Amos Walker: The Complete Story Collection (39 page)

Ma reached into an open carton and lifted out a pump shotgun with the barrel cut back to the slide. Boyd stepped forward to take it. She swung the muzzle on him. “Show me some paper.”

He hesitated, then drew a thick fold of bills from his shirt pocket and laid it on a stack of cartons. Then she moved to cover me. Boyd watched me add thirty-five hundred to the pile.

“What’s
he
buying?”

Ma said, “You.”

“Cop!” He lunged for the shotgun. Leo’s revolver came out. Mace drew a bead on Boyd from the loft. He relaxed.

I was looking at Suzie. “I’m a private detective hired by your father. He wants to talk to you.”

“He’s here?” She touched Boyd’s arm.

He tensed. “It’s a damn cop trick!”

“You’re smarter than that,” I said. “You had to be, to pull those two jobs and make your way here with every cop between here and Texas looking for you. If I were one, would I be alone?”

“Do your jabbering outside.” Ma reversed ends on the shotgun for Boyd to take. He did so and worked the slide.

“Where’s the shells?”

“That’s your headache. I don’t keep ammo in this firetrap.”

That was a lie, or some of those cartons wouldn’t be labeled C-4 EXPLOSIVES. But you don’t sell loaded guns to strangers.

Suzie said, “Virgil, you never load them anyway.”

“Shut up.”

“Your father’s on his way,” I said. “Ten minutes, that’s all he wants.”

“Come on.” Boyd took her wrist.

“Stay put.”

This was a new voice. Everyone looked at Leo, standing in front of the door with his gun still out.

“Leo,
what
in the
hell—”

“Ma, the Luger.”

She shut her mouth and took my gun out of her right coat pocket and put it on the carton with the money. Then she backed away.

“Throw ‘er down, Mace.” He covered the man in the loft, who froze in the act of raising the rifle. They were like that for a moment.

“Mason,” Ma said.

His shoulders slumped. He snapped on the safety and dropped the rifle eight feet to the earthen floor.

“You too, Mr. Forty Thousand Dollar Reward,” Leo said. “Even empty guns give me the jumps.”

Boyd cast the shotgun onto the stack of cartons with a violent gesture.

“That’s nice. I cut that money in half if I got to put a hole in you.”

“That reward talk’s just PR,” I said. “Even if you get Boyd to the cops they’ll probably arrest you too for dealing in unlicensed firearms.”

“Like hell. I’m through getting bossed around by fat old ladies. Let’s go, Mr.
Re
ward.”

“No!” screamed Suzie.

An explosion slapped the walls. Leo’s brows went up, his jaw dropping to expose the wad of pink gum in his mouth. He looked down at the spreading stain on the bib of his overalls and fell down on top of his gun. He kicked once.

Ma was standing with a hand in her left coat pocket. A finger of smoking metal poked out of a charred hole. “Dadgum it, Leo,” she said, “this coat belonged to my Calvin, rest his soul.”

I was standing in front of the Log Cabin Inn’s deserted office when Frechette swung a rented Ford into the broken paved driveway. He unfolded himself from the seat and loomed over me.

“I don’t think anyone followed me,” he said. “I took a couple of wrong turns to make sure.”

“There won’t be any interruptions, then. The place has been closed a long time.”

I led him to one of the log bungalows in back. Boyd’s Plymouth, stolen from the same lot where he’d left the van, was parked alongside it facing out. We knocked before entering.

All of the furniture had been removed except a metal bedstead with sagging springs. The lantern we had borrowed from Ma Chaney hung hissing from one post. Suzie was standing next to it. “Papa.” She didn’t move. Boyd came out of the bathroom with the shotgun. The Indian took root.

“Man said you had money for us,” Boyd said.

“It was the only way I could get him to bring Suzie here,” I told Frechette.

“I won’t pay to have my daughter killed in a shoot-out.”

“Lying bastard!” Boyd swung the shotgun my way. Frechette backhanded him, knocking him back into the bathroom. I stepped forward and tore the shotgun from Boyd’s weakened grip.

“Empty,” I said. “But it makes a good club.”

Suzie had come forward when Boyd fell. Frechette stopped her with an arm like a railroad gate.

“Take Dillinger for a walk while I talk to my daughter,” he said to me.

