Tin City (4 page)
I glanced at Mr. Mosley.
He didn’t say a word—hadn’t said a word during the entire incident. He opened the door and slid inside the Jeep Cherokee. I did the
same. I backed all the way down the driveway, watching the driver as much as the road behind me. He didn’t move until we were on the county blacktop heading east.
same. I backed all the way down the driveway, watching the driver as much as the road behind me. He didn’t move until we were on the county blacktop heading east.
We drove for what seemed like a long time without speaking. Finally Mr. Mosley said, “Once before a white man pointed a gun at me, called me nigger, and laughed. That was back in 1950. Know what I did?”
“What?”
“Nothing. And I’ve been angry ’bout it ever since.”
“You know, Mr. Mosley, it’s not 1950 anymore.”
“Tell me about those lawyer friends you mentioned.”
Sweet Swinging Billy Tillman, the fastest man alive, aka Tilly, aka Tilly the Swift, aka Wild Bill, had become an attorney—a fact that astonished all who knew him, including Tilly’s mother, because no one ever misspent his youth more recklessly. I remember dodging a bowling ball that he once rolled down the stairs at me when I visited his second-story duplex—I felt like Indiana Jones in
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. On one memorable occasion, Tilly and his cabal of miscreants laid siege to a hamburger joint on Marshall Avenue with bottle rockets because the establishment refused to buy union lettuce. For three consecutive years he water-skied down the Mississippi River in nothing but swimming shorts, in February, evading ice floes for the benefit of a local TV station; I remembered because I drove the boat. Often he would travel to Wisconsin, where the drinking age was nineteen, purchase assorted alcoholic beverages, smuggle them across the border, then sell them out of the trunk of a car at grossly inflated prices to college kids in Minnesota, where the drinking age was twenty-one; I remember because I drove the car. Then there was his annual Pub Crawl. Tilly would rent a school bus, load it with thirty of his closest personal friends and a keg of beer, and direct it from one Twin Cities drinking emporium to the next
until the occupants collapsed out of pure exhaustion and overindulgence. I most certainly did not drive on any of those occasions.
Raiders of the Lost Ark
. On one memorable occasion, Tilly and his cabal of miscreants laid siege to a hamburger joint on Marshall Avenue with bottle rockets because the establishment refused to buy union lettuce. For three consecutive years he water-skied down the Mississippi River in nothing but swimming shorts, in February, evading ice floes for the benefit of a local TV station; I remembered because I drove the boat. Often he would travel to Wisconsin, where the drinking age was nineteen, purchase assorted alcoholic beverages, smuggle them across the border, then sell them out of the trunk of a car at grossly inflated prices to college kids in Minnesota, where the drinking age was twenty-one; I remember because I drove the car. Then there was his annual Pub Crawl. Tilly would rent a school bus, load it with thirty of his closest personal friends and a keg of beer, and direct it from one Twin Cities drinking emporium to the next
until the occupants collapsed out of pure exhaustion and overindulgence. I most certainly did not drive on any of those occasions.
Mr. Mosley allowed that these weren’t necessarily the qualifications that he sought in an attorney.
“If you’re going to hire a lawyer,” I told him, “hire one who’s prepared to do almost anything.”
A secretary ushered us into Tilly’s office. Introductions were made and greetings exchanged. I asked about Susan. Tilly showed me the picture he kept on his desk.
Tilly had never been particularly handsome. In fact, the less generous among us might call him downright homely. His wife, on the other hand, made Catherine Zeta-Jones look tired, and I wondered not for the first time how he had managed to woo her. I’ve been told that most women are attracted to power and money, that they’re interested in a man’s personality, his education, his occupation, his ability to make them laugh—but that physical appearance is way down on the list of requirements, somewhere around seventh or eighth. I decided it must be true. How else could Tilly get such an attractive woman to marry him? Why else would I be able to get dates?
“Have you seen this?” Tilly handed me a second photo. It was of a young girl with auburn hair and flashing green eyes.
