Dead Bang (35 page)

I swiped my card key through the lock. “Glad it worked out for you.”

“McNeal said to tell you he'd be in touch.”

“He told me they'd do the best they could,” I said and pulled open the door. “I'm not holding my breath.”

“If they come up with nothin',” said Jamal, “I think I know where is a good place to look for your ride.”

I let the door fall shut. “Can you take me there?”

“I get off at six,” said Jamal.

I slogged upstairs, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. When I came back down, Jamal sat waiting for me in a red Ford pickup truck. I climbed in.

“Never figured you for a pickup truck,” I said.

“I had a pretty slick Toyota,” said Jamal, “but I bought this so I could deliver furniture for a rent-to-own store. Bought it from a redneck dude
who used it to pull his horse trailer.” Jamal popped a gray Stetson on his head from the seat. “What do you think?”

“Yee-ha,” I said.

“Was behind the seat.” Jamal turned right onto Jefferson.

“So where are we headed, pod-nah?”

“Shawna's uncle owns a body shop down on Mack Avenue. He does custom work and ‘parts-out' cars to fill in.”

I shook out a cigar.

“Don't be smoking in here,” said Jamal. “It's all I can do to get my girlfriend to ride in a pickup truck. If she smells smoke, I'm ruined.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

Jamal headed left at Gratiot. “She works in an old folks' home. Had to quit smoking. Then, I had to quit smoking. You know how they are.”

“Sounds a little mean to me.”

“Yeah,” said Jamal. “Reformed smokers are the meanest. What are you doing here anyway? Since you ain't a cop and all.”

“Private detective,” I said. “Client wants me to find an old-time Teamster who disappeared.”

Jamal snapped his head to look at me. “Jimmy Hoffa?”

I rolled the window down. “Nope, John Vincenti. He went missing six, seven years before Mr. Hoffa.”

“You find Jimmy Hoffa, and you can ask him where your dude is.” Jamal laughed.

“Why not?” I asked. “I've tried everything else.”

“How long you think it'll take?”

“I've got a ten-grand retainer,” I said. “Couple weeks. At least.”

Jamal laughed and asked, “How do I get in that business?”

“Finish your degree,” I said. “Or get a full-time job with a detective agency, and in two or three years, you'll have enough street time in to get a license.”

Jamal turned right onto Mack Avenue. Storefront churches and boarded-up buildings separated the used car lots. “This is it,” said Jamal. He made a left across traffic and another left into the first alley.

“I didn't see a body shop sign,” I said.

“Don't got no sign,” said Jamal. “The building belongs to the city. He be just sort of using it.” We dodged around a sofa ratty enough to be haunted and eased by a roll-up garage door. A box fan wired to security bars over a window blew paint fumes into the alley.

“Maurice is sure as hell painting something,” said Jamal.

“Who's that?”

“Shawna's uncle.”

“Let's find a place to park where we can watch the door,” I said.

We took the alley down to the next street. The best spot to watch from had already been claimed by a white van. We weaseled in behind the van but had to lean back to see the door.

Sergeant McNeal, wearing street clothes and a mean face, stepped out of the passenger side of the van and walked up to my window. He asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for my car.”

“We found your car,” said McNeal. “We want to see who else shows up here. You pulling some kind of insurance scam?”

“No sir, I am not.”

McNeal took a pad and pen out of his pocket. “Gimme your cell phone number.” He wrote it down and then shook a finger at me. “I want you out of here. I'll call you.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We were just leaving.”

“I was right, wasn't I?” asked Jamal.

“Where'd you get that silly fucking hat?” asked McNeal.

“Came with the truck,” said Jamal, deadpan.

McNeal clicked his pen and smiled. “Man in there's a genius with a spray gun. He's shooting the clear coat.” He winked. “We thought we'd let him finish.”

“L
ET ME HAVE TWO CONEY DOGS
, no onions, an order of fries, and coffee—black,” I said.

“For breakfast?” asked Jamal.

“I can get breakfast anywhere,” I said. “I've been trying to get to Greek Town for three days. I'm having the Coneys.”

