Chasing a Blond Moon (18 page)

“You're creepin' me out fuck-head,” Masonetsky said menacingly.

“Lay down on the ground and put your hands behind you,” Service said.

“Fuck you, the ground's cold.”

“Do you want a lawyer?”

“I don't need a lawyer, dude, that bitch wanted it,” Masonetsky said. “She couldn't get enough of it.”

“You put roofies in figs.”

“That was Terry. The bitch wanted it. The roofies were to help her relax.”

“Terry gave you the figs?”

“Whole thing was his idea, dude.”

“Did he join in?”

“Dude, he just wanted to watch, know what I'm sayin'?”

“I've got it,” Wayno Ficorelli said. He held up a small cassette recorder.

Service felt his adrenaline rising quickly. Masonetsky was in the process of making a decision. Service wished he could see his eyes.

“Down on the ground, Rafe,” he said. Using first names sometimes softened arrest situations.

There was a flash of white light and pain surging through Service's face and head and he felt himself going out and clutching.

He awoke with a throbbing head and face in a white room with masked faces above him.

“You're in a hospital, Detective,” one of the masks said.

“In Madison,” another mask added.

Madison was forty miles west of Jefferson. “Where are the others?” Service asked.

He tried to sit up, but hands kept him down. He reached for one of the restraining hands, but pain shot up his arm and he let his right hand drop back to his side. “You've had a pretty nasty bump,” a mask said. “We're going to put you to sleep now and do some repairs.”

“What am I, a damn Chrysler?”

Nobody laughed. A plastic mask was placed over his face. He heard a hiss in the background.

Service saw Ficorelli sitting next to the bed, flipping though a magazine. Pyykkonen was standing by the doorway. Nothing else registered.

“He's waking up,” Pyykkonen said.

A nurse came into the room and fiddled with an I.V. drip beside the bed. Service felt like an object. A doctor came in after the nurse. He was young and tan. “How do you feel?”

“Numb,” Service said.

“We give great dope,” the doctor said. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.”

“Right, in Madison. You were transported from Jefferson. Do you remember that?”

“No.”

“You have a severe concussion,” the doctor said. “We put twelve stitches into your upper lip and fifteen into your forehead. Your nose is fractured and we played with getting that straight, but you may need more attention later. You had some gravel lodged in the back of your head, but I think we managed to get all of that. Your right pinkie is fractured and splinted. That should heal fine. It was a clean break. We're not worrying about an infection, but we are going to keep you here tonight. We are going to be waking you up periodically to make sure your brain doesn't try to take a vacation. If you need anything, press the button under your left forefinger. Please press it now.”

Service pressed the button.

“Okay, good. I'm sorry we'll have to wake you up, but it's for the best. I'm sure you understand.” The doctor left the room.

Service tried to adjust his body position, but couldn't. “What's going on?” he asked.

“Wayno?” Pyykkonen said.

“Masonetsky head-butted you. Blood went everywhere, but you didn't go down. You grabbed him by the throat and head-butted him back, two or three times. It sounded like a concrete block dropped from the ceiling in an empty gym. He started to go down, but you wouldn't let go. You had your hands locked on his throat. I grabbed at you and yelled at you to let go, but you were on automatic and I couldn't get through. I had to snap your finger to break your grip. I'm sorry about that.”

“He kept you from doing more than hurting the boy,” Pyykkonen said.

“Masonetsky?”

“He's a mess,” Ficorelli said. “Broken cheekbones, fractured nose, fractured jaw, concussion, cuts and abrasions. It was like two big bucks going head to head. We've called your captain.” Good, Nantz would know.

“They're going to hold Masonetsky until the day after tomorrow,” Pyykkonen said, “then I'll drive him to Houghton.”

“Why did he come out early?”

“Gage called his old man, and his old man tipped his kid that we were asking about him.”

“There's a plane coming to fetch you, Mr. Big Shot,” Ficorelli said. “Some senator is sending it.”

Timms. “She's a
state
senator,” Service said. “Not a real one.”

