The Blind Pig (19 page)

“Yeah, he's been in here a couple of times lately,” the man said. “Just about the only customer I had. He used the phone a couple of times.”

“How long ago did he leave?” Mulheisen demanded excitedly.

“About a half-hour ago, soon as he got off the phone.”

“Did he have anybody with him? A girl, maybe?”

“Nope.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Nope. He just pulled out of here in a big Chris-Craft and headed straight out toward Peche.”

Mulheisen bolted the rest of his whiskey, choked a bit, and ran from the bar.

Twenty-one

Joe Service wasn't sure if he was in the right cove. He sat in a small runabout that had a huge Mercury outboard motor on the stern. He'd chugged slowly around the southern shore of Peche Island trying to find DenBoer, without success. Beside him was a black plastic briefcase containing $100,000 in cash and a letter that would introduce DenBoer to some people in Toronto. Joe wasn't positive, but he had a feeling that DenBoer would be stupid to use the letter. It was very likely that the people in Toronto had instructions to relieve DenBoer of the cash, half of which they could probably keep for “burial expenses.”

The payoff was $25,000 short because that's the way Carmine wanted it. Fatman had explained it to Joe: “One, he ain't going to count it all; and two, so what? You just tell him that we're supplying extra ‘services.’ A guy with a hundred big boys in his hand won't argue too much, not with the heat he must be feeling on his fanny right now.” Joe thought Fatman was probably right.

It was getting dark. Joe cut the engine in the most likely-looking cove and decided to let DenBoer find him. It proved to be the proper tactic. Within ten minutes the
Seabitch
rumbled out of the gathering darkness and came alongside.

DenBoer looked down over the side of the cruiser into Joe's boat. “You got the money?” he demanded.

Joe held up the heavy briefcase.

DenBoer reached down for the briefcase, but Joe pulled it back. “No, no. I want to see the girl and I want to know where the guns are. Then we go make our phone call. Then we wait. If the guns are there and if the girl's all right, then you get the dough.”

DenBoer stood there, as if undecided, then he said, “All right. Wait a sec.” He turned away toward the cabin and was lost from Joe's sight. A moment later, however, he reappeared, and he cradled a Stoner rifle in his arms.

Joe didn't hesitate. He dove for cover, frantically scrambling for protection against the side of the small runabout.

DenBoer leaned over the side of the
Seabitch
and pulled the trigger. The bullets sluiced out in a red torrent, so fast they seemed to have been fired simultaneously.

It was a miracle that Joe wasn't hit. Perhaps it was the rocking of the boats. Joe considered leaping overboard, but then he heard the metallic click that meant that DenBoer was ejecting an empty magazine clip and fumbling to insert a fresh one.

Joe rolled away from the gunwale and went into a crouch with the .38 out and cocked. “Hold it!” he screamed at DenBoer.

But DenBoer was again leaning over the side and raising the Stoner. Joe shot him twice in the chest, and the rifle went flying as DenBoer was knocked flat and out of Joe's sight.

The boats were five feet apart now, and Joe had to crouch on the stern of the runabout and lean far out to grasp for the side of the
Seabitch.
He still held the .38 in his right hand, and when he did snag onto the larger boat, it was only a left-handed grab at the chrome rail and he lost his balance. For a few seconds he stretched between the two boats, his feet still hooked onto the gunwale of the runabout like some ridiculous cartoon character, but slowly he drew the two
boats together and hoisted himself up, peering over the railing, pistol at the ready.

DenBoer was sprawled on his back, arms wide, under the wheel on the bridge. Joe clambered aboard and went to him. There was a lot of blood and the man was barely breathing, his eyes half open.

Joe slipped the .38 back into the hip grip and ripped DenBoer's shirt open. There were two neat holes above the sternum. If the bullets had not hit the heart, they had come damn close. From the rapid loss of heat and respiration, Joe judged that he'd shot away part of the main artery, and the man was rapidly bleeding to death.

“Don't die, you bastard!” he snarled. “Where's those goddamn guns?” There was no answer, of course, and Joe turned away. There was blood all over the place, making the deck slippery. He saw that the padlock was still in place on the door to the cabin. He went back to DenBoer and emptied his pants pockets until he found the key.

