Jelly's Gold (23 page)

“Honest to God, Bobby, I don’t have the letters. Berglund didn’t pass anything on to me. I only met him the day before he died. Hell, I didn’t even know for sure that Berglund found any letters until this morning.”

I explained what I had learned, pointing out that SS must have been Shelly Seidel. “You should contact her,” I added. “Do you want her address and phone number?”

He did. “If you don’t have the letters, who does?” Bobby said.

“I have no idea—but I do have another suspect for you. Timothy Dahlin. He’s desperate to find the letters, too. He all but admitted that he’d kill for them.”

I told him about my meeting with Dahlin, leaving out only nonessential details, like the presence of Greg Schroeder and his Glock.

Bobby took a deep breath before he replied. “What the hell, McKenzie. Suddenly I’m Inspector Lestrade and you’re Holmes telling me how to do my job?”

“What are you talking about?”

“All these suspects you keep sending my way. Whitlow, the Antonello girl, now Dahlin. Is there something going on I should know about?”

“Bobby, you have a very suspicious nature.”

“Yes, I do. I also know bullshit when I hear it. What are you up to, McKenzie?”

“I’m just trying to help out.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. In the meantime, if you find those letters, you had better call me. I’m not kidding.”

“If I find the letters, I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t go there, McKenzie. It’s deep, it’s dark, it’s cold.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I folded up my flip phone and went on my way.

15

It was a pretty good crowd for a Thursday night. All the tables on the bottom floor at Rickie’s were filled, and I was willing to bet that the dining room on the second floor was SRO as well. Local chanteuse Connie Evingson was singing jazz up there, and she always drew a crowd.

I found an empty stool at the stick. The bartender knew that Summit Ale was my usual beverage of choice. He also knew not to pour one without asking first. Sometimes I preferred something harder. Like black Jack with water back. The bartender poured the Jack Daniel’s Black Label sour mash whiskey into a shot glass and slid a stein of water next to it. “So it’s been one of those days,” he said.

“Sometimes it seems like my entire life has been one of those days,” I said.

The bartender was too busy to chat and shuffled down the stick to serve other customers. Just as well, for I had nothing to say to him. I glanced up at the walls, although I couldn’t tell you why. Nina forbade TVs in her place, so there was no ESPN or Fox Sports to watch. Also just
as well. The Twins were off to a slow start. As for the Wild and Timberwolves, let’s just say they had just finished up what had been long seasons and let it go at that. Actually, make that very long seasons. I took another slug of Jack followed by a sip of water.

A moment later Nina was standing across the bar from me, balancing a coffee mug by the handle. “From your expression, I’m guessing you didn’t find the gold,” she said.

“Remember when I told you that this wasn’t about righting the wrongs of the world, that it was just for fun?”

“I do.”

“Could be I spoke too soon.”

“You’d think picking up eight million dollars in gold bullion wouldn’t be such a trial.”

“Just goes to show how mistaken a guy can be.”

Nina pointed her mug at the Jack Daniel’s. “Are you going to have many more of those?” she asked.

“That depends. Are you coming over tonight?”

“I could be talked into it. In fact—”

Before she could finish, Heavenly Petryk shoved her way between me and the guy sitting on the stool next to mine, a wine cooler leading the way. “McKenzie, I need to talk to you,” she said.

“Ahh, geez—”

“It’s important.”

“So important you can’t be polite?” I said. “You can’t say, ‘Excuse me’? You can’t say, ‘Sorry to interrupt, McKenzie, how was your day, McKenzie, has anyone threatened your life since I saw you last, McKenzie?’ ”

Heavenly looked at me as if I were speaking a language she had never heard before. “I’ve been anxious to hear what Dahlin said,” she told me. “What did he say?”

“Yes, McKenzie,” Nina said. “Tell us.”

Heavenly scowled at Nina; it was the first time she acknowledged her existence. They locked eyes, and for a moment I was reminded of a
painting I had once seen at the Minneapolis Institute of Art—two samurai about to strike. I gestured from one woman to the other.

“Nina, Heavenly; Heavenly, Nina.”

