David A. Schwinghammer
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· Honest Thief, Tender Murderer, Chapter 11.
· Mengele's Double, Chapter 10
· Honest Thief, Tender Murderer, Chapter 10
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David A. Schwinghammer, click here
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Loretta is back in Minnesota and wants
Ned to talk to his son Blake. Meanwhile, Ned Kneebone has a gun fight with the Bradshaw boy.
Chapter 6
Dooms of Love
"Friendship is a disinterested commerce
between equals; love, an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves."
–Oliver Goldsmith
"Whatcha doing?" Ned said as he took the stool next to the Indian.
"Letter for my web site. Here, read it. Let me know what you think."
It read: Thanks to those who''ve worked so hard for Leonard over the past few years, but you''ll need to redouble your efforts, due to the FBI''s phone campaign protesting white house clemency. Nick O''Hara, the former head of the Minneapolis office, and Chip Burris, the current assistant, are playing dirty pool. O''Hara says Leonard should never see the light of day. Burris wants the widows to talk to Clinton. Our hinge must be squeakier than theirs.
Ned looked at his swollen hand and imagined his jaws cramping so badly he lost the ability to chew. "The state cops won''t let you help out with the murder investigation, huh?"
"I feel like a third string scrub on the scout team," Will said. He put down his pencil. "What''s with your hand?"
"Broke it on Howie Schmidtgap''s jaw," he said, his voice breaking like a teenage boy''s.
"Heard about that, the bartender says you started it."
Ned ordered a beer. A new guy, forty or so with a shaved head and a gold front tooth, set a coaster, a chilled glass, and a bottle of Pabst in front of him.
"Who''s this?" Ned said.
"Herm Snead, Ned Tuttle. Be nice to him; without Ned this place''d be a video store."
Chromedome nodded without cracking a smile, rang up Ned''s money, and left to wash glasses at the other end of the bar.
"Charming fellow. Where''s Cornelius?"
"Quit. If not for the BCA report, I''d bet it was his body out there in the woods. Torso doesn''t show any signs of aging."
"Don''t know what I''ll do without Cornelius and his accordian. You talk to his wife?"
Will sneezed and Ned caught the scent of Hals cough drops. "Gone, too, but his old Chrysler is still in the garage."
"What does Snow say about this?"
"Just that Corny called last night and said he was moving to Des Moines to live with his daughter." Will sniffed, wiped his nose with a Kleenex. "Called as soon as I got her name from Snow. She doesn''t know a damn thing about it."
"Any idea who that torso is?".
"Gotta be Bradshaw or some other lowlife scum who crossed Voigt. Seems kind of stupid, though, if it is, and Voigt didn''t get where he is being stupid. We can always get a DNA match on Bradshaw''s brother that works at the pizza plant."
"Bet the sheriff is really catching shit from the silent majority."
"You can say that again. The switchboard is tied up with people demanding action."
"Wait. I think I just saw the Bradshaw kid, cruising Main Street. He drives a brown Camaro, right?"
"Doesn''t mean he was driving." Will took a swig of Nehi. "I''d say Voigt is practicing damage control. No evidence he''s the drug lord, other than what Corny told me, and he''s probably wearing cement shoes. All my fault. If only I''d recorded what he said."
"You were after bigger fish."
"I suppose. If it was Bradshaw driving that Camaro, guess I gotta do something about that call I got, then."
Ned lit a cigarette, took a drag. "What call was that?"
"Said Bradshaw had a gun. Nine millimeter to be specific. We don''t carry that kind of firepower."
"When was this?"
"Shortly after I talked to you at Rowdy''s. What with the Cat theft and BCA paperwork, I haven''t had a chance to do anything about it."
Ned tapped his cigarette at the ash tray. "You get a trace on where the call was from?"
"It was blocked. I don''t know why they got Caller I.D. if they can block it on the other end."
"Anything new on the dozer?"
"Got a call from an elderly couple who saw a man and woman standing on the road next to a semi that night. There were semi tracks at the scene. Their description of the couple is really generic, though." Ned''s stuffed his hands in his coat pockets to keep them from shaking. "We''re checking on former employees who may have had a grudge against Robideaux or Voigt."
"Gee, that would put me at the top of the list."
Will dug his wallet out of his back pocket, found a five and put it on the bar. "If it weren''t for your attention deficit disorder and short-term memory loss, that''s what I would''ve said."
"Thanks, guy. Anybody who stands out?"
