No Man's Dog (5 page)

This was too much, Joe thought. The notion flashed through his head how it was often like this: a guy does you an injury, first he wants forgiveness and absolution, and before you know it he ends with demanding that you apologize to
him
! Now it looked like he wanted compensation!

Joe leaned a little closer and said, quietly but with an edge to his voice, “If I hear one more word about this, Smoke, I won't like it.”

Smokey was instantly contrite. “Sure, Joe.” He held his hands up, palms out. “I was just say—”

“One word,” Joe said.

Smokey dropped it. “Hey, we're pals . . . right?”

Joe didn't even nod. He pushed his beer away and got up.

Smokey called after him, “What should I say if the guy comes back?”

“Tell him to call me. You know the number,” Joe said over his shoulder.

Before he picked up Helen, Joe did something he hadn't planned to do. He called the Colonel. He'd hoped never to talk to the Colonel again, but the stranger had made it necessary.

Lieutenant Colonel Tucker wasn't in, according to his assistant, Edna. But she was sure that he'd want to talk to Joe. He'd call him back. Was there something she could help with? Joe said, No, it was nothing. He just wondered if the Colonel had sent somebody around. Some guy had been asking, in Butte. He gave the particulars, as he'd gotten them from Smokey. But Edna hadn't heard anything. The Colonel would call him.

Joe didn't mention any of this to Helen. The more he thought of it the less it seemed that it concerned her. The guy asking questions didn't sound like someone involved with the Lucani, the Colonel's little group of disaffected agents. Joe trusted Smokey's instincts: the guy was a mob guy. But Joe couldn't believe that anyone from the mob was still pursuing the issue of Carmine's death. It made no sense. And, after all, Joe had no direct connection to Big Sid—well, he did, through Helen, but Joe was determined to believe that it was a dead issue with the mob. And, finally, he didn't want to think about all this stuff. He had other things on his mind, like electrical wiring, insulation, whether to build a little cabin up in the woods, a place to retire to when he needed to think, or putter
with his stuff—guns and the new fishing rods he'd bought. It was an attractive notion, a kind of retreat from Helen.

He discovered in himself, just thinking about it as they drove back from Butte, a kind of disloyalty toward Helen. They were inseparable. But was that the way it would always be? Shouldn't a man and a woman have some relief from each other's company? Did Helen ever feel that? He glanced at her. She was gazing out at the countryside, the beautiful mountains.

“What?” she said, catching his look.

“Nothing,” Joe said. “I was just wondering . . .?”

“What?”

“Are you . . . happy?”

“Am I happy? Sure. I'm happy. You mean, this?” She gestured at the mountains. They were descending from the pass, spinning along a grand highway that swept around curves, along a wooded canyon, past rugged cliffs.

Joe nodded. “You miss Detroit?”

“Well, I'd like to see Mama,” she said. “She's getting old, you know. I suppose she's happy. She has her old ladies, of course. Lunch, and dinner after church. She'd never appreciate this, I think, but maybe we could have her out for a week . . . once we get the house done.”

“Oh sure,” Joe said. “We'll have her out. We could take her up to the lake, near Helena. Rent a boat. She'd like that.”

Helen had purchased a ton of food, including an enormous bag of dog food. They were now in the habit of feeding Anders Ericsson's dog as well as their own. Their dog was a small, white bundle of energy that had been foisted on them by their neighbor Franko. It had belonged to Franko's late uncle and aunt, a couple who had been murdered by a madman named Bazok, who had also terrorized Franko and Joe and Helen. This little dog got along
famously with Anders's Skippy, which the carpenter was delighted to see.

“Skip,” he told them, “likes nobody, including other dogs. You really ought to keep him. My wife hates him. To tell you the truth, I don't think he likes me. But he seems to like you, Joe. And Homes.” That was the name they had given the orphaned dog, shortened from “Home, boy!,” which is what they had found themselves yelling at the little dog every time they tried to leave. He would follow them halfway to the gate, which was more than a mile from the house. They didn't know the dog's original name, so they decided on Homeboy, which soon became just Homes.