It was dark inside the cabin and he switched on a light. Mandy Cecil cowered as best she could against the far bulkhead, her mouth still taped and her eyes wide with fear. She was still naked and her hands and feet were still taped. Joe dug out a pocket knife and sliced through the tape on her wrists. Then he gingerly peeled away the broad tape that covered her mouth.

“Take it easy,” he told her gently. “I'm not going to hurt you.” His hand was on her bare shoulder and he realized that she was shivering. He wrapped a blanket around her.

Mandy poked her desiccated tongue through bruised lips. She made a husky, inarticulate sound.

“Water?” Joe said. “You need water. Jesus, the bastard didn't even give you water.” He searched the cabin and found a small refrigerator and inside it a water jug. He poured some into a paper cup and gave it to her, helping her to sit upright and holding the cup. She sucked greedily at it, then gagged, and some of the water spilled onto her breasts, which had become uncovered when the blanket slipped
away. Joe tugged the blanket around her again and got another cup of water.

It took five cups before she could talk.

“More water,” she rasped.

He fetched the water jug then, and watched her glug away at it for several seconds before he took it from her. “That's enough,” he said. “Okay, now there's some things I have to know.”

She looked at him blankly, her arms drooping weakly on her lap. The blanket had fallen open again.

“You're in shock,” Joe said. “But here's the deal. Can you understand me?”

She nodded.

“You've been through a rough time, but you aren't out of the woods yet. I'm not going to hurt you, if you tell me what I want to know. You got that?”

“Yes,” she said faintly.

“Where are the guns?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't know? You were with him. What did he do with the guns?”

“He locked me in the trunk of my car,” she said hoarsely. “Then he drove the truck away.”

“What truck?” Joe demanded.

“The dump truck,” she said.

“When was this?”

“I don't know. Yesterday, the day before. After he shot Paco and the others.”

“In the warehouse?” Joe said. She nodded and the blanket slipped to her hips. Neither she nor Joe made a move to replace it.

“Where'd he take the guns?” Joe asked.

“I don't know,” she said.

“How long was he gone?”

“I'm not sure. It seemed like hours. Then he came back and let me out and made me drive to the marina and we got on the boat, and then he made me strip.”

She didn't go on and Joe didn't ask her to. He sat back and considered what she'd said for a minute. Then he said, “He never mentioned what he'd done with the guns?”

Mandy shook her head.

“I guess it was pretty rough, eh?” Joe said.

“He was crazy,” Mandy said softly. “I thought he was going to rape me. It was unbelievable.”

“He didn't rape you?”

“He said he wanted to be my boyfriend. We would go away together and live together and it would be like old times. I couldn't understand what he meant. I laughed at him and he got angry. He said I'd never see Jerry again. Then he slapped me several times and used the tape.”

Joe didn't know what to make of this. But it was obvious that the girl was no help. He stood up, hardly stooping in the cabin. “You're going to have to stay here for the time being,” he told her. “But you're all right, now.” He went out and closed the door, slipping the lock onto the hasp but not locking it.

It was full night now. The motorboat had drifted several yards away. Joe looked over the controls of the
Seabitch.
The engine still idled. He found reverse and backed the big cruiser until he was alongside the runabout. He threw it into idle, then jumped down into the smaller boat to retrieve the payoff money. The bottom of the boat was awash; DenBoer's full clip of thirty .223-caliber bullets had ripped right through the bottom of the hull. Joe scrambled back onto the
Seabitch
,
clutching the briefcase. A minute later he was under way.

As he chugged out of the cove he could see a bright light flickering not far away. it seemed to be a spotlight of some kind. He searched the control panel until he found a switch that cut his own running lights, then he turned on the power and moved out into the channel. A freighter was upbound, and he ran ahead of it around the lighted buoy near the head of the island, then turned north toward the Michigan shore.

