Vengeance Is Mine (9 page)

“No kidding?”

Les shook his head. “You tell everybody that Steve Radke is on the ball. Hey, not to change the subject or anything, but how about that hockey team of yours? You think I should make a little bet?”

“It's a sure thing.” Pat grinned. “We're up against Searle's Surlies, and Dave Busch cut open his knee in practice.”

“That's good enough for me.” Les plopped a five down on the bar, and Pat handed him the punch-out spread sheet. Before he left the bar, Les had picked the Tattletale team to win by eight, eleven, and seventeen.

After the steamy warmth of the Tattletale it was even colder outside. Les wished he'd followed his instincts and taken his choppers instead of the thin leather gloves Trish insisted he wear with his topcoat. The heavy leather mittens lined with fur were too bulky for driving, but they would have kept his hands warm on the walk to the Paradise Lounge.

A plastic bag full of garbage had blown up against
The Granite Trio
, Tony Caponi's thirty-two-ton sculpture that decorated the mall. Les picked up the bag and put it in the trash receptacle by Herberger's Department Store.

Someone coughed nearby, and Les whirled around. A nun was standing by the huge plate-glass window, staring at the display of double knits.

“Oh, good evening, Sister.” Les tipped his hat. The nun smiled, and Les hurried across the street. He wondered if she'd seen him come out of the Tattletale. He certainly didn't want the clergy to think he was a heavy drinker.

Les didn't think of it until he was at the door to the Paradise. It was cold out tonight. If the nun were still there when he walked back, he'd offer to give her a ride.

“Hey, look what the wind blew in.” Ida Ludwig grinned as she rinsed out glasses behind the bar. “Jerry just went up to the Sportsman to see if they're gonna lock up early. Nobody's out tonight.”

The Paradise was deserted except for two people huddled in a booth in the back. Les was about to speak to them when he caught a glimpse of the woman's face. The man was Otto Simonitsch, a manager at Holes-Webway. And he had his arm around a woman who was twenty years younger and forty pounds slimmer than Mrs. Simonitsch.

Ida wiped her hands on her apron and gestured toward the booth in the back. “Shirley's gone to Rochester. You know what they say, When the cat's away . . .”

Les nodded.

“I hope Shirl's having a good time in Rochester. You know what they say, turnabout's fair play.”

Ida cracked up. Les noticed that she'd kept her girlish giggle from high school. It sounded strange coming from a woman over thirty, but Ida was a good egg.

“How about a St. Cloud Snowshoe, Les? It's our specialty.”

Les didn't know what a St. Cloud Snowshoe was, but he wouldn't hurt Ida's feelings for the world.

“Sure, but make it light, will you. Ida? I've got to drive home tonight.”

Les watched as Ida poured equal parts of peppermint schnapps and brandy into a glass. She added a dash of crème de menthe for color and floated a bright green cherry on top. Les's stomach churned as he took the smallest sip possible.

“Hey, Les! Good to see you, buddy. It's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there.”

Jerry Ludwig had barged in through the door and slapped Les on the back so hard that half his Snowshoe spilled onto the bar. They'd been best buddies at Tech High.

“Aw, hell, I'm such a klutz. Ida? Mix Les another one, will ya?”

“No! Uh . . . that's not necessary, Jerry. There's plenty left here, and Trish'll have fits if I get a load on tonight.”

“I'll bet she will.”

There was a touch of coldness in Jerry's voice. Les knew he'd never liked Trish, even in high school. Of course Jerry'd never say a bad word about her—you didn't bad-mouth a buddy's wife—but Jerry was smart enough to realize that the reason they never got together anymore was that Trish didn't consider the Ludwigs their social equals.

“How's your hockey team coming, Jer? Your boys are playing the Flatiron team, aren't they?”

“No contest.” Jerry shrugged. “The Flatiron Welders are strictly an amateur team. We'll take the trophy, no sweat. It's gonna be just like that winning season we had in high school.”

“Yeah.” Les grinned. “Those were the good old days, huh, Jer? I couldn't play hockey now to save my life.”

“You didn't play much then, but you sure roughed up the competition. Seems to me you spent most of the season in the penalty box.”

Les laughed and raised his glass in a salute. One glance at the green liquid inside made him set it right back down on his napkin again.

“Hey, Les.” Jerry straddled the next stool and leaned close. “You think they're gonna catch that killer soon?”

“You can bet on it, Jerry. I'm not supposed to say anything but it's a hell of a world if you can't share good news with your buddies, right?”