“Real enough to run for governor,” Pyykkonen said.

Service nodded.

When he awoke he felt pressure beside him, shifted his head and found Maridly Nantz cozied up against him, outside the covers. Walter Commando was asleep in the chair where he had last seen Ficorelli sitting.

He tried to move his left hand, but it hurt. He lightly nudged Nantz with his elbow.

“Not tonight, honey,” she whispered. “You have a headache.” She slid her hand up to his face and let it rest there. No words were necessary. He went back to sleep smiling.

12

Walter Commando was back in Service's room, sitting in a chair, a book in his lap, but he was not studying. Nantz had gone out to make arrangements.

“What are you staring at?” Service asked his son.

The boy drew in a deep breath, seemed hesitant to answer. “You look, like . . . heinous.”

“That's bad?”

“Like, mega.”

“Is that bad as in bad or bad as in cool?”

“Way cool. The bad guys won't be able to look at you.”

“You're not helping my self-image.”

“Fathers don't have self-images.”

“This one does.”

“You really don't remember what happened?”

Service exhaled. “There was a little wrestling.” Which was hearsay. What he remembered was a flash of white, spiking adrenaline, silence.

“Wull, Peel-grim,” Walter said, with a bad impersonation of John Wayne. “We all know yore tough. You don't gotta be humble too.”

“I'm not humble.”

“You said it, not me,” Walter said.

“Finish your sentence,” Service said.

The boy looked puzzled. “Dude,” Service said.

“Dude,” Walter said. “Did the doctor happen to mention permanent loss of brain function?”

“Not a problem,” Service said.

Walter looked at him. “Does that mean yes, it's not a problem, or yes, he talked to you?”

Service smirked and wanted to laugh, but his face was too sore and swollen. “See how it feels to talk to you?”

Walter rolled his eyes.

Nantz came into the room. “How it feels to talk to who?”

“Stay out of this,” Service and his son said in unison.

“There's a driver waiting to take us to the airport,” Nantz said.

“In Madison?” Service asked.

“Madison is where we are,” she said.

“I need to make a side trip on the way to the airport.”

“Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

“Not unless you can beam me over to Jefferson, Scotty.”

Walter Commando and Maridly Nantz exchanged glances. “Are you all right, Grady?”

“You tell me.”

“I don't think you're all right.”

“Can we go to Jefferson now?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to Masonetsky.”

“That idea sucks,” Wayno Ficorelli said, walking into the room. “He's in the hospital there.”

“You broke my finger,” Service said.

Nantz tapped Walter on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

“You broke a finger on my right hand,” Service said.

“There wasn't time to assess handedness,” Ficorelli said.

“You need a remedial class to improve observational skills.”

“I observe that you guys are leaving. Am I going along?”

“So you can cripple my other hand?”

“Let's
all
move,” Nantz said sternly.

“Tell the kid it was just some wrestling,” Service said.

Ficorelli looked at Walter. “It was just some wrestling.”

“Was there a winner?” the boy asked.

They were in the corridor. “The law,” Service said.

“Is that the same as justice?” his son asked.

“Rarely.”

“This is not uplifting for a young college student.”

“It gets worse as you get older.”

Nantz said, “Okay,
boys.
”

They stopped at the discharge desk so that Service could sign out and continued out into bright sunlight.

Ficorelli said, “Like, am I invited, or am I wasting steps here?”

“Next time we work a case maybe I'll have the finger re-broken before we start,” Service said.

Nantz opened the side door of a black super cargo van.

Service looked at Ficorelli. “Mount up, finger-snapper.”

When they were all seated and belted, Nantz said, “You can all shut up now.”

Walter said, “It's them, not me.”

“We're bonding,” Service said.

“The Mars thing,” Ficorelli chipped in.

“No bonding in this van,” she said.

“Does that mean sex is out of the question?” Ficorelli asked.

Service cuffed him on the back of the head with his left hand.

Rafe Masonetsky was lodged in the Jefferson Hospital. Pyykkonen was already there, waiting for him to be handed over so she could haul him back to Houghton.