He had forgotten that the lights were still on in the cabin. He was halfway across the downbound channel when a brilliant
spotlight caught the
Seabitch
from the rear. Joe didn't hesitate. He pushed the throttle wide open and flew. The boat surged under him, then seemed to get up and run. The wind whipped around the bridge and she hammered into several large bow waves before Joe realized that he was dead on toward an immense ore boat. He'd been looking back at the spotlight and not noticing what was going on. It was a 400-footer and he was approaching at nearly midships. He turned downstream and ran as fast as the
Seabitch
could make it. The police launch came after him.

It was a mistake by Morigeau. Recklessly Joe cranked the wheel and skittered past the bow of the ore boat. The
Seabitch
lurched in the bow wave on the other side, rocking dangerously, then the screws dug in and the boat found its way again.

Joe shouted with delight. “That'll slow the bastards!” he shouted. He was just a few hundred yards from shore now, and he saw the place he needed. DenBoer had taken him into the canal off Windmill Point, but downstream from that was a park, a place for high school kids to park and pet. Already, even this early, there were cars parked there. Joe drove the
Seabitch
directly at the rocky shore by the park. At the last minute he saw the rocks loom up and he braced himself.

There was a horrible crunching, splintering noise and the boat shivered violently, then caught on the beach.

Joe flopped into the partially diluted blood on the deck, then scrambled to his feet, found the briefcase and vaulted over the side onto dry ground. He fell to his knees on some rocks and scraped them badly.

He looked back and saw the police launch coming on at full speed, the spotlight fixed on the
Seabitch.
They wouldn't see him, he knew. He sprinted away into the darkness of the park.

He ran until he found a car that still had its motor running. The windows were fogged. He snatched the door open. The interior light revealed a large, handsome lad of eighteen with his hand inside the blouse of a pretty, dark-haired girl.

Joe had the .38 out. “Get out!” he screamed. “Out, out! The other door! Out!”

The couple, dazed and frightened out of their wits, leaped out of the car. Joe threw the briefcase into the back seat and slipped behind the wheel. He backed, tires spitting gravel, and whirled out of the parking lot, the passenger door slamming shut by itself.

Once out of the park he drove sedately. He dumped the car a few blocks away, on Jefferson Avenue, just ahead of a bus headed downtown. He boarded the bus with his knee bleeding and the trousers torn, carrying the briefcase. Nobody paid any attention to him. He got off near a bar and went in to settle his nerves and think.

After a while, he came to a decision. There was only one thing left to do. He had accomplished what Fatman's Toronto affiliates would have done, so Joe felt that he could, in all conscience, keep $50,000 out of the amount in the briefcase at his feet. Carmine had promised a bonus if he actually discovered the location of the guns. Joe figured $50,000 was probably what Carmine had planned to pay. Therefore, all he had to do was find the guns. He didn't think that would be much of a problem; it just needed to be checked out.

That, and one more little errand that he had promised himself, and he could get the hell out of this damn town. If he never heard the name Mulheisen again in his life, it would be just fine with Joe.

“Call me a cab,” he said to the bartender.

A half-hour later, he was in a small café on Eight Mile Road. From the pay telephone in front of the café, Joe could just see the gates of the Vanni Trucking Company.

“Hello, Fat? Yeah. Bingo. But you better hurry. I have a feeling that time is running out.” Joe listened to Fatman for a moment, then broke in. “I can't move them myself, Fat. It's up to you now.” He explained where the guns were.

“That's great, Joe. Just great. I knew we could count on you. Carmine says you'll get a bonus out of this.”

“Thanks, Fat, but I'm happy with what I've got,” Joe said. “Don't call me any more, Fat. The cops in this town are too much.” And he hung up.

Twenty-two

The
Seabitch
settled slowly onto the rocks at the verge of Riverfront Park. It was too shallow for the water to reach the body of Leonard DenBoer, but the deck canted and the body slid down until it rolled against the gunwale. Mulheisen slipped the padlock off the hasp and peered into the cabin, which was still lighted.

Mandy Cecil flung herself into his arms. A few minutes later they both issued forth, with a blanket securely wrapped around her. Morigeau had already radioed for assistance. While they waited, Mulheisen found a bottle of brandy on the
Seabitch.
Mandy wasn't the only one to taste the brandy.

“Mul, take me home,” she said, after the brandy. Morigeau turned away and busied himself with his men about the
Seabitch.
"I don't want to go to a hospital,” she said. “I'm going to be all right.”