The idea of owning a dog was repellent to Joe. Just another attachment, another bother when you had to go somewhere. Owning a dog was so . . . so “straight.” It was yet another indication of the couple's growing ordinariness. Franko owned dogs. They were handsome rottweilers and invaluable to him, as he never tired of pointing out. They had ultimately defended Franko and the Humanns against the madman Bazok. The obvious point of their usefulness could not be denied. People who lived as they did needed all the warning devices they could muster, it seemed, and dogs were invaluable. Joe was surprised that the dogs took to him so readily, especially Anders's cranky Skippy. But he found himself oddly attached to Homes.

When they entered the gate, where was Homes? Usually, he'd be leaping with ecstasy, in company with Skippy. But no Homes or Skippy today. The couple soon found out why. He had besieged a strange car, parked in the driveway of Franko's house. Skippy lounged nearby, in the shade, watching with interest. Franko's wife, a slender Kosovar woman named Fedima, came out to explain.

“He will not let this man leave his car,” she said. “I am sorry, Joe, but I didn't know what to do. Franko is fishing. The man wishes to speak with you.”

“That's all right, Fedima,” Joe said. “I'll take care of it.”

Joe called the dog to him and put him in the truck, where he continued to yap. The stranger got out of the car, warily. This, Joe instantly realized, was the man who had been asking about him in Butte. He also recognized him. Caspar Darnay.

The two men greeted each other effusively. Joe had known Darnay since childhood, in Philadelphia. He hadn't seen him in years. But he was the same old Caspar. He was a short man, not much taller than Joe, with the same old quiet, watchful look, doubtless reinforced by several years in the penitentiary. Joe was glad to see him, sort of. He represented the past, which was past.

Joe and Helen were living in their new house, even though it wasn't finished yet—and it was uncertain when it would be. They called it camping out, but in fact it was merely an inconvenience, what with having to periodically empty a room to put down a floor, which they would soon have to do in the kitchen, with the hardwood Joe had just picked up. They had lots of room. Joe insisted on putting up Caspar.

While Helen started dinner, Joe went for a walk with Caspar . . . and Homes, of course, who was now docilely accepting of the newcomer, with Skippy trailing along as usual. They walked down from the house toward the river. They stood on a bluff and watched as, in the distance, they could see Franko casting to a pool where the stream ran along a cliff.

“Man, it's beautiful,” Caspar said, fervently. “I can't get used to all this open space. You've got a fabulous house, Joe, and your wife is gorgeous. You got it made, man.”

Joe accepted these praises without a remark, merely smiling. He understood that it was heartfelt, and that the enthusiasm was due in part to the man's long incarceration. But it was beautiful. Very quiet. Deer were visible picking their way along the banks of the stream, among some aspen. A hawk was circling in the sky. The mountains seemed to guard their privacy.

They talked a bit about the expanse, the relative privacy—the only neighbors being the Oberaviches. It was a paradise, clearly, the ideal hole-in-the-wall.

Joe asked how Caspar had found him. It was fairly simple. Caspar had continued to ask around, after being rebuffed by Smokey. “I could tell he knew you,” Caspar said, “he just wasn't saying. Which is all right.” He shrugged, to indicate he understood the circumstance. “But I kept looking, and finally I found this real estate babe, Carmen or something. She gave me a lead. So I came out here.”

Joe could see it. It made him a little anxious to realize that he was so locatable. He didn't much like that. But he let it pass.

“So what brings you out this way?” he asked, finally.

“I finished up my time at Deer Lodge,” Caspar said. “They transferred me, sixteen months ago. I had a little difficulty in Illinoise. I had to testify against some guys. The deal was, I got a few months knocked off and they moved me.” He shrugged. It wasn't an issue for discussion, obviously.

“Anyways,” he went on, “I always knew you was out this way. I'd heard from some guys who knew you. But when I went to the place they said, it was burned down, no one around.”

That was another story, Joe's story, also not worth discussing. Joe didn't offer any explanation, except, “I moved up here about a year ago.”

“I just wanted to come by and tell you thanks, for Charles,” Caspar said.

“Ah, yes. Charles.” That was Caspar's kid brother, dead in a shoot-out with cops, in Detroit. Joe had been very close to Charles, more than with Caspar. They had both gone to work for the mob, back in Philadelphia, and before that had been pals on the street. Joe had claimed Charles's body and sent it home. This was Caspar's big deal: making a trek to thank Joe.