“Right.” Jerry nodded and leaned closer.

“I talked to Steve Radke this morning, and he said he's got it all wrapped up. It's just a matter of gathering a little more evidence before they make the arrest.”

“Jeez, I'm glad to hear that.” Jerry sighed deeply. “It hardly pays to open when all your regulars stay home with their doors locked and their guns in their laps. Ida? Open me a Grain Belt, will ya, honey?”

“A Grain Belt?” Les began to smile. “That reminds me, Jerry. Boy, have I got a joke for you!”

 

 

It was nearing ten o'clock when Les left the Paradise. He'd placed a five-dollar bet on Jerry's team, and he still had more ground to cover.

The Sportsman sign was off. Eddie must have figured it wasn't worth it to stay open any longer. Les decided he might as well walk over to the Locker Room for a quick one. Then he'd better shag tail for home. Trish would be back from Margaret's by eleven at the latest.

Les frowned as he noticed another nun standing in front of the Townhouse Bakery. Was there some sort of church function going on downtown, or was this the same one he'd seen earlier? It was impossible to tell. With those black wool coats and veils they all looked the same. She was staring at the five-tier wedding cake on display. Les grinned in spite of himself. A nun staring at a wedding cake. He'd heard that the Catholic Church was adopting more liberal attitudes, but that was ridiculous.

“Excuse me, Sister. I'm Mayor Hollenkamp. Could I offer you a ride?”

The nun turned to smile at him sweetly. “No, but thank you for asking.”

There wasn't any more he could say. She hadn't offered any explanation of why she was standing there, and Les didn't want to be rude and ask her. He tipped his hat and walked away. If she was waiting for people to pick her up, Les hoped they'd come soon. The wind was starting to whip down the mall, and the temperature was dropping. Les's cheeks were red and he was shivering by the time he reached the Locker Room.

“Les! C'mon over here and join us. John? Open a bottle of that Danish beer for the mayor.”

The Locker Room was lively as usual. It looked as if every hockey player in town were there, along with four or five tables of college girls. Les felt every one of his thirty-eight years as he picked up his beer and walked past the fresh-faced kids to join the owners, Mark and Ron, at a table in the back.

“I can't believe they're old enough to drink.”

“Everyone gets carded at the door, Les. They're all over nineteen.”

“I guess they just look younger as I get older.” Les grinned at Ron and took a long pull at his beer. It was heaven after that St. Cloud Snowshoe that Ida had mixed him.

“It's sure crowded in here. Seems like the murders didn't even put a crimp in your business.”

“Are you kidding?” Mark grinned. “Take a look around you, Les. We've got football players, rugby players, wrestlers, all kinds of jocks. There's not a guy in here that weighs under two hundred pounds. With muscle like that, the Locker Room's the safest place in town.”

Ron looked serious. “So what's the good news, Les? Did they catch him yet?”

“I really shouldn't say anything, but as long as it doesn't go any farther than this table . . .”

Mark and Ron leaned forward as Les lowered his voice.

“Steve Radke's got him pegged. He's just getting a little more evidence before he moves in. As they say in the news, an arrest is imminent.”

“All right! Drink up, Les. John'll bring you another one. We just got in a new beer from Ireland, and I want to know what you think of it.”

“Well . . . why not?” Les grinned. “Now, how about your hockey team, guys? Is it worth making a small wager?”

 

 

By the time he left, Les was feeling no pain. He'd compared a Danish beer, an Irish beer, a German beer, and an Australian ale. By now he'd forgotten which one was the best. Les was glad he'd stopped in at the Locker Room. He felt comfortable for the first time tonight. Maybe the beer had helped him believe his own words, but he was sure that Steve Radke was on top of everything. An arrest was definitely imminent.

Jesus, there was that nun again! Les couldn't believe she was still standing out there in the cold. She'd moved down a couple of stores, and now she was looking in the window at Gaida's, studying the rows of eyeglass frames.

Les reached into his pocket, pulled out a package of breath mints, and popped one into his mouth.

“Excuse me . . . Sister? Are you sure I can't give you a lift?”

“No, thank you, Mayor Hollenkamp.”

Les shrugged and started off down the street. He hoped he hadn't slurred his words. Those beers had been stronger than the domestic variety. He felt guilty for walking off and leaving that poor little nun in the snow, but he couldn't very well pick her up and carry her to his car if she didn't want to go.

Les grinned. That's all he needed. He could see the headline in Margaret's paper now.
MAYOR FORCES NUN INTO CAR FOR JOYRIDE
.

