Jelly's Gold (3 page)

Berglund stood, took keys from his pocket that were on a chain with a USA Olympic emblem. Ivy remained seated. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me.

“Seems like old times, doesn’t it?” I said.

Her smile matched her eyes, and she nodded in agreement.

2

The guys in the Trailblazer didn’t pay any attention to me when I left the coffeehouse; probably they couldn’t see past the reflections on Lori’s windows and didn’t know I had been speaking to Ivy and Berglund. I left my parking space, circled the block, and found a new parking space on Cleveland heading south. I sat in the Audi, my engine idling, and waited. I couldn’t see Ivy and Berglund leave the coffeehouse or the vehicle that they drove, but by adjusting my sideview mirror I had a clear line of sight to the Trailblazer. It soon pulled away from the curb and began following a blue Honda Civic. I waited until they passed me, made sure Ivy and Berglund were in the Civic, then jumped on the Chevy’s rear bumper.

After eleven and a half years on the job, I had made a lot of friends at the St. Paul Police Department who were willing to accommodate me, especially Bobby Dunston, the commander of the homicide unit. Only there was a risk to the favors they did—it was against SPPD policy to use department resources for personal pursuits; they could get into a lot of trouble. So, instead of imposing on them, I’ve been tapping the same
contacts as a Minneapolis private investigator of my acquaintance named Greg Schroeder. He paid his police contacts under the table for information as he needed it, and lately I’ve been doing the same thing. That way, I figured if the informants were caught and punished for helping me out, my conscience would be clear. I called one of them now, a sergeant working with the Minneapolis Police Department’s gang unit.

“Afternoon, Sarge,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Do I have to want something? Can’t I call just to say hello?”

“Have you ever in the past?”

He had me there.

“I’m following a blue Chevy Trailblazer,” I said and recited the license plate number.

“What do you need?”

“Whatever you can tell me.”

“You on your cell?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Ivy and Berglund followed Cleveland to Como as I instructed, turned left, and drove along the Minnesota State Fairgrounds to the Snelling Avenue intersection. They were driving south on Snelling past Midway Stadium where the St. Paul Saints played minor league baseball when the sarge called back. He gave me a name and a description of the driver—a young man, only twenty-two. There were no wants or warrants on him, but “Give him time,” the sarge said. “The asshole has a license to carry, and these young guys, most of ’em are just itchin’ to use, if you know what I mean.”

I did know what he meant. In Minnesota, any moron above the age of twenty-one can carry a concealed weapon as long as he completes a cursory firearms safety course, and believe me, a lot of morons do.

“Watch yourself,” the sarge said.

I thanked him and said the check was in the mail.

“Check?”

“Cash,” I said. “I meant cash.”

I continued to follow the Trailblazer, which was still following the Civic, but I thought we were beginning to look like a parade, so I dropped out when we reached University Avenue and headed for Rickie’s on my own.

I found the Civic near the front entrance when I arrived; the Trailblazer was across the parking lot. Both vehicles were empty. I parked my Audi between them and went inside.

For a long time I thought Rickie’s was named after Rick’s Café Américain from the movie
Casablanca.
It was actually named for Erica, the daughter of the take-your-breath-away owner—at least Nina Truhler always took my breath away. The club was located on Selby Avenue just down the road from the St. Paul Cathedral and had a solid reputation for presenting the best up-and-coming and lesser-known jazz acts in its elegant upstairs dining room. At the same time, the downstairs portion of the club resembled one of your more comfortable neighborhood bars. It had a small stage, yet most of the music came from CDs that Nina burned herself.

Frank Sinatra was covering “Mood Indigo” from half a dozen hidden speakers as I made my way to the bar—Nina loved Sinatra. Nina’s assistant manager was standing behind it. “McKenzie,” she said.

“Hey, Jen,” I said. I sat on a cushioned stool. “How was brunch?”

“Good. A lot of churchgoers from the cathedral. We finished serving an hour ago. Are you here to see Nina? She’s in the office. Do you want me to tell her you’re here?”

“Later.”

