Snowjob (34 page)

He looked away and blew his nose before he turned back. I got busy examining my coffee cup until he spoke again. “I wanted a peaceful life when I got back from Nam,” he said softly. “I tried other jobs but it was hard in the seventies. A vet was a goddamn outcast then. I couldn’t get anything worthwhile. I was laboring on a building site with a bunch of assholes who couldn’t even read. Melody didn’t mind. She was finishing up her degree. She never put me down. But I needed something I could take pride in. So the parish priest pulled some strings for me. I took the exam and joined the police department. And from then on it was the war all over again.”

“It was pretty much the same way with me, Doug. Face it. We’re a couple of soldier ants. Other people do other things. We protect them. It’s what we do. What we are.”

“I guess you’re right.” He set down his cup and stood up. “Hey. You heard Cap’n Schmidt give me the week off. I’m goin’ home, dean up before Melody and the kids get back.”

“Good thinking.” I stood up. “Soon’s I’ve seen the chief I’m gone.”

“You coming by the house before you go?”

“Yeah. To grab my bag. Then I gotta go. It’s a long drive home.”

“Yeah,” he said. He came around the table. “Thanks, Logger.” My nickname from the Marines. Canadian, therefore a lumberjack, as far as my fellow grunts were concerned. Nobody had called me “Logger” in years.

“You’re welcome, Bro.” His own nickname, in a largely white platoon.

He reached out to shake my hand and we gave one another an impulsive hug.

We disengaged and I said, “See you at the house.”

“Right,” he said and went downstairs.

I stood at the window and watched him walk to his car. He was carrying a burden. I knew that, but he walked proud. No one else was going to know. Me, and Melody when she got home. But he was in command again.

The chief summoned me downstairs a little later. He was brisk and businesslike. I listened while he gave me the same news I’d heard from Maloney and Doug. I didn’t interrupt. He was too happy about it, although he was trying not to let it show. It took only a couple of minutes and I could see he was rehearsing for the reporters who would be pouring in when the bank story got out.

When he’d finished he sat back. “So it’s all wrapped up. Long and bloody, but it’s over.”

“Well done, Chief,” I said. Everyone likes to be stroked. He was no exception.

“Thank you. And I have to return the compliment.” He looked at me levelly. If I’d been a member of his department I would have been holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He went on. “Without your assistance, this case could have dragged on. It might even have been too late to save the damage to the bank. This town is in your debt.”

“I came here to look out for Doug Ford. He’s reinstated with no blots on his record. That’s all the thanks I was looking for.”

“It’s not enough,” he said quickly. Then he realized his tension was peeping out so he tried a smile. “And besides, I want to keep everything in the family.”

I waited and he opened his drawer and took out a piece of paper. “Read this please, and sign it.”

It was short but had been drafted by somebody who knew some law. It was on Chambers PD letterhead and said, as I remember it, “In acknowledgment of remuneration received I herewith absolve the town of Chambers from any further financial liabilities to me. Further, as a sworn member of the Chambers Police Department, I will keep confidential all knowledge of procedures and events within the department’s jurisdiction before and during my tenure.” My name was typed below, along with a date and time and a space for a witness.

“Fine by me, Chief. Do you have a pen?”

He handed one to me and I checked the clock and wrote down the time and the date, signed it and handed it over. He witnessed it and put it back in the drawer, bringing out a check.

“This will be satisfactory, I hope.”

I glanced at it, expecting a few bucks. It was made out for one thousand. Not a fortune but out of a police budget, something that would create questions among the city fathers. “This is very generous, Chief,” I said.

“You’ve probably saved us ten times that much in overtime pay. I wish it could be more, but you know how it is in a small town.”

“I surely do. Thank you. And I’ll give you back your gun and badge. And your gym card.” I laid them all on his desk.

“I just need the gun and the card,” he said. He pushed the badge back across the desk to me. “We’d like to have you as an honorary member of the department.” He smiled tightly. “Unpaid, of course.”