“I know Ma really appreciated what you done,” Caspar said. “And paying for the funeral, too. I wanted to repay you for that. But I'm not exactly flush, you understand.”

“Oh, jeez, Caz, don't even think about it. You would have done it, but you weren't there.” Caspar had been in prison, of course. “Anyone would have done it,” Joe said.

“Sure,” Caspar said, “but it wasn't . . . there wasn't anyone there to do it, but you. They'd a buried him in the potter's field. We'd a never known what happened.”

“I just happened to be there, in Detroit, at the time,” Joe said. “I mean, I wasn't into anything with Charles, you know. I wouldn't have known about it, but I happened to be in town and I realized who the papers were talking about. That's all. I can't tell you much about what happened to him. It didn't have anything to do with me, see?”

“Oh, I know that, I know that,” Caspar reassured him. “I didn't mean anything. I guess he just . . . well, I guess he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Something like that,” Joe said. “I don't even remember what the situation was, you know? I just read about it, heard about it from some other guys. So I thought, well, this is an old pal, I thought I could take the time to see that he got home. How is your Ma?”

“Oh, she's fine, fine. She's getting on. Anyways, thanks for doing that, for Charles. And Ma.”

They stood there, not looking at each other, just taking in the view. “Man, this is really something,” Caspar said. “I got to hand it to you, Joe. You done good. You doin' all right?” He glanced at Joe, a little concerned. “I mean . . . I can see you're doin' all right . . . but everything going okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I'm retired now, you know.”

“Ah. That's good. Me, I got to be looking for work. You get out, after all this time. . . . I tell you, Joe, the world is so different
now. Everything is changed. I guess I'll look up some guys, but . . . hell, I'm not even sure where to start.”

“Hey, what am I thinking?” Joe said. “Look, I got plenty. You need something to tide you over? No, really, I mean it. I got too much. I can help you out. You'll pay me back later. When you get back on your feet.”

Caspar looked almost embarrassed, but he didn't show much emotion. “Thanks, I appreciate that,” he said. “I'll pay you back. You know that.”

“We'll figure something out,” Joe said. “Would a couple grand do you? You think so? I could spring for more, if you need it.”

“No. A couple grand is terrific, Joe. I'd appreciate it. Everything's so much more expensive now. But, listen,” he turned away from the river and leaned a bit closer, as if to avoid being overheard, although only the dogs could have heard him, and the wind rippling across the grass. “I don't want you to think I just come by to borrow money, Joe. I wanted to thank you for Charles, and I done that. And I'll pay you back for that . . . and the two grand. You know that.”

“I know that,” Joe said. “What is it?” He could tell that something was bothering Caspar, something else. “Tell me.”

“I heard something that you ought to know,” Caspar said. “I couldn't go home without finding you and telling you. That's why I stuck around so long. I been out for a week. I was beginning to wonder if I would find you.”

“Something you learned inside?”

“Yeah.” Caspar looked around, then leaned closer. “There's some heavy guys looking for you, Joe. If I found you, they'll find you. You need to keep your eyes open. They ain't looking to give you the lottery winnings, or nothing.”

“Who are they?”

“Some kind of heat. Foreign heat. I got a couple of names. One of ‘em's some kind of Spanish guy—Echeverria.”

3

Sniff

F
or a change, Mulheisen played some jazz while he read one of Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories to his mother. He had an idea that she would like Stevenson because the story was not so modern. Her situation was a peculiarly modern, contemporary one, it seemed to him, and so an old story of the nineteenth century, about people cast away on South Sea islands might be better, somehow, less threatening, perhaps more soothing . . . balmy islands . . . balm . . . healing. Of course, it was true that he had, himself, a kind of nostalgic taste for Stevenson.

The music he chose was a collection of Gershwin tunes, played by the cornetist Ruby Braff, accompanied by the guitarist George Barnes. Very mellow, lightly swinging stuff. When he noticed that his mother was nodding, he stopped and helped her to her bed. She was quite docile. But as he tucked her in he was suddenly electrified to see that she was looking at him intently. He started to say something, but stopped when he saw her lips move.

