Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 20

  Chopper laughed out loud.

  “I think the cupboard is bare, man.”

  “You don’t know when they’re coming in or where?”

  “No. But I know a guy.”

  “And this guy is who?”

  Chopper reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a cell phone.

  “Chill, man,” he said. “I’ll take care of your ass.”

  Chopper punched in a series of numbers, put the phone to his ear, and waited while it rang.

  “Yo, my man … Yeah, it’s me. Hey, you get those tickets, man? Were them good seats? Wha’ did I tell ya? … Fuck yeah, man. Anytime. You know my number … Hey, listen, listen. What you were talkin’ about the other day, about them smokes … Yeah, man, but I was thinkin’, I wouldn’t mind a taste of that … Whaddaya mean, do I have a store? … That’s just wrong, man. I can move volume. You don’t need no fuckin’ store to move volume … I got my own Web site. I could use the Internet … Fuckin’ wiseguys, they ain’t never heard of the new economy, man? … Let me negotiate with ’em … No, no, no, no, no man, no, no, man, that ain’t … Fuck, like I’m gonna put you on the spot over fuckin’ cigarettes? … I don’t give a fuck if they’re name brands … No, you’re right, you’re right, when you’re right you’re right, man … Where? Where we … Yeah, I know it … No, I ain’t never been there, I mean, fuck … You got a location but no time … I hear that, I hear that … Yeah, yeah … No shit, man. You call me now. You gonna call me? … All right, my man. Yeah … Be cool.”

  Chopper packed his cell phone away and took a last sip of beer, draining his glass.

  He said, “He don’t know when the shipment is comin’ in. Guess it depends on traffic or some shit. This is like the first trip, okay, and everyone is still workin’ out the whaddaya call it, logistics.”

  “But he has a location?”

  “McKenzie, have you ever been to Elk River?”

  Special Agent Brian Wilson entered the Mall of America from the east parking ramp. He looked just the way I remembered him, maybe a little heavier. He even wore the same dark suit; I was willing to wager that he was the only one in the shopping mall who did wear one. I watched him carefully as he passed the shops and restaurants and the Bloomington Police Department substation. I didn’t see anyone lurking in shop doorways or peering from behind potted plants or speaking into their sleeves as he passed, but then that’d be the point, wouldn’t it?

  He seemed to be doing the same thing I was, inspecting everyone around him as he walked, looking for tails. His eyes were steady, watchful, with a hint of curiosity. I doubted he missed much.

  The Mall of America was the largest fully enclosed retail complex in the United States, with over 520 specialty shops and fifty restaurants. At the center of it was a Camp Snoopy theme park, built entirely beneath a glass-and-girder sky. Harry took the stairs, descending from the retail shops to the floor of the park. Sound followed him as he made his way toward the northwest corner—the laughter of children and the shouts of parents, the cries of young men and women on the Screaming Yellow Eagle and Mighty Axe thrill rides, the Hank Williams standard “Jambalaya” broadcast from merry-go-round speakers, the rock song “Wild Thing” played for all it was worth by the Hill-Murray Parish Schools jazz band, and beneath it all a low, incessant rumble of human and mechanical noise that neither abated nor increased in volume.

  Harry halted abruptly, and I thought he might have made me, but he paused only long enough to allow a young woman wearing a green Camp Snoopy polo shirt and leading three dark brown llamas to pass before him. A few moments later, he was standing in front of the Northwoods Stage. A preteen I had paid twenty bucks earlier handed him a palm-sized walkie-talkie and disappeared. Harry pressed the talk button.

  “McKenzie?”

  “How you doin’, Harry?” I asked as I worked myself into position.

  “Getting a little paranoid, aren’t you, McKenzie? Over.”

  “Haven’t you heard? The FBI is after me. Over.”

  “I said I’d come alone. Over.”

  “But you didn’t say you wouldn’t arrest me. Over.”

  “Details, details.”

  I leaned against the second-level railing outside the Tall Girl shop near the west entrance to Camp Snoopy, next to Joe Cool’s Hot Shop. I trained my binoculars on the Northwoods Stage.

