Authors: David Housewright

Tags: #Mystery & Thriller

Tin City (22 page)

BOOK: Tin City

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That’s where it broke down, the fantasy, the wide-awake dream as phony as the driver’s license and credit cards I carried in my borrowed wallet. I wouldn’t be McKenzie anymore. And I liked McKenzie. He’d had his ups and downs over the years, but he was a good guy—like his father and Mr. Mosley had been good guys. Jacob Greene wasn’t a good guy. He was a liar. A fake. A fraud. He was willing to go to bed with another man’s wife.

I was getting drifty when a loud noise snapped me back to full consciousness. It came from the receiver. Pen’s door opening and closing loudly.

“Where have you been?”

“Steve! You startled me. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just when I came home and found that you weren’t here—my stomach is killing me. Where were you?”

“I went to dinner like I said I would. After I came back, I went for a long walk.”

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

“It’s okay.”

“Can I get you anything? A drink …”

“No.”

“Pen?”

“Steve, I’ve been thinking.”

“You have? Umm, what have you been thinking?”

“You and I should go back to New York. We should leave right away.”

“Oh, God …”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, God …”

“Steve?”

“I’m all right. Let me, let me—I have to sit down. Oh, man—my stomach just did a somersault.”

“What is it?”

“It’s all right. I was—I was just frightened for a minute.”

“What about?”

“I thought you were going to leave me. I thought you were going to ask for a divorce.”

“A divorce?”

“After we spoke on the phone and you hung up I started thinking, ‘She’s going to leave me. I’ve been treating her like crap for six months and now she’s going to leave me.’ And when you said you’d been thinking—I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I’ve had guys shoot at me and I haven’t been so scared.”

“I wouldn’t leave you, Steve. I love you.”

“Thank you. Thank you, yes. I love you, too. I love you more than anything. I forgot that for a while, and I’m sorry. I really am.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Pen, it isn’t all right. I’ll take you back to New York. I promise I will. I’ve made a mess of some things out here and I have to clean it up before I go, but I’ll take you home, I promise. I’ll write my letter of resignation right now, if you want. I’ll tell the FBI, transfer me back to New York or I quit. There’s a lot of other things I can do. I could make a lot more money, too.”

“Money’s not important. What’s important is that we’re together. That we love each other.”

I went to the desk and switched off the receiver.

“Bullshit.”

I didn’t believe a word that Sykora had said, and I was amazed that Pen did. She seemed smarter than that.

I left the room, left the motel, and crossed Central Avenue. The air was cold, and the wind blowing in my face had an edge to it. Lights reflected off the wet pavement, and I deliberately walked down residential streets that were darker and quieter to avoid them. I traveled twenty minutes in one direction, then fifteen in another before stopping. I rested my hands on my hips and stared straight up at the night sky. A solitary dot of light moved in a straight line among the bright stars, and I thought of the International Space Station, flashed on all those glorious photographs taken of Earth from space. The world looked quite spectacular when seen from a distance. It’s only when you get up close that it loses its appeal, and I was way too close. I had lost perspective.

“Step back,” I said aloud. “Step back and look at the big picture.”

And I did, literally, stepping backward three paces while looking up at the night sky.

Now what do you see?

“Steve Sykora’s future. He messed up my life. Now I’m going to mess up his.”

Of course, jealousy had nothing to do with it.

Sunday morning. I slid open the window of the motel room, and the wind stirred the lace curtains like a skirt. I flashed on Pen’s rose-colored dress. I could feel the warm pressure of her body against mine, taste her lips and smell the fragrance of her rain-soaked hair.

It occurred to me that I might be insane, and I wondered briefly what Dr. Jillian deMarais would say.

You’re obsessing over a woman you barely know, who’s made it clear she doesn’t want to know you. What are you, nuts?

Good question. What would you advise, Doctor?

McKenzie, you need to get out more.

Sounds like a plan to me.

Sykora had vowed to spend the day fulfilling each and every one of Pen’s whims, which mostly involved cultural pursuits—the Walker Sculpture
Garden, the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, the Minnesota Historical Society. Meanwhile, I sought enlightenment of a different sort.

