Madman on a Drum (22 page)

Most of them were hovering around a twenty-foot ring deep inside the barn. The ring was empty; I didn't know if we were late or early for the fight. I went searching for Schroeder. I couldn't find him, and then I did. He was standing in a corner of the pole barn where someone had set up a half-dozen folding tables surrounded by folding chairs. There were two metal tubs filled with ice and beer behind a counter built from saw horses and wooden planks; the planks supported a dozen bottles of hard liquor and a cash box. The man behind the cash box was doing good business. I moved toward the makeshift bar, and Schroeder moved away. As we passed each other he whispered, “The reader.”

Sure enough, I found a young black man dressed in a dark blue hoodie sitting at one of the tables. He had a shaved head, a close-cropped beard and mustache, a silver hoop hanging from his left ear, and a silver tooth that he sucked while reading a paperback edition of
The World of the American Pit Bull Terrier
by Richard Stratton. There were several other black men in the bar area, and I wondered how many of them were on his side.

I sat at the table in front of him, my hands in my pockets. He looked up from his book. “Wan' sumpthin'?” he asked.

“Dogman-G?”

He sucked on his tooth, then closed his book, using his finger to hold his place. “I know you?” he asked.

“Word is that there's a contract on some pinhead named McKenzie.”

As I was speaking, a black man took up position behind Dogman-G's left shoulder. Another black man took the seat at the table to my immediate left. Both of them looked like they weren't sure what to do with their hands.

“Wha' zat got to do wi' me?” Dogman-G said.

“I heard you were handling it,” I said.

Dogman-G eyed me suspiciously. “You a cop, man? You soundin' like five-oh to me,” he said.

“I'm not a cop.”

He studied me some more. “Why you come to me?” he asked.

“I was given your name.”

“By who?”

“Pat Beulke.”

Dogman-G glanced over his shoulder at the man standing behind him. “We know that boy?” he asked.

The man said, “We know 'im.”

“Well 'nuff he can drop my name careless like that?”

“I'll take care of it.”

My inner voice said,
Tsk, tsk, tsk, poor Pat,
but I knew sarcasm when I heard it.

Dogman-G looked across the table at me. His face had the bemused expression of a man who made his living catering to the vices of others. “Wha' you wan' know?” he asked.

“Fifty large is a lot of money. I want to make sure I heard the price right.”

“It's cool. Fifty is the number.”

“Are you buying the hit?”

“Nah, man,” Dogman said. “I jus' the messenger. I know who gots the presidents, though.”

“Who would that be?”

“Why you wan' to know?”

“It's personal.”

“Zat right? Who are you?”

“I'm McKenzie.”

Suddenly the two black men knew what to do with their hands. They began reaching for weapons. Except I was quicker. My hands came out of my pockets. In my right was the nine-millimeter Beretta that I pointed at the dude standing behind Dogman's shoulder. In my left was the .380 that I leveled at the chest of the black man sitting between Dogman and me. They raised their empty hands without being told to, although I didn't think they were surrendering.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “I do not want to die, but if I do I'm not dying first.”

I spoke loudly enough to spook the spectators who were milling about, waiting for the dogfight to begin. When they saw my guns, most made a rush for the door. About a dozen crawled under a gap in the back of the pole barn and fled toward the woods.

“Are you crazy, man?” Dogman-G wanted to know.

“Let's just say I've thrown caution to the wind and let it go at that. So, what do they call you? Dogman, or G?”

“You are crazy.”

“G—I'm going to call you G. Listen, G, I'm really pissed off. Now you are going to tell me what I want to know or I'm going to shoot all three of you.”

“Fuck you are.”

“What's going to stop me? Fear of dying? I've got a fifty-thousand-dollar contract on my head.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“Have it your own way. Which one of your pals do you like the least? Know what? I'll choose.”

I sighted down the .380 at the black man on my left, gritting my teeth as if I were about to squeeze the trigger. He recoiled, his hands splayed in front of his face. “No, no, man,” he said.

“Wait,” Dogman said. “I said wait. I mean it. Wait. That's my brother you're lookin' to cap.”

“Aren't we all brothers under the skin?” I said.

“My brother brother, you shithead.”

“Talk to me, G.”

“Ease off, now. I'll tell you what you wan' to know. Just ease off. Fuckin' crazy.”

