No Man's Dog (18 page)

A block farther on, they pulled over to discuss their next move. Luck’s decision that the safest place for Mulheisen’s vehicle was at the motel was a clever move. Once it was determined that Mulheisen had gone missing, the vehicle at the motel would at least suggest to any outside investigator that he’d returned from his drive the previous afternoon, wherever that might be thought to have taken him. The deputy was doubtless there to see who, if anyone, might come looking for Mulheisen. Luck would not be sure, at this point, that Mulheisen had been investigating on his own. As it had happened, an unlooked-for ally had materialized.

“By now,” Service said, “Luck probably knows you’ve bolted. Maybe that’s why the deputy is there, but I’d say it was pretty fast work if it’s so. The car was probably returned hours ago and this guy has been there ever since. But what’s he going to do if you just show up and go in the room? What do you need there, anyway?”

“Clothes, cigars, Dopp kit,” Mulheisen said.

“You can get that stuff anywhere,” Service said. “If this Luck has got the sheriff in his pocket, maybe you don’t want to be apprehended.”

Mulheisen didn’t think that was quite the case somehow. “They might have recruited this deputy, but it’s another thing to have a whole county sheriff’s department in your pocket, Joe. I don’t think they want me found. They screwed up snatching me. It wasn’t a situation entirely of their making, but once it was done they would have
had to follow through. It’ll bring heat, though. Luck obviously had his hands full with his visitors. I don’t have any idea what the situation is, but I’m sure I’d be better off on the loose. If this guy busts me, I don’t think he’s running me in. He’ll be carting me back to Luck.”

“They should have just dropped you on the spot,” Service said.

“Yeah, well, that’s what I figured was the imminent prospect,” Mulheisen said, “but I’m sure Luck wanted to question me, see if he couldn’t find out what I was up to, what I knew.”

“I could distract the deputy,” Service said, “draw him away. Hey, officer, my grammaw’s on fire! Help!” He seemed keen on this kind of action. “You go in, get your stuff. You’d have your car. I could meet you somewhere else later. I’m sure I could pull it off.”

Mulheisen stared at him, incredulously. “Your ‘grammaw’?” He shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t have my keys. They took them, and my wallet. I’m not adept at hot-wiring a car. Nah. It’s probably better to just leave it.”

“Hey, how about this? We snatch the deputy! We could give him what they had in mind for you. He probably has some useful info. Plus we’d have the use of his car, the radio . . .”

Mulheisen just looked straight ahead.

“All right,” Service said. “I’m pretty good at getting into places. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get in the back way, through the bathroom window. Off the record, I have some experience at this. If nothing else, you’ll have some cigars to smoke.”

Mulheisen could see he was eager. He suddenly felt weary. “Well, if you think it could be done,” he said.

They doubled back on side streets and stopped some ways from the rear of the motel.

“This is a first,” Service said. “I’m burglarizing a motel to get a cop some cigars!” He laughed. “All right, Dutch. Wait here. If I’m not back in—”

“Dutch?” Mulheisen had to laugh.

Five minutes later Service was back, with the cigars and the Dopp kit, with Mulheisen’s draped clothes over his arm. “The suitcase wouldn’t fit through the window,” Joe explained. “Oh, and I thought you’d like these.” He tossed Mulheisen his wallet and car keys. “They must have figured it would make the mystery of your vanishing act even more mysterious.”

Mulheisen looked through the wallet. Everything was there, even the money. “It’s a mystery, all right,” he said. “Glad to see the cigars. Hope you don’t mind?” He gestured with a cigar.

“Just keep the window cracked.” Joe started the engine. “Where to, Dutch?”

“Let’s find a motel, or a hotel. Traverse City is a big enough town.”

“Traverse City it is,” Joe said. And a few minutes later, driving out of town, he spoke into the silence, “Thank you, Joe.”

“Joe,” Mulheisen said, “I always knew you were a remarkable fellow. In my estimation you’re the finest burglar I’ve ever encountered. Plus, you do a great take on the U.S. cavalry. I never knew how thrilled I’d be to see you again.”

“That sufficeth,” Joe said cheerfully. “I’m relieved myself.”

“How’s that?”

“I was afraid, back there, that you might have some cop plan,” Joe said. “Call in the SWAT team, stage a big raid on Chez Luck, and sweep up the whole mob.”