Mulheisen protested, but ended up promising her. When the squad car arrived, driving across the lawn of the park, it turned out to be Marshall and Stanos.

“Hey, Sarge, what the hell's going on?” Stanos bellowed. “There's a couple out in the parking lot, says their car was stolen.”

“I don't know anything about that,” Mulheisen said. “Forget it.” He bundled Mandy into the back of the patrol car. “Let's go.”

“What hospital?” Marshall asked from the driver's seat.

“No hospital. St. Clair Shores.”

Marshall started to object, then shut his mouth and drove. They passed another squad car in the parking lot, where an officer was talking to a tall kid and his girlfriend.

On the way to Mandy's apartment, Mulheisen got the whole story.

“First I heard the shooting,” she said. “It was just like at the warehouse. I knew it was the Stoner. Then there were just two shots. After that the guy came in. I was hoping it was you, but then I saw it was the guy who came aboard earlier.”

“Did he hurt you?” Mulheisen asked.

“No. I was frightened at first, but he was very calm. I told him everything he wanted to know.”

“Damn,” Mulheisen said.

“Who was he, Mul?”

“I've run into him before,” Mulheisen said. “Oh, well. Tell me about the hijack again.”

She went over it again, how she had followed DenBoer into the cemetery, unsuspecting but puzzled. Then she'd been crammed into her trunk for the first time. Later they'd arrived at the warehouse and she'd been let out. A huge argument had followed, but it died down as they settled in to wait. The next day, when they received the message over the CB to move, the three Cubans had been downstairs and Lenny had suddenly attacked Francisco with the bayonet. She had watched the whole thing.

Motioning her to be quiet, Lenny had gone downstairs with the Stoner rifle. A few seconds later she heard that awful racket of the magazine being emptied. Then it was back in the trunk for her, for a while.

Mulheisen took her up to her apartment. He hung around for a bit, with the squad car waiting, until he was sure she was all right, then he left.

When he came out of the apartment building, Mulheisen made a rotating gesture with his hands to the two policeman lounging against the car, smoking cigarettes. “Let's go,” he said.

First they went to Vanni's house, but it was dark. Mulheisen hadn't dared telephone. Next, they tried the Town Pump, since it was nearby, but Dick hadn't seen Vanni. Finally, they drove out to Eight Mile Road.

All the yard lights were still on at the Vanni Trucking Company and the gate was open. The yard was filled with row after row of large yellow dump trucks. Another dump truck, with its attached trailer, was still parked next to the excavation site to one side of the office. Vanni's car was parked in front of the office.

“Pull up directly behind his car,” Mulheisen said. The three policemen got out of the car. “Stanos, you stay outside; Jimmy and I will go in,” Mulheisen said. Stanos made a face but didn't complain. He lounged against the side of the squad car, arms folded. Mulheisen and Marshall went up to the door of the small wooden building and disappeared inside without knocking. Stanos settled down for a long wait.

A few minutes later the Big 4 cruised past the Vanni Trucking Company. Dennis the Menace sat in the front passenger seat, always looking. “Stop,” he told the driver. “Back up to the gate.” He got out and strolled over to Stanos.

“You're Stanos, aren't you?” he said. He shook hands with the young patrolman.

“I liked the work you did in the alley over on Collins,” Dennis said. “What's going on here?”

“Sergeant Mulheisen's inside, sir,” Stanos said. “He's talking to the owner.”

“What's it all about?” Dennis asked.

“I'm not sure, sir, but I think that Mul—Mulheisen—thinks the guy had something to do with that Stoner rifle hijack.”

“No shit?” the Menace said. “That was some slick deal.
I'd like to have one of them rifles myself.”

“I thought you had one, sir,” Stanos said. “In the Flyer, I mean.”

“Yeah, but I meant for me. You want to see it?”

Stanos said he would and, with a backward look, walked over to the Big 4 Flyer. “Gimme the keys,” Dennis shouted to the driver. The driver unlocked the trunk and Stanos was able to feast his eyes on the Stoner. “Little beauty, ain't it?” the Menace said.