“Who bought the hit?”

“I'll say, but it ain't gonna do you no good. You be dead soon.”

“You betcha.” I couldn't believe I said that. God, I how I hate the Coen brothers.

“DuWayne. DuWayne Middleton. It was him who put out the contract.”

“Who is DuWayne Middleton?”

“You don't know?”

The guns were getting heavy; my extended arms were beginning to ache, and my hands wavered just a little. The way Dogman-G's posse glanced at each other, I knew that they had seen it. I couldn't keep this up much longer.

“No,” I said. “Why does he want me dead?”

“Didn't say. Just said to pass the word.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I ain't his social secretary, man.”

“This DuWayne Middleton. He ever go by the name T-Man?”

“Fuck if I know. Maybe when he was in stir. Only I ain't never heard him called that.”

“You've been a real prince, G. Now stand up slowly. You, too,” I told his brother. “Keep your hands up.” When they were all standing, I told them to take four steps backward. Then I stood straight up, not an easy thing to do while pointing two guns at three men; the back of my legs pushed against the folding chair. Dogman-G and his posse watched it tip over and clatter against the concrete floor. I ignored the chair and started walking backward, never taking my eyes from the three men, wondering where Schroeder was. Dogman-G's brother started to lower his hands.

“Ah-ah,” I said.

He raised them again. He didn't look particularly frightened, and the farther away I got, the less frightened he appeared. From the expression on his face, I knew he couldn't wait to put me in the ground.

I turned and started running. I had been doing a lot of that lately.

I sprinted through the open door of the pole barn.

Hung a left so I'd have a straight line to Schroeder's car.

And ran within reach of the three rottweilers.

One of the dogs leapt at my throat. I brought my hands up. The barrel of the nine-millimeter caught him on the snout and deflected his leap, but that was dumb luck. His weight and the suddenness of his attack knocked me off balance. I went down hard on my shoulder. The dog hit the ground at the same time. Only he was quickly on his feet. I didn't even have time to stop bouncing before he came at me again. This time I clubbed him on the skull with the hard muzzle of my gun on purpose. He didn't seem to mind. He went for my hand and caught the sleeve of my sports jacket instead. It took a lot of effort to shake the sleeve out of his mouth. By now the other dogs were on me, too. One became frustrated when his teeth clamped down on the Kevlar protecting my chest. The other happily took hold of my ankle as I rolled away. I kicked him three times in the head before he would let go. I kept rolling until the chains holding the rottweilers grew taut, their barking, snarling jaws only inches from my face.

They jumped back, startled, when the ground directly between us exploded, showering them with debris. A hole appeared, like a divot in a sand trap. I saw it before the sound of a gunshot registered in my head. I heard another as I rotated my prostrate body toward the door of the pole barn. Dogman-G's brother was shooting at me with a .40 automatic. He was holding it sideways like they do in the movies and shooting it with one hand, which helped explain why he missed at such close range. I brought both of my guns up and fired three rounds. Two shattered the door frame, and the third round seemed to disappear into the heart of the barn as the brother dove back inside.

I rolled some more, scrambled to my feet, and resumed running. I circled the dogs that kept barking and snarling and leaping at me and headed for the far side of the farm house. The pain in my ankle surged all the way to the top of my head and then recycled itself with each step, slowing me down. I heard another gunshot and felt a bullet skip off the Kevlar vest over my left shoulder. It felt as if I had been hit by a fastball. The blow knocked me off stride and nearly spun me around. Nausea rose up from my stomach to my throat, and my legs threatened to buckle. It seemed necessary to show no fear, to keep running. I had gained the side of the house when two more rounds thumped into my back. They seemed more powerful than the first, as if someone were hammering me with a baseball bat. I went down, sprawling face-first into the scrub brush. I managed to hold on to both of my guns. They did me no good. I couldn't move my arms or my legs. It was as if everything below my shoulders were paralyzed.

I turned my head and saw Dogman-G and the second black man running toward me, their guns leading the way. Dogman-G was smiling. He shouted something. I couldn't hear what he said over the sound of a machine gun. Both men halted abruptly. Half a dozen red volcanoes erupted across their chests and stomachs. They twisted and contorted and fell backward against the hard ground.

A hand grabbed the collars of my shirt and jacket and yanked upward.

