Dead Bang Page 7

  “What?” asked Wendy.

  “Food’s getting cold.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said.

  The house is a split-level built back when shag carpeting was chic and off-the-rack suits came with bell-bottom trousers. The kitchen, dining room, and living room share the same open space under a cathedral ceiling. A sliding door opens onto a deck that overlooks the lake.

  “Getting chilly,” said Karen, looking at the table.

  “We’re out of soda,” said Ben as he dealt tacos around the table. Rusty took up his station next to my chair.

  “Milk?” I asked, and got two nods. In the refrigerator, I found two inches of milk in the bottom of a gallon jug. I split what we had between Ben and Karen.

  Karen looked into the bags and said, “No napkins.”

  “We’ll use the Irish linen tonight,” I said and snapped a paper towel off the roll for each of us. “Dog doesn’t need one.”

  Ben said, “Yeah, he can use your pants.”

  We laughed. I clicked on the TV, and we listened to a quiz show host badger contestants for their “final answers.” We called out our own guesses. Wendy made her appearance—wearing a bathrobe and a towel wrapped around her head—just as the late news came on.

  “We have disturbing news from suburban Wyoming. Carol Shakley filed this report from the scene,” said the news anchorman.

  “A Wyoming neighborhood became a war zone tonight as home invasion robbers shot up a barricaded residence on this usually quiet street,” said Shakley, overly lit and pale. The picture changed to a shot of the front of Karen’s house. “Police report that they found over eleven thousand dollars in loose bills spread around the residence.” The scene shifted to a police drug dog searching Wendy’s car.

  Wendy put her tacos on the floor for the dog, marched down the hall to the bedroom, and banged the door shut.

  Rusty trotted over and gave the bounty a sniff. Not believing his luck, he raised his chin to show me the big eyes and perked ears. I told him, “Knock yourself out, pal.” He made a mouthful of each taco.

  The picture on the TV cut to Chief Kope standing in Karen’s driveway with a hand stuffing a News Six microphone in front of his face. He said, “Two people were injured and property was damaged over a six-block area. You can bet this matter is the first item on my hot list of things to do.”

  Carol asked, “Who was injured?”

  “One bystander was treated and released,” said Kope. “Another is in serious condition. Names will not be released until relatives have been notified. We’re checking with area hospitals because blood at the scene indicates that one or more of the attackers was badly injured.”

  One last shot of Carol Shakley. She said, “We still have more questions than answers about this violent home invasion. Carol Shakley reporting from the city of Wyoming.”

  “Eleven thousand dollars?” asked Ben.

  I told him about the suitcase.

  “Seemed like more money than that,” said Karen.

  “Who knows how much they scraped up when they finally got in to take the suitcase,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Karen, feeding a taco into what might have been a smile. She drowned the rest of her answer with a slug of milk.

  “So, did you light ‘em or what?” asked Ben.

  “Guy came in the side door,” I said. “I pushed the barrel aside. He blasted away.”

  “They hosed each other?” Ben laughed.

  “I liked the part where they didn’t hose us. Wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  “You’d think they could do a better job,” said Ben. “I mean—you know—I’m glad they didn’t. But on TV, you see clips of terrorists training like SWAT guys. That’s kind of scary.”

  “What’s scary is that Manny wasn’t planning on being here.”

  Ben squinted and tilted his head.

  “He cashed in a ticket for Germany?” I asked Karen.

  She nodded.

  “He made a telephone call and in half an hour, in a strange town, produced a van full of men willing to shoot up a neighborhood with assault rifles. That’s scary.”

  “I was watching PBS,” said Ben. “Michigan has the largest Muslim population outside the Middle East. Like down in Dearborn, by Detroit. And the largest Iraqi community outside Iraq is in Lansing.”

  “Good thing they got the money,” I said. “The reinforcements could be renting motel rooms as we speak.”

  Karen stood up, leaving half a taco on the table.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  She tapped her chest with her fingertips. “A little heartburn,” she said. “I’m going to bed.”