“We’re into extra innings here,” Mulheisen said. “You don’t want to make them longer.”

“Yeah,” Service said. “These night games are exhausting. Too many wheels within wheels.”

“Exactly. I’ve got to think this out.”

“We’ve got to think it out,” Joe amended.

As it worked out, they settled on a hotel. A huge hotel north of the city, towering over a fancy golf course. Very luxurious. They checked into a couple of rooms on the eighth floor.

11

Hark, Hark, the Dogs Do Barks

S
traight talk is still just talk,” Tucker said.

The men seated around the big dinner table set up in Luck’s back room listened politely. They’d just had an excellent meal, cooked by Luck himself, with some help from his assistants. There were no women present. The men were drinking beer now, comfortable and seemingly willing to hear out this man who had blithely informed them that he was a federal agent. They were ordinary-looking men, some of them apparently farmers, others small businessmen or skilled workers. They were between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five, it appeared. There were ten of them, dressed casually, in a country way, for the most part—jeans and flannel shirts. They were all avid members of Luck’s informal group.

“It’s actions that count,” Tucker said. “But even there, actions can be ambiguous. It turns out that the actions have to be viewed in the context of what is avowed. And even then, one man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.” He paused to let that sink in, glancing around the table for a reaction. There was none. The men seemed interested, but not stirred in any sense. They sipped their beer, puffed on their cigarettes or cigars, and looked up at him expectantly.

Tucker went on: “For instance, we have this bombing in Detroit a few months back. Different groups claimed responsibility, ranging from fundamentalist Muslim groups to a couple of so-called militia groups.”

Tucker’s eyes flickered across these generally benign-looking faces. Nobody reacted. He’d have thought the mention of militia groups would raise the temperature a bit, but they were as cool as their beers.

“Well, why do people do that?” he asked. “Take credit for an action that killed one innocent man, another who was a felon being arraigned, and injured dozens of others? This didn’t used to happen. These kinds of actions were considered heinous. What kind of fool—or monster—takes
credit
for doing what is clearly evil? Once upon a time, different groups might be accused, but they’d protest, ‘No! It wasn’t us!’ Even when everybody knew it was, say, the IRA, or some radical revolutionary group. There was a kind of public wink.

“Then, somewhere back in the sixties, I believe it was, groups began to claim
credit
! They wanted people to know that they were serious, that they meant business, even if they hadn’t, in fact, been responsible. Maybe that’s progress. I don’t know. It hasn’t helped us in trying to find out ‘whodunit.’ It’s like those headline murders: the police are resigned to the fact that once a couple of murders are deemed sensational enough to make the evening news, and especially if the media can come up with a nickname for the latest celebrity killer, all kinds of wackos will show up at the precinct declaring, ‘I’m the Triple-X slayer, arrest me!’”

Tucker paused to get a good look at these stolid men. None of them even blinked, not even when he had labeled some actions as evil. But, finally, he got a couple of laughs when he cracked, “I’m glad to see that the Holy American Flag and Farm, Fishing and Hunting Society has not aspired to the status of celebrity terrorists.”
He laughed with them at that play on their name. At least he’d gotten some response.

“Okay, I know it’s just ‘American Flag and Farm,’” he said. “But I am glad you aren’t claiming to be terrorists. I doubt I’d be here if you were. Imp Luck was kind enough to let me come here and speak my piece,” he went on. “Imp and I go back a long way, to a war that a lot of decent Americans bitterly opposed. I don’t know if he has told you, but this man saved my butt.” He pointed to Luck, who shrugged diffidently at his place at the end of the table.

“I was standing on a hilltop in Vietnam and about a thousand militia and VC troops were beating the bushes, carrying torches and flashlights, looking for me after my F-105 augered in. I figured I was about done for, headed for the Hanoi Hilton, when Imp Luck showed up with his chopper and yanked me out of there.”

The men, Tucker was pleased to see, ate this up. They turned to stare with genuine regard at the man whom, perhaps, they had heretofore regarded as a thinker, a kind of professor, old and wise but not a man of heroic proportions. They were clearly thrilled.