“Of course,” I said and we laughed and shook hands and I left.

When I got to Doug’s house, I found him vacuuming. He had a pile of girlie magazines on the hall stand. “Found these in Ben’s room. He’s starting to grow up.” He was grinning.

“Nothing changes,” I said and he laughed.

“What the hell am I going to do with him?”

“Don’t embarrass him. Put these back where you found them and keep him busy playing sports.”

“He’s a’ready in every damn thing in the school.”

“Then buy him a cornet and a couple of Wynton Marsalis records.”

Doug slapped his knee. “Well, damn. Yeah. If he’s horny, buy him a horn. Good thinkin’.”

I picked up my stuff and came downstairs. He had my bottle of rye on the table. We had done a fair bit of damage to it. “Here, take this.” He handed it to me.

“Nah. I’ll pick up a whole one at duty-free. Get something nice for Fred.”

“Good thinking.” He fell silent. We were getting down to the hard part, saying goodbye, while demonstrating what big tough guys we both were.

“Listen. Pickerel season opens May 15. Why’n’t you bring Ben up, the whole crowd if Melody can get away? Fred would love that.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “Depends on Melody’s work.”

I hoisted my bag into my left hand. “Okay. So, I’m on my horse.”

“Right.” He came with me to the car. I let Sam out for a minute and Doug fussed him. “You done good, old buddy,” he said.

Then he stood up. “You too, Logger.”

“What are friends for?” We stood and looked at one another for a moment. Then Doug held up his right hand and we did our dap and laughed like nineteen-year-olds. An old lady was walking by with her dog and she paused to watch us. She looked like she might be frosted by our high jinks but she surprised me, calling out, “Nice to see you, Doug. When’s Melody getting home?”

“Nice to see you, Brenda. Melody’s home tonight. I’m picking her up at the airport at ten.”

“Then you’ll need some dinner,” she said firmly. “George is home at six. Come on over then. Otherwise you’ll have some dreadful hamburger or something. And bring your friend.”

“This is Reid Bennett. He’s on his way home. But thank you. I’ll be there.”

I smiled at the old lady and we told one another we were pleased to meet and she waved and walked on.

“Looks like you’re back in the social register,” I said.

“Sure does.” Doug said. “And I want you to know that lady’s one awesome cook.”

“Then enjoy.” I got in the car. “Take care, eh.”

“Yeah. Drive careful.” Doug stood and waved while I backed out and turned down the street, honking as I passed the old lady and her dog.

I was lucky with the weather. It was overcast but it didn’t snow and I drove into the flatter country in New York State and headed north on Highway 81 toward the Thousand Islands bridge and the last couple of hundred miles home.

I was in that comfortable driving trance, cruising just above the limit with the radio tuned to some country station and my mind in neutral. It fell dark around five and I put my lights on. I’d planned to pull off the highway at Watertown for dinner and a cup of hundred-mile coffee before crossing the bridge into Canada.

There wasn’t much traffic and most of it was local, trailing along at the posted limit. I passed all of them. Not in a cloud of dust, but creeping up until I had to slacken speed or go by. I figured the state troopers wouldn’t stop me for my extra five miles an hour. If they did I could always pull the brother officer stunt. It works.

Then, just south of the Watertown exit an unmarked car passed me. It slowed ahead and a hand came out of the passenger side and put a red flasher on the top. An unmarked patrol car. I slowed obediently, preparing to make fellow-cop noises. It slowed further and a big light shone out of the rear window into my eyes. I blinked and saw the car’s turn signal flicking, pulling me over.

So I stopped, like a good little citizen, and got out of the car. That’s a tip, by the way. Always get out of the car. In a law-abiding place like Canada, anyway. It shows the cop that you respect his authority. It’s a gesture of surrender, the way a weaker dog will cower instead of fighting. Usually it will get you off with a warning instead of a ticket.