  “Why don’t you come here and we’ll talk about it. Over,” Harry said.

  “I’ll tell you what, Harry. Why don’t you stand on home plate. Over.”

  “Come again? Over.”

  “Actually stand on home plate. Over.”

  The Mall of America had been built on the former site of Metropolitan Stadium, where the Minnesota Twins once played baseball. As a tribute to the grand old lady, the mall embedded the stadium’s original home plate in its concrete floor. It was identified in gold: METROPOLITAN STADIUM HOME PLATE 1956-1981. From where I was perched, I could clearly see Harry, but only if he stood on home plate. Two steps in any direction and he would have been obscured from view by indoor trees, the umbrella of a snack bar, and the pillars supporting the Northwoods Stage.

  Harry stood on the plate, looking in the opposite direction from where I stood.

  “You look like you’ve been putting on weight, Harry. Over.”

  “Thanks for noticing. Okay, I’m here. Over.”

  “I appreciate you coming, Brian. Seriously.”

  Harry hesitated, turned right and left, brought the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Brian makes me nervous. What’s going on? Over.”

  “I’m going to tell you a few things, Brian. They’re not going to make you happy. Over.”

  “I’m listening. Over.”

  “It begins with Steven Sykora. Do you know him? Over.”

  “From New York. What about him? Over.”

  “He’s the one who issued the Seeking Information Alert on me. Over.”

  “I know. Over.”

  “Here’s why …”

  I gave Harry everything I knew, mixing in what Roseanne Esjay had told me. Harry recapped my remarks when I had finished.

  “Sykora is protecting a New York gangster named Russo—who murdered your friend—so Russo can help him build a case against a Mafia underboss named Little Al Granata. Does that pretty much cover it? Over.”

  “Pretty much. Over.”

  “And you expect me—and the bureau—to take your word for this? Over.”

  “Of course not, Brian. Over.”

  “I’m still listening. Over.”

  “Look to your right. There’s a green metal trash container that looks like a mailbox with the words ‘waste paper’ stamped in gold on the side. See it? Over.”

  “I see it. Over.”

  “There’s an envelope taped to the bottom. Why don’t you get it, then come back to home plate. Over.”

  Harry disappeared from view as he moved toward the trash container. He returned a few moments later. He had already opened the envelope and was holding two black cassette tapes in his hand.

  “I got ’em. Over,” he said into the walkie-talkie.

  “The tapes contain conversations between Sykora and Russo and Sykora and his wife that substantiate everything I’ve told you. Over.”

  “Why do I have a feeling these were obtained illegally and are therefore inadmissible in a court of law? Over.”

  “If things go badly for me, Brian, I won’t be playing the tapes in a court of law. Over.”

  “McKenzie, what have you done? Over.”

  “Tomorrow or the next day, the New York Times will be printing a story that says the FBI has Frank Russo in custody, that Russo is helping the bureau build a case against Granata, that the operation is similar to the one you guys ran in Boston against the Patriarca family a few years ago, and that Special Agent Steven Sykora is in charge. Over.”

  “Sonuvabitch, McKenzie—”

  I broke in on him before he could finish.

  “The FBI will deny everything, of course.
Over.”

  “You can count on it. Over.”

  “And because the bureau will then quietly discipline Sykora and arrest Russo and his thugs and make sure they’re tried for the murder of Mr. Mosley, nothing more will come of it. Over.”

  Harry let that sink in for a moment. Finally he said, “Let me guess. If these things happen, then the copies that you made of these tapes”—he was examining the cassettes as he spoke—“will be destroyed. Over.”

  “That’s exactly what will happen. Over.”

  “That’s my boy. Over.”

  “If not …”

  “You’ll be happy to share with CNN, Fox, National Public Radio, Time magazine,” Harry said over my transmission. “I get the picture. Over.”

  “There’s nothing like the threat of bad publicity to get people to do the right thing. Over.”

  “And there’s nothing like the threat of bad publicity to get people to do the absolutely wrong thing, either. Have you thought of that? Over.”