"Maybe the foreman. He''d be the only one who would be able to transport the Cat without anybody knowing, other than Donovan. We''re looking into the foreman''s whereabouts at the time. That story about the naked lady is a little hard to believe. Sheriff Tibbets has been grilling Donovan. So far he hasn''t cracked."
#
Ned had a job that afternoon sanding down some old furniture for Mrs. Robideaux. He hauled the table and the highboy down to the basement, where he would have more room to work. His hand was beginning to feel a little better until he''d scraped it on the railing lugging the stuff down the stairs. The damn thing bled through the bandage and when he went upstairs to ask the old lady if she''d rewrap it for him, he found her opening the safe in the living room where he''d done the wallpapering. She was holding a bundle of bills as thick as the Minneapolis phone book.
"This is a stickup!" he barked, pointing his bleeding hand at her.
She got the wheezing giggles again and tottered on the step stool she was standing on. He hurried over to prop her up. Patting her on the back, he helped her down, smearing blood on her blue satin dress in the process.
"Look what I did," he said.
"Never mind about this old thing. You''re bleeding. I never should have given you such heavy work to do with that hand. Come with me to the medicine cabinet."
On the way to the bathroom, Ned glanced over his shoulder at the open safe. It was stuffed full of greenbacks, some of which had fallen on the floor.
#
Later that afternoon Ned made a call from a pay phone at Yeager''s to San Rafael, California. The machine picked up after seven rings, and Loretta said, "Sorry, we''re not home right now. Leave a message at the tone."
"It''s Ned. I was wondering what you were doing in Minneapolis. It was on the postmark of your letter. Call me, huh?"
After that he got another handful of change from the checkout girl and called information, asking for Minot, North Dakota. "Could I have the number for a Norb or Norbert Gallagher, operator?" he said. An automated, robotic voice responded and he punched in the number.
"Yallow."
"That you, Norb?"
"Who''s this?"
"Ned Tuttle."
"Damn! Haven''t heard from you since Madonna was a virgin. What can I do you out of?"
Ned spied a brown Camaro double-parked next to a Jeep Cherokee just outside the entrance, the Bradshaw boy and Jamie Zwald gabbing at each other through their rolled-down windows. "Ah . . . I got a deal on this D7R I thought you might be interested in."
"No use for it. Filed Chapter 11 a couple of months ago."
"That''s a shame. How about Charlie Turner? You know how I can get in touch with him?"
"Charlie''s working on the pipeline in Alaska. This D7R you got, is it hot?"
Ned scooped up the change and shook it like dice. "I wouldn''t say that. Luke warm maybe."
"I''ll ask around for yah. Just gimme your phone number."
"Appreciate it. I can maybe pay you a finder''s fee. In cash."
"Well now, there''s an incentive. What kind of money we talking about here, boyo?"
"I was thinking five percent."
"Is she fairly new?"
"1997."
"New enough. My cut would be around twelve hundred retail. Figure half that in order to make it worth the buyer''s while."
"You get me that much and I''ll kiss you."
"Don''t discourage me, now. I''ll get back to you by this time tomorrow, good news or bad, okay?"
Ned gave Norb his phone number, then hung up the phone, pushed through the doors, and strolled past the Camaro, attracting menacing stares from the gangsta element, hopped in his truck and headed toward Purgatory Plummet. When he got there, she was piling paintings in the trunk of her beat-up green Pinto. One of them was a portrait of a seedy-looking, gray-haired fellow wearing a NASCAR cap who could have passed for Richard Gere, if the artist were Picasso.
"Hey, you''re not thinking of burning this, are you?" he said.
"It''s shit; everything I paint is shit."
"I like it. It''s me, isn''t it?"
"You could say that. It''s sort of a composite. Take it if you like it so much."
He put the painting in the bed of the truck, then walked back to the Pinto where she was tying the trunk shut with a piece of twine. "I was just coming to tell you Will thinks the foreman and Donovan were behind the Cat theft, and that my guy in North Dakota is working hard at getting me a good price."
"I came up short on my end. The dude who fenced that stolen car is in jail."
"Another thing. When I was over at Mrs. Robideaux''s refinishing some furniture, I happened to get a look at the inside of that safe, and there''s enough money in it to finance the construction of a nuclear carrier."
"That the money you said didn''t exist? When''s she planning on visiting her daughter?"
"Doesn''t matter; I think I can possibly talk her into giving it to me. Maybe some kind of phony investment scam."
"She''s not that stupid."
"Stupid enough she hasn''t banked the money."