“I'll have the breakfast special,” said Jamal. “Gimme the eggs scrambled, and I want fries instead of the hash browns.”

The waitress wore her brown hair in a ponytail. Her uniform consisted of blue jeans and a lime green T-shirt emblazoned with “Lafayette Coney Island.” She rolled honeyed hazel eyes up from her pad and said, “You can't substitute on the special.”

“I'm buying,” I said and waved a hand. “Give him an order of fries on the side.”

“Cool,” said Jamal. “Coffee with that—cream and two sugars.”

“Creamer and sugar's on the table,” the waitress said. She started back to the counter and called out at the top of her lungs, “Two on one, hold the onions. Two sides of fries and scramble a special.”

“Thanks, man,” said Jamal.

“No problem,” I said. “I got fifty bucks I don't know what to do with.”

Jamal snapped his ebony face to me, showing me cow eyes and a two-day ration of beard stubble. “Man, that is cold,” he said.

The coffee arrived—two cups and a pitcher for the table. I poured
Jamal's cup first, and he said, “I thought you'd let me hold that half yard.”

“I have far too much respect for you to do that.”

Jamal shook down two packs of sugar. “I get much more of that kinda respect, I ain't gonna make my rent.”

“What the hell are you doing selling parking places anyway?”

“It's three weeks since we had a payday,” said Jamal. “That's why my relief quit.”

“Maybe you need a job that comes with a paycheck.”

“Doin' what?” asked Jamal. “You can't get into the car plants unless you go through one of them temp agencies. They don't pay you shit, and in eighty-nine days you be looking for a new gig.”

My Coneys arrived, smothered in chili that cascaded off the dogs to form a steaming moat around the buns. It ought to be a felony to be in Detroit and not hit Greek Town for a couple of dogs. The waitress said she'd bring the fries when they came up.

“How about the casinos?” I asked.

Jamal stirred cream into his coffee. “Minimum wage, man.”

He leaned to the side and looked under the table. “Sorry about the redneck crack.”

I looked under the table. “What?”

“Them cowboy shoes,” said Jamal.

“I'm from western Michigan,” I said. “And I didn't take any offense. There are plenty of good rednecks in my family, honest, red necks earned tending fields and herding cattle.”

Jamal's breakfast arrived, with french fries. “How do you feel about ‘honky'?”

“Means I'm white,” I said and felt myself shrug. “Besides, it's hard to say ‘honky' and make it sound mean.”

“Cracker?”

“What's life without a little salt?”

“Something has to piss you off.”

“Why's that important?” I asked.

“I thought maybe I could work for you,” said Jamal. “Sometimes I make a slip. I don't mean nothin' by it. But, with some folks, it don't sit well.”

“I don't care much for ‘Skippy,'” I said. “But I don't have enough work down here to keep you busy.”

“Detroit a good town to be from,” said Jamal. “Far from.”

“That's not fair,” I said. “There's lots of good folks in this town.”

“Ain't but two kinds of folks in this town,” said Jamal. We garnered a
few ugly stares. Jamal paid them no mind and finished with “Them that's too poor to leave and them that preys on 'em.”

“Politicians, police, clergy?” I said, and went to work on my Coneys with a fork.

“Them, they all drivin' Cadillacs,” said Jamal. “If God made it rain crap on Detroit, they'd be gone when the first turd hit the pavement.”

Jamal got a chuckle from the crowd. Someone said, “Amen, Brother.” Between bites I said, “Help me with the case I'm working on.”

“If I could find Jimmy Hoffa, I wouldn't have to ask you for a job.”

“Ain't looking for Jimmy Hoffa,” I said.

“Can't find that other dude, neither.” Jamal shook hot sauce on his eggs. We ate in silence until I refilled my coffee. Jamal shook his fork at me and said, “Yolonda.”

“Ain't looking for Yolonda.”

“Yolonda's my girlfriend,” said Jamal. “She works at an old folks' home. She has this old-as-dinosaur-shit-honky-wop patient. He's all the time telling stories. Most people think he's crazy. But he had a stroke, and Yolonda is the only one who can make out what he saying.”