“Sheila?”
Tilly nodded.
“My Lord, how old is she now?”
“Twelve.”
Talk about feeling ancient. “The last time I saw her, she wasn’t even in preschool.”
“You should visit more often.”
I handed back the photograph. “She’s a very lucky girl. She looks like her mother instead of you.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mr. Mosley said, “Can we get to it? I have to meet my man working the hives near South Dakota.”
I don’t think Mr. Mosley meant to be rude. It was just that lawyers made him nervous.
Tilly sat behind his desk. We sat in front of it.
“So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a little payback,” I told him.
“Talk to me.”
We told our story. Tilly didn’t hesitate before giving us his recommendation.
“We can call the Carver County attorney—whom I play golf with, I might add—and have Crosetti charged with three counts of assault. Certainly there’s a reasonable fear that he was going to cause bodily harm to both of you and Ms. Flynn. The fact he used a racial slur might also give us access to the hate crime statutes. There was no posting of trespass signs that you could see, correct?”
“Correct.”
“That’s enough for criminal charges. It’s also enough to start civil proceedings for emotional distress. It’s weak, but you could probably do it.”
“I don’t want to arrest him. I don’t want to sue,” Mr. Mosley said.
“Well, sir. What do you want?”
“I want him to know that he can’t push me around.”
“That’s easy.”
“How is that easy?” I asked.
“We’ll send him a letter printed on my stationery in which we
threaten
to have him arrested and drag him into civil court unless he—unless he what? Unless he allows you to go anywhere on his property, at your convenience, and take soil samples without interference. What do you say, Mr. Mosley? Do you like the idea of Crosetti cussing you out
from behind his window shades while you roam about his land doing exactly as you please?”
threaten
to have him arrested and drag him into civil court unless he—unless he what? Unless he allows you to go anywhere on his property, at your convenience, and take soil samples without interference. What do you say, Mr. Mosley? Do you like the idea of Crosetti cussing you out
from behind his window shades while you roam about his land doing exactly as you please?”
“I like that very much.”
“We’ll send the letter by messenger this afternoon.”
Tilly smiled broadly, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his fingers behind his head.
“I love the law,” he said. “It lets you get away with so much mischief.”
Her name was Margot, and she was standing in the center of my pond. She was wearing a dazzling one-piece canary yellow swimsuit that barely contained her. I wore sunglasses when I approached so she wouldn’t see where my eyes were roaming, although I’m sure she guessed.
Margot was five years older than I was, but she looked younger. Lately I’ve been thinking that everyone looks younger than I do. She was my neighbor. I inherited her when my father and I moved into the house shortly after I came into my money. The house was located on the wrong side of the street. I didn’t know that until after I had made an offer on it. I thought it was located in St. Anthony Park, one of the more fashionable neighborhoods of St. Paul. But because I was on the north side of Hoyt Avenue instead of the south, I actually lived in Falcon Heights. I had inadvertently moved to the suburbs, a fact I still refuse to admit publicly. I’m a St. Paul boy at heart, and whenever anyone asks, I say that’s where I live. Margot insists I should get over it. That’s easy for her to say. She’s from Minneapolis.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said when I reached the edge of the pond.
“What have you been thinking?”
“Oh, many things,” she cooed, arching her dark eyebrows at me. “But mostly I’ve been thinking that we need fish.”
“Fish?”
“I think the ducks would like to eat fish when they return.”
“What kind of fish?”
“I don’t know. What kind of fish do ducks eat?”
“I don’t even know that they eat fish.”
“Call that guy you know, the one with the DNR.”
“Why should I call? It’s your idea.”
“It’s your pond.”
“Since when?”
True, the pond was built in my backyard, but the far shore bordered Margot’s property and she had long ago asserted at least partial ownership rights, especially after the ducks arrived. There were only two mallards at first. I called them Hepburn and Tracy. Only the thing about ducks they breed. Soon there were five additional ducklings. I named them Bobby, Shelby, Victoria, and Katie after the Dunston family and Maureen after my mother and fed them dry corn from a plastic ice cream bucket. Margot fed them bread and crackers. Soon they would waddle up to each of us without fear, would even sit quietly next to us when we stretched out on lounge chairs, catching rays—but they liked me best.
