Tin City (30 page)

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Authors: David Housewright

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BOOK: Tin City

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Bruce stepped forward. He raised his combat knife high in the air, prepared to slash down on me.

“Brucie,” Sykora shouted and dove under the sofa for the Glock.

Bruce glanced at Sykora, calculated how long it would take for Sykora to fish the gun out, quickly turned to face me.

I rolled onto my shoulder and grabbed the butt of the .25.

If he had fired the shotgun at that moment, I would have been killed. Instead, he brought the knife down in a long arc, slicing nothing but air. Brucie didn’t seem to mind that he missed. He was smiling the same damn smile he gave me in the parking lot of the motel in Chanhassen.

I yanked the gun free. Brought it up.

A half dozen shots—they sounded like howitzers in the small room. Only they weren’t my shots, I never fired.

A half dozen bullets slammed into Brucie, stitching him from his hip all the way to his head. Blood and bone and brain sprayed Frank and the back wall. Bruce fell against Frank’s chair as if someone had
shoved him there, spun off, hit the wall behind the chair, and sunk to the floor.

Frank screamed and wiped at the blood and bone and brain.

Pen turned her head away, her hand clamped over her mouth.

I was lying on my side on the floor. Sykora was on his stomach. We both angled our heads toward the door.

Nick Horvath stood there with an Israeli-made 9 mm Uzi submachine gun in his hands.

He said, “I don’t want any trouble with you two. Drop your guns, slide them away.”

From the look of the magazine, I figured Horvath had about thirty-four shots left. I set the Iver Johnson on the floor and slid it across to him. A moment later, Sykora followed suit with his Glock.

Horvath smiled. He nodded at Pen and said, “How you doin’, sweetie?”

“I’ve been better,” said Pen evenly. The pain in her eyes hadn’t reached her voice yet.

Horvath glared at Frank. “Did fat boy here hurt you?”

“A little bit. Not a lot.”

“I’m terribly sorry about all this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“In a way it is. I could’ve stopped Frank in New York, but he slipped away from me.”

“Butterfingers.”

Horvath smiled at Pen like he was proud of her. Truth be told, so was I. She was handling herself extremely well. A brave front.

Sykora asked Pen, “Do you know this man?”

Pen said, “He’s our neighbor. Nick Horvath.”

The one who couldn’t hit the broad side of a Ford truck with a baseball bat, I remembered.

“Ishmael,” I said.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I understand now,” I told Horvath. “The so-called kidnapping attempt outside Pen’s trailer. You arranged that to gain Pen’s trust.”

“Yeah. Looks like it worked out better for you, though, huh?”

“You’re the one who bugged her trailer.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re the one who warned Granata that the FBI was going to hit his cigarettes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I thought it was the gay guys down the road.”

“I heard they broke up,” Horvath said.

“Tell me something. If you knew the FBI had the quarry staked out, why send a truck at all? Even an empty one?”

Sykora answered the question for him.

“Granata wanted to send a message. He didn’t want us to think the shipment was jacked or diverted. He wanted us to know that he knew that we knew all about it.”

“It was a chance to say, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah,” Horvath said, and I flashed on what Sykora had told me earlier—
it was a game, cops and robbers.

“You’ll never get away with it,” Sykora said.

“Oh, shut up. Never get away … You know what?” Nick pointed the Uzi at Sykora. “I’m not talking to you. In fact, I’m not talking to either of you. Puttin’ Pen in danger. What a couple of schmucks.”

“You followed us,” I told him. “You heard our plans on the bug in the trailer and you followed us.”

“Yes, I did. Shut up, McKenzie.”

Horvath pointed the Uzi at Frank.

“Get up, fat boy.”

Frank looked to be in shock, his face and clothes splattered with pieces of Brucie.

“C‘mon, Russo. You want to die in fuckin’ Minnesota?”

Frank slowly struggled to his feet and shuffled toward Horvath like an old man.

“Maybe we can work something out,” he said.

“You keep thinkin’ that, Frank,” Horvath told him.

Nick spun the fat man around, then pushed him toward the door. Before Frank stepped through it, Horvath yanked his arm, halting him. He turned back toward us.

