Tin City (14 page)
I returned to the parking lot and debated my options. They didn’t amount to much. All I knew was that Pen had rented a room here the same day I had pummeled Danny. What did that prove? Not a damn thing. But it was the only clue I had, so I decided to stick with it. Sit, watch, and wait. What else could I do?
I returned to the Neon and turned on the radio. I had a good view of the front lobby and the parking lot, and I watched both intently. After a while, the radio began to bore me. It was “drive time,” that period when working men and women were most likely to be driving home,
and the DJs were all yukking it up. I’d like to have a short chat with the man who decided that people prefer talk and lame humor over music during morning and evening rush hours, but I didn’t know where he lived. Instead, I switched off the radio. I fantasized briefly about sneaking home to recover my CDs. I had enough that I could listen to music continuously for at least twenty-one days straight and not play the same CD twice. But why stop there? Why not grab my books—one a day for how many years? Three? Four? And movies—at least a month’s worth on videocassettes and DVDs. Better yet, I could just hang out there, eat sno-cones and mini-donuts, and watch Martin Scorsese films until the FBI dragged me away.
and the DJs were all yukking it up. I’d like to have a short chat with the man who decided that people prefer talk and lame humor over music during morning and evening rush hours, but I didn’t know where he lived. Instead, I switched off the radio. I fantasized briefly about sneaking home to recover my CDs. I had enough that I could listen to music continuously for at least twenty-one days straight and not play the same CD twice. But why stop there? Why not grab my books—one a day for how many years? Three? Four? And movies—at least a month’s worth on videocassettes and DVDs. Better yet, I could just hang out there, eat sno-cones and mini-donuts, and watch Martin Scorsese films until the FBI dragged me away.
You think too much, McKenzie.
I pumped an additional half dozen quarters into the parking meter and waited some more. The chicken fried steak and gravy was just starting to look good to me when I saw him, Danny, walking with a pronounced limp, carrying a tan paper bag with the golden arches printed on it in one hand and a cardboard tray with two soft drinks in the other. He was just there, in the middle of the parking lot—I had no idea where he came from. I left the Neon and dodged several cars as I crossed the street. Danny was heading for a staircase that led to a dozen second-floor rooms. I ran toward him, even as my inner voice spoke to me.
Why would Pen rent a motel room for Danny?
She didn’t, you moron. It was her husband, Steve Sykora, using her credit card.
Why would he do that? The FBI has its own financial resources.
It’s not FBI. Sykora is running an illegal op.
Are you sure?
No.
Danny was already on the second-floor landing when I reached the block of rooms. I followed from below, matching his speed, waiting to see which room he entered. But something was speaking to Danny,
some instinct. He halted abruptly and looked over the railing.
some instinct. He halted abruptly and looked over the railing.
I tried to conceal myself between four parked cars, two side by side in one row and two directly behind them. I failed.
“You,” he said.
“Hi, Danny.”
Danny dropped the sack of food and tray of drinks. The lids popped off the drinks, and caramel-colored liquid flowed over the edge of the landing.
He looked right at me, yet his eyes didn’t seem to focus. Maybe he thought if he pretended I wasn’t there, I’d go away. That lasted only a second. Then came panic. When Danny realized I couldn’t reach him, his battered face knotted into an expression of pure hatred, and I remembered: I didn’t just take away Danny’s gun in the parking lot, I took away the illusion that he was a tough guy, I took away his pride, and he’d hate me forever for it. My inner voice told me to kill him while I had the chance. Instead, I raised my hand and fluttered my fingers ever so slightly at him—“a microwave,” Victoria Dunston called it.
“So how’s it going?” I chirped.
“You motherfucking sonuvabitch.”
“Hey, hey, hey—let’s keep family out of this.”
“You bastard.”
“What did I say?”
Danny gripped the iron railing as if he wanted to throw it at me.
“Fuck you.”
Profanity, obscenity, vulgarity—they have become the bedrock of the English language. Just ask the scriptwriters at Fox.
My rage at Danny wasn’t nearly as great as it had been. Probably it had something to do with his puffy, scarred, and black-and-blue face. I still wanted to blow his brains out for what he had done to Susan Tillman and Mr. Mosley, but there was something I wanted more.
“Say, Dan-man”—Dan-man was what Bobby Dunston and I had
called a kid we played hockey with—“have you seen Frank lately?”
called a kid we played hockey with—“have you seen Frank lately?”