All the mallards flew off in late September, and I was afraid that would be the last we’d see of them. My friend with the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources said not to worry. If they survived the trip south, the ducks would probably return in the spring to establish new nests. Only it was May and still no sign of them.
I used to hunt ducks with my dad. I can’t imagine doing it now.
“Goldfish,” Margot said.
“What about them?”
“At the Japanese garden exhibit at the Como Conservatory, they have goldfish.”
“Do ducks eat goldfish?”
“I don’t know if they eat goldfish. I’m just saying goldfish is something
to think about. Big goldfish. They look good swimming around. They looked very good swimming around at the Japanese garden exhibit at the Como Conservatory.”
to think about. Big goldfish. They look good swimming around. They looked very good swimming around at the Japanese garden exhibit at the Como Conservatory.”
“I’ve never been to the Japanese garden exhibit at the Como Conservatory.”
“You should go. You should look at the goldfish.”
“Margot, why are you standing in the pond?”
Margot tapped the top of the fountain that circulated the pond water. “When are you going to turn this on?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should turn it on. Make sure it works.”
“I’ll do that, but first—”
“When are you going to turn it on?”
“In a minute. Margot?”
“What?”
“Why are you standing …”
“In the pond? I wanted to see how deep the water was.”
I had cleaned the pond and filled it with a garden hose two days earlier. It was now at its ideal level, which was midway between Margot’s knees and the bright material of her swimsuit. Margot must have known I was admiring her thighs, because she splashed water at me.
“See anything you like?”
“That’s a nice suit you’re almost wearing.”
“This old thing?”
“I have handkerchiefs that have more material.”
“My ex-husband gave it to me.”
“Which one?” There were three that I knew of.
“Who keeps track?”
“I’ll turn on the fountain.”
“McKenzie?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been throwing myself at you at least twice a month since you moved in. How come you haven’t caught me yet?”
“Do you want an honest answer?”
“I don’t know. Will it hurt?”
I crouched at the edge of the pond and splashed gently. The water was surprisingly warm for May.
“It’s my father,” I told her.
“What about him?”
“Remember when he built the pond, dug it out, put in the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“You helped him and brought him lemonade.”
“Until I discovered he preferred Leinenkugel’s.”
“When he finished each day, he would come in and comment on how beautiful you were.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And how smart and how sexy, too. And he’d say, ‘If I was only twenty years younger …’ After a day or two, it became fifteen years. Then ten, then five, then just a couple. And then …”
“And then he died.”
“Yeah, he died.”
“I miss him.”
“The thing is, he really liked you. And when I see you looking resplendent in that canary yellow swimsuit you’re almost wearing, I think—that’s my dad’s girl.”
Margot stared for a few moments, then wrapped her arms around her chest and turned her back to me. She bowed her head and I saw her shoulders shudder. She plowed through the water to the edge of the pond bordering her property. She called to me over her shoulder. Her voice didn’t sound quite right.
“That’s either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or the biggest bucket of crap. I’ll let you know what I decide.”
I went into my garage and turned the switch that fired the circulating pump. A few moments later I was standing in my backyard and watching the water arching out of the fountain and back into the pond. Margot stood on the other side of the pond in her yard. She had pulled on a white robe and was also watching the fountain. I don’t know what she was thinking. I was thinking of my dad.
I had a twelve-ounce prime rib and twice-baked potato at Rickie’s, a jazz club located in St. Paul’s Cathedral Hill neighborhood that was developing a nice reputation for showcasing gifted performers on their way up; both Diana Krall and Jane Monheit had performed there early in their careers. It also had a well-regarded dinner menu, a little pricey by my standards, but worth it, especially since they gave me the employee’s discount. I was dating the owner.
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