I drove to a gas station that had one of those drive-up pay telephones you can operate from your car and pumped two quarters into the slot. I called Jeannie Shipman, Bobby Dunston’s “young, beautiful, smart-as-hell partner” at the St. Paul Police Department, although I don’t think he calls her that anymore. For the briefest period of time, Bobby had contemplated having an affair with her, but cooler heads prevailed.

“McKenzie,” she said after I identified myself. “There are people looking for you.”

“Are they looking hard?”

“I couldn’t say about anyone else, but we’re not.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“I forgot Bobby Dunston’s extension number.”

“Uh-huh. Well, why don’t I wave him over. Just in case his phone is tapped.”

“You’re wonderful.”

“If I’m so wonderful, how come you never ask me out?”

“Because you’re way too good for the likes of me.”

Jeannie snickered. “One day I hope to have a friend as close as you and Bobby are. Hang on.”

A moment later, Bobby was on the phone.

“You sonuvabitch,” he said.

Yeah, me and Bobby were like
this.

“Don’t call me that,” I told him.

“You bastard.”

“Much better.”

“I could kill you.”

“What did I do?”

“How ’bout that scene you played on my patio the other night?”

“What scene?”

“The scene where you gave my wife all of your worldly possessions—your fucking last will and testament—and said good-bye.”

“I didn’t say good-bye. I said good night.”

“You said good-bye.”

“I didn’t say—did I really?”

“Yes, you did, really, and now Shelby’s all shook up wondering what’s happened to you. ‘Is McKenzie all right?’ ‘Have you heard from McKenzie?’ And another thing, pal—where do you get off buying my wife a sports car?”

“Are you kidding? The only way she gets a sports car is if I’m dead.”

“Yeah? So?”

“You jealous bastard. How ’bout if I amend the policy so you both get sports cars? And the kids, too?”

“That would be much better, thank you.”

“Fine. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

“So you are coming back.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Where are you now?”

“Bobby, you don’t want to know where I am now.”

“That’s true. But where are you?”

“Close.”

“How close?”

“Bobby …”

“All right, all right.” I heard the exertion Bobby put into sitting down. He said, “So, how’s it going?”

“Not bad. Could be better.”

“Are you playing nice with the other children?”

“They’re all being mean to me.”

“Poor baby.”

“I did meet a nice girl, though.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“What?”

“Nina.”

“What about Nina?”

“If Shelby isn’t asking about you, Nina is.”

“Nina’s worried, too?”

“Yes, she is.”

“That’s nice.”

“You think so?”

“It’s nice to know people care.”

“McKenzie—oh, never mind.”

“Bobby, I need a favor.”

“I figured.”

“Remember that woman, about four years ago, she worked for the
New York Times
—she did the story about crime in the Twin Cities.”

“Yeah, the reporter, back when we had all those killings, the one with the big—”

“Glasses. She wore glasses.”

“I remember those, too.”

“What was her name?”

“Rose, Rosemary, Roseanne …”

“Roseanne Esmae.”

“No. Esjay. Roseanne Esjay.”

“She’s the one who labeled Minneapolis ‘Murderopolis.’”

“What about her?”

“Nothing. I was just trying to remember her name.”

“That’s the only reason you called?”

“Well, you could do me another favor.”

“What?”

“Look up the phone number of the
New York Times.
”

I bought a fifteen-minute phone card at the drugstore and wasted six of them first trying to get through to Roseanne Esjay and then reminding her who I was.

“The St. Paul cop with the goofy name, I remember now. How’s your cute friend?”

“My married cute friend?”

“Yeah, him.”

“He’s good.”

I was surprised that Esjay was in the office on a Sunday morning and told her so.

“Trust me,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea. So, what can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for information.”

“About what?”

“Some big fat slob named Frank Russo might’ve been a capo in the Bonanno family. My take is that he’s hiding from Angelo Granata. I don’t know why.”

“Are you still with the St. Paul cops?”

“No.”

“Are you with the FBI now, or some other …”

“Not at all. Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to figure out what you have to do with Frank Russo.”