“Get on your feet,” a voice said. “Get up, dammit. Are you hurt? Can you walk? Go, go.”

I was numb yet ambulatory. The hand pushed me forward, and I made for the car, stumbling, nearly falling, the pain in my ankle almost a delightful memory compared to the way the rest of my body now felt. Schroeder walked backward beside me, his MP7 sweeping the ground between farm house and pole barn, searching for a target that never materialized.

When we reached the car, Schroeder propped me against the front passenger door. He removed the guns that I was still grasping tightly in my hands, deactivated them, and tossed them into the backseat. He kept an eye on the farm house as he opened the door and shoved me into the front passenger seat. He circled the car, took one more look at the house and pole barn, tossed the submachine gun into the backseat, slid into the car, and drove off.

We went north and east, ending up near Pine City, about sixty miles from the Cities, before Schroeder was satisfied that we weren't being followed. I was doubled over and staring at the blood that oozed from my torn ankle onto my white socks and sneakers; only the safety belt kept me in the seat. I was still nauseous, but I managed to keep it to myself. I felt like crying and would have except I didn't want Schroeder to see.

“How you doin', McKenzie?”

“I've been better.”

“Those slugs musta hurt like a sonuvabitch.”

“Dog chomping on my ankle didn't help, either.”

“We'll get you back to the office. Clean you up.”

“What about… what about those guys?”

“Don't worry about it,” Schroeder said. “Deal like this, I'd be surprised if it's even reported. More likely, the dogmen will tidy up, pretend it didn't happen—they don't want the cops looking into their business, and they already have a bad enough rep, you know? Just in case, I'll dump the MP7 first thing. Don't worry about Buckman. I'll talk to him. He'll be cool.”

You can't do that, can you?
my inner voice wanted to know.
Just leave them there, two dead men? Or is it three? The third man, at the entrance to the pole barn, did Schroeder get him? Did you? Where did that third shot go? You don't even know. What about their families? Their friends? Somebody must care about them. The cops, when they investigate, if they investigate— would they be Anoka cops or Isanti cops? Where the hell is East Bethel, anyway? What county? Christ, this is so wrong. You have to tell people what happened. You have to tell your story. Otherwise, Dogman-G and his brother, and the other one—nobody will know what happened to them. It will be like a ghost story. You have nothing to worry about. You won't get into trouble. After all, it was self-defense. Wasn't it? They were trying to kill you. For money. If not for the Kevlar vest, you'd be dead. They would have dumped you in a shallow grave and taken your driver's license to DuWayne Middleton to collect the price on your head. So they got what they deserved. No question. Anyone could see that. Still, you have to do something. Right? You can't just leave them there, can you?

“Sure I can,” I said aloud.

“What's that?” Schroeder asked.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“We'll be home soon.”

“Good.”

“By the way, that's ten grand you owe me.”

True to his word, Schroeder drove me to his office. He doused my ankle with antiseptic and ban daged it expertly. “You've done this before,” I told him, in between shots of Booker's. Afterward, he brought my suitcase up from my car, and I changed clothes. I gave him five thousand in cash from my cache and told him I'd pay the balance later. I had the money. I just didn't want to run the risk of getting caught short—living on the run can get expensive. He said he would trust me for it. To protect his investment, he crossed the river into St. Paul, following my Jeep Cherokee to the St. Paul Hotel, where I registered under the name Keith Kahla.

Schroeder escorted me to the Ambassador Suite. It was the size of two regular rooms and had a king-sized four-poster bed complete with down covers and pillows, plus a luxurious, fully furnished seating area that was separated from the bedroom by French doors. From the window, I had a terrific view of Rice Park and the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts, the St. Paul Public Library, and the Landmark Center beyond. I locked my weapons and cash in the room safe while Schroeder helped himself to the minibar.

“Is this your idea of hiding out?” he asked. He poured the contents of a tiny bottle of Scotch into a glass, regarded it carefully, and drank half. “You're a classy guy, McKenzie.”

“Nothing but the best,” I said.

“Do you need me for the rest of the day?”

“No.”

“How 'bout dinner? I'll buy.”

“No, thank you. I'm going to crawl into the shower, see if that'll loosen up my back.” I could feel the bruises spreading even as I sat there. “Afterward, it's room service and bed.”