I stuck out a hand, but Boyd slapped it aside and got up. His right eye was swelling shut. He looked at the Indian towering a foot over him, then at Suzie, who said, “It’s all right. I’ll talk to him.”

We went out. A porch ran the length of the bungalow. I leaned the shotgun against the wall and trusted my weight to the railing. “I hear you got a raw deal from Texas Federal.”

“My old man did.” He stood with his hands rammed deep in his pockets, watching the pair through the window. “He asked for a two-month extension on his mortgage payment, just till he brought in his crop. Everyone gets extensions. Except when Texas Federal wants to sell the ranch to a developer. He met the dozers with a shotgun. Then he used it on himself.”

“That why you use one?”

“I can’t kill a jackrabbit. It used to burn up my old man.”

“You’d be out in three years if you turned yourself in.”

“To you, right? Let you collect that reward.” He was still looking through the window. Inside, father and daughter were gesturing at each other frantically.

“I didn’t say to me. You’re big enough to walk into a police station by yourself.”

“You don’t know Texas Federal. They’d hire their own prosecutor, see I got life, make an example. I’ll die first.”

“Probably, the rate you’re going.”

He whirled on me. The parked Plymouth caught his eye. “Just who the hell are you? And why’d you—” He jerked his chin toward the car.

I got out J. P. Ahearn’s card and gave it to him. His face lost color.

“You work for that headhunter?”

“Not in this life. But in a little while I’m going to call that number from the telephone in that gas station across the road.”

He lunged for the door. I was closer and got in his way. “I don’t know how you got this far with a head that hot,” I said. “For once in your young life listen. You might get to like it.”

He listened.

• • •

“This is Commander Ahearn! I know you’re in there, Boyd. I got a dozen men here and if you don’t come out we’ll shoot up the place!”

Neither of us had heard them coming, and with the moon behind a cloud the thin, bitter voice might have come from anywhere. This time Boyd won the race to the door. He had the reflexes of a deer.

“Kill the light!” I barked to Frechette. “Ahearn beat me to it. He must have followed you after all.”

We were in darkness suddenly. Boyd and Suzie had their arms around each other. “We’re cornered,” he said. “Why didn’t that old lady have shells for that gun?”

“We just have to move faster, that’s all. Keep him talking. Give me a hand with this window.” The last was for Frechette, who came over and worked his big fingers under the swollen frame.

“There’s a woman in here!” Boyd shouted.

“Come on out and no one gets hurt!” Ahearn sounded wired.

The window gave with a squawking wrench.

“One minute, Boyd. Then we start blasting!”

I hoped it was enough. I slipped out over the sill.

“The car! Get it!”

The Plymouth’s engine turned over twice in the cold before starting.
The car rolled forward and began picking up speed down the incline toward the road. Just then the moon came out, illuminating the man behind the wheel, and the night came apart like mountain ice breaking up, cracking and splitting with the staccato rap of handgun fire and the deeper boom of riot guns. Orange flame scorched the darkness. Slugs whacked the car’s sheet metal and shattered the windshield. Then a red glow started to spread inside the vehicle and fists of yellow flame battered out the rest of the windows with a
whump
that shook the ground. The car rolled for a few more yards while the shooters, standing now and visible in the light of the blaze, went on pouring lead into it until it came to a stop against a road sign. The flame towered twenty feet above the crackling wreckage.

I approached Ahearn, standing in the overgrown grass with his shotgun dangling, watching the car burn. He jumped a little when I spoke. His glasses glowed orange.

“He made a dash, just like you wanted.”

“If you think I wanted this you don’t know me,” he said.

“Save it for the Six O’clock News.”

“What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”

“Friend of the family. Can I take the Frechettes home or do you want to eat them here?”

He cradled the shotgun. “We’ll just go inside together.”

We found Suzie sobbing in her father’s arms. The Indian glared at Ahearn. “Get the hell out of here.”

“He was a desperate man,” Ahearn said. “You’re lucky the girl’s alive.”

“I said get out or I’ll ram that shotgun down your throat.”

He got out. Through the window I watched him rejoin his men. There were five, not a dozen as he’d claimed. Later I learned that
three of them were off-duty Detroit cops and he’d hired the other two from a private security firm.