When Danny didn’t answer, I decided to go with the Big Bluff.
“Special Agent Sykora of the FBI sent me.”
Danny’s eyes grew wide.
“You’re a liar.”
He shoots, he scores.
“Come on down, Danny. I won’t hurt you.”
Danny didn’t believe me. He looked right and left, I don’t know what for—a place to run, perhaps.
Go ’head and run, my inner voice urged. Show me where you live.
Go ’head and run, my inner voice urged. Show me where you live.
Danny didn’t run. After a moment, he released his grip on the railing and stood up straight while continuing to look down at me. He smiled.
Why would he smile?
Why are you smiling, Danny?
Oh, shit!
I whirled just in time to see the blade slashing toward me. My arms came up as I dodged to my left, hitting a car door with my hip. The knife stabbed empty air beneath my right arm and chest. I danced backward.
There are two of them, man. When are you going to learn?
Danny’s friend had been surprised when I turned so unexpectedly. That’s why he had missed—I assumed. From the merriment in his eyes and the grin on his lips, he might have done it on purpose, choosing to toy with me a bit. A little boy with flies and no adult supervision.
He advanced on me in a crouch, holding the knife close to his body, probing the space between us with his free hand. I hate knives. Normally I would avoid them at all costs, especially his—a seven-inch stainless steel combat knife called a “Yarborough” by the Green Berets. But trapped in the narrow space between the four cars, I had nowhere to go but forward or back. Forward was out of the question. Backpedaling
wasn’t much better—I had no speed and I kept glancing off the cars. I didn’t dare turn my back to him. I thought about the Beretta pressed between my belt and the small of my back. By the time I reached for it, he would drive the blade of his knife through my heart.
wasn’t much better—I had no speed and I kept glancing off the cars. I didn’t dare turn my back to him. I thought about the Beretta pressed between my belt and the small of my back. By the time I reached for it, he would drive the blade of his knife through my heart.
I let him get close.
He feinted with his shoulder.
I hopped into the air and drove my left foot into his chest. It bounced back like I had kicked a truck tire.
“Stick ’im, Brucie,” Danny shouted from the balcony.
Brucie? His name is Brucie?
Brucie jabbed at my throat. I shifted my head away and slapped his knife hand to the side. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, and with my right I drove a four-knuckle punch into his throat.
Brucie staggered backward but didn’t lose his balance. He pulled his wrist free with such ease I wondered why I had bothered grabbing it in the first place.
This is not good.
Brucie moved toward me again, crouching low as before.
I held my ground, braced myself. Parry and strike. What other choice did I have?
Brucie raised the knife.
“Stick ’im,” Danny urged.
A woman began to scream in high, piercing, continuous shrieks. She was standing behind Brucie and to his left, holding the hand of a little girl, who in turn was holding toy fins and goggles—they were both dressed for the pool.
When Brucie saw them, he hid the knife behind his back. The expression on his face made me conclude that he was embarrassed.
That would have been a good time to hit him.
But it was an even better time to run away.
And so I did.
I escaped from between the four cars and sprinted along the lane, gobbling ground in a hurry, until I reached the perimeter of the parking lot. Instead of running directly to my car, I went up the street, crossed against the light, circled the block, and approached the Neon from behind. No shouts followed me, no “there he goes,” no “get him.”
The screaming from the parking lot had ceased by the time I reached the Neon. I heard no sirens and wondered if the woman had called the cops, or at least the lobby. I waited, the engine running, my gun resting on the seat next to me.
A few moments later, Brucie’s big Chevy Blazer appeared at the entrance to the motel parking lot. He was driving; Danny was riding shotgun. They hit the street without bothering to slow down. I wasn’t surprised. If I was them, I’d be on the run, too. Come to think of it, I was like them. That’s why I didn’t linger in the parking lot when the woman screamed.
I followed, but I wasn’t careful about it. Brucie made me in a hurry. The Blazer accelerated hard. I tried to match its speed. Danny’s head appeared outside the passenger window, followed by his elbow, his arm, and a hand with a gun in it. He pointed the gun in my general direction, and my stomach suddenly had that express-elevator-going-down feeling. Only he didn’t fire. His head jerked toward the cab of the truck as if he were listening to something. A moment later, he disappeared inside.
A few quick turns and we were on Highway 5 heading east, weaving between cars just like in the movies. The sound of angry horns followed us, but there was no squealing of brakes, no smashed fenders. We had been lucky so far.