  “I have. Over.”

  “I bet. Over.”

  “Something else, Brian. I want the Seeking Information Alert lifted. Over.”

  “I can do that. Over.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Over.”

  “This whole thing pisses me off. Sykora pisses me off. Russo. You piss me off, McKenzie. Over.”

  “Yeah? Look at it from my point of view. Besides,” I added before he could speak, “they’re both dirty, Brian—Sykora and Russo. I can’t believe you don’t want them, too. Over.”

  “If they’re dirty, I do want them. But I haven’t heard the tapes yet. Over.”

  “They’re exactly what I say they are. Over.”

  “I’ll listen to them when I get home. Then I’ll talk to my boss. In the meantime, please, please, please, McKenzie, don’t do anything rash, not until we get this thing figured out. Okay? Over.”

  “Brian, I promise you, on my word of honor, all I want to do is make this go away. All I want is to go home. Over.”

  “Just don’t do anything foolish. Last thing we need is some amateur running around out of control. Over.”

  “Who are you calling an amateur, Brian? Over.”

  “It’s all right, McKenzie. You can call me Harry.”

  The Mall of America took traffic flow seriously. I was able to get out of the ramp and onto the freeway in only a couple of minutes. I hated the idea of returning to the Hilltop Motel. But I didn’t have much choice. I was still a wanted man.

  Maybe in a couple of days, I told myself. Yeah, maybe.

  Victor was watering his parking lot again when I reached the motel, using his hose to push dirt onto the narrow boulevard. I always thought that was a peculiar thing to do, wash sidewalks and driveways with a hose, but a lot of Minnesotans do it. I was tempted to ask Victor why, but what was the point? Some things will never make sense. Like the scoring system used in tennis.

  I settled into my room with ESPN. It had been a good day. Minnesota won and Seattle beat Chicago. I’m not a big fan of the Mariners, although I like Ichiro. When it comes to baseball, I always root for the Twins and whoever’s playing the White Sox.

  After a couple of hours the phone began ringing in Sykora’s trailer. It rang four times within a half hour, but there was no one home to answer it. It rang twice more and then didn’t ring for nearly an hour. At about 9:00 P.M. it rang again as Pen and Sykora were entering their trailer. Sykora said, “I’ll get it.”

  The woman on the other end spoke in the flat, monotonous tone of a telemarketer who wasn’t having much luck selling aluminum siding. She identified herself as the assistant to the special agent in charge of the Minneapolis field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She addressed Sykora as “Mister,” not “Agent.” She told Sykora that the AIC would be out of the office Monday morning but that Sykora was scheduled to meet with him at 1:15 P.M. or when the AIC arrived, whichever came first.

  I would have liked to see Sykora’s face. Pen did and said, “What’s wrong?” the moment he hung up the phone.

  “Hmm? Nothing.”

  “Don’t tell me that, Steve. What’s wrong? Who was on the phone?”

  “That was the assistant to the AIC. I think I’m in serious trouble.”

  Pen asked him what he was talking about. Sykora danced around the answer as best he could, giving her a glimpse of his predicament without revealing the grisly details. As for me, I was so happy I drank my last James Page.

  By this time tomorrow, I’ll be off the hook, I told myself.

  My only regret was Pen.

  By this time tomorrow, her whole world will be changed.

  I wondered briefly what that might mean. Would Pen leave her husband? If she did, was it possible for me to become part of her new life? How would she react if I revealed myself to her? Would she forgive me for destroying her husband’s career? Would she understand?

  The phone rang again.

  “Hello,” said Sykora.

  “It’s me.”

  “Frank? What do you want?”

  “It’s on.”

  “When?”

  “Nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?”

  “In Elk River, like I told you before.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “How many times do I have to say it? It’ll happen at nine tomorrow at the quarry. They’ll be driving one of those rental trucks.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Fuck.”

  “I’m gambling a lot on this.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. What about McKenzie?”

  “Fuck McKenzie.”

  Sykora hung up the phone.

  “Now what?” asked Pen.

