Hide and Snake Murder (14 page)

Eddy said, “I still can't believe you didn't tell me—”

Agnes planted her hands on her hips. “You were losing.”

“But—”

“I didn't need you begging me for more money to buy back in the game.”

“Excuse me? How dare you! I never beg.”

Here we go again. I said, “Ladies! Let's get this show on the road.”

Sixteen

We sailed north on
35W in our glowing orange Charger. Since Eddy was the only approved driver on the rental contract, she was behind the wheel. After three minutes, Agnes looked seasick.

Eddy weaved around a garbage truck and two cars, then sliced back into the right lane. If we'd been in NASCAR, she'd be kicking booty.

It wasn't long before she squealed into a metered spot in front of Joe's Garage, a restaurant right off Loring Park. She shut the car off. “Shay, you and Coop go on and talk to this Harry. Agnes and I will have something to eat and wait for you in the Garage.”

My mouth watered. Coop and I hadn't had a chance to eat anything that morning (Rocky had snarfed the remaining cinnamon rolls), and I was hungry. I heaved a sigh. Hopefully Harry would be there, and we'd pick his brain and get back to the restaurant fast.

Coop and I followed the sidewalk to the corner, past Café Lurcat, and around the bend to Hennepin Avenue.

Down the block, at the next intersection, a man in a trench coat holding a battered cardboard sign slowly walked up the off ramp, past the cars idling at the light.

Coop elbowed me. “There he is.”

“I see him.” He had a head full of short, dark hair that looked oily even from this distance.

The light changed to red again, and the man was about to hike past the waiting line of cars when he glanced our way. He aborted, came back to the corner and stood facing traffic, holding his sign so it was visible to the oncoming vehicles.

The closer we got, the dirtier the guy appeared. A frayed backpack sat in the weeds between the street and the parking lot.

When we were close enough, I said, “Harry?”

He turned to face us, his tattered coat billowing away from his legs in a gust of wind. The clothes beneath it were in no better shape than the coat, and the smell that assailed my nose made me catch my breath. He had on at least two shirts, and the tan pants he wore could've stood on their own. The shoes on his feet were run down at the heel, and the grayish-colored sock on his right foot was visible through a hole worn through the leather by his big toe. He was at least as tall as Coop.

An unlit, half-smoked cigarette dangled from one side of his mouth.

“You O'Hanlon?” he asked.

“Yup, and this is Nick Cooper, a good friend.” I jerked a thumb at Coop.

Harry eyed us a moment. “Come with me.”

He picked up the backpack, stuffed his sign inside, and crossed the street.

I looked at Coop.

Coop shrugged. “Better follow him.”

We scampered across the road and trailed Harry as he headed for the back of whatever business was housed on the corner of Dunwoody and the ramp off I-94. The red brick building was covered with vines creeping skyward. Around the back a path was worn in the ground. We skirted two other buildings and wormed our way through a narrow opening in a hedge. I lost my sense of direction.

Harry stopped at a rickety shelter of sorts constructed in a small thicket of trees and thick brush. “Welcome to my humble abode. Have a seat.” Harry disappeared into the structure.

A small fire pit was situated near Harry's “house” with two lawn chairs that were well past the point of use nearby. Coop and I looked at each other and shook our heads simultaneously. Standing was safer.

Grass and brush in the immediate area had been trampled into submission. Discarded booze bottles, crumpled fast food wrappers, empty cigarette boxes, and a mattress with springs poking through the covering lay in a heap on the edge of the clearing. The intermittent breeze periodically brought the smell of rotting garbage from somewhere close by.

Harry emerged butt first from the shelter, grumbling under his breath. As he cleared the entry, his hands were clenched in the material of a sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was filled with the skinny, dirty body of a man of indeterminate age. Long gray hair hung in clumped strands from his head, and the rest of him was clothed in threadbare blue jeans and black tennis shoes. He had an unopened, oversized can of beer clenched in his fist.

“Thanks for hanging while I was gone, Red. You gotta scram now.” Harry gave the dude a healthy shove down the trail. Red staggered a couple steps, muttered something incoherently, righted himself, and disappeared.

