cops give perps to write their confessions. The assault upon the language spoke for itself, but at least it wasn’t in crayon. And it was fairly polite, in its own way. It also came in a neat white envelope and was actually legible.

Agnes smirked when I picked it up. Not a good sign. I smoothed out the smudged paper and read:

God, I love this business. It’s not the money; it’s the class of people you get to meet. I snatched a cup of coffee from the gurgling machine, pouring it quickly so not too much would drip onto the hot bottom plate. The plate hissed at me from under the pot, telling me I hadn’t been quick enough.

I looked over the letter again. I could only count it as another triumph for the adult literacy program at the County Workhouse.

“Why do you always have to do that?”

“That? What that?”

“Pour yourself a cup of coffee before it’s done brewing.”

“Oh that that. Because it’s better then. And a lovely good morning to you, too, Agnes. Know anything about lifting fingerprints?”

“Of course it’s better then. That’s because all the gunky, bitter stuff is in the last cup that drips through. Good morning.”

“Then maybe we should shut it off before it gets to that part.” I took a sip and found the morning’s brew, as expected, really rather good. Later, it would be progressively more like battery acid.

“Sometimes it’s abundantly clear to me why you’re not married, Herman. Fingerprints off what, the coffee pot?”

“No, off a snow shovel.”
It had better not be abundantly clear, or I’m in a lot of trouble.

“You can’t be serious.”

She went back to pecking at her keyboard, which is a sure sign that she sees she’s talking to a crazy person and would really rather not deal with it just now, thank you. Or maybe she was disappointed that I wasn’t going to talk about the deeply moving letter from my friend in boundage, Trick.

I noticed, not for the first time, that she actually looked her best with a mild mock scowl, concentrating on her computer through a pair of thick glasses. Agnes is a hard person to describe, even harder to remember, somehow. It’s as if she had no prominent features to focus on. I had known her for eight years, and I still looked at her and tried to remember who it was she reminded me of. She had one of those oddly familiar faces that are neither young nor old, always pleasant but a bit self-deprecating, almost perky, almost pretty, almost sexy. Almost. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to be closer to her, but I’m not. And sometimes I wonder if she would like to change all that. But then I forget to wonder more. She definitely looked nice, though, scowling through her glasses.

“Of course I’m serious,” I said. “In the movies, they’re always talking about dusting something for prints, right?”

“Yes they are. So?”

“So, what’s the dust?”

“How should I know? Fluorescent bath talc, probably.”

“That sounds reasonable. Got any?”

If looks could kill, my day would have ended, right then and there. I decided to change the subject.

“I got my Visa statement yesterday.”

“Does that have something to do with fingerprints?”

“No, that has to do with you not cashing your last two paychecks.”

“Well, what did you expect? You can’t be writing payroll on credit, Herman. That’s worse than going to a loan shark.”

“No, it’s not. Visa won’t break my legs if I don’t pay them.”

“Herman, it’s economic suicide.”

“More like slightly postponed disaster. Trust me, Ag, I can afford to go into debt better than you can afford to go without being paid.” I really couldn’t, but my only other options at the moment were to sell the BMW or go into one of my secret escape caches.

“Look, Herman, we can…”

Her voice trailed off as she was distracted by something out in the street, and her expression changed from plain vanilla anxiety to real, double Dutch resentment.

“Here comes trouble,” she said.

I turned to follow her gaze and saw a shapeless middle-aged guy in a sharp brown pinstripe. He crossed the street against the light without looking to either side, as if he either didn’t care about getting run down or simply expected everybody to get out of his way. Once across, he looked up, turned, and headed toward my door. I had never seen him before.

“Friend of yours, Aggie?”

“Not on the best day he ever had. He’s been here a few times, looking for you.”

He was not a big man, but he had a certain presence, and his round face seemed on the verge of a sneer, as if he knew he intimidated people and was glad of it. He wore what was left of his brown hair slicked straight back under a classic dark fedora, a hat so out, it was back in again, and he walked with his lump of a chin out, as if it were a badge of authority. He dressed expensively but with just a touch too much flash, I thought, like somebody who spends all his time running away from an impoverished past. Or maybe some street muscle who has just graduated to middle management and doesn’t yet know how to shop. He didn’t look as if he was carrying, but his suit coat was cut large at the chest, possibly to hide the occasional holster.

He let himself in, and when he spoke, his voice was gravel and oil, with a certain smugness to it and an accent I couldn’t quite identify. Some sub-species of New Yorker, possibly.

“Mr. Jackson?”

“The very one.” Following Agnes’ lead, I did not offer him my hand, but I did give him the courtesy of not glaring.

“My name is Eddie Bardot, Mr. Jackson, I represent—”

“The mob,” said Agnes.

“Oh, please.” He gave me a stage smile and held up his hands in a palms-forward gesture of innocence. “Let’s not get melodramatic here, shall we?” He jerked a thumb at Agnes and said, “Missy Four Eyes here doesn’t like me coming around your office. I think she’s afraid I might make a pass at her.”

And I swear to God, he gave me a wink. I didn’t think anybody ever did that anymore. I was not charmed by it, nor by the fact that he liked to stand less than two feet away when he talked to me.

“You can take your ‘missy’ and your ‘four eyes’ and go wander off a cliff somewhere,” said Agnes. For her, that was pretty nasty, and I wondered what this guy had said to her in my absence.

“Maybe we should talk privately,” he said to me.

“Maybe we shouldn’t. How about if you just quit talking about Agnes as if she weren’t here, and we’ll see how that works? And back off, while you’re at it. We’re not conspirators or lovers, so get out of my space.”

He backed off a step, but not as far as I would have liked.

“All right, look, maybe we all got off on the wrong foot here. Let’s try again, okay? I represent…”

He looked pointedly at Agnes, to see if she was going to interrupt him again, but she merely stared at him with one eyebrow raised.