“Honky-wop dude?”

“Yeah, they's all kinda honkies,” he said with a sly smile.

I laughed and spooned some ice out of my water glass into my coffee to cool it off. “What kind of stories does he tell?”

“Teamster stories,” said Jamal. He smiled and added, “About strikes, truck companies, and Mob dudes.”

“Let's talk to him,” I said.

“How much I earn?”

“Fifty bucks.”

• • •

“You too damn cheap to work for,” said Jamal. He stood next to the gas pump, searched his pockets, and occasionally glanced up at me.

I stepped out of the truck and fished out a cigar. “I'm going over by the door where I can smoke.”

Jamal straightened three rumpled singles.

“Fill it up,” I said, without looking back.

“Maybe I don't want to spend that much.”

“Expenses,” I said. “Don't come out of your half yard.”

“My man!”

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I let it hum while I tried to think
of a way to stall Sergeant McNeal so I'd have time for the rest home interview. Nothing came to mind. I answered the telephone. It was Wendy.

I said, “Hi, hon. How are you feeling? You get any sleep?”

“Kind of winked in and out,” said Wendy. “I got a toothbrush from the nurse.”

“How's Karen?”

“She's got a rash from the tape, but they're going to release her this afternoon.”

“I think we found Daniel's car,” I said. “I'm waiting for a call from McNeal.”

“Great! Is it in one piece?”

“New paint job,” I said.

“What color?”

“Haven't seen it.”

“We're taking Karen up to our house,” said Wendy. “She's a wreck. I'm going to ride with her. Matty's driving, and we have an escort.”

“I hate to go back without Daniel's car,” I said.

“We're leaving around three,” said Wendy.

Jamal walked up and said, “Twenty bucks.” I put the money in his hand.

“I've got a razor-thin lead in the Vincenti case,” I said to Wendy. “Take maybe an hour, but I should be on my way as soon as I can pick up the car.”

“What did you turn up?”

I watched Jamal through the window. He dropped the twenty on the counter and added two singles from his pocket. “Nancy Drew stuff. Some old Teamster guy in a rest home who likes to tell stories. Jamal's girlfriend works at the rest home.”

“I need you home tonight,” said Wendy, her voice weary. “I love you.”

“Love you too, doll,” I said. “I'll be home.”

“Tonight,” said Wendy. “And don't you call and say you're not going to make it.”

“Tonight,” I said. Wendy hung up.

“Don't see why you keep pulling out that cigar,” said Jamal. “You don't ever light it up.”

Yolonda turned out to be a registered nurse in charge of her shift. She wore her hair natural and short. At six feet tall, she made her two hundred pounds look firm and fashionable in pastel scrubs.

“Hi, baby,” said Jamal.

Yolonda cracked me a sideways I-know-you're-lyin' stare and asked, “Who are you?”

“Art Hardin,” I said and offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

She glowered at my hand like I'd just offered her a fresh steaming dog turd and asked, “Could you excuse us for a moment?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said and walked off a few steps to a settee next to a rack of magazines.

Yolonda mounted her fists on her hips. “Don't you ‘baby' me, Jamal.” She tightened her eyelids and leaned toward him. “Where do you get off comin' here lookin' like you need a shave and smellin' like you need a bath?”

“My relief quit, and I had to work a double shift, baby.”

“And I told you not to come around here wearin' that silly hat.” Jamal pulled off his Stetson like it had burst into flames. “Some people don't think that's as funny as you do.”

Jamal spoke to his hat. “They was black cowboys.”

Yolonda laughed. “Yes, honey, there were black cowboys, but not in Detroit. Why'd you bring this man here?”

“Art's a detective,” said Jamal. “We're working on a case.”

Yolonda drilled me with hot eyes and stuck her hand out palm up. I walked over and put my ID in it. She said, “You're just a
private
detective.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “Jamal mentioned a resident here that likes to tell old Teamster stories. I've got a client whose father was a Teamster organizer back in the late sixties.”

“Jimmy Hoffa?”

“John Vincenti.”