Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Read online

  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.”

  “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 …

  Stop it, McKenzie, 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.

  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.”

  Now I was la
ughing.

  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.

  Lantry gave me a crash course, demonstrating how to use the voice-activated recording function and adjust the volume. The bug was already transmitting. I could hear Pen washing dishes and humming a tune that I couldn’t identify. I guessed it was one of hers.

  “Nice job,” I told Lantry.

  “Now for the bad news,” he said.

  “Bad news?”

  “Someone else is also listening.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are at least two other bugs—one in her living room, one in her bedroom—and the phones are tapped.”

  “What?”

  “Someone is conducting an audio surveillance of your girl. Someone close. The equipment is very short range. Kinda shoddy, too, if you ask me. Nearly obsolete.”

  “Who?”

  “How should I know who? The bugs don’t have labels on them, you know.”

  “Jeezus.”

  The news forced me backward until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed and I sat down.

  “You know, it’s always something,” said Lantry.

  “Isn’t it, though. You left the bugs in? Didn’t tamper with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I mean no. I mean I didn’t touch the bugs.”

  “Did they hear you?”

  “They heard someone, but I doubt they knew what I was doing.” Lantry showed me his perpetual smile. “Nothing personal,” he said, “but stay away from me for awhile.”

  After Lantry left, I adjusted the volume on the receiver and stretched out on the bed. There was a lump in my stomach that felt like an unexploded Scud—I didn’t know why it was there, but it was.

  I wondered who else was bugging Pen. It could be her suspicious husband, I supposed. He wouldn’t be the first to go to such lengths out of mistrust for his wife. But having met Pen, having enjoyed her company so thoroughly, I just didn’t see it. It could be the FBI—probably was the FBI. They could have found out about Sykora’s extracurricular activities and be in the process of reining him in. Certainly it made more sense. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it but wait and listen. I came off the bed, went to the window, and threw open the drapes, letting sunlight shine into the room through the white lace curtains.

  If I was going to hang around all day, I decided, I needed supplies. I switched on the voice-activated recorder, left the room, and walked south to the Central Plaza strip mall. I bought a roll of masking tape and a few munchies in the supermarket—including a bag of Twizzlers strawberry licorice, my favorite—and picked up a six-pack of James Page in the municipal off-sale liquor store on the way back. I also bought two papers.

  Mr. Mosley’s murder was still featured in both the St. Paul Pioneer Press and Minneapolis Tribune, although not nearly as prominently as a few days ago. I wasn’t surprised. Unlike in some communities—Los Angeles comes to mind—murder, any murder, was still news here. We don’t have so many that we quickly forget them. A local guy who won the Pulitzer a few years back wrote thrillers set in Minnesota. I read a couple—they’re not bad. But seriously, if there were nearly as many psychopaths here as appeared in his books, we’d be sending our kids to school in armored personnel carriers.

  I checked the recorder the moment I returned. Pen had finished her dishes in my absence and left her trailer—the door closing was the last sound on the tape. “Life is in the streets,” she had said.

  After placing the beer inside the tiny refrigerator and stacking the rest of my supplies on top of it, I unrolled two six-inch strips of tape and pressed them firmly across the top of both the receiver and recorder. On the tape I wrote PROPERTY OF U.S. TREASURY DEPT.

  I wasn’t uncomfortable in the motel room. I spent most of my adult life living on the top floor of a duplex off of West Seventh Street in St. Paul that was owned by a guy I played hockey with. It was small, but it suited me just fine. After I came into my money, I bought my house with the expectation that my father and I would live in it; it was far too big for just me alone. I would have put it up for sale after he died except for the kitchen. I love to cook and often throw elaborate dinner parties just for the opportunity to show off. I suspect that’s one of the reasons I have so many friends, because I feed them regularly.

  I grabbed six sticks of licorice and sprawled out on the bed. The motel TV only received a dozen channels, but one of them was ESPN and another was CNN, so I was set. I watched the French Open with the volume off, so the noise wouldn’t interfere with anything I might hear over the receiver. Images of tennis players swatting a fuzzy green ball at each other made perfect sense without commentary. More, actually.

  After a few minutes, Pen returned.

  There were puttering sounds and then the telephone. The ringing was loud enough to make my fake landscapes shake on the walls, and I rushed to the receiver to reduce the volume.

  “Hello,” Pen said.

  “Hi, honey, it’s me.”

  “It’s me who? My secret lover or my husband who usually calls this time of day to tell me he’s working late?”

  “We’re not going to do this again, are we?”

  I could hear tension in their voices like the static on AM radio stations during thunderstorms.

  “You didn’t keep hours like this in New York.”

  “It’s different here.”

  “Why is it different here?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why can’t you tell me? You could tell me things before.”

  “I know …”

  “I feel like I’m living a life I know nothing about. Do you understand that? Do you know how painful that is?”

  “C’mon, Lucky …”

  There was a long pause before Pen said, “That’s something you haven’t called me in a long time.”

  “You’ll always be my Lucky Penny.”

  “Will I?”

  “The reason I called was to tell you that I won’t be working late for a change.”

  “Okay, now I feel stupid.”

  “Don’t, don’t … Let me take you out.”

  “I have an idea. Why don’t I make beef Stroganoff?”

  “Isn’t that what you made the last time you seduced me?”

  “You know me, Steve. When something works, I stick with it.”

  There was more like that, and listening to the conversation, I felt a shudder of excitement that I hadn’t expected. There was something thrilling about eavesdropping on other people’s lives, and in that instant I understood the popularity of reality TV. I also felt a certain revulsion. Clearly I was no gentleman.

  After hanging up the phone, Pen made a list that she read out
loud. “Sirloin, mushrooms, onions, garlic, sour cream, white wine, tomato paste. Do I have beef broth? Yes, I have beef broth.” A moment later the trailer door opened and closed. I presumed she went to the nearby grocery store for ingredients.

  I settled in, wondering what I would have for dinner.

  Steve Sykora and his wife went to bed less than five minutes after Sykora returned home. I admit to a certain jealousy. And anger. I held Sykora partially responsible for the murder of Mr. Mosley and the rape of Susan Tillman—the bastard didn’t deserve to be loved by Penelope Glass. But that’s not why I switched off the receiver. I did it because I still believed I was a good guy, and there are certain things a good guy doesn’t do. Spying on people’s most intimate moments was one of them.

  I wondered if the party or parties unknown who also were listening had switched off their receiver, too.

  Victor, the elderly manager of the Hilltop Motel, was spraying water on the asphalt driveway with a hose when I left the room. I gave him a little wave and wandered north. The traffic on Central Avenue never stopped, never seemed to increase or decrease in volume. It remained constant, like a river polluted by exhaust, noise, and lights. I followed it until I found a Mediterranean restaurant that looked authentic. Unfortunately, the food had a North American taste to it, gyros, shawarma, and kabobs for a midwestern clientele, as bland as the suburbs. Still, it was a pleasant evening, and after dinner I went for a walk.

  I walked for ten minutes with an odd feeling that something was wrong. I walked for another ten minutes before I realized what it was. I had no place to go and no one to talk to when I got there. Jake Greene didn’t have any friends, at least none I was aware of. Rushmore McKenzie had plenty, and although he spent much of his time alone— for he had always been content in his own company—he was aware that they were out there and usually happy to hear from him. But Jake was worse than alone. He was lonely. And I wondered, did someone love him? Did he love them in return? Did he wish he could go home? Of course. But he had a job to do, so instead of returning to Rapid City, South Dakota, he walked back to the Hilltop Motel.