"If she deposits the dough, Chester A. Arthur''ll get his mitts on it. I say we do it, just in case your North Dakota hustler is full of it. Nobody knows the cash''s there. This is like printing money. Me and you can retire to the Yucatan."
"I thought I was a two-night stand."
"Wanna try for three?"
#
Loretta came to him in the night. This time she was an opera singer with a rich honeyed alto; there was an audience, but she only had eyes for him there in the second row with his feet up on the seat in front of him. She''d come in different guises; sometimes as a blonde, sometimes as a brunette, sometimes as a redhead. One night she took his temperature, cooing, "Gosh, it''s a hundred and two. You''ll get into bed now and I''ll smear salve on your chest. You''ll like that." Another time she was in bed, wearing red silk pajamas. "Would you like to see another outfit?" she purred.
The radio alarm woke him at seven. He tried to get back into the dream; he knew the woman had been there again, but he couldn''t remember what this one was about. They were always different.
As he tried to clear his mind, the phone rang. Norb in North Dakota he hoped.
"Hello," he said, his own voice scaring him some, since it sounded so flat.
"Ned?" she said. "Hope I didn''t wake you; seems like I remember you always got up with the chickens."
"Loretta?"
"Yes, it''s me. I''ve been interviewing for a job here in the Cities, so I can be closer to my family. I''ve been flying back and forth like one of those Capistrano swallows. My credit card is almost maxed."
"Do you need some more money?"
She chuckled. Wind chimes, that''s what her laugh reminded him of. "I have to confess," she said. "The letter was just a pretext. I wanted to see you, and I wanted to make sure you weren''t still upset with me."
"Is Blake with you?"
"Un-uh. He can''t afford to miss school. He''s trying to get into Stanford. You have to be perfect . . ."
He should tell her he didn''t want to see her. There''d been that short reconciliation when they''d slept together again. That time he''d been to California to see Blake. "Sure I''d like to see you."
"Darwin is such a will-o''-the-wisp . . . I was
remembering--"
"I''ve changed a lot since then, Loretta. I''m getting gray; I''m putting on weight."
"Aren''t we all? Where will you be?"
He didn''t want her to see the Mobil station; couldn''t stand for her to know how far he''d fallen. "I''ll be at the house. Are you coming today?"
"Our house?" she said.
"Lila and Will''s these days."
"Are you staying with them?"
"Just for a few days . . . while I look for a place."
"You didn''t send me your rent money!"
"Nah, that was some earnest money I got from my contracting business."
She''d be at Will''s in two hours. He felt as though he might just break out into song any moment, like that time at that karaoke bar he''d embarrassed himself trying to sing "Fortunate Son." He hadn''t felt this good since he''d started up Baby out there at the construction site. Speaking of Baby. Somebody was bound to find her if he didn''t get her out of that shed within the week. He dialed Norb''s number; a woman answered.
"Norb there?" he said.
"Don''t mention that name around here," a whiskey voice said. "The son of bitch got drunk and ran his car in the ditch! This is his third DWI."
"Sorry to hear that. He leave any message for Ned Tuttle."
"Don''t tell me he owes you money, too."
"Nah, nothing like that. Do you have a phone number I could reach him at?"
She set the phone down with a clatter. When she gave him the number, he hung up and went to the window.
Another damn U-haul was parked in front of the place with the little trucker, and his landlord was coming up the front walk. Shit. He''d want the rent.
#
Will spent the morning checking the Bradshaw kid''s usual haunts. The Fishing Hole, Karnowski''s, the parking lot at Yeager''s. The old dump where the local kids went to shoot rats. People had seen him, but Will always seemed to miss him by minutes.
Maybe the trailer park clubhouse. When he got there, a card game was going on. "You guys seen the Bradshaw kid works at Karnowski''s Bait," he said, ignoring the money on the table.
"Just saw him at the Amoco a half hour ago, trading a bald tire for a retred," the manager said from behind the bar.
No luck at the Amoco either. He decided to try one more place, Gertz''s Junk Yard, where Bradshaw and his buddies spent quality time rummaging for parts to fit their classic automobiles. He was cruising past the Outdoor with the letters missing on the last feature, "Tr-e Gr–" with John Wayne, when he spotted the brown Camaro. He reached for his pump-action shotgun. He remembered reading about these old time gunslingers. They said you didn''t need to be a good shot; what you needed was patience, and a thirty-year-old deputy had a lot more of that than a meth-crazed dunce like Bradshaw.
