Tin City (15 page)
“Damn, McKenzie,” he said. “I was just talking about you with Chopper. You remember Chopper.”
Chopper was a borderline sociopath who took a bullet in the spine
and now conducts his many illicit enterprises from a wheelchair that he maneuvers with motorcycle-like speed and recklessness.
and now conducts his many illicit enterprises from a wheelchair that he maneuvers with motorcycle-like speed and recklessness.
“Yeah, I know Chopper.”
“He was just saying that everyone he knows is either a mean sonuvabitch or an asshole ’cept you.”
“High praise indeed.”
“He was sayin’ how you saved his life.”
“All I did was call EMS after finding his bullet-riddled butt on the sidewalk.”
“That’s not the way he says it.”
“Chopper has always been prone to exaggeration.”
“Yeah, well, I agree with him. You ain’t a sonuvabitch or an asshole.”
“Stop it, Marsh. You’re giving me a swelled head.”
“As compared to other things that inflate.”
I glanced up at Anna, and Lantry chuckled.
“So, you buyin’ or sellin’?”
“Buying.”
“I just got in a couple of great speakers if you’re lookin’ to expand that sound system of yours.”
“Actually, I have something a little more high-tech in mind.”
“High-tech as in … oh.” Lantry leaned over the counter. The sparkle in his eyes added to his permanent smile. “You want to talk
serious
business?”
serious
business?”
I nodded.
A few moments later, Lantry led me to a tiny room in his basement. I thought of Phu. So many of today’s entrepreneurs conduct business out of their cellars.
Metal shelves were pushed against each of the four walls. Electronic surveillance gear, both new and used, was stacked on the shelves: bugs made to resemble electrical outlets and phone jacks, audio recorders, video cameras in every shape and size including a fountain pen, microwave
and satellite dishes, and a lot of stuff I couldn’t identify. Seven years ago, city officials had shut Lantry down for running illegal poker tournaments. That’s how I met him, playing Texas Hold ’Em. If they knew about this setup, they’d probably send him to prison.
and satellite dishes, and a lot of stuff I couldn’t identify. Seven years ago, city officials had shut Lantry down for running illegal poker tournaments. That’s how I met him, playing Texas Hold ’Em. If they knew about this setup, they’d probably send him to prison.
Lantry said, “You realize that it’s illegal to intercept and record conversations without the consent of the folks involved, right?”
“It’s also illegal to sell bugs for the purpose of intercepting conversations.”
“And it’s illegal for you, the customer, to buy bugs for the purpose of intercepting conversations. I have a copy of the statute around here somewhere.”
“You’re telling me this why?”
“I just want to make sure you know what you’re doin’.”
“That’s a different question altogether.”
“So it is.” Lantry rested his hand on an office calculator. “I just got this in. It not only transmits conversations and video images for over two hundred meters, it actually calculates. Cool, huh?”
“Very.”
“So what do you want to surveil? House? Apartment?”
“Trailer.”
“Trailer?”
“A mobile home.”
“A mobile … where?”
“City of Hilltop.”
“Where the hell is that?”
I explained.
“Hell, I musta driven by that place a thousand times and didn’t know it was there.”
“You learn something new every day,” I told him.
“Okay, so your average single-wide trailer runs about nine hundred to eleven hundred and fifty square feet”—I was always impressed that
Lantry knew these things—“which is good cuz we can do the job with only two bugs.” Lantry found one and bounced it in the palm of his hand. It was black, about the size of a wine cork, and had a tiny antenna on top. “Couple of these babies for the trailer and another for the telephone ought to do the trick. They’ll pick up a whisper from fifty meters. What we’ll do is, we’ll stash a receiver in the trunk of a car, connect the receiver to a voice-activated tape recorder with four-hour cassettes. We’ll park the car about a block away from the trailer. The recorder has a real-time indicator so you’ll know what was said and when it was said. You just cruise by every couple of hours—”
Lantry knew these things—“which is good cuz we can do the job with only two bugs.” Lantry found one and bounced it in the palm of his hand. It was black, about the size of a wine cork, and had a tiny antenna on top. “Couple of these babies for the trailer and another for the telephone ought to do the trick. They’ll pick up a whisper from fifty meters. What we’ll do is, we’ll stash a receiver in the trunk of a car, connect the receiver to a voice-activated tape recorder with four-hour cassettes. We’ll park the car about a block away from the trailer. The recorder has a real-time indicator so you’ll know what was said and when it was said. You just cruise by every couple of hours—”
“That’s not going to work,” I said. “There’s no place to park the car. It’s a very dense, very high-traffic area. The car would be spotted in ten minutes. People would be asking questions about it an hour later.”