A couple miles down the road, Highway 5 merged with U.S. 212 and we were driving north toward Minneapolis. The Neon had more giddy-up than I had expected. I quickly and easily accelerated to 80 mph, but there wasn’t much more that her four cylinders could give me. The Blazer pulled away. I tried to keep close, hoping I’d catch it when
Brucie and Danny exited the freeway, only I couldn’t see around the other SUVs and vans on the road. I gave it up after a half mile and coasted to the posted speed limit.
Brucie and Danny exited the freeway, only I couldn’t see around the other SUVs and vans on the road. I gave it up after a half mile and coasted to the posted speed limit.
That’s it,
I promised myself.
If I ever get my life back, I’m going to buy the fastest car they’ll let me drive on city streets.
I promised myself.
If I ever get my life back, I’m going to buy the fastest car they’ll let me drive on city streets.
It was dusk by the time I returned to Hilltop. The streets were quiet. I could see the flickering light of TV sets through trailer windows, and somewhere someone was playing Bob Dylan. I cruised past Pen’s mobile home. Her carport was still empty. I drove to the end of the street, turned around, and drove back again. One-on-one surveillance was impossible. There were too many people living in too confined an area. There was no place I could park and not be noticed, nowhere I could walk and not be seen.
“I know all my neighbors,” Ruth had said. She probably wasn’t the only one.
Yet I couldn’t let Pen go. She was my only link to Sykora, and through him to Frank Crosetti. I had convinced myself that Sykora was conducting some kind of black bag job; otherwise he’d be using bureau resources to hide Danny and Brucie, not his wife. Besides, although I had been a devoted fan of
The X-Files,
I wasn’t prepared to believe that the FBI as a whole would behave so poorly.
The X-Files,
I wasn’t prepared to believe that the FBI as a whole would behave so poorly.
Having helped to save her from an assault—I still couldn’t believe her attacker was a kidnapper—Jake Greene had achieved a certain amount of trust and goodwill with Pen. That and his cover as a reporter might get some questions answered. But I needed more.
The Easy Cash pawnshop was located in a Minneapolis neighborhood of dopers, prostitutes, gangbangers, immigrants, working poor, and
other unreliable credit risks that so far had remained untouched by attempts at gentrification and social tinkering. Yet there was nothing desperate about the shop itself. It was light and airy and clean and at first glance resembled any department store you’ve ever been in. If there was a difference, it was in the astonishing array of merchandise—over twelve thousand square feet of VCRs and DVDs, computers, electric guitars, jewelry, tools, bicycles, lawn mowers, even motorcycles and snowmobiles. If a product had financial value, Easy Cash traded in it. The only exception was guns. There was a large sign next to the front entrance that read EASY CASH DOES NOT BUY OR SELL GUNS OF ANY KIND. YOU ARE PROHIBITED FROM CARRYING A GUN ON THESE PREMISES.
other unreliable credit risks that so far had remained untouched by attempts at gentrification and social tinkering. Yet there was nothing desperate about the shop itself. It was light and airy and clean and at first glance resembled any department store you’ve ever been in. If there was a difference, it was in the astonishing array of merchandise—over twelve thousand square feet of VCRs and DVDs, computers, electric guitars, jewelry, tools, bicycles, lawn mowers, even motorcycles and snowmobiles. If a product had financial value, Easy Cash traded in it. The only exception was guns. There was a large sign next to the front entrance that read EASY CASH DOES NOT BUY OR SELL GUNS OF ANY KIND. YOU ARE PROHIBITED FROM CARRYING A GUN ON THESE PREMISES.
I was met at the door by a young man who wore a blue tie; all employees of Easy Cash were required to wear ties and dress shirts. I asked for the owner, and he pointed at Marshall Lantry. Lantry, who was wearing a tan sports jacket to go with his shirt and tie, was standing behind a counter in the center of the store. The counter was on a foot-high platform. I had convinced Lantry to build the platform in order to discourage miscreants from attempting to come over the top of the counter for either the cash register or him and his employees. Above and behind his shoulder were mounted posters of Anna Kournikova, Taye Diggs, and Jennifer Lopez. Hanging right above the posters were security cameras. The way I had explained it to Lantry, the posters would encourage customers—male and female alike—to look up, which in turn would help the security cameras to get a good shot of their faces.
The corners of Lantry’s mouth were curled upward into a smile. Since his mouth always curled that way, giving Lantry a pleasant grin that never disappeared, I didn’t know if he was happy to see me or not.
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