The gusty wind made it difficult to walk. Or maybe it wasn't the wind. It was a damn good thing he wasn't driving. He was bombed and he really hadn't had that much to drink.

Food. The moment Les thought of it, he turned north, toward First Street. The Flatiron was only two blocks from there, and a big juicy Darrell burger would fix him up just fine. No wonder that beer had gone straight to his head.

The block north of the mall was deserted. The darkened stores loomed in huge black shapes against the blowing snow. Les shivered. He jammed his hands into his pockets and walked as fast as he could on the slippery sidewalk. His fingers felt like icicles. He'd left his gloves at the Locker Room, but he didn't much care. They might be stylish, but they weren't much good in this cold weather.

Les looked both ways before he stepped off the curb at the Ring Road. He'd thought it was crazy when the city had made it a one-way ten years ago, but that was before he was elected mayor. Switching it back again was pure insanity, but that's what the downtown businessmen had demanded. They claimed most shoppers were afraid of one-ways and they were losing business.

The lights from the Flatiron flashed in the distance as Les dashed across the icy street. He stopped just short of the railroad tracks and reached for his handkerchief. The cold weather always made his nose run, and he didn't want to go inside the Flatiron with a dripping nose. Maybe he should assert himself with Trish and grow that mustache he'd always wanted. Then no one could tell if his nose was dripping or not. Did the stuff from your nose freeze? He'd have to ask someone with a mustache. Trish might be right after all. She usually was.

Les fumbled in his pocket. His handkerchief had to be in here somewhere. Trish always made sure he had a clean one in every pair of pants. There it was. Les yanked on it, and his car keys tumbled from his pocket. He gave a groan as they sank down into a drift of snow. Now he'd have to dig for them without gloves. This evening had started out just fine, but it was ending up on a sour note.

There was a hole in the snowdrift where the keys had disappeared. Les crouched down and felt carefully with his numb fingers. He had just fished them out when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned to greet whoever else was out this time of night.

“Oh, hello, Sister. Did you change your mind about that ride?”

Les smiled and started to get to his feet. Then he saw the bishop behind her, holding a huge metal crucifix high above his head. And then nothing. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER 11

“Dinner was absolutely fabulous. Then we had coffee in the living room, and Margaret told us all about the gangsters she interviewed when she worked for the
Chicago Times
.”

Steve held Michele's arm securely and opened the door of his car. The street in front of Margaret's house was icy, and she had on high heels. Then he hurried around to his side and slid in behind the wheel to start the engine. No wonder Margaret had known so much about Mafia murders.

“Right before you came, Margaret showed us her new water bed. It's gorgeous. I've always wanted to try out a water bed to see if I get seasick.”

Steve reached in the backseat for the scraper and got out again. Michele watched from the inside as he scraped the ice off the windshield and loosened the wipers. Then he brushed the snow off his jacket where he'd leaned against the fender and climbed back in again.

“The people in California don't know what they're missing.”

Michele laughed as he released the emergency brake and pulled away from the curb.

“It's still pretty early. Maybe we should stop at my place for a while. I've got a water bed you could test out.”

“Oh?” Michele glanced at him quickly, but he was staring at the traffic ahead. Did he mean what she thought he meant? She might be reading something into a perfectly innocent comment.

“Well, that sounds fine to me, Steve.”

“Good. Then it's settled.”

Michele took a deep breath and smiled nervously. She still wasn't sure whether she'd agreed to go to bed with him or not.

Steve switched the heater on high and turned onto Division Street. He slowed for a Jack Frost Hatchery truck and turned to smile at her.

“I want you to meet Pete. I sort of promised him I'd bring you home with me.”

Michele couldn't help it. She started to laugh. There was no way she could write to her mother about this. If anyone but Steve had invited her to test his water bed and then told her his friend Pete was waiting for them, she'd have run like hell.

“What's so funny?”

Steve turned to stare at her as they stopped at the red light on Second Avenue.

“Oh, nothing.” Michele tried to control herself. “I'm just having a good time, that's all.”

“Sister Kate! Wake up, Sister Kate!”

Sister Kate awoke to find Mother Superior frantically shaking her arm.

“Mother! What's wrong?”

“Cissy and Bishop Donahue are outside. I just saw them through my window.”

Sister Kate swung her feet over the edge of the bed and got into her slippers and robe. Poor Mother Superior. She was so upset her whole body was trembling.