“I know Imp’s a little embarrassed,” Tucker said, “but it’s true. The thing is, to a lot of good, reasonable folks back home the U.S. looked like it was being a bully over there, in that distant, strange, and tiny country. But Imp and I know that one of the things we were doing was protecting and defending a whole slew of folks who were being overrun by a vast and well-supplied army of radical leftists, communists, who were hell-bent on imposing their vision of society on a bunch of peaceful farmers and peasants in South Vietnam and in the neighboring countries of Laos and Cambodia. These folks didn’t want a totalitarian socialist state imposed on them. They were happy to be out from under the thumb of a colonial power, the French, but they sure as hell didn’t want the French replaced with Mao and Ho Chi Minh’s Red Army. But I guess it didn’t look that way to the folks back home in the U.S.”

Tucker was gratified to see the men nodding now. “A lot of people feel that we lost that war, and it’s true that we didn’t exactly win anything. We didn’t defeat Ho, but I think we did make Mao think twice about moving in. But that was yesterday’s war. A lot of time has passed and I’m not going to fight that one again. I’m not in uniform, but I still represent the federal government.”

“Who elected you?” one man broke in. He was about thirty, an open-faced fellow in a jeans jacket, who looked like he could be a high school basketball coach. His tone wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but challenging.

“I’m not an elected official,” Tucker said agreeably. “Nowadays, I’m just one of those damn bureaucrats. But I take my responsibilities to the American people seriously. As a federal officer, I’ve taken an oath to uphold the laws of this country. I have been delegated to my task by people who are themselves directly responsible to elected officials.” He looked around. No one offered any comment.

“Here’s what I’m authorized to say. We understand that you folks are concerned Americans, patriots.”

“You got that right,” said another man. He glanced around, acknowledging the nods of his friends.

“I want you to know that your government accepts that, as long as you don’t break the law of the land.” Tucker held up a hand to forestall what appeared to be some comments. “I’m not going to debate the law with you. I just want to say that this administration is prepared to hear your arguments. Not me, personally, but others who are qualified to hear them. This is not the usual kind of administration, as I’m sure you’re aware. This is a patriotic administration. It’s an idealistic administration, and it means to change what the government has become. It welcomes patriotic organizations. We need your help. There will be no more Ruby Ridges or Wacos.”

That got a pretty good response, not applause but a noticeable smoothing of brows. Tucker thought he could leave it at that. Better get back to the straight talk.

“Frankly, I have the feeling that if this administration had been in power when I was in uniform, we wouldn’t have left Vietnam without winning. But”—he held up his hands to forestall comment, which, after all, wasn’t coming—“I said I wouldn’t try to refight that war and I won’t. The problem now is, before we can reshape this government, we have to deal with a new and powerful enemy—foreign terrorism. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are people out there who don’t like America.” That usually got a chuckle, but these men were silent. Tucker wasn’t sure what that meant. He had to soldier on.

“We need your cooperation, your help. Specifically, if anyone has any information about who was behind the bombing in Detroit, I’d love to hear it. Not right now, but I’ll be around for a while and I’ll be in touch with Imp, so you can pass it on to him. We’d appreciate it. What I’d hate to see is for the press to keep pushing some of the rumors we’ve heard that it was some homegrown patriot organization like this one that was behind it. I don’t buy that. I have my own ideas on who was responsible, but I won’t dwell on them here. Let me assure you that when I ask if anyone has information, it in no way implies that we think any of you might be associated with those who would do something like that. But others might think that, because they assume that anyone who calls himself a patriot is likely to be a man who is in favor of blowing up government installations, or even worse things. We don’t think that. We think patriots are what most Americans are, naturally and innocently. But there are those who wrap themselves in the flag in order to attack that flag. I’m sure you understand that.”

He went on in this vein for somewhat longer, carefully treading a line that suggested he approved of them, but not some other,
perhaps similar groups. It was at once ingratiating and warning. When it looked like they’d had enough, he finished with, “Anyway, thanks for coming and thanks for letting me speak to you. Enjoy the evening.”

The applause was light and soon ended. They adjourned to the living room, where there was a fire in the hearth, plenty more beer, and, of course, Luck’s ample supply of George Dickel. Tucker talked to each of the men, spreading himself around the room, being amiable and, while not offering contrary views, staying firm and noncommittal. By and large, they did not converse about the bombing but about hunting and fishing, plus some issues of interest to them like taxes, government interference, or obnoxious programs like the Endangered Species Act—familiar topics in almost any social gathering. Occasionally, one would get onto Oklahoma City, or Ruby Ridge, or the FBI attack on the Branch Davidians at Waco. Arguments were presented and listened to sympathetically. A few made some approving remarks about his and Luck’s heroism in Vietnam. Tucker was happy to see that these men were taking his “patriotic” pitch seriously. They seemed encouraged by the tone of the present administration.