The two men stood there, handling the light but lethal weapons system and their conversation turned to esoteric subjects like rounds per minute, feet per second and free recoil energy.

They didn't notice a large U-Haul truck that cruised slowly past the Vanni Trucking Company. The driver of the U-Haul peered suspiciously at the two police cars barring the gate of the trucking company and did not hesitate. He drove on.

“Oh, it's you,” Jerry Vanni said, as Mulheisen and Marshall entered. “I thought I heard someone out in the yard a little while ago. I went out but I didn't see anyone.” He sat behind the large wooden desk that filled one end of the small office. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

Mulheisen stepped inside the railing and turned a chair around to straddle it, his arms folded on the top. Jimmy Marshall leaned against a filing cabinet, one hand resting lightly on his service revolver.

“I've got some bad news for you, Jerry,” Mulheisen said. “Your partner is dead.”

“Mandy's dead? I can't believe . . .” He half rose, then sank back into his chair.

“Not Mandy,” Mulheisen said. “Why did you think I meant Mandy? Were you expecting her to be dead?”

Two red spots appeared in the otherwise white skin of Vanni's face. “No, of course not,” he said. “I don't know
why . . . then, it's Lenny? Lenny's dead? How did it happen?”

“He was shot to death,” Mulheisen said. “On board the
Seabitch.
”

Vanni didn't say anything. He just stared at Mulheisen.

“Mandy's all right,” Mulheisen said. “The boat's kind of a mess. She's on the rocks at Riverfront Park.”

“Good God,” Vanni said. “What happened?” He leaned forward with his hands in his lap, hidden below the top of the desk. “It was Lenny, wasn't it? I knew it! That stupid ass! Well, Sergeant, say something. How did it all happen?”

Mulheisen smiled a long, slow smile that showed all his teeth. It was a sad smile. “I'm not sure yet,” he said. “The details don't really matter, I guess. It started a long time ago, with three kids playing in a field. I guess if you get three kids playing together for a long time one of them comes out on top. But that doesn't mean the other kids give up trying to be on top, even if they act like it for years at a time. The top dog goes on acting like the top dog and the bottom dog goes on acting like the bottom dog. But the bottom dog doesn't necessarily think of himself as the bottom dog. Do you know what I mean?” He bared his teeth in another smile, but Vanni didn't react.

“Well, the kid who is the top dog comes to think of himself as a top dog, always encouraged by his pals. One day, when he's older, he finds himself with a little money and he goes into a small business. Like landscaping, say. He does all right. He buys a couple trucks, hires a couple drivers, even hires his old bottom dog. And he keeps doing all right.

“By now, he is somebody. Everybody loves him. He plays poker down at the corner saloon and one night he finds himself a better game at a blind pig. He wins a lot. Everybody's hero. One night one of the players at the blind pig invites him to an even bigger game and he wins, at first. Pretty soon, one of his new poker pals tells him that for a small piece of change he can make sure that our hero gets a lucrative road-hauling contract. The deal works out.”

Mulheisen took out a cigar and clipped it and lit it. “I
don't know if this is exactly the ways things went,” he confessed, “but I wouldn't doubt it. The point is, all the way along, our hero pulls his old playmate with him, because he needs the encouragement he gets from the bottom dog.”

Vanni continued to sit behind the desk, hunched with his hands in his lap. His face was white and drawn.

“Our hero is rolling in dough,” Mulheisen went on. “He's got a good business, twenty or thirty trucks, making money hand over fist. He's even branching out into other things, like jukeboxes and vending machines. And then he meets a guy—let's call him Lorry—who tells him he knows an easy way our hero can pick up a few bucks if he'll only haul some guns off an air base.”

Mulheisen looked up through the cigar smoke. Vanni didn't bat an eyelash.

“By this time, the other playmate came back. She was a big complication. She didn't look like she used to look. Our hero probably knew better, but he couldn't resist bringing her into the game. I'd say that was a mistake.” Mulheisen took another drag on the cigar. It was very quiet in the room.

“I could go on with this little story, but I guess I don't have to,” Mulheisen said finally. He gazed placidly at Vanni. “You're sitting there quietly enough, but you're scared, aren't you? You don't know whether Lenny spilled his guts before he died, or how much Mandy can tell us. Hell, you don't know anything, do you?” Mulheisen grinned maliciously.