That caused her to arch an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I have things to do,” I said. That didn’t lower the eyebrow. Jenness Crawford knew me too well.

“Summit Ale?” she asked. Summit was my favorite beer, brewed in St. Paul, my hometown, thank you very much.

“Please,” I said.

While she poured it from the tap, I surveyed the room. Ivy and Berglund were sitting at a table near the stage and drinking hard lemonades. They hadn’t changed much since I saw them last. Berglund still wore a severe expression, while Ivy’s face was flushed with excitement. Both had turned in their seats and were watching me intently.
Could they possibly be any more obvious?
my inner voice asked.

A man matching the description that the sarge gave me was sitting with a companion near the door. He was supposed to be twenty-two, yet they both looked young enough to eat off the children’s menu at Denny’s. They were sucking on bottles of light beer—I knew they were tough because neither used a glass. Occasionally they would throw a glance at Ivy and Berglund, only they never held it long. Amateurs, I thought. They were both wearing windbreakers; the driver’s was green and had the logo of the Minnesota Wild hockey team, while his pal wore the colors of the Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team. It was about seventy degrees outside, a bit warm for the Twin Cities in the first week of May, and warmer still inside Rickie’s, so I figured the jackets were meant to conceal their handguns.

Jenness set the Summit on a coaster in front of me. I ignored it, rising from the stool. She must have seen something in my face because she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Relax,” I said. I doubt that she did.

I was about ten steps from the table when he saw me coming. “Ted?” I shouted. “Ted? How the hell are you, man? You still driving that piece-of-crap Chevy?”

He glanced at his partner, then back at me. “Do I know you?”

“What do you mean, ‘Do I know you?’ How can you say that after all we’ve been through together? Hey, man, who’s your girlfriend?”

Ted’s partner didn’t like the insult. “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

“Easy, Wally,” Ted said.

“Yeah, Wally.” I slapped him hard on his shoulder. “We’re all friends here.”

“Friends?” Ted said.

“Sure. I came over to do you guys a big favor.”

“What favor?” asked Wally.

I placed both my hands on the table and leaned in. They leaned in, too, as if we were about to share a secret. I forced my voice to drop a few octaves, tried to make it sound menacing.

“The favor is this—I’m going to let you both walk out of here in one piece. All you have to do is promise to quit following my friends. They don’t like being stalked by a couple of amateur goons. I don’t like it, either. It stops. Now. Drink your beers. Move along. If I see you again—you really don’t want me to see you again.”

Wally pushed his chair back from the table as if he were about to leap out of it. He opened his windbreaker and gave me a good look at the gun in the holster on his left hip, positioned for a quick cross-draw. He smirked and said, “Am I supposed to be afraid of you?”

“Yes, you are. Didn’t I sound scary just now?”

He moved his hand until his fingers were brushing the butt of the gun. He watched my face, wondering what I was going to do. When I did nothing, he began to drum a monotonous rhythm on the wood grip. I was perfectly willing to let it slide, but when I asked, “Would you really pull a gun on me?” Wally wrapped his fingers around the butt and smirked.

I turned to Ted. “Is he really going to pull a gun on me?”

Wally said, “Wanna see, asshole?”

I answered by driving the point of my elbow against the point of his nose, hitting him just as hard as I could—hey, I haven’t spent thirty-seven years playing hockey without learning something. I felt the cartilage snap; blood began flowing freely. Wally forgot his gun and brought both of his hands to his face. I wasn’t surprised. I’ve been hit hard in the nose, and it
hurts so much that sometimes you’ll even forget your name. I reached down and yanked the gun out of its holster. It was a snub-nosed .38. A wheel gun. You don’t see many of them anymore. Most people prefer automatics. I glanced down at Ted. His hands were flat on the table. He hadn’t moved, and when I was certain that he wasn’t going to move I broke open the gun and dumped the five cartridges on top of the table.

“You want to show the gun, fine,” I said. “You look to pull it, that’s a different matter.”

I snapped the cylinder back in place and dropped the gun on the table next to the bullets.

“Now, where were we?”