“Good plan,” Schroeder said. He finished his Scotch, moved toward the door, stopped, and turned to look at me. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Because of what happened before, you might feel depressed, you might feel lonely, you might feel a lot of things.”

“Nothing I haven't felt before,” I said.

“The thing is, call me if you decide to go wandering about. If you decide to check out a bar or something, if you decide you need to be around people. Okay?”

“I never did thank you.”

“It's all part of the service.”

“Thank you anyway.”

Schroeder waved the words away and opened the door.

After he left, I took a business card out of my wallet and used my cell phone to call the number. Instead of “Hello,” the voice said, “Karen Studder.” As soon as I heard the voice, the depression and loneliness Schroeder predicted rolled over me like a rogue wave.

“Karen,” I said.

“McKenzie? I'm so happy you called. How are you?”

“I'm okay. Tell me, are you one of those law enforcement scofflaws who pick and choose the ordinances they'll obey?”

“I occasionally drive over the speed limit. Why do you ask?”

“Have you been known to accept a bribe?”

She paused before answering. “What do you have in mind?”

“A hearty meal. Genial libations. A thousand dollars in cash.”

“For what?”

“The current whereabouts of one DuWayne Middleton, lately a guest of the Minnesota Department of Corrections.”

Another pause. “Keep your thousand dollars,” she said. “I'll take the dinner and drinks, though.”

“It's a deal.”

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight's not good,” I said.

“Just as well. I'm not at my desk. I won't be able to access the S3 until tomorrow morning.”

“S3?”

“Statewide Supervision System. It's a centralized Web site that contains information on everyone under probation or supervised release in Minnesota.”

“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” I said.

“I'll phone.”

“Please do.”

“I'm really glad you called, McKenzie.”

I told her I was glad that I did, too, only I had things to do and couldn't talk. She seemed disappointed by that. After I hung up, I felt a pang of guilt along with all my other aches and pains.

You should have told her that you have a girlfriend,
my inner voice admonished me.

“I already did,” I told myself.

Tell her again.

“I will. As soon as she gives me the information I need.”

In the meantime…

 

“This is a first for me,” Nina said.

“What is?”

“Spending the night in a hotel room with a man who is not my husband. What would my mother say, I wonder.”

“Scandalous.”

“Oh, I'm sure she'd use a lot more colorful adjective than that.”

Nina snuggled closer to me and softly kissed the edge of my chin. The warmth of her breath on my skin was like an autumn breeze wafting up from the river; it gave me goose bumps even then, even after we had made love.

“Are you going to tell me now?” she asked.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you're so melancholy tonight.”

“I'm not.”

“If you don't want to talk about that, then tell me why we're in an expensive hotel instead of the perfectly good king-sized bed in your own bedroom.”

I didn't say.

“Or why you suddenly have three bruises on your back and shoulder.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“Kind of hard to miss, McKenzie. They're the size of cantaloupes. Plus, your ankle is ban daged. And there was all that moaning when we were rolling about. Somehow, I don't think that was because of me.”

So I told her.

I told her everything.

I felt her naked body stiffen against me as I spoke.

When I finished, she seemed as far away as Kuala Lumpur.

“Why do you do these things?” she said.

“Honey…”

“Honey, honey, honey,” she said and rolled out of the bed. “Can't you find some other hobby? Something else to occupy your time besides what you do now?”

“Nina…”

“Don't talk to me.”

A moment later she was in the bathroom, the door closed. I waited in bed for her to come out. She didn't. A lot of time passed. Finally I went to the bathroom, knocked softly on the door, and called her name. When she didn't answer, I opened the door. She was wrapped in the plush white robe provided by the hotel, sitting on the edge of the tub. Her eyes were red and swollen from tears, but she wasn't crying now.

Nina looked up at me. The glare from the bathroom light seemed to bother her, so I switched it off.

“I worry about you,” she said.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

She came off the tub and wrapped her arms around me. She rested her head against my shoulder—the sore one. I made an effort not to flinch. I caressed her hair and kissed the top of her head.

“You need a keeper,” Nina said.

“Do you want the job?”

“Want it or not, I think I'm stuck with it.”

“I love you.”

“Dammit, McKenzie. There you go again.”

A few moments later, we went back to bed.