“Oh?” Heavenly regarded Nina carefully from across the stick. “You’re much younger than I’d thought you’d be,” she said. “ ’Course, it’s hard to tell in this light.”

Nina’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Heavenly,” she said. “What a charming name. It’s clear to see your parents had a sense of humor.”

I drank the rest of the Jack in one gulp. I was glad for the way it burned all the way down. It kept me from smiling; it kept me from laughing.
Do either,
my inner voice said,
and you will probably pay with your life.

“McKenzie says he’ll only get involved with women who have voted in—how many elections, ten? Isn’t that cute?”

I waved at the bartender for another round.

Nina said, “Yes, it is cute. By the way that’s presidential elections, dear.
American Idol
doesn’t count.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Heavenly said. “I don’t watch TV. I read books. You must have seen a few when you were a little girl.”

“McKenzie told me you were an English major. That’s all right. A girl as pretty as you doesn’t need a real major to get an M.R.S.”

The bartender poured the whiskey just in time.

“Tell me, Nina, how long have you been a waitress?” Heavenly asked.

“Since about nine years ago when I first opened the doors. How long have you been a bimbo—oops, I meant blonde.”

Heavenly cocked her head as if she had just heard something interesting. “You own this place?” she said.

“Most of it,” Nina said. “The bank still owns a small piece.”

“Really? It’s very nice.”

Nina seemed surprised by the compliment. “Thank you,” she said. She glanced at me and shrugged.

“It must have been hard, building all this,” Heavenly said.

“It had its moments,” Nina said.

“Did it help or hurt that you’re pretty?”

“Both.”

Heavenly nodded as if that one word spoke volumes. “It’s tricky to be a blonde and get respect,” she said.

“It’s tricky to be a woman and get respect,” Nina said.

Heavenly saluted Nina with her wine cooler. Nina returned it with her coffee mug.

How ’bout that,
my inner voice said.
A truce.

“I only hope I’m doing as well as you when I’m your age,” Heavenly said.

“I can see that you and your hair have been through a lot already,” Nina said.

Or maybe not.

“I would like to speak to McKenzie,” Heavenly said.

“Go ’head,” Nina said.

“Privately.”

“Why? McKenzie is only going to tell me everything you say later. Won’t you, McKenzie?” “Oh, boy,” I said.

“Will you, McKenzie?” Heavenly asked. “Probably.”

“I thought we were partners.”

“Yeah, well, there are partners and then there are partners. What do you want, Heavenly?”

“I want to know what Tim Dahlin said.”

“He said if I don’t lay off he’s going to make my life a living hell.”

“He said that?”

“Words to that effect, yeah.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“Truth be told—no. The only time your name came up is when he mentioned that he knew you had made me an offer for the letters. How did Dahlin know that?”

“I don’t know,” Heavenly said.

“Neither do I.”

“Do you think he’s been following me?”

“Why not? He’s been following me.”

Heavenly turned and surveyed the club. Her eyes were wide and bright, and her bottom lip trembled just so. I wondered if she practiced or if the look came naturally.

“I’m frightened,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“How can you sit there drinking at a time like this?”

“Can you think of a better time?”

She gestured toward the door. “He could be out there,” she said. “He could be planning—who knows what he could be planning?”

“Heavenly, Dahlin cares only about the letters. You don’t have them, and he knows it. He isn’t going to bother you.”

“Do you have the letters?”

“Go home, Heavenly.”

“What are you going to do?”

“That depends on how soon you leave.”

I smiled at Nina, and she smiled back. Heavenly took note of both smiles and shook her head in disgust. “I don’t believe it,” she said. She slammed her wine cooler on the bar top, turned, and tramped from the club. Nina and I both watched her until she was out the door, although I suspect I enjoyed the sight more than Nina did. I turned back to find that she was now staring at me.

“Ten presidential elections?” Nina said.

“Four. I said four.”

“I remember when it was three.”

“Yes, well, we’re both getting older.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Did I say older? I meant more mature.”

Nina crossed her arms over her chest and sighed dramatically.

“Did I say more mature? I meant—never mind. Are you coming over later?”