“Enough is enough, huh, guys,” he said. “Enough bullshit over this fat fuck.” He settled the muzzle of the Uzi on me. “When Little Al takes care of Frank, he’ll take care of ‘im for your people, too. And you.” Nick swung the Uzi on Sykora. “You’re just gonna have to find another way to become a fuckin’ hero. Personally, I suggest you try doin’ your job.”

Horvath sighed like he was suddenly tired.

“I want fifteen minutes. Fifteen-minute head start. That’s it. Whaddaya say?”

“Yes,” said Pen. Her calm voice filled the room as completely as soft sunlight. “A fifteen-minute head start. I promise.”

“Thank you, sweetie.”

“Thank you, Nick.”

“You take care.”

“And you.”

Horvath nodded. He pointed the gun at Sykora. “She’s way too good for you. You don’t deserve her.”

He swung the Uzi on me.

“Neither do you.”

Or you,
I almost said but didn’t.

A moment later, he was gone. I listened as Frank huffed and puffed into the darkness. When I couldn’t hear him anymore, I came off my knees. I found my Beretta in Brucie’s pocket and the Iver Johnson against the wall. I looked toward the door.

Pen said, “I promised him fifteen minutes.”

So she did.

I moved through the cabin, trying as best I could to avoid Brucie’s corpse, and found a bedroom. I pulled a blanket off the bed and went back into the living room. Sykora was removing the last of the duct tape from Pen’s wrists and ankles.

“I’ll make this up to you,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”

I remember saying pretty much the same thing to Sweet Swinging Billy Tillman. What a load of b.s.

I draped the blanket around Pen’s naked shoulders.

“Thank you,” Pen said.

“Give me your cell phone,” I told Sykora.

He handed it to me.

“Fifteen minutes,” Pen repeated.

Her eyes were red with tears that hadn’t fallen, yet her voice still seemed unaffected, and I wondered if somehow she would manage to get a song out of all this.

I sat and waited.

Pen said, “Your real name is McKenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Not Jake?”

“No.”

“I liked Jake,” she said.

You didn’t know him the way I did,
I thought.

A moment later, Pen rested her fingers on my wrist and I received the same unexpected jolt of electricity that I felt at the pool in Hilltop.

She said, “I forgive you, McKenzie.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed forgiveness until she gave it to me.

“Thank you,” I told her.

Fifteen minutes later, I punched 911 into the keypad of Sykora’s cell.

“Operator, give me the FBI.”

At last, Pen began to weep, her husband’s arms wrapped tightly around her.

Give him credit, Sykora didn’t try to explain or defend himself. He confessed to everything he had done and why he had done it. He even put in a good word for me. Lord knows I needed it. The fact that Pen sat next to him wrapped in the ratty old blanket seemed to make a difference to the hardened federal agents who filled the tiny cabin.

Still, neither the AIC of the Minneapolis field office nor a Justice Department attorney he had dragged to Whitefish Lake was pleased with me. The attorney spent a good deal of time pacing in front of my chair, listing all the federal and state crimes he could charge me with. I interrupted him after about a half dozen and reminded him of the recordings I had made of Sykora’s phone conversations. That only made him angrier.

Finally he said, “I’m letting you go, McKenzie, but not because of the lousy tapes.”

“Why, then?”

“Because if I charged you then we’d all be sonsuvbitches.”

After I was released I returned to the Hilltop Motel and cleared out Jake Greene’s clothes and surveillance equipment. I paid all of his bills with cash, including the rental on his car, and destroyed his credit cards, driver’s license, and other ID. With any luck, he’d never know how badly I used him.

I retrieved my Jeep Cherokee from an impound lot—for about 5 percent of its original sticker price—and drove along Mississippi River Boulevard in St. Paul. I stopped under the railroad bridge near the Shriners Hospital. There was a catwalk under the bridge. I climbed out on it as far as my acrophobia would allow and dumped the gun I had used to kill Danny. I watched it splash and disappear under the water. Then I dumped all the copies of the tapes I had made of Sykora’s and Frank’s conversations. I would have liked to keep a copy of the song Pen had written, but the deal I had made with Harry took precedence.

Afterward I drove home. But I stayed there only long enough to shower, shave, dress, and arm myself with the 9 mm Beretta I kept in my basement safe before driving off in my Jeep.