He lowered his head to hear her. She seemed to be singing! It was just a very, very faint sound, with no more than a hint of musicality, a whisper with a lilt.

“It’s very clear,” she sang, “our love is here . . . to stay.”

It was one of the tunes from the CD he’d been playing.

“Not . . . for . . . a year,” he sang along with her, slowly, patiently, whispering too, “but . . . ever . . . and a day . . .”

She stopped, evidently out of breath, and her eyes closed. A very faint but definite smile stretched her withered lips. And then she seemed to fall asleep, her mouth still slightly open. Mulheisen sat by her, on the bed, and held her hand. When he was sure that she was asleep, he got up and went back to his room. His eyes were a little glassy, almost moist.

He called his old friend Jimmy Marshall, now a precinct commander. “Say, Jimbo, how’s it going?” They chatted for a few moments and Mulheisen told him his mother seemed to be improving. He described the singing. Marshall was excited.

“Ruby Braff? I’ll be damned,” Marshall said. “Well, you know Braff, he was one of the last of the real swinging cornets. Very infectious, that kind of what-do-you-call it,
joie de vivre.
You should play her some Louis.” Marshall was a fellow devotee.

“’Struttin’ With Some Barbecue,’” Mulheisen suggested, “or, ‘Potato Head Blues’?”

“How about ‘I’m Comin’ Virginia’?”

They went on in this vein, discussing music, but finally Mulheisen said, “Who’s investigating the bombing? You know?”

Marshall told him it was the new agency, the Homeland Security people, but there were other groups involved. The Wards Cove police, for instance. And some of the Detroit cops were involved, drafted into it by the Homeland group. Wunney was one of them.

Mulheisen called Wunney. He was willing to discuss the investigation in the most general sort of way, as a courtesy to Mulheisen, because of his mother and because he had been a colleague. But it was clear after a minute or two that he didn’t feel free to provide any details. The case seemed to have stalled.

“I talked to Tucker,” Mulheisen said. “He came out to see me.”

“What for?” Wunney said.

“He seemed to be recruiting,” Mulheisen said. “He suggested you guys needed help.”

“What guys? He’s the liaison with the Homeland Security people, running this Special Task Force, they call it,” Wunney said. “I probably shouldn’t even be discussing him with you, not on the phone, anyway.”

“Oh. Okay,” Mulheisen said. “Well, I turned him down, anyway. It didn’t sound like my kind of thing. I’m retired, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Well, if you’re out and about, stop in and see us sometime, for old times. We’re downtown.” He mentioned an address in an office building just off Cadillac Square.

Mulheisen took a drive downtown the next day. He’d arranged for another nurse to be on hand, in case he was late getting back. His mother seemed livelier, but if he’d expected her to wake up talking he was disappointed. He hadn’t exactly expected that, but she seemed more aware of her surroundings, at least. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave her alone at this critical juncture, but he was intrigued about the task force. He thought he could get away for a few hours.

The task force had taken a number of offices in one of those old buildings that Detroit seemed overstocked with these days. They looked pretty busy, with lots of computers, copiers, telephones, and secretaries. Wunney wasn’t surprised to see him.

“Let’s go for a walk, Mul,” he said.

They strolled a block to a small bar on the square. Mulheisen remembered it as being called Johnny’s, but now it belonged to some chain. Franchise bars—what a concept, Mulheisen thought. It seemed a little bright and clean for a Detroit tavern, but he wasn’t interested in booze these days. He opted for coffee, as did Wunney. The coffee was very good, as it should be, costing what one used to pay for a shot of Jack Daniels.

“What do you know about Colonel Tucker?” Wunney asked.

Mulheisen smiled. “I was going to ask you that. I don’t know anything about him.”

“I don’t know much,” Wunney said. “Seems like a capable guy, in a way. Except I can never figure out what the fuck he does. Mysterious, you know? These spooks cultivate that style. They must think it adds to their image. They’re into very deep stuff, doncha know? And on a very high level, the highest. But are they? Maybe they don’t know shit—how could you tell? I guess he was CIA at one time.”