As soon as Ficorelli saw Pyykkonen, he abandoned Service.

Rafe sat on a bed, his face swollen and bandaged. His first words: “I want my lawyer.”

“Terry Pung's father is dead,” Service said. “We're gonna find Terry and I have a hunch he's going to implicate you.”

“Dude, I know nothing about that,” Masonetsky said shakily.

“Where's Terry?”

“Ann Arbor, I heard, but I don't know, man. He called me in August and asked if I could help him with something, but I had to work.”

“Where did he call from?”

“I don't know, man. Ask his mama.”

“His mama?”

“He's a mama's boy. He don't do shit unless he checks with her.”

“You've met her?”

“
More
than met, dude.” Rafe shuddered when he spoke.

Service decided that Rafe was afraid of the woman. “You have a problem with her?”

“She's like, hot, man.”

Service switched directions. “Cats and rabbits at the archery range.”

“What?”

“I figure you know who supplies Gage. Gage gave you up to us to get Ficorelli off his back. Who supplies him?”

“Fuck, I should tell you?”

“Let's count the reasons: resisting arrest, assault and battery against an officer of the law, attempting to flee, criminal sexual conduct, drugs—you want me to go on?”

Masonetsky moaned softly. “What do I get?”

“Payback on Gage, and we tell the prosecutor you cooperated fully.”

“Jubal Charter,” Rafe said.

“Does Ficorelli know him?”

Masonetsky nodded. “Everybody knows him. He's the county's animal control guy. You busted me up good,” Rafe said.

“We'll call it even on that score,” Service said, his face aching.

Ficorelli was outside, sticking close to Pyykkonen. Service looked at him and shook his head. “Jubal Charter supplies rabbits and cats to Gage.”

“Hah,” Ficorelli said. “They hire Wisconsin wardens up there in Michigan?”

“It happens. Tell your mom thanks for her hospitality.”

On the drive back to Madison, Nantz said, “You'd recommend he be hired?”

“He's unorthodox, but he gets the job done.”

Service was surprised to see Nantz's Cessna on the tarmac. “I thought the senator sent her plane?”

“Sent her pilot. Actually she didn't have a choice. I was coming whether she approved or not. I wanted to bring Walter and I couldn't justify burning her fuel.”

Service sat in the right seat while Nantz did her preflight check and started engines. Walter sat in the jump seat just behind and between them. “You never called me back,” Service said.

“Her pace is a killer,” Nantz said. “We were on the go constantly and we had some mechanical problems in Saginaw. Grady, the polls show her moving ahead. I think she'll win.”

“You never called me back,” he repeated.

“She came as soon as she heard,” Walter said. “Cut her some slack.”

“Put a sock in it,” Service said over his shoulder. “This is between us.”

“What he said,” Nantz said, asking for taxi instructions.

As they turned over Lake Michigan and began to climb, Nantz looked over at him. “That girl who was burned? She didn't make it. Candi says they're gonna petition to try the other kid as an adult.”

“Fourteen,” Service said, shaking his head. It sometimes seemed that God's only interest in mankind was body count. “Are we dropping the kid in Houghton?” he asked with a nod toward Walter.

“Duh, I'm coming home for a couple of days,” Walter said. “Remember?”

Nantz looked at Service. “The captain says you
will
take a couple of pass days. He also says he has the information you wanted, but not to think about any work until you've been off a couple of days.”

“What about you?” Service asked.

“Lori said we can take as long as we need. Have you heard what Sam is going to do when he leaves office?”

Die, Service thought. “No.”

“Lori says that there's some inside talk that he may move to Washington and take a cabinet job.”

“His reward from the Republicans for destroying the state?”

She shook her head and called, “Level at angels fourteen.”

Service looked at her. “Why do they call it angels? If you put the plane a thousand feet into the ground, do they call
smashed at devils
one or something?”

“Is he always like this?” Walter asked.

“Sometimes he's worse,” Nantz said, adjusting the throttles.