  “I think there’s some of that pink stuff in the medicine cabinet down there,” I said.

  “I don’t know if I need that,” she said and started down the stairs to the guest room. Karen had been such a frequent visitor that the boys had taken to calling it Karen’s room.

  I shook the car keys out of my pocket and set them in front of Ben. “Run up to the store and get some milk.” I found nine dollars in my pocket and gave Ben the fin. “Hell to pay in the morning if we don’t have milk for breakfast.”

  “We’re out of soda, too,” said Ben.

  “You’ve got enough for a soda. I’ll pick up some jugs at the market tomorrow. What kind do you want?”

  “Coke,” said Ben. He collected his paper towel and the taco wrappers and dropped them in the trash on the way to the door.

  I wiped the table, took a shower, and made my peace with God before trying the bedroom door. Under the covers, I found Wendy decked in flannel from neck to ankle. She turned her back to me. I spooned up. “A little chilly tonight?”

  “I have a headache,” said Wendy.

  “That’s your story?”

  “And I’m sticking to it,” she said.

  8

  I WOKE UP ALONE with the sun on my face. Wendy’s side of the mattress had already grown cold. I swung my feet down to sit on the edge of the bed and look out the window. Muscles I’d forgotten lamented the urban-combat rodeo at Karen’s house.

  Goosey Lucy and Goosey Lester, a pair of Canada geese who’d adopted the lake as a nursery, strutted a string of gray fluff balls across the lawn. I pulled on a pair of jeans and stepped into slippers the boys had given me for Christmas: a pair of stuffed-animal bulldogs with stub cigars clamped in their chops.

  I found Wendy at the kitchen table, sitting on her feet and bundled in a bulky white bathrobe with her hair loose on her shoulders. She huddled over a cup of tea like it was a campfire. She looked up as I walked into the kitchen but didn’t speak. I rustled out a coffee filter.

  “I’m angry with Karen,” said Wendy.

  I snapped a look at the stairwell.

  “She’s gone,” said Wendy. “She took my car into town to talk to Matty Svenson.”

  “I thought you were upset with me.”

  “I’m angry with Karen because of you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I looked at her.”

  “The way she dresses, everybody looks at her.”

  “She likes to be noticed,” I said, measuring two scoops into the coffee filter.

  “You looked at her like you were eating ice cream,” said Wendy. Her face colored.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t like that look,” said Wendy, her eyes beginning to glisten. “Unless you’re looking at me.” Wendy peered into her tea as if the answers to the ages could be divined from its depths. “Sometimes.” A tear splashed on the table.

  I walked over, put my hands on her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. “I love you. Just you.”

  “You made a smart-aleck answer.”

  “Sometimes I’m a jerk.”

  Wendy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “And sometimes I don’t like you.”

  “Honey,” I said, giving her shoulders a rub.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  I pulled my hands back like she had an
electric charge and shuffled my dogs to the kitchen counter to put the coffee on. “Don’t you think this is a little bit much?”

  Wendy didn’t answer.

  I drew water at the sink, poured it into the top of the machine, and shook the pot at her. “I look at things. And people. I notice details. I’m a detective. That’s what I do.”

  “Oh! You get paid to leer at women?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Leering is on the outside. I’m on the inside, looking out. I can’t see my face.”

  “I can see what’s on your mind.”

  “There’s no one on my mind but you.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of opportunities,” said Wendy.

  “I wouldn’t know if I had any opportunities,” I said. Coffee hissed onto the warming plate. I snapped the pot under the brown stream. When I turned back, Wendy tucked her chin into the collar of her robe.

  With the pot in place, the coffee took its sweet time. Stifling silence hung in the air, so I retreated to the gun safe downstairs. I studied my satin-nickel Colt Commander but selected the Gold Cup, a full-sized Colt autoloader with adjustable sights, instead. From the cabinet below, I took five custom eight-shot magazines, a box of .45 caliber ammo I’d hand loaded, and the belt and holster rig that went with the Gold Cup.