There was still Mr. Mosley’s killer to deal with.

The lawn around Mr. Mosley’s house was freshly cut, and the hedges had been trimmed. I wondered if some parishioners from King of Kings had come over and tidied up the place. I parked my SUV and approached the front door.

I knocked. There was no answer. I held the latch down and pushed against the door. It swung open.

“Mr. Hernandez?”

I walked inside. The house was neater than I had ever seen it, neater
even than when Agatha was keeping it. Someone had given the place a serious spring cleaning.

“Mr. Hernandez?” I called again.

No reply.

I stood at the base of the staircase and shouted upstairs.

“Lorenzo?”

Still nothing.

The kitchen was just as orderly as the rest of the house. Dishes washed and put away. Table and counter wiped. The floor where Mr. Mosley fell scrubbed clean of blood. Everything was in its place, including the ancient coffee percolator.

I went through the back door, the screen bouncing against the frame behind me. There was no one in the yard. I walked past the hives, ignoring—for the first time—the hundreds of bees that swarmed around me. I made my way to the bee barn where Mr. Mosley had kept the centrifuge that he used to extract honey from its comb, the pasteurizing machine that heats the raw honey to 155 degrees to kill bacteria, and his bottling operation. The huge door was open. Hernandez was inside. He was humming to himself as he polished the extractor’s massive 16-gauge stainless steel drum. It was bright enough to bounce my reflection back at me.

I glanced around the barn. Like Mr. Mosley’s house, it was immaculate. Even the cinder-block walls and concrete floor looked as if they had been scrubbed.

“You’ve been working hard,” I said.

My voice startled Hernandez. He dropped his rag and took two steps backward. He smiled slightly when he recognized me.

“McKenzie,” he said.

I nodded at him and repeated, “You’ve been working hard.”

Hernandez glanced around him. Pride shone in his face.

“I want to keep it nice,” he said. “For Mr. Mosley.”

“Sure.”

Hernandez came toward me, his hand outstretched. I shook it. It was like shaking a frozen pork chop. Yet, while his hand was cold, his face suddenly seemed flushed. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead and upper lip.

“Good to see ju,” he said, his accent sounding thicker than usual.

“Good to be seen.”

Hernandez brought forth his handkerchief, unfolded it, blew his nose one nostril at a time, refolded the handkerchief, and returned it to his pocket.

“Wha’ can I do for ju?” he asked.

“Let’s talk.”

“Talk? Okay.” He pronounced the word “ho-kay.”

He retrieved his rag from the spotless floor and moved to the counter Mr. Mosley had built against the wall of the barn. There were many tools neatly arranged on the countertop and hanging from nails in the wall—frames, frame lifters and scrapers, bee brushes, uncapping trays and knives, tap strainers, smoker bellows, hive straps, and gloves. Several drawers had been built into the counter. Hernandez set down the rag and reached for one, hesitated, and left it unopened.

“Ju want coffee?” he asked.

“I could do with a cup.”

“In the kitchen. I be wit’ ju in a moment.”

I left the bee barn and made my way back to the house. Once inside, I slipped the Beretta out from under my jacket and activated it. I sat at the kitchen table, balancing the nine on my lap. My hands were both flat on the table when Hernandez entered the room. He was carrying a small white and blue towel. The towel was stained and dirty, but it was neatly folded. Hernandez set the towel carefully on the counter next to the sink.

“Mr. Mosley always liked coffee black,” Hernandez said. “Ju like it black, too?”

“Yes.”

Hernandez opened a cabinet and pulled out two mugs. While his back was turned I adjusted the gun in my lap.

Hernandez poured coffee into the mugs. “Did ju find Mr. Mosley’s killer?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Wha’ ’appen to ’im?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Hernandez slid the mug across the table. I made sure he saw me reach for it with both hands.

“Wha’ ju mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t you?”

He shook his head.

“I had a suspect. I believe he’s innocent, now—innocent of Mr. Mosley’s murder, anyway.”

“How ju know?”

“This guy—if he had done it, he would have said so. He’s that kind of guy. Anyway, after he was eliminated, it was fairly easy to determine who the real killer was.”

I leaned back in the chair, letting my right hand fall casually to my lap while slowly turning the mug in circles with my left.