“That makes it tougher.” Lantry set the bug back on the shelf and glanced over the rest of his equipment.
“Also, I want to be able to monitor what is being said in real time.”
“Tougher still,” Lantry said. “How close can you get?”
“I have a motel room nearby.”
“How near?”
“Three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty yards as the crow flies.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Piece of cake.” Lantry snatched a bug off yet another shelf. Like the other listening device, it was black. It was about two-thirds the size of a business card and had the width of a ballpoint pen. There was a cable jack and two wires with clamps protruding from the top.
“The double-oh-six,” he said. “It monitors telephone conversations when the phone is in use. It’s a room transmitter at all other times. It transmits on UHF so no dork with a police scanner will intercept your conversations. Great range. Just one of these and you’re covered. But it’s
expensive. It retails for about five hundred and seventy-five pounds in England.”
expensive. It retails for about five hundred and seventy-five pounds in England.”
“How much is that in real money?”
“A lot.”
“How do I install it?”
“You don’t. I’ll do it.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, thinking it over. “There’s no reason for you to take a chance like that.”
“Better me than you, McKenzie. You’ll only screw it up.”
He was probably right, and I told him so.
“I can let myself in,” Lantry said. “Question is—can you make sure the trailer is empty?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“How much time do you need?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”
“I can do that.”
“Next question—how many times do you need to go in? Once to plant the bug, yeah. But do we need to remove it later?”
“Can it be traced back to you?”
“No way.”
“Then leave it for the maid.”
“Final question—who’s the target?”
“A federal agent named Sykora.”
“Federal agent?”
“FBI”.
“Getting a little ambitious, aren’t you, son?”
“He’s bent.”
“How bent?”
“Paper clip bent.”
“Bent enough to take violent action should we be discovered?”
“Probably.”
“Fun.”
Lantry wasn’t being sarcastic. He meant it.
“Know what’s more fun?” I told him. “Not getting caught.”
“Yeah, but it’s the fear that makes it … Never mind.”
“I need this done right away.”
“Tomorrow soon enough?”
“Morning?”
“Fine.”
“How much is this going to set me back?”
“Normally I’d give you a discount seein’ how we go back some.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But for the FBI—the price is five large, McKenzie, including expenses. Nonnegotiable.”
“A workman is worthy of his hire.”
“And I want it in cash.”
“Of course.”
“You gonna tell me why you’re doing this?”
“Marshall, my friend. We live in an age of confusion, mistrust, and deteriorating moral values.”
“A terrible thing.”
“I fear for the future of the Republic.”
“Me, too.”
“You want to get something to eat?”
“Why not?”
The carport next to Pen’s trailer was still empty when I rapped on her aluminum door at 9:00 A.M. I waited a moment, listening to the wind chimes she had hung there, then knocked again. Pen swung open the door like she expected to see a loving friend on the other side.
“Jake Greene.” She spoke my name as if I were that friend. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you.”
“How are you this beautiful, sunshiny day?”
A simple question, yet the way she asked it made me feel as if the success of her own day depended on my answer.
“I’m fine. How are you after yesterday?”
“I am deluxe.”
She smiled broadly, and her eyes half closed. They reminded me of cobalt thiocyanate, the chemical dealers use to test the purity of cocaine.
The higher quality the drug, the brighter the blue. Pen’s eyes were at least 90 percent pure.
The higher quality the drug, the brighter the blue. Pen’s eyes were at least 90 percent pure.
“Did you speak to your husband about what happened yesterday?”
“I did. Steve thinks it was a case of mistaken identity, some hophead confusing me with his ex-girlfriend, but he says I should keep a cautious eye out for junky-looking pickup trucks.”