  “An opportunity.”

  “What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

  “Back to the office. I need to set up an operation.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you were in trouble.”

  “I am, but … You give them a solid, high-profile bust, something big with a lot of PR value, the FBI will forgive almost anything.”

  The door to the trailer opened and closed.

  Pen said, “Damn.”

  My reaction was considerably more colorful.

  Later that night, I lay on my back in the dark, watching surprisingly crisp images floating around me. Mr. Mosley, Susan Tillman, Danny—what I had done to Danny. And others. Jamie Carlson. Two black kids named Young and Benjamn. A man I had killed with a shotgun. Still another man I had killed with a hand grenade. Jeezus, a hand grenade. Even now I shuddered at the thought of it.

  We all have loops of videotape that rerun themselves on our bedroom ceilings late at night, movies we wish we would never see again. Maybe I owned a bigger archive than most. Maybe the films were more violent. The result of living an NC-17 life. At least it used to be NC-17. The way ratings are being deflated these days, what with crashing towers and a never-ending war against terrorism, it was probably only an R now.

  The thing was, the only sure way to escape them was to stop going to the movies altogether. And that was what I did best, going to movies for people, a kind of freelance critic trying to help my friends avoid the bombs. It was pretentious as hell, of course. Like most films, the life I chose didn’t stand up to serious scrutiny. Best not to think too much about it, I decided and rolled on my side. Best to just sit back and see what happens next.

  11

  I followed Highway 169 north into Elk River. Traffic flowed smoothly, even during the early morning rush hour. Of course, most of the traffic was heading into the Cities and I was driving out.

  People who don’t live here tend to think of the Twin Cities as only St. Paul and Minneapolis. But according to the U.S. Census Bureau, the Greater Twin Cities Metropolitan Area actually consists of 191 cities and towns, some of them with even smaller populations than Hilltop. Elk River, population 16,447, was located about forty minutes north of Minneapolis.
Like most third-, fourth-, and fifth-ring suburbs, its businesses—mostly retail—were built along the freeways and highways, while its homes, schools, and churches were tucked more or less out of sight behind them.

  The address Chopper gave me belonged to Spivak Stone, a failed quarry that was apparently abandoned. There were two signs out front. The first was old and weathered and advertised sand, gravel, and crushed stone. The second listed the name and phone number of a finance company.

  I turned off 169 and drove slowly past the quarry over a worn and gravel-strewn service road. I noted two large buildings, both tightly sealed, just inside a high Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. The gate was open, allowing access to a dirt road that veered into the opening of the quarry itself. Beyond the opening I could just make out what resembled a huge bowl carved out of an immense five-story-high bluff. The second time I drove past I noticed an SUV parked alongside a mound of sand midway between the fence and the quarry. There were two men sitting in the SUV. They watched me carefully. I didn’t dare make a return trip.

  Instead, I followed the service road until it abruptly ended about a half mile from the quarry. There were no other businesses along the road, and I figured a parked car would look mighty suspicious, so I edged the Neon off the hard-packed gravel into a shallow ditch surrounded by waist-high brown grass, shrubs, and weed trees. You could still see it, but only if you were looking.

  I left the Neon and made my way up the bluff, more or less climbing at a forty-five-degree angle to the summit. It was tough going, and I had to stop twice to regain my breath. I was covered with a fine tan-colored dirt by the time I reached the top. The bluff itself was flat and thick with the same kind of grass, brush, and trees as below. Birds sang somewhere, but I didn’t see them, and there was a low buzzing sound that I guessed was wind blowing through the tall grass.

  I pushed east toward the quarry. Along the way I discovered a broken and rotting rail fence. After another tenth of a mile I came across an ancient road not used for years, perhaps decades. I wondered if someone had farmed the top of the bluff at one time and had been bought or driven off. I kept on until I came to within a stone’s throw of the quarry. That’s where my acrophobia kicked in. I sank to my hands and knees and crawled forward. I was lying flat on my stomach, screened from sight by the scrub growth that hung above the quarry, by the time I reached the edge.