  Back upstairs, Wendy had fired up a menthol cigarette and divided her attention between it and her tea. I spread a newspaper on the table, locked the Colt’s slide to the rear, and parked it on the paper with the ammo and magazines.

  From the top of the refrigerator, I retrieved a can of gun oil and the rag I kept with it. On the way back to the table, I rummaged the Wite-Out from the shelf next to Wendy’s battered typewriter. As I pulled up my chair, Wendy said, “If you use that, I expect you to replace it. It’s getting hard to find.”

  “I only need a little,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find in town.”

  Ben opened the front door, and Rusty charged in for a noisy stop at his water bucket. Ben sat on the stairs and took off his shoes. “Warmed up,” he said. “Getting muddy.”

  “No school?” I asked. “I thought spring break was next week.”

  Wendy passed me an accusing glance, the one that said, As usual you have no idea what’s going on at home.

  “Teacher’s conference,” said Ben.

  Rusty trotted up and nosed my slippers. I leaned back to give him the evil eye. “Don’t even think about it,” I said. He made a snort, almost a sigh, walked a couple of circles, and lay down under the table with his backside to my stuffed bulldogs.

  “You don’t have a car,” I said to Wendy. “You have any business in town?”

  “I need a quiet day at home,” said Wendy. “I have to get out some reports and invoices.” She took a toke on her menthol and looked out the slider at the lake. After a pause she loosed, “I don’t have a secretary,” in a cloud of smoke.

  Ben pulled up a chair, and I passed him the box of ammo and the magazines. He slid the box open and started thumbing rounds into the magazines. I oiled the rails and the now exposed barrel of the Gold Cup.

  “You going to a pistol match?” asked Ben.

  “Nope,” I said and racked the Colt several times. “Kentwood has the Detonics for ballistics tests.”

  Concern pinched Ben’s face. “Can’t they tell the difference between a .38 and a .45?”

  “Sure they can,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. They have to cover all the bases.”

  Wendy gave me rolled-up eyes while she ground out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  “This is the ammo we loaded for competition,” said Ben.

  “It’s what the weapon is zeroed for,” I said. I pointed the Colt at the floor and eased down the hammer.

  “You said it was too hot for street carry,” said Ben.

  I wiped the Colt with the rag. “Not any faster than the Magnums some of the police departments carry. I only need it for a day or two, until I can pick up the Detonics.”

  “I don’t think the Wite-Out will help if you make a mistake,” said Ben.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Carrying a gun every day is like doing the crossword puzzle in ink.” I shook up the Wite-Out and unscrewed the cap.

  “All your mistakes are permanent,” said Ben.

  I painted the square back of the front sight white and applied a thin line across the top of the rear sights, being careful not to get any in the notch. Looking at Wendy, I said, “Thought we might go out to dinner tonight.”

  “I’m not in the mood,” said Wendy, swirling her tea.

  “Daniel will be home tonight. We could go to Roberto’s.”

  “C’mon, Ma,” said Ben. “You could order the scallops and fettuccine with the Alfredo sauce.”

  “Hey, your mother always looks at the menu. Maybe she’d order something else.”

  “It’s the best thing on the menu,” said Wendy. “Why would I order anything else?”

  “Well. You know. You’re looking at the menu. Maybe you want something else?” I said and tried for an innocent face.

  Wendy flashed me narrow eyes and a half smirk. “We can talk about it later.” She finished her tea on the way to the sink. Her carpet slippers flopped as they chased her heels down the hall to the bedroom.

  • • •

  Wendy had pulled the door shut behind her. I rattled my fingers on the door.

  “Come in,” said Wendy. She stood in front of the mirror wearing her green wool slacks and nothing else—a green satin underwire bra dangled from her right hand. I pulled the door closed behind me.

  “You like?” asked Wendy, looking in the mirror and not at me.

  “Absolutely.”