Hernandez moved closer to the towel.

“Three things a cop looks for when a crime is committed—motive, opportunity, and means. You revealed the motive when you spoke at Mr. Mosley’s memorial, when you said that working for Mr. Mosley helped you escape the poverty of Guatemala, that it allowed you to remain in the United States. But he was threatening to take your job away, wasn’t he? Did you think if you lost your job you would be deported?”

I watched his brown eyes. I thought he would deny everything, proclaim
his innocence, but for some reason he didn’t bother.

“Opportunity—that came when you met with Mr. Mosley to discuss your employment situation. There were two mugs on the counter when Mr. Mosley was killed. He was pouring coffee for someone he knew. Someone he trusted enough to turn his back on.”

“Ju can’t prove anything,” Hernandez said. But there was no force to his words.

“That brings us to means.” I gestured at the towel with my chin. “I’m betting there’s a .22 tucked inside that towel.”

Hernandez looked at the towel, then back at me.

“Ju can’t prove anything,” he repeated, just talking now.

“The .22 proves it.”

“’Ere’s no .22.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

He looked at the towel again, inched toward it. The Beretta was in my hand. I settled it on his chest, aiming through the kitchen table. I had killed a man for a crime he didn’t commit. But Danny had committed other crimes. He had raped Susan Tillman, the wife of my friend. He had tried to kill me. I had no regrets. Only I wanted no more of it, so I begged him, “Please …”

His hand hovered in midair.

“Don’t do it, Lorenzo. Please, don’t.”

He stopped.

“Give yourself up.”

He looked at me for a moment and dropped his hand to his side. He walked over to the back door. I thought he might try to make a run for it, but he just stood there staring at the hives.

Without turning he said, “Ju no cop. Ju can’t arrest me. Ju ’ave no authority.”

“I know.”

“I don’t ‘ave to say nothin’ to ju.”

I took a sip of the coffee. It wasn’t bad. Not as good as Mr. Mosley’s, but better than mine.

I said, “Doesn’t it hurt, Lorenzo? Keeping it all inside?”

He lowered his head and sighed. Something went out of him then.

“I loved ’im. Mr. Mosley.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“I didn’ mean to.” Hernandez turned away from the door and walked back into the kitchen, settling near the towel. He had moved slowly, yet I tightened my grip on the Beretta just the same. “Somet’ing ’appen to me. Inside of me. I try to get rid of it, but it don’ go ‘way. I thought, Mr. Mosley, ’e make it go ’way. But ’e don’t.”

“You were afraid.”

“I cannot go back to Guatemala.”

“So you killed him.”

“
Sí.
”

I don’t know exactly what I felt for Hernandez at that moment, but I didn’t hate him. There was no hate left in me, no rage. I had used it all up on Danny and Brucie and Frank. I felt my grip on the Beretta relax.

“Why don’t you lock up, Lorenzo.”

“Wha’ for?”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Where?”

“I want you to go to Chaska with me and talk to a cop named Dyke.”

“Ju wan’ me to confess?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“No.”

“You said you loved Mr. Mosley, you said you didn’t mean to kill him …”

He moved closer to the towel.

“We’ll tell them that. They’ll believe you.”

He looked at me. His expression was childlike. “Wha’ will ’appen to me?”

“You’ll be all right.”

“I cannot go to prison.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

He studied me hard. He saw that my hand was under the table. He had to know that it wasn’t empty.

“Please,” I said again. “Come with me. We’ll talk to the county attorney. I’ll help you get the best deal possible. It’ll be so much better.”

“Better?”

“Better than reaching for the .22.”

He didn’t believe me.

The assistant county attorney for Carver County sat next to me at Mr. Mosley’s kitchen table. He had run out of questions to ask and had packed up his tape recorder and notebook. Lieutenant Dyke was leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms folded across his chest. The three of us were watching the wagon boys zip Hernandez into a black vinyl body bag. Dyke sighed deeply and sidled up next to the table. He rubbed the tips of his fingers over the four ugly holes I had drilled through the wood with the nine.

“Well,” he said.

“Yeah,” I told him.

He worked a pinkie into one of the bullet holes.

“He never had a chance, did he?”

“No,” I agreed. “But I gave him a choice.”

“Looks like he chose poorly.”