“Sit down right here, Mother, and tell me all about it. Bishop Donahue and Cissy were outside?”

“They were standing right out on the sidewalk.” Mother Superior clasped her hands together. “I saw them, Sister Kate.”

“I'll take a look. You just sit right there and try to relax. You're much too excited.”

Sister Kate crossed to the window and looked out. Just as she'd expected, the sidewalk was deserted. She hurried to the medicine cabinet and took out a syringe.

“You must have been dreaming, Mother. Now take a nice deep breath and shut your eyes. I've got some medicine to make you feel better.”

A moment later it was done. Sister Kate could see the effects of the tranquilizer almost immediately.

Mother Superior blinked slowly. “Do you really think I was dreaming? It seemed so real.”

“Dreams are like that sometimes. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could dream about meeting the pope and have it seem that real?”

“Oh . . . yes.”

Mother Superior gave a shaky smile as Sister Kate reached out to take her pulse. It was almost back to normal. The poor dear.

“I'm going to take you back up to bed now. Just lean on my arm. Easy does it.”

It took quite some time for Mother Superior to negotiate the steps, even with Sister Kate's help. They should have used the elevator, but none of Sister Kate's patients had ever needed it, and she wasn't completely sure where she'd put the key.

“Here's your room, Mother. I'll tuck you in.”

Mother Superior got into bed and sighed deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing became soft and deep. Sister Kate sat with her until she was soundly asleep.

As she went out into the hallway Sister Kate turned to stare at Bishop Donahue's closed door. She was sure Mother Superior had been dreaming, but since she was right here, it couldn't hurt to check.

The streetlight outside the bishop's window shone directly on his chessboard, casting huge dark shadows of medieval characters on the walls. Sister Kate tiptoed to Bishop Donahue's bed and smiled down at him. He looked so innocent as he slept.

She closed the door softly behind her and tiptoed down the stairs, carefully avoiding the squeaking board on the third step from the bottom. All was well, and it was time to go back to bed.

 

 

“Come on, Pete.” Michele held one end of the rubber pull toy and growled at Pete as he tugged on the other end. “That's it. Say, ‘Grrrr.'”

Steve came into the living room carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He set them down on the end table and laughed as Pete lunged heroically at the toy. It was almost as big as he was.

“He's growling! How did you do that? I've been trying to teach him to growl for a month.”

“Oh, it was easy. I growled at him, and he growled back. It's a game we played while you were making the coffee.”

“I should have brought you over here sooner. Can you get him to stop scratching at the door? Every time Brunhilda barks, he scratches to go out.”

As Steve finished speaking there was a bark from the next apartment. Pete jumped off the couch and raced for the door. He had just started to scratch at the panel when Michele snapped her fingers.

“Pete, come here a minute. I want to talk to you.”

Pete turned at the sound of his name. He ran back to the couch and stood up on his back paws so Michele could pick him up.

“You're a good boy, aren't you, Pete?”

Pete snuggled up and licked the tip of Michele's nose.

“And you certainly don't want to make trouble for Steve, do you?”

Pete braced both front paws against Michele's chest and licked her chin.

“So you won't scratch at the door anymore, will you, Pete?”

Pete curled up in Michele's arms and rested his curly head against her chest.

Steve grinned. There were times when dogs had the best of both worlds. He'd certainly like to be in Pete's place right now.

Brunhilda barked again, and Pete made a flying leap from Michele's arms. He raced across the rug and scratched at the door with both front paws.

“Oh, well.” Michele laughed. “I guess it's a good thing I didn't decide to be a dog trainer.”

“How about some Tia Maria to go with that coffee?”

Michele nodded and Steve got up to rummage through the cabinet that served as a bar.

“I know it's in here somewhere. Ah, here it is. Right behind Carol's rhubarb wine. One of these days I'm going to get up the nerve to try it.”

“You don't happen to have any banana mint liqueur in there, do you?”

Steve turned to stare at her. “That sounds vile. You don't like it, do you?”

“I don't know. I've got a bottle at home we can try sometime. Maybe we could mix it with the rhubarb wine.”

There were several books on the coffee table, and Michele picked up
The Comprehensive Guide to Fishing Canada
by Babe Winkelman as Steve poured the Tia Maria.

“Are you reading up for your fishing trip, Steve?”

“You bet.” Steve grinned at her. “Jim swears vertical jigging is the way to catch lake trout.”