I was going for high drama, but Ted didn’t seem impressed by my act. His posture changed while he studied his friend—head back, shoulders back, back ramrod straight. He was thinking, and from the way his lips pushed forward to bare his teeth and his breathing became fast and shallow, I guessed he wasn’t thinking about baby unicorns.

“I’d like to see you try to take my gun,” he said. His voice sounded a helluva lot scarier than mine did. I had overplayed my hand, and I had to do something to regain control of the situation.

Ted moved his right hand slowly along the edge of the table until it was parallel to his right hip.

“How old are you, Ted?” I said. “Twenty-two?”

He stopped.

“Are you still in school?”

“Wha—?”

“Your Trailblazer, is it paid for yet?”

Suddenly he seemed confused.

“Listen, Ted, before things get out of hand, why don’t you talk to your boss. You do have a boss, right? Someone who’s paying you to keep an eye on my friends. I mean, you wouldn’t be doing it for fun, am I right? There must be money on the table, right?”

“Maybe,” he said.

You should be on
Jeopardy! my inner voice said.
Better yet,
Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?

“Tell your boss that things have changed,” I said aloud. “You’re not trying to frighten college kids anymore. At the very least, you should get a raise. Right?”

“Right,” he said. He drew out the word slowly, as if he weren’t sure.

“What about my nose?” Wally wanted to know. He was speaking in a high, nasal twang behind his hands.

“It makes you look rugged,” I said. “The chicks dig that.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Oh, you are not.”

“I am.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Na’uh.”

I turned my head and found Jenness. She was leaning against the stick and talking to a customer. I caught the customer’s eye and pointed at Jen. The customer said something, and Jenness turned toward me. I motioned for her. She approached slowly until she noticed the blood seeping between Wally’s fingers and then came at a gallop.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I said, “but doesn’t Rickie’s ban guns from its premises?” I knew that it did; there was a sign posted just outside the door, and then there were Nina’s admonishments whenever I carried my own piece. It’s an interesting quirk of the Minnesota gun law that public and private establishments do not have to accept concealed weapons on their premises and can forbid them simply by posting a notice.

Jenness looked at the gun and the loose rounds on the tabletop, then up at Ted. She was trying mightily to pretend that Wally wasn’t there.

“Sir, I must ask you to leave immediately,” she said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ted said.

“Sir, if you do not leave, I will call the police and have you forcibly
removed.” To punctuate the threat, Jenness pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her apron. Ted hesitated for a moment; Jenness started punching numbers.

“All right, all right,” he said. He rose from his chair. His partner did the same. “I won’t forget this,” Ted told me.

If I’d had a cigarette, I would have blown smoke into his face, but tobacco products were forbidden in Rickie’s as well.

Wally jammed his .38 back into its holster with one hand while cradling his bloody nose with the other. He began to sweep the bullets into an easy-to-grab pile.

“Leave ’em,” I said.

He wanted to say something pithy in reply, but Ted motioned with his head, and the two of them left the club.

Jenness pulled my arm until I was facing her. “Did you just punch a customer?” she asked.

“Oh, like you never wanted to do that.”

Jenness grabbed the top of her head with both hands as if she were afraid she was going to lose it. But then, she tended to be emotional.

“McKenzie, he could press charges,” she said. “He could sue.”

“Nah. He might try to kill me later, but he won’t sue. It’s against the rules.”

“Thugs have rules?”

“Sure. Rule number one—no police intervention.”

Jenness moved her mouth as if she wanted to say something. When words failed her, she spun toward the far end of the bar and started marching purposefully toward Nina’s office. The snitch.

A moment later, I joined Ivy and Berglund at their table. She was smiling brightly. He had a dour look on his mug.

“Was that necessary?” Berglund asked.

“Just trying to earn my keep,” I said.

“That was, that was …” said Ivy. “The way you hit him like that. That was so cool.”

“No, it wasn’t, Ivy,” I said. “That was a smart-ass trying to prove how tough he was. The kid called my bluff and I hit him for it. Nothing cool about it.”

She looked at me as if I had disappointed her. I was sorry for that. Yet the expression on Berglund’s face made me think that somehow, some way, I had just earned his respect.