“I don’t know. A woman my age …”

“I’ll put on a pot of oatmeal and chill some prune juice.”

“How can I resist? I should be able to sneak out in about an hour.”

“Make it two. I need to run an errand first.”

According to his business card, Boston Whitlow lived in an apartment above a women’s clothing store in a bustling Minneapolis neighborhood called Cedar-Riverside. A hundred years ago it was known as Snoose Boulevard—I have no idea why—and was home to the Scandinavian immigrants that worked the mills and lumberyards along the Mississippi River. It now had probably the most diverse population in the Twin Cities. About seventy-five hundred people lived in the immediate area. Two-thirds were black, Native American, Hispanic, Asian, or some other minority; two-thirds were under the age of forty. When I was a kid, Cedar-Riverside was claimed by hippies, pseudo-intellectuals, poets, musicians, actors, artists, and activists of every persuasion, and it seems as if they never left. Stand at the busy intersection that inspired the neighborhood’s name and look for yourself. It has some of the best people-watching in the Twin Cities. It also has some of the worst parking. It was past nine and most of the shops and stores were closed, but the theaters, clubs, bars, and cafés were still humming. Which is why I was forced to plug a meter nearly a block and a half away from Whitlow’s place.

The entrance was jammed between the clothing store and a boutique that sold the most outrageous hats I had ever seen. The apartment itself was at the summit of a long flight of wooden stairs. There was a light at the bottom of the stairs and another at the top. I licked my fingers
and unscrewed the bulb at the top as soon as I reached it, hiding in the shadows.

On the drive over, I had contemplated the various ways I could deal with Whitlow. Trickery came to mind. So did outright lying. I even considered the assorted handguns I have stashed in the safe embedded in the floor of my basement—after all, Whitlow was armed. Carried an
Undercoverette,
of all things. In the end, I decided there was nothing like the direct approach. So I rapped on Whitlow’s door. He looked through the spy hole, but, of course, he couldn’t see me. He did a foolish thing, a Minnesota-nice thing—he opened the door. A sliver of light appeared between the door and the frame as he peeked out. “Can I help you?” he said. I could see there was no chain, so I rammed the door hard with my shoulder. It flung open, knocking Whitlow backward but not down.

“McKenzie,” he said.

I snapped a fist deep into his solar plexus. That knocked the wind out of him. He covered up and dropped to his knees.

I closed and locked the door and went to Whitlow’s side. I squatted next to him. He didn’t want to look at me, so I gave his cheek a gentle slap.

He rasped out a question. “Why?”

“You lied to me,” I said. “That means we’re not friends anymore. I don’t want you to think this is a friendly conversation.”

I helped Whitlow to his feet and deposited him on a sofa. He was still clutching his stomach.

“What do you want?”

“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“What truth?”

“Let’s start with this—you’re still working for Timothy Dahlin.”

“I admit I was once employed—”

“Still employed. That’s how he knew about the letters, that both you and Heavenly made me an offer for the letters. That’s how he knew to position his man at Rickie’s to follow me. You told him.”

“That is mere speculation on your part.”

“How about I start speculating on your face,” I said.

Whitlow was a young man and proud. My first strike caught him by surprise, and he folded like I knew he would. Now he was alert; now he was thinking. Mostly he was thinking that he should fight back. I had to do something to convince him that he shouldn’t try.

“Boston.” I spoke softly, my hands at my side. I held my right hand open with the thumb down, tensed the fingers, and bent them slightly. In karate terms it’s called the
nukite,
or spear hand, and is used to strike soft targets such as the eyes, throat, and solar plexus. I rested my left hand on the back of the sofa and leaned toward Whitlow. “Boston,” I said again.

I drove the spear hand into his groin.

The explosion of pain took his breath away; he had none left to scream with. His hands went to his groin and he rolled over on his side. For a moment I thought he would weep, and maybe he would have if I hadn’t been watching. Instead, he masked his hurt with a long string of obscenities. I had no doubt that I deserved most of them. On the other hand, so did he.

I gave Whitlow a few moments to compose himself before I asked, “Are you ready to talk now?”

“I don’t know anything,” he said.