That didn’t sound any more logical to me than a kidnapping attempt, but I said, “Wise advice,” and let it slide.
“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you, but—actually, I was hoping you could come out with me, perhaps show me around Hilltop while we chat. For my story.”
“I need to tell you, Jake, you really should speak to someone like Ruth Schramm. I haven’t been here that long.”
“I will talk to Ruth, but I wanted to chat with you because you haven’t been here for that long.”
“Let me get my bag.”
I felt a sudden jolt of excitement then, like she had just agreed to an offer of dinner and a movie.
Pen appeared a moment later with a bag slung over her shoulder that was big enough to tote New Zealand. She didn’t bother locking the door when she left the trailer, and I mentioned it to her.
“Isn’t that cool?” she said.
I flashed on the kidnapping attempt but said nothing.
In the bright morning sunlight, Pen looked like a midwestern farm girl. She wore a white blouse knotted under her breasts, blue shorts, and sandals. She had golden hair, a smooth, outdoorsy complexion complete with freckles, and a healthy figure, and she smelled a little like the autumn leaves we used to burn in the backyard before the state made it illegal—a delicious scent, both arid and sweet. I felt as if I were committing four of the seven deadly sins just by walking with her.
We strolled along 47th Avenue, turned south, turned again. I was already lost, but Pen moved with the assurance of a native, swinging her arms buoyantly. I carried a Bic and a small spiral notebook that I pretended occasionally to write in.
Pen said, “None of my friends back home can believe I’m living in a trailer park.” She laughed as if she also found the idea ridiculous. “I’m trailer trash.” She laughed some more. “I nearly killed Steve when he installed us here. I wanted a house. I figured if they were going to make us move to Minnesota, at least we could live in a house. But Steve said it was only a temporary assignment, so … Anyway, I really like it now—trailer living. It’s really not all that different from living in an apartment.”
I edged Pen toward the side of the lane to make room for a white van with the name of a cable TV company emblazoned on the side. I pretended not to recognize the driver as the van moved slowly past, and he pretended not to recognize me.
“We used to live in New York, Steve and I, in a crowded apartment building in the middle of the city. Five years we were there and I didn’t know any of the neighbors, which is both amazing and kind of disturbing, if you know what I mean. I’ve been here for just under five months and I know everyone. A more interesting and truly eccentric group you’ll never find. I love them all.” Laughter. “I fit in real well.” Then more laughter. It made me want to laugh, too, even though I didn’t get the joke.
Under Pen’s laughter I could hear the music of Bob Dylan. She heard it, too.
“This guy.” Pen gestured at a periwinkle-colored trailer as we passed. “His name is Jerry, and he loves, I mean loves, Bob Dylan. I love him, too, but c’mon. Jerry plays Dylan’s music 24/7. I am not exaggerating. Walk by at four in the morning and you’ll hear it. And this guy”—Pen found another trailer—“he says his name is Shaka, and he claims to be
the hereditary king of the Zulu nation forced into exile by an evil uncle who usurped his father’s throne.”
the hereditary king of the Zulu nation forced into exile by an evil uncle who usurped his father’s throne.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he says, only he speaks with a Creole accent. I’ll tell you something else. He makes a shrimp étouffée that’s to die for.”
We continued down the lane. The bicycle of a small child had fallen off its kickstand and was resting on the asphalt. Pen righted the bike and wheeled it out of harm’s way as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Life is pretty much in the streets in a trailer park,” Pen said. “A mobile home isn’t very big. There’s not much room for socializing, and sometimes the walls can get awfully close, so you spend a lot of time outside. And because we live just a few feet from each other, there’s not much privacy. You have to be neighborly to get by. Steve’s not. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard, being suspicious all the time. But I like people. I didn’t know how much I liked them until I moved here and really got to know a few.
“This is Jerry’s place—a different Jerry,” she said as we walked past a dark brown trailer. “This Jerry makes sculptures out of beer bottles and beer cans.”
“Does he empty them himself?”
“Sometimes his neighbors help.” Pen chuckled mischievously. “Sometimes we help way more than we should.” Her fingers closed around my wrist. “I heard Jerry’s starting a new project. If you’re interested, we can drop by later and see if he could use some assistance.”