“Well, I know they're sight feeders.” Michele took a sip of her coffee and tried to remember what else she'd heard on the tape. “I really don't know much about fishing, Steve, but I'd use a lure with lots of flash and action. Vibrating blade baits, tail spinners, that sort of thing. And if you're vertical jigging, you'll need one with a large head to give you a fast drop rate.”

“That's absolutely right.”

Steve looked amazed, and Michele did her best to maintain a demure expression.

“Michele? What are you doing the first week in May? I'm going up to Clearwater Lake with Jim and Carol. Do you suppose you could get time off to come along?”

“I'd love to.” Michele grinned up at him. “Can we take Pete?”

“I don't see why not. We're staying in an outpost cabin so he won't disturb anyone.”

Steve moved over to sit beside her on the couch. His arm rested on the top of the couch cushion, just barely brushing her shoulders.

“This sounds crazy, but I really had the wrong impression of you. You're so . . . well . . . glamorous. The first time I saw you I thought you were a model or a dancer. You didn't strike me as the outdoor type at all. I guess it's impossible to tell much about people until you get to know them.”

Michele nodded. She'd have to call Carol tomorrow and thank her for the fishing tapes. They had worked like a charm. She felt just a little guilty about deceiving Steve, but as Carol was fond of saying, all was fair in love and war.

 

 

Trish Hollenkamp pushed the button on the automatic door opener and pulled into the garage. There was an empty spot where Les's Continental should be. He must have run into some friends on his bar rounds. She closed the garage door again before she unlocked the car door. Les had made her promise to be careful. The police still hadn't caught that killer.

Every light in the house was on. Trish sighed as she made the rounds, switching off the ones that weren't needed. Les always forgot to turn off the lights when he left the house. Maybe he should start handling their finances. One look at their monthly power bill would cure him of that habit in a hurry. They were always at least four times over their winter lifeline allowance.

At least he'd remembered to turn down the heat. Trish pushed up the thermostat and listened to their new gas furnace kick in. She was glad they'd switched from fuel oil to gas. The brochure that NSP had sent in the mail was accurate. Gas burned cleaner than oil and it was odorless. Now she didn't have to buy stick-up air fresheners for every room of the house.

Trish hurried to her bedroom and hung up her new wool suit. It would be good for one more wearing before she took it to the cleaners. She put on a pink velour robe and slipped her feet into matching pink high-heeled slippers. Perhaps she'd go downstairs and make a snack. She was still a little hungry. Even though the dinner at Margaret's had been excellent, she always felt uncomfortable about eating in public. There was something so bovine about chewing in polite company.

There was a round of imported Brie in the refrigerator. Trish got out the tin of Carr's table water English biscuits and arranged everything on the decorated wooden cheese board. Les wouldn't snack on anything except mild Wisconsin cheddar and Ritz crackers. Even though he denied it, Trish was sure it was because of Andy Griffith's commercial.

Trish glanced at her watch as she sat down on the couch. It was five past eleven. She could still catch most of Reverend Anna's sermon on cable.
The Realm of the Possible
was so enlightening. It was a pity that Les wouldn't let her contribute money to Reverend Anna's cause. Of course, she understood Les's objections. The mayor's family didn't dare take a position on religious issues. It was bad enough that they weren't Catholic.

Reverend Anna looked beautiful tonight. Trish couldn't help wondering who had designed her flowing crimson robe. It certainly didn't look like the vestments that ordinary ministers wore.

Trish settled down on the couch and spread Brie on a biscuit. She took a dainty bite and turned up the volume just a bit. Poor Les was simply too insensitive to appreciate Reverend Anna's message. She was almost glad that he wasn't home.

 

 

Michele's head was whirling, and it wasn't from the Tia Maria. She had taken no more than a sip before Steve bent down to kiss her. The couch was covered with Naugahyde, and it reminded Michele of backseats and lovers' lanes. She felt like a teenager as she slid over, wrapped her arms around his neck, and snuggled up against his warm, strong body.

Everything was exactly as she'd imagined. Michele's breath caught in her throat as his fingers found the buttons on her dress. She wanted to help him unfasten them, but that might be a breach of etiquette. Was there an Emily Post for making love? He had the hang of it now. The buttons were large and easy to loosen. For a moment Michele had the time to think that she was glad she'd worn this dress, and then he was slipping it from her shoulders and pressing her back against the cushions of the couch. And she wished he'd turn off the light because she was in a terribly awkward position and she'd look fat for sure and she wanted to look beautiful, and the damn couch was sticking to her and God! How her skin tingled where he touched it!