“Well, that was pretty tame,” Luck said, much later, when they were alone. “Although, you could have left out some of that Vietnam stuff.”

Tucker shrugged. “Speech making is not my forte,” he said. “But what the hell . . . maybe somebody knows something. It doesn’t hurt.”

“They don’t know anything,” Luck said.

“How do you know, Imp?”

“I know these guys,” Luck said. “They’re guys with a conservative bent, happy to horse around in a tame militant way, flirting with an authoritarian style. They think they’re Minutemen or something. They don’t quite go for that skinhead shtick, because it looks
trashy. They drive American-made pickup trucks and think it’s making a statement, for crissake.”

Tucker laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. You know what I think is the primary motivating factor in them joining this outfit? I mean, besides getting them out for an evening where they can drink beer and have a good feed and hang out with the guys?”

Tucker smiled. “Don’t be so loud, some of your guards might hear.”

“The guards? Well, they’re the genuine ones. They don’t have much respect for the guys you were talking to. They’re true believers. But they’re a little loony and they get paid. They can’t find work. They’re not too sharp. No, these other guys, the members, what it is . . . they look back on the three years or so that they spent in the army, or the navy, and they realize that was about the best time they had in their lives. That was before they got plugged into making a living, raising a family, paying a mortgage, or trying to keep a business or a farm going.”

“That’s it?” Tucker was surprised. “I thought they were more . . . I don’t know . . . ideological.”

“They wouldn’t know ideological from idiotical,” Luck said.

“Well, hell, Imp. I thought you were going to be the magnet for all the wacko right-wing nuts in this part of the country. Now you tell me all you’ve got are Republicans.”

“It’s always gonna be that way, Vern. You know that. They’re mostly gonna be wannabes. I mean, aside from these semiliterate, semicriminal scumbags who I’ve put into uniform and made into guards. But it’s early days. You should see the hate stuff I get from the Web site. There are some wackos out there, but they haven’t shown up yet, not here. There’s a guy in the U.P., a guy in Wisconsin, before you know it we’ll have a couple sniffing around. They’ll see the layout and they’ll buy into it. But so far all I’ve got is these Kiwanians.”

Tucker shook his head. “Maybe it’s a waste of time. Still, you never know. There might be a sleeper among them.”

“I don’t think so,” Luck said. “I’m positive there isn’t a guy in that crew who even knows anyone who would dream of tossing a cherry bomb into a Parks and Recreation outhouse. Besides, we know who did the bombing, and it wasn’t any Arabs or militia groups, and it damn sure wasn’t some pissant Flag and Farm outfit. I liked that gag about the Holy American Flag, though.”

“Who do you think did it?” Tucker asked.

“Echeverria.”

Tucker smiled. “Could be.”

Luck frowned. “Why, you all but told me so yourself.”

“That’s what I thought yesterday,” Tucker said. “Maybe I still do, but I’m not positive. I’m keeping an open mind.”

“All right, then,” Luck said, “who the hell else is there?”

“I haven’t eliminated anybody,” Tucker said. “But there’s also the Mafia. And there are other, rival drug organizations, such as the one we almost got in Kosovo—Zivkovic’s group. They’re capable of it. They’d stick it on anyone. They seem to be interested in pushing aside Echeverria. You notice they don’t claim credit, by the way.”

He mentioned some other possibilities, even suggesting some left-wing groups, some neocommunists. He thought that would get a laugh from Luck, but he realized now that the man was a little preoccupied. He had noticed it earlier, in fact, but he’d attributed it to the stress of getting this whole meeting up, cooking, acting the host.

“So what’s bothering you?” he asked finally.

Luck grimaced. “I’ve been wondering whether to tell you,” he said. “I’ve got some trouble.”

“Uh-oh. One of your ‘patriots’ got a little too exuberant? He did throw a cherry bomb into a park toilet. Or . . . don’t say it: one of them
was
involved in the bombing!”