Harry wiped his hands on his shirt and plunked down in one of the chairs. “Red keeps an eye on things while I'm gone. Otherwise other homeless guys try to take over my dream house.” He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. The unlit smoke still dangled from his lips. “First things first. Not much I'm going to be able to help you with. I'm deep, and bringing you two here's a big risk. I can give you a little advice, but that's about the extent of it.”

I held up a hand. “We understand. Anything is better than nothing at this point.”

Harry studied me through narrowed eyes for a couple long moments. “So you have a problem with potential drug runners.”

I shifted from one foot to the other. “Yeah. It sounds like the situation involves Juárez, tunnels, drugs maybe.”

Harry rolled the cigarette around lips, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other as he considered my words. Coop intently watched, his eyes focused on the unlit stub. His cheeks bulged as he ground his gum between his molars.

“I have one that's only half gone if you want it,” Harry told Coop. The man didn't miss a thing.

Coop tore his eyes from Harry's mouth and met his obviously amused gaze. “Ah, no. No, thanks. I'm trying to quit.”

Harry chuckled. “Me, too. Figure as long as I don't light it, can't hurt. Like a security blanket.”

That broke the ice and they both laughed.

Harry said, “Tell me what you know.”

Between Coop and I, we gave Harry the rundown on the last few days. When we finished, he said, “You've been busy. I can see why you're worried about taking this to the police. Don't know much about Louisiana law enforcement, but I do know New Orleans PD struggled long before Katrina. The MPD's pretty solid, but there's a few rotten grapes in the bunch, specifically narcs.”

He reached into his trench coat, produced a flask, and tilted it our way. “Tipple?”

Coop swallowed hard, and I watched his Adam's apple bounce up and down. He declined with a quick shake of his head. He wasn't a complete germ freak, but wasn't real fond of sharing his food and drink with other people.

Harry fastened his eyes on me. “Shay?”

“No, thanks.”

Harry unscrewed the cap, tipped the container to his lips, and took two big swallows. “Your loss.” He shrugged as he returned the cap and stowed the flask. “Juárez. Lot of drug-related stuff going on there. The Mexican end of things isn't my area of expertise.” He took the cigarette from his mouth, pulled a box of Marlboro Lights from a pocket and slid it inside. “Gotta save what you can out here. Never know when you might find more.

“But I have a new contact,” Harry continued. “Her name is Luz Ortez, and she's a recently relocated Mexican studies professor at the University of Minnesota. I don't know her well, but we've had a couple of meetings where she's come in to speak about cartels.”

Coop asked, “Relocated from where?”

“Some university in Mexico City.”

Score. I asked, “Would she be willing to meet up with us?”

Harry folded his arms against his chest. “I don't know. Don't see why not.” He rummaged through one coat pocket, and then the other. “Ah, there it is.” He whipped out an old-style flip phone.

Coop said, “Have you heard anything about Fletcher Sharpe being mixed up in drug dealing?”

Harry said, “Not specifically Sharpe. But nothing surprises me anymore. Seems like there was some word out about that toy store of his. Or maybe something about one of the guys who worked there.” Harry's shoulder lifted. “Can't remember. But I can do a little checking around.” The flask appeared again, and Harry took another snootful of joy juice.

Harry flipped his phone open. “Give me your cell number, and I'll give you a contact number for Ortez.” I pulled out the slip of paper I'd written our new cell numbers on and recited them as Harry poked a thick finger at the small keys on his phone. Then he rattled off Luz Ortez's phone number, and I punched it into my cheap pre-pay phone. I'd forgotten how much time it took to punch each key multiple times to get to the right letter. Coop was right. We should've coughed up more money for one of the models with a keyboard.

“Tell her you got her name from Dirty Harry, and I think she'll talk to you. If she won't, let me know, and I'll see who else you can try.”

We thanked Harry for his unusual hospitality, and he led us back to the intersection. We left him at the corner with his cardboard sign, and retraced our path toward Joe's Garage.

I eyed Coop. “What do you think?”

“I think we got a name we can start with.”

“Rough way to live.”

“No kidding.” Coop shuddered. “I don't even want to think where he uses the bathroom.”