“I'll let you in on a little secret, Vanni,” Mulheisen said. “I don't know everything. Oh, I know most of it, but not everything. I—”

“Let's see your cards, Sergeant,” Vanni interrupted.

Mulheisen laughed—a short and humorless bark. “I like that, Vanni. That's the old poker player talking. You're tired of my bluffing, aren't you? Well, here's my hole card, then, and I'm damned if it isn't an ace: I know where the guns are, Jerry. And they're not in a place that's convenient for you at the moment.”

Mulheisen turned and looked pointedly out the window, toward the yellow truck parked by the excavation site.

Vanni stared at him wildly.

“You bastard!” Vanni shouted. He kicked the desk forward, away from himself. It was this that saved Mulheisen's life. The desk slammed into Mulheisen's chair, tipping it backward and spilling Mulheisen onto the floor. Two roaring shots from Vanni's .45 automatic blasted across the desk top and smashed the top of the chair to kindling. But Mulheisen wasn't there.

Mulheisen lay in a tangle on the floor, fighting with his raincoat to get at his .38. Marshall had dived behind a filing cabinet. Vanni leaped to the top of the desk, then vaulted across the tiny room. He kicked viciously at Marshall's gun hand, sending the service revolver flying. Then he smashed a broad shoulder into the rear door of the office and ran out into the floodlit yard.

Dennis the Menace had just locked the Stoner rifle away in the trunk of the Flyer when he heard the shots. He immediately fumbled with the keys to unlock it again.

Stanos set off across the yard on a run, pistol out. He saw Vanni racing for the truck parked near the excavation and yelled “Halt!”

Vanni stopped, pivoted and aimed the .45 at arm's length. A single shot took Stanos's right leg out from under him. Stanos rolled to the cover of the squad car as Vanni ran on.

Vanni leaped into the big International and turned on the key. The engine roared to life. Several bullets smacked into the sides of the box and the cab. Vanni could see a figure running to one side and he blasted a couple of shots in that direction, then threw the truck into gear. It was pointed toward the rear of the lot and that was the direction he wanted to go—the Big 4 Flyer was blocking the front gate.

The truck moved slowly at first, but began to pick up speed as it lumbered past the ranks of parked trucks, down the side lane.

Beyond the yard, on the other side of the tall cyclone fence
that surrounded it, lay an open field. Vanni saw it was his only chance.

Through the side mirror, Vanni saw Marshall running after him. He laughed excitedly and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The truck was going forty-five miles per hour when it hit the fence. The fence bowed and sagged outward. The huge truck's front tires mounted halfway up the fence with a mighty clanging of the box and the trailer. Sand and guns flew in all directions. Then the inertia of the truck pushed it onward and the fence slammed flat. The truck lumbered on in the clear.

Vanni cranked the wheel hard to the left and made his run, still standing on the gas pedal. He had several hundred feet to go to the first of several dark side streets that beckoned to him as a hole would to a fox. In the mirror, he could see Mulheisen and Marshall firing at the fleeing truck, but their bullets whacked harmlessly into the thick steel sides and he was leaving them behind.

“By God!” he exulted. “I did it!” He shifted to a higher gear.

Then he saw the Flyer. It came flashing up the side street and slewed to a stop, sideways, blocking the street. The Big 4 piled out on all sides.

Vanni headed the powerful rig directly at the Chrysler. A shotgun burst from one of the Big 4 took out the windshield of the truck, momentarily blinding Vanni, but then he thrust the .45 through the jagged opening, and with blood streaming down his face where fragments of glass had struck, he emptied the magazine.

Dennis the Menace stood to one side of the Flyer with the Stoner rifle at his shoulder. He pulled the trigger and a spew of flame swept the cab of the oncoming truck. The truck smashed into the Chrysler and slammed it to one side, nearly hitting one of the Big 4, who was firing the Sten gun. The juggernaut ran on across the street and smacked into the brick wall of a paint factory, crumpling in the wall. Then the truck's engine died and everything was silent.