  “You want to see them again, you can try keeping your eyes in their sockets.” She strung the bra around her waist and hooked it up in front of her.

  “You usually wear the green lace bikinis with that,” I said, feeling a stir.

  Wendy made one arch of her eyebrows in the mirror and slid the cups around to the front. “Now you have something to think about.”

  I dropped the gun belt on the bed and started over to Wendy. She stopped me with a pointed finger.

  “You can think about it until tonight,” she said, with a face last seen on the Cheshire cat. “After dinner at Roberto’s.” She slid her arm into a strap and her breast into a cup. “And flowers.” She shrugged into the other side. “You have to guess the kind.”

  “Dandelions?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Roses?”

  “You do something I don’t know about?”

  “Nope. Absolutely not. No. No. No,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t tell me if you had.”

  “I ain’t fessin’ up to nuthin’,” I said. “I’m already in too much trouble.”

  “A clear conscience might help your focus.”

  “Nothing to tell,” I said. “And just now my focus is honed to a fine point.”

  “Better not guess the wrong kind of flowers,” she said as a smile, delicious and wicked, bloomed on her face.

  • • •

  I picked a pale yellow broadcloth shirt and a brown herringbone sports coat to go with my jeans and whipped puppy dog face. Rusty loitered in the bedroom as I dressed, so I deposited my Christmas slippers on top of the dresser before pulling on a pair of tan calfskin Western boots.

  My holster was a speed rig that looked too small to carry a large frame autoloader—an adjustable clamp held the pistol in place, and the front of the holster was cut low to allow a quick presentation of the weapon. I put both of the magazine holders on the left in front of my hip and the holster on the right as far forward as I could and still have my jacket cover the weapon if I reached into my pants pocket for change.

  Wendy rattled away at her typewriter on the kitchen table as I walked up to the counter to pour a cup of coffee. She had applied lipstick and sprayed her hair in place, something she rarely did unless we were going out. I cooled my coffee with ice cubes from
the refrigerator and walked over to the table, sipping on the way.

  “So,” said Wendy. “You’re loaded for bear. What’s up?”

  I set my coffee on the table and slid the spare magazines into the holders—bullets facing forward so that they would be pointed the right direction for a speedy magazine change. “The little hairs on the back of my neck,” I said.

  “Why? You told Ben not to worry.”

  I picked the Colt off the table, snapped a magazine into the hilt, and turned away to let the slide slam into battery and lower the hammer. “Karen said she went back to the kitchen for her shoes.” I thumbed the magazine release and caught the magazine with my left hand.

  “Yeah,” said Wendy, looking up from her typing.

  I laid the pistol on the table long enough to load one more bullet in the magazine. “Just then, I wasn’t thinking about shoes.” I loaded the pistol and snugged it into the holster. “I was thinking, ‘Feet, don’t fail me now.’”

  • • •

  The oldies on the radio didn’t sound all that old to me as I drove to my office. No one wants to call it disco anymore. As I turned right onto Forty-fourth from Breton, the oldies gave way to the news.

  “Eighty-seven year old Hilda Thomas was discovered shot dead in her home on Cottonwood in Rockford, Michigan. Police were on the scene to investigate Peggy Shatner, who had been killed by a security guard after she had shot two people at a Woodland Mall restaurant. Neighbors reported that Mrs. Thomas had been senile and that her daughter, Peggy Shatner, had been her sole support and only caregiver. Police found a note left by Ms. Shatner. No further details were released.”

  The second story had to do with a “home invasion robbery” in Wyoming, Michigan. “No arrests have been made,” and “an undisclosed amount of cash has been recovered from the home. Residents living near Montebello and Division Avenue are asked to report any property damage to the Wyoming Police. A man who shot up a pickup truck he had been unable to sell has been arrested for making a false police report.”

  Also, the Grand Rapids Fire Department was investigating an arson fire set in an upper flat on Sigsbee SE. The Kent County medical examiner had, as yet, been unable to determine whether a body found in the fire was that of the resident, Amed Gemaal.