Will radioed the dispatcher. "I''m on 21, a mile or so past the Outdoor in pursuit of a brown Camaro. Request backup."
"10-4, Will," Grandma Woods, the scratchy voiced dispatcher, said. "Got a plate on that?"
"It''s the Bradshaw boy. I have reason to believe he''s carrying."
"Carrying what?"
"A gun. A nine millimeter to be specific."
"That one of those machine pistols the gangs carry?"
"That''s the one."
"I''ll get some help for you, Will."
Bradshaw didn''t seem to notice him following along at a sixty-five-mile-an-hour clip. He could hear the thump from the heavy metal on the kid''s stereo. Amazing the kid could still hear; the decibel level had to be that of a jet engine.
Just past Crater Pond, Will glanced in his rearview mirror to check on any civilians who might be in the vicinity and there it was, a ‘97 Jeep Cherokee on his tail. Jamie Zwald, one of the turkeys Ned had tangled with at the Bucket.
Stupid, really stupid. Unless . . .
Will slowed down, letting the Bradshaw kid, who''d been doing a good seventy miles an hour get well ahead. When Zwald edged up right on Will''s tail, closer than a bumper car, Will slammed on the brakes.
The grinding collision caused Will to hit his head on the windshield. Only momentarily stunned, he was able to jam the cruiser in park leaving the motor running, pop the door open and fire a round at Zwald''s knees before he could get his gun up. The Glock went clattering across the blacktop, coming to rest at Will''s feet.
By now, the Bradshaw kid had realized what was going on and had done a u-ball up ahead. As Will jumped back into the cruiser, a bullet caromed off the pavement and another whizzed by his ear. Will tromped down on the accelerator, another slug shattering his windshield. He could see the acne on the twerp''s face when he slammed into the Camaro head-on, doing sixty miles an hour.
#
A Burlington Northern freight train rattled by, blowing its ear-splitting whistle as Ned threw his suitcase in the truck. Legally the old duffer needed to give him two weeks notice, but why prolong the agony? His landlord had also threatened to sue if he didn''t return that Mobil sign immediately. Apparently it was one of the selling points.
Ned found the key in a little slot behind the flag on the mailbox. Same place he''d always hid it; same place his parents had kept it. The whole town probably knew where that key was.
Lila was at the courthouse, where she worked as a secretary in the County Attorney''s office, so Ned just let himself in and got a beer out of the frig. He took a swig before he could reconsider. Loretta would be able to smell it on his breath. He ambled into the living room and turned on the TV. Oprah was on, interviewing John Updike, of all people. He kind of looked like what Ned had imagined Rabbit Angstrom looked like, only not as tall.
Oprah seemed more interested in Witches of Eastwick, because it was so unlike anything else that Updike had written. "Cher was in that, wasn''t she?" Ned said to the televison set. He hadn''t known there was a book. Just as he was getting really absorbed in the conversation, the doorbell rang.
He fumbled with the doorknob, his swollen hand still bothering him. "Hi, Ned," she said, when he finally got it open.
She''d cut her damn hair. Had it combed down in her eyes, in bangs like a fucking Beatle. And she was wearing a goddamn pants suit. When they''d first married, she wore sun dresses, mini-skirts. She had legs that would shame Mary Hart.
"Hey, L-Lorie," he stuttered, his tongue as thick as an oven mitt. "How''d the interview go?"
"They offered the job, but I had to turn it down. They wouldn''t give me any credit for my experience. What happened to your eye?" she said.
"Same old thing, sexually harassing a waitress."
She did the wind chime thing and shook her head. "Same old Ned."
"Come on in here, whydon''cha?" he said. "Lila isn''t home, and I don''t know where Will is."
She brushed by him, nudging against his elbow with one of her fabulous boobs. "Something is definitely going on," she said. "I heard sirens."
"Probably a car accident."
They sat in the living room together on the black leather sectional, knee to knee, the new look beginning to grow on him. "I like what they''ve done to the place," she said, looking around.
"Yeah, Will knocked out one of the walls. Part of this room used to be our spare bedroom."
"Wow, that''s right."
"Are you going back to California then?"
"Only until spring. I don''t want Blake to have to switch schools."
"How is he?"
"Like all seniors, I guess. Mailing in his senior year. His grades are down, he''s beginning to stay out all night."
"But you said he''d applied to Stanford."
"I lied. A mother likes to brag. Darwin wasn''t much of an influence. More like a brother than a father." Without a hint of warning, she started to cry. Never could stand that, one of the reasons he