I was expecting cops. So I’d left Sam in the front seat and shut the door. I was alone and helpless when I saw the front-seat passenger get out. He was a civilian and he opened the rear door of the car and let a man out. This one was short and in the light from my headlights I could see he was middle-aged and Italian-looking. I backed off a step toward my own car and the aid Sam could give me. But he held his hand up. “Mr. Bennett, please.”

He didn’t sound threatening and nobody else came with him. The other guy had gotten back into his car. There were just the two of us and I figured I could roll out of the line of fire before he could shoot me.

So I stood. A car came up behind me and I waited for it to stop and complete the ambush but it went right by.

The man came within two paces of me. He was around five-two but had more authority than a million taller men in high positions.

“Mr. Bennett,” he said. His voice sounded pleasant and musical. “My name is Antonio Mucci.”

“Have we met, Mr. Mucci?”

“Not until now,” he said. His hands were at his sides. He was wearing gloves. His men were in his car. He was trying to put me at my ease.

I didn’t speak and he waved one hand, the Italian prelude to words. “You’re wondering why now. Am I right?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“I was in Syracuse,” he said. “And this morning I got some news about a man who works for me. Angelo Manatelli.” He waited for an answer but when I stayed quiet he went on. “I find that this man has been cheating me. I find he has killed another man who works for me.”

“He did. A man called Ciulla.”

“Right. Right.” He didn’t want conversation, I could tell. Politeness aside, this was intended to be a monologue.

“So I ask who found out about Angelo. And I hear that you did. You and some small-town cops.” He laughed now. “These small-town guys, they didn’t do it alone. They brought in an expert from Canada, I hear. Without you, nobody finds out about Angelo cheating me.”

“They’d have found out sometime.”

“Maybe. But by then it’s too late. My money has gone. Angelo’s gone and Curly Ciulla is just as dead.”

I could see where he was going now but was wondering why. Why here? Why me?

“So it seems I owe you a debt, Mr. Bennett. I’m a man who pays his debts.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Mucci. A friend of mine was in trouble. Now he’s cleared. That’s all that matters.”

“To you, maybe,” he said. “Me, I see things differently.”

It could still get sticky, I realized. He might be planning to pay me off with a bullet in the head. He had been exposed as blind to what Manatelli was doing. I was one of the few people who knew.

“So. I’m close to this highway. I have friends who watch for your car. They tell me where you are. I come to talk to you.”

It was time to show some strength, I realized. No more deferring to him as “Mr. Mucci.” “I appreciate your courtesy. But there’s no debt involved.”

“You’re sure?” He sounded amused. “Like you’ll excuse my saying so, that car you’re driving is getting old.” He gestured to my car but I didn’t turn around. I’m too old for tricks as easy as that.

“It’s two years old, good for another five, easy.”

He started tugging at his right glove. While he was doing it I glanced behind me. Nobody visible. But it was dark outside the cone of my headlights. I was wishing I’d turned them off when I got out. But he only took off his glove and extended his hand. He did it the way a cardinal might so you could kiss his ring. “I heard tell you were straight,” he said. “I’d like to shake the hand of an honest man.”

If he was going to double-cross me, this was his moment but I had no choice. “Thanks for the compliment, Mr. Mucci. A pleasure to meet you.”

I shook his hand. It was soft, but empty. He didn’t have a C-note or two clasped in it.

“So. We’ve met.” He released my hand. “A pleasure likewise, Mr. Bennett.”

“Then I’ll say goodnight. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me still.”

“Drive safely,” he said and stood there as I got back into my car. He stood where he was as I passed him and I pushed my lights off and then back on. He raised his hand and walked back to his car.

I was scared for the next eight miles, to Watertown. They had taken the red light off their roof but they stayed with me, thirty yards back, all the way to the exit. Then they pulled off and I pressed the gas a little harder, all the way to the border.