“I’m looking for him.”

“So is most of the New York Mafia. Why do you want him?”

“Are we on the record?”

“Hell, yes, we’re on the record. McKenzie, why are you looking for Frank Russo?”

“If we’re on the record, I can’t tell you.”

“C’mon …”

“Sorry.”

“All right—look, off the record, then.”

“Russo murdered a friend of mine.”

“In Minnesota? Frank Russo’s in Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. The FBI is hiding him.”

“The FBI is hiding—they must have turned him. They’re using Russo to get to Granata.”

“That’s my understanding, too.”

“Oh, man, this is great.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“In Minnesota, you say. I’ll be damned. McKenzie, you need to go on the record. You need to—”

“Roseanne, Roseanne …”

“McKenzie.”

“Roseanne, I don’t care what you write, as long as you don’t mention my name or why I’m looking for Russo. Is that a deal?”

“What do I get in exchange?”

“You get the name of the special agent who’s holding Russo’s hand.”

“That’s a deal.”

“Just tell me, first—why is Granata looking for Russo?”

“It’s complicated.”

I glanced at my watch. I still had a few minutes left on my phone card.

“I have time,” I said.

“Granata became acting boss of the Bonanno family when they busted Joseph Massino. He’s very good at what he does. Very disciplined.
Under him the Bonannos have become the strongest of the five Mafia families. Frank Russo was one of Granata’s most dependable and ruthless capos. He wanted to use the Bonanno muscle to force the other families into a kind of European Union, five independent families but all of them under a single leadership umbrella—Granata’s umbrella. From a strictly business standpoint, it wasn’t a bad idea, only Russo’s plan probably would have led to all-out war, and Granata wouldn’t go along with it. Russo decided to take over the family and impose his union anyway. He tried to hit Granata. He missed. Now a hundred and fifty Bonanno soldiers are searching for him, plus God knows how many freelancers.”

“That’s not complicated at all,” I told Roseanne.

“It is if Russo cut a deal with the FBI. You say he’s in Minnesota?”

“He was the last time I saw him.”

“You saw him?”

“I stood about two yards away from him.”

“When?”

“Last Friday afternoon. The day before he killed my friend.”

“He killed your friend, but the FBI’s still protecting him?”

“That’s right. Or at least some agents of the FBI are.”

“Same thing happened in Boston. In exchange for information on the Patriarca Mafia family, a handful of maverick agents protected members of the Winter Hill Gang from prosecution. Eventually the Patriarca family was devastated by federal prosecutions, and the Winter Hill Gang took control of the Boston-area rackets. Now about a billion dollars’ worth of lawsuits have been brought against the government by victims of crimes committed by the informants while they were under FBI protection.”

“Same thing might be happening here.”

“Your friend who was killed …”

“His name is Mr. Mosley. He was a beekeeper. You can probably
pick up everything you need from back issues of the St. Paul and Minneapolis newspapers.”

“You promised me a name.”

“Steven Sykora.”

“Sykora?”

“He’s Frank Russo’s babysitter.”

“Sykora used to be with the organized crime task force that was investigating the Bonanno family. I heard he was transferred a few months ago.”

“Guess where.”

“The Minneapolis field office.”

“What a coincidence.”

“If I write this story—who am I kidding—
when
I write this story, probably tomorrow if I can get any kind of confirmation, all hell is going to break loose, you know that, don’t you? Along with the FBI freaking out, a hundred hitters are going to descend on the Land of 10,000 Lakes looking for Russo.”

“There’s something you should know, Roseanne.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s actually closer to fifteen thousand lakes.”

Special Agent Brian Wilson wasn’t in his office. I had to track him down at home.

He said, “Hello.”

I said, “Hi, Harry.”

“McKenzie.”

“You recognized my voice.”

“That, plus you’re the only one who calls me Harry.”

“That’s because you look just like the actor Harry Dean Stanton,
and that’s how I came to think of you before I learned what your real name was.”

“Yeah, you told me.”

“Besides, I hear Brian Wilson and I think of the Beach Boys.”