I waited until the fire engines came and Ahearn was busy talking to the firefighters, then went out the window again and crossed to the next bungalow, set farther back where the light of the flames didn’t reach. I knocked twice and paused and knocked again. Boyd opened the door a crack.

“I’m taking Suzie and her father back to Frechette’s motel for looks. Think you can lie low here until we come back in the morning for the rent car?”

“What if they search the cabins?”

“For what? You’re dead. By the time they find out that’s Leo in the car, if they ever do, you and Suzie will be in Canada. Customs won’t be looking for a dead bandit. Give everyone a year or so to forget what you look like and then you can come back. Not to Texas, though, and not under the name Virgil Boyd.”

“Lucky the gas tank blew.”

“I’ve never had enough luck to trust to it. That’s why I put a box of C-4 in Leo’s lap. Ma figured it was a small enough donation to keep her clear of a charge of felony murder.”

“I thought you were some kind of corpse freak.” He still had the surprised look. “You could’ve been killed starting that car. Why’d you do it?”

“The world’s not as complicated as it looks,” I said. “There’s always a good and a bad side. I saw Ahearn’s.”

“You ever need anything,” he said.

“If you do things right I won’t be able to find you when I do.” I shook his hand and returned to the other bungalow.

A week later, after J. P. Ahearn’s narrow, jug-eared features had made the cover of
People,
I received an envelope from Houston containing a bonus check for a thousand dollars signed by Howard Frechette. He’d repaid the thirty-five hundred I’d given Ma before going home. That was the last I heard from any of them. I used the money to settle some old bills and had some work done on my car so I could continue to ply my trade along the Crooked Way.

“Don’t take no pictures.
I ain’t looking for evidence for no divorce court. I just want to know is she cheating.” As he spoke, Billy Fred McCorkingdale polished off another rib and laid the bone across the ends of the other three in the latest layer. He had a respectable log cabin going.

The place was called Dem Bones and occupied a sheet-metal barn on Michigan Avenue in Ypsilanti—or Ypsitucky, as it’s sometimes called, for the legions of skilled and unskilled workers who swarmed up Old 23 from Kentucky and points south after Pearl Harbor. They came to Detroit to build tanks and bombers and stayed on after Hiroshima. Billy Fred was a tinsmith at the General Motor’s Powertrain plant nearby, and his raw hands and big forearms were just what you’d expect of someone who worked with tin snips all day. He had a gourd-shaped head, narrow at the top, small eyes set close, and a nose like a rivet punched way too far above his wide, expressive mouth. He shaved his hair around his ears, which stuck out enough without help.

“That’s good,” I said, “about the pictures. Because I’m not taking the job. I can recommend a couple of good divorce men.”

“I got your name from a divorce man. He said you were the best shadow in Detroit. I want to know where she goes when I’m at work and if she meets anyone. I don’t need to know who he is. I can’t work things out with her till I know what it is I’m dealing with.”

For a second-generation native, he had a redneck accent as broad as the Ohio River.

“That’s all?” I emptied my coffee cup and signaled for a refill. I’d been about to leave.

“I ain’t been a good husband for a long time, Mr. Walker. I caught overtime fever: sixteen-hour days, holidays and weekends. I told myself the extra money was for her, but that don’t cover the bar time I spent after work. It ain’t her fault if she had to go looking for company. But I got to know.”

The waitress refilled my cup. I sipped, studying Billy Fred’s puppy-dog look. “My fee’s five hundred a day,” I said. “First three days up front.”

He plucked a roll of bills from inside his coat, pulled off the rubber band, and counted fifteen hundred dollars in fifties and hundreds onto the table in front of me. My poker face must have slipped, because he said, “Overtime fever, remember? It ain’t worth nothing without Lynne.”

I put the bills in my wallet, wrote him out a receipt, and opened my notebook. “Tell me about Lynne.”

• • •

Lynne McCorkingdale clerked in a Perry Drugs in Romulus, next door to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. All the shelves were equipped with horizontal bars like a boat’s, to keep merchandise from falling off when 737s roared overhead. I bought a bottle of aspirin to get a look at her. She was several years younger than her husband, fineboned
and blond, with a short, breezy haircut and gray eyes—pretty in a fussed-over kind of way. She’d have looked better in less makeup, but I’m old-fashioned about such matters. She rang me up with barely a glance.