Mulheisen said that when he’d first met the man, out in Salt Lake City, on a case involving money laundering, Tucker had been running an agency, or at least an operation, that was fronted by the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

“The INS is very big these days,” Wunney said. “It’s all under the umbrella of the Homeland guys. I’m detached to Homeland, for this task force. The pay is great! I think I’m supposed to be their link to the DPD. I provide them with Detroit info.”

“Tucker mentioned Joe Service,” Mulheisen said. “The name mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand,” Wunney said. Then he added, “Oh, wasn’t he a mob guy? He had something to do with Carmine and the Fat Man, but that’s a few years back. You remember Andy Deane, Rackets and Conspiracy? Andy got it in his head that Service whacked Carmine.”

“Yeah, Andy ran it down to me,” Mulheisen said. “I couldn’t quite see it. I thought it was the daughter, Helen, Big Sid’s kid. The angle was that Carmine had Sid zipped, for skimming on some dope deal. There was a connection between the daughter and Service, which I guess is why Andy figured it must have been Service who did the job. The funny thing is, the reason I was in Salt Lake in the first place—when I met Tucker—was because I had a lead on the
daughter. She was smurfing cash there, or that was the lead. You know, laundering dope money. I figured that would be Sid’s money, the skim from Carmine. The word was the Fat Man, as Carmine’s successor, was after her.”

Wunney snorted. “Humphrey wasn’t exactly the revenge type.”

Mulheisen nodded. “More likely he just wanted to recover the skim. Anyway, the short of it is Helen winds up back in Humphrey’s good graces. So much for revenge. It looked like Joe Service had engineered all this—recovered the money, made amends with Humphrey. That’s the kind of stuff Service did. He made a career out of finding things for the mob, like who took their money, and where they were now. That doesn’t mean he didn’t pop Carmine, it just seems unlikely.”

Wunney was interested. He knew pieces and bits of this tale, picked up here and there. “Okay, I think I see it,” he said, “kinda.” He didn’t seem convinced.

Mulheisen shrugged. “Who knows? My impression is that Joe Service is perfectly capable of yanking the plug on anyone, but that was evidently not his real function in the mob. I never heard that he had any beef with Carmine, but he was pretty tight with Humphrey. Who knows? Maybe Humphrey had him hit Carmine. I had him in my hands once. But he was that close”—he snapped his fingers—“to being popped by that little weasel Itchy. Remember him?”

Wunney remembered Ezio “Itchy” Spinodi. A gunman who had taken a fall for Carmine or one of the other big boys many years ago. “Why would Itchy be after Service, if he was so tight with the Fat Man?” he wanted to know.

Mulheisen shook his head. “These guys live complicated lives. It looked to me like the national mob wanted Service dead. They must have figured he had to be at least too deep into Carmine’s death
to walk, even if he didn’t actually pull the trigger. Humphrey either couldn’t protect him, or didn’t want to, at the time. There was an earlier hit attempt that almost succeeded. Service was recovering from that when I found him and headed off Itchy, but he had a serious relapse, a kind of stroke. I stashed him in a hospital, in Denver, thinking when he came out of his coma we could get together, maybe iron out some of the wrinkles. But they let the guy walk on me.”

The two old detectives chewed on this one for a while, decrying the laxity of hospital security, sheriff’s deputies. Finally Mulheisen said, “Tucker mentioned Service to me when he visited. In connection with the bombing. Joe Service the mad bomber? I don’t think so, even if some kind of connection could be made out. Maybe it goes back to the deal in Salt Lake. Tucker and his guys were about to grab Helen. Service waltzed in and sprang her. He left Tucker handcuffed to a water pipe in the kitchen. A guy like Tucker isn’t going to forget that insult to his dignity. Somewhere down the line he’s going to find a jacket for Joe Service, don’t you know?”

Wunney grunted, his version of a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Well, we were passed a thing about Service. An intercept, a phone call to some guy in Florida. This guy talked to Service about some Muslim group. It didn’t make much sense to me. I didn’t see a connection, except that someone else said the group might have a tie-in with the bombing, possibly.”