She released my wrist and I wondered if she was flirting with me, decided she wasn’t, but maybe she was, then again …
We came to a gentle hill. At the bottom of the hill was a small park with swings, slides, monkey bars, and teeter-totters.
Pen said, “Everyone in the city pitched in to build this.”
She broke into a trot. When she reached the park, she dropped her
bag, kicked off her sandals, and ran barefoot to the swing. She had it going pretty well by the time I reached her. I watched as Pen stretched her long legs toward the sky, tucked them under her seat as she swung back, then stretched them out again, gaining altitude and smiling at me. I wondered again if she was flirting, decided she was, and suddenly I wanted to swing, too. I wanted to be that kid again who hung out at Merriam Park and played hockey and baseball and trifled with high school girls and who didn’t have a care in the world except passing advanced physics. I wanted to go to pep rallies and mixers and keggers down at the river. I wanted to take Pen to the prom …
bag, kicked off her sandals, and ran barefoot to the swing. She had it going pretty well by the time I reached her. I watched as Pen stretched her long legs toward the sky, tucked them under her seat as she swung back, then stretched them out again, gaining altitude and smiling at me. I wondered again if she was flirting, decided she was, and suddenly I wanted to swing, too. I wanted to be that kid again who hung out at Merriam Park and played hockey and baseball and trifled with high school girls and who didn’t have a care in the world except passing advanced physics. I wanted to go to pep rallies and mixers and keggers down at the river. I wanted to take Pen to the prom …
Stop it, McKenzie,
my inner voice admonished.
Get your head in the game.
my inner voice admonished.
Get your head in the game.
“You said your husband is with the FBI,” I told Pen.
“Yes,” she replied in full swing. “Steve was one of the lead agents on an organized crime task force. But since 9/11 the bureau has been dedicating more and more resources to fighting terrorism at the expense of everything else. Steve is really upset about it. I guess most of the field officers are, too. They want to keep solving traditional federal crimes—bank robberies, drug trafficking, kidnappings. But the politicians at the top, they want to reinvent the bureau to reflect the current political climate. At least that’s how Steve sees it. Anyway, they shut down the task force and sent us to Minneapolis. Steve says it’s temporary, that’ll we’ll be going back to New York any day now. If we don’t …”
Pen slowed to a stop.
“Trailer life is okay. But I want a house. I want to live in a real, honest-to-God house, with a garden and a rope swing in the backyard for the kids and thick green grass that you can walk on without shoes. We couldn’t have that in New York City, but we can have it here and that’s what I want. You’re not going to write that down, are you?”
I glanced at the notebook in my hand.
“Nah,” I said.
Pen laughed again.
“Ruth wouldn’t like it. She was one of the founding residents of Hilltop.”
“She was living here in 1956?” I said, remembering the Trailer Park article I had read in the library.
“When the city incorporated, yes. You’ve been doing your homework.”
“Of course. I’m a professional.”
I wondered briefly if there really was such a thing as a born liar and if I fit that classification. But I summarily dismissed the question from my head. It took years of practice to reach my level of competence. I wasn’t a
born
liar, I was a self-made man.
born
liar, I was a self-made man.
We left the park and continued walking. Pen smiled for no particular reason. Shelby often would smile like that, smile as though someone had told her the most amusing tale. I asked her about it once. “Why do you smile so?” She said, “McKenzie, you can be such a drip sometimes,” which I later took to mean, “Why shouldn’t I smile?” Shelby was a happy woman, and I decided Pen was, too.
“Something else I want,” Pen said.
“What’s that?”
“I want my car back. I have a Mustang convertible with a 193-horsepower, 3.8-liter V-6 engine and five-speed manual transmission. I love that car, only I never get to drive it. Steve’s always taking it. In New York owning a car is a self-indulgence. Most of the money I earned went toward keeping it in a garage. But out here it’s a necessity. Everything is so spread out. Mass transit is a joke. You can’t hail a cab to save your life. I really miss Matilda.”
“You named your car Matilda?”
“Yes.”
“Matilda the Mustang.”
“You don’t name your cars?”
“Well, no.”
She looked at me like she had just discovered a disturbing flaw in my character.