I made a face. “I'll try the professor.” The beeps from the phone sounded loud as I navigated my way to the contact list. I had to try twice before I figured out which buttons I had to push to place the call.

Voicemail quickly kicked in, and a Spanish-accented voice filled my ear. I left a message and hung up.

“Seems like all I've gotten lately is voicemail,” I said as we crossed the entrance to Joe's Garage.

“That's what happens whenever you need something yesterday. Hopefully she'll call back fast.”

Coop snagged a couple of menus from a basket attached to the wall. He handed me one. I spotted Eddy and Agnes vigorously waving from a table toward the back. We threaded our way between tables toward them.

My belly was soon pleasantly full eggs and home fries. While Agnes and Eddy argued over who was going to foot the bill, I excused myself and took care of it at the bar. Sometimes it was just easier that way.

I came back and braced my hands on the back of my chair. “Okay, ladies.” I raised an eyebrow at Coop and added, “and gentleman. The bill's paid. Let's blow this shack.”

That shut them up.

We trooped toward the front door with Eddy in the lead.

“Hey!” Eddy said once she was out the door and on the sidewalk. “Where's the car?”

We filed out behind her. The street in front of the restaurant was a one-way, with metered parking along the south side. There wasn't a single bright-orange car in sight.

Coop said, “Didn't we leave it over there, by the college?” The busy campus of the Minneapolis Community and Technical College was right up the street.

I nodded slowly, a doomed feeling lying heavy in my previously comfortably stuffed gut. “Yup, we did.” Could anything go right? I walked toward the spot we'd left the car. As I neared it, broken bluish glass littered the ground.

“I told you, Eddy,” Agnes said, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “that car was a little too flashy.”

For once Eddy had no comeback.

We called the cops, who eventually showed up and took a report. I feared Stan and Ione's Classic Car Rental was not going to be very happy with us.

Coop said, “You think Hunk and Donny took the car?”

I thought about that. “No, if they knew we were driving that car, they'd have known where we were. If they knew where we were, they could've scooped us up when we walked out of the restaurant. I bet this is the work of some kid who's probably having the time of his life right now.”

Eddy said grimly, “Until he crashes it.”

Since Kate was working, I called my dad to see if he'd be able to come pick us up. A half-hour later, he rolled up in his boat of a car. While my dad may have been hit-and-miss in the fatherhood department, he wasn't lazy about his vehicles, and that only intensified after my mom died. His forest-green 1970 Olds Delta 88 was in pristine condition, its black interior beautifully maintained. He only drove the car when the snow had melted and enough rain had fallen to rid the streets of residual road salt from the winter.

“Peter O'Hanlon,” Eddy said as she rounded the car and practically dragged my father out the door for a hug. She released him and gazed up into his craggy face with obvious affection. “Aren't you a sight for these eyes.”

A roguish grin creased his stubble-covered cheek. He boomed, “Ms. Edwina, it's been too long.”

Eddy and her son had lived next door when I was growing up, and our two families had spent a lot of time together. We shared many meals, and after we ate, my parents and Eddy would play cards while Neil and I raced Matchbox cars in the dirt outside or on the worn carpet in the living room. Sober, my father was warm and engaging; drunk, well, let's just say after That Night, Eddy bailed my father out many times, and she pretty much raised me as her own. Nevertheless, Eddy has always carried a certain fondness in her heart for my dad.

He took in the rest of us. “Hey, honey,” he said to me with a smile.

“Thanks for coming, Dad.” I was happy to see his eyes looked clear and sharp. He hadn't hit the bottle too hard yet today.

Dad zeroed in on Coop. “If it ain't the vegetable muncher. How's that no-smoking bullshit going?” My father was old school, which amounted mostly to guns, country, and personal freedom. His version of personal freedom included allowing smoking in his bar, the Leprechaun, although there was a statewide smoking ban for all indoor establishments, including bars. Even after being slapped with two fines, he hadn't put up the required signs or enforced the ban. Stubborn man. Guess I came by my own obstinacy honestly. Unfortunately, his version of personal freedom also didn't include homosexuality in any form. That caused some roof-raising arguments between us.