“Might have a tie-in? That’s the level you’re working on?” Mulheisen shook his head. “Tucker kind of waved the Muslim angle off. He hinted at some local militia-type group.”

“Well, if there’s no Muslim angle,” Wunney pointed out, “what’s the connection with Service?” He almost managed to convey an expression of derisory disbelief, but he wasn’t capable of that kind of facial mobility.

Mulheisen managed a complementary expression, suggesting that it was all nonsense. But he asked, “Isn’t that the way they
do it? One Muslim is the same as any other, any connection becomes a universal coupling—it’ll work in any context. So who was the guy in Florida?”

“Ah, I don’t know . . .” Wunney gazed at Mulheisen for a long moment through slightly narrowed eyes. Then he said, “You know him. Big Sid’s old hench, the Yak.”

“Yakovich?” Mulheisen smiled, his long teeth bared in the expression that had given rise to his street nickname, Fang. “One thing I know about the Yak, he’s no Muslim.”

“No, he’s no Muslim, but he was in conversation with Service and Helen Sid, the daughter, about some Muslim group in Brooklyn. The conversation was so vague, it was hard to get a take on it. It sounded like the Muslims had something that Helen Sid wanted. Maybe it was just info. I couldn’t get anywhere with it. The FBI was in on it. They thought it was a dope deal, but evidently that didn’t turn out.”

“Who are these Muslims?” Mulheisen asked.

Wunney offered a nominal grin. “Albanians. They seemed to have some connection with Kosovar refugees.”

Mulheisen was baffled. The idea of Helen Sedlacek, Joe Service, and Roman Yakovich involved in a dope deal with Muslims was too much for him.

“Where does the bombing come in?” he asked.

Wunney shrugged. “Muslims, Detroit mobsters. That’s about it. Like you say, it’s a universal joint, turns in any direction.”

“Makes my head spin,” Mulheisen said. “So, what about this militia group?”

“Mul? You in or out?”

“I don’t know,” Mulheisen said. “I have an interest, that’s all. Don’t tell me anything that’ll get you in trouble. Not that I’d say anything, of course.”

Wunney sighed. “Okay. All’s it is’s a joker named Luck, lives
upstate, he’s got visions of black helicopters, New World Order, ZOG—that’s the Zionist Occupational Government—hates environmentalists, liberals, cops, any kind of government it looks like, dog-catchers, game wardens, you name it. Rumored to have been in Wards Cove at the wrong time. Access to explosives. Blah, blah, blah.”

Mulheisen nodded. “You talk to him?”

“Oh, yeah. Nothing. He was off fishing, he says. He’s got alibis . . . from guys who need alibis.”

“What about the vehicle that was used? The explosive?”

“Vehicle was stolen in Detroit, no connection with Luck. Explosive was military, U.S., stolen. No Luck.” He almost chuckled, a kind of choking sound. “That’s what some of the boys call the case: No Luck.”

“Ah, well.” Mulheisen grimaced. “And if I go talk to him it won’t go over too well—if I’m not in. Hmmmm. Any connection to Service?”

“The only connection that I know of is Service’s name turned up on this guy’s Web site,” Wunney said.

“Terrorists have Web sites?”

“Of course they do, Mul. Where have you been? Anyway, all’s he said about Service was that Service was a fed, an agent. It was supposed to be a word to the faithful to avoid him. But, as Tucker said, they say that about anyone, sometimes it’s just a cover, disinformation.” He paused, then asked, “So? You in?”

“I’ll let you know,” Mulheisen said. “What’s this guy’s full name?”

“Martin Parvis Luck,” Wunney said, “but he goes by just the initials, M.P. He lives upstate, a little town called Queensleap.”

It was such a muddle, Mulheisen thought, as he drove home along Lake St. Clair. Too many different services and factions, running around like the Keystone Kops, waving billy clubs and tumbling
all over one another. And anyway, he was not a man obsessed with justice, not a revenger; he was with the late Humphrey DiEbola on that issue. So what, he asked himself, was he? An old dog, addicted to old tricks? Why had he ever gotten into this game? He had an orderly mind. He liked to know as much as he could. Puzzles attracted him; he liked to see a pattern. He was also patient. He felt that many puzzles, over time, simply resolved themselves.