“Anyway, I want Matilda back. She’s mine. I bought her.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a songwriter.”
“No kidding.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I did. I am constantly amazed that I make money doing this. Not a lot of money, but all it takes is one hit and you’re on your way.”
“What kind of music do you write?”
“Ballads mostly. We haven’t sold a lot in the past couple of years. Mostly we’ve sold to artists like Bonnie Raitt who wanted something a little different to help fill out an album. No one has ever released one of our songs as a single. But Tommy thinks—Tommy’s my partner. Tommy Heyward. Glass and Heyward. I write music and he writes lyrics. Tommy thinks we’re in exactly the right place at exactly the right time because good old-fashioned crooning is coming back into vogue. Think about it. Rod Stewart goes platinum with an album of standards. Boz Scaggs, B. B. King, Diana Krall, k. d. lang and Tony Bennett, Harry Connick, of course, Lizz Wright, Michael Buble, Brian Evans, Peter Cincotti—they’re all expanding the audience for the kind of music we like to write. And then Norah Jones comes along. I absolutely, unequivocally adore Norah Jones. Seven million copies of
Come Away With Me
and counting. A young woman introducing that sexy, smoky, jazzy balladry to a generation that didn’t have anyone its own age performing grown-up music. So much is geared toward the teen market these days, Britney and Christina and Justin, puhleez, and rap, which is—ugghh!—that there’s been a backlash from people in their twenties, people who feel abandoned by the record industry, and crooners are a
part of it. It’s a good backlash. Audiences are suddenly reaching out for a cooler, more sophisticated, more artfully arranged kind of music, which is what I write. Now, all of a sudden artists and producers and record companies who wouldn’t answer our phone calls are calling us. Amazing. I’m going to stop talking now and take a deep breath. I hope you don’t mind.”
Come Away With Me
and counting. A young woman introducing that sexy, smoky, jazzy balladry to a generation that didn’t have anyone its own age performing grown-up music. So much is geared toward the teen market these days, Britney and Christina and Justin, puhleez, and rap, which is—ugghh!—that there’s been a backlash from people in their twenties, people who feel abandoned by the record industry, and crooners are a
part of it. It’s a good backlash. Audiences are suddenly reaching out for a cooler, more sophisticated, more artfully arranged kind of music, which is what I write. Now, all of a sudden artists and producers and record companies who wouldn’t answer our phone calls are calling us. Amazing. I’m going to stop talking now and take a deep breath. I hope you don’t mind.”
Now I was laughing.
A white van was parked in the Hilltop Motel lot just below my second-floor room. The colorful name and logo that was on its side earlier had been removed.
I entered my room without knocking. The drapes had been closed, and there was little light. Marshall Lantry was lying on my bed watching Oprah. He said, “Attractive woman. I don’t blame you for taking your time.”
“Did everything go all right?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
I cut the power to the TV with the remote. “I know it’s you. Did everything go all right?”
“Yes. Fine. Perfect. Six minutes in and out. You know, the lady doesn’t even bother to lock her door.”
“I like that about her.”
“Yeah, but c’mon. How foolish is that?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Lantry rolled off the bed and moved to the desk. He switched on the lamp to reveal a receiver and a tape recorder. The receiver was pocket-sized, assuming your pockets were slightly larger than mine. The tape recorder was a standard-sized portable with a few extra dials and gauges that required explanation. They were united by two coaxial cables. The entire thing could easily fit inside a small desk drawer, so that’s
where I put it. There were no electrical cords. Lantry said the unit was operated by a battery with a thirty-day charge.
where I put it. There were no electrical cords. Lantry said the unit was operated by a battery with a thirty-day charge.
Other books
Valentine's Candy by Melissa L. Webb
Mr. Badger and the Difficult Duchess by Leigh Hobbs
Helsinki White by James Thompson
Tempting Her Best Friend by Maxwell, Gina L.
Swan's Grace by Linda Francis Lee
(3/20) Storm in the Village by Read, Miss
Circus Galacticus by Deva Fagan
Pieces Of You & Me by Pamela Ann
Fated Bliss (Bliss #2) by Cassie Strickland
A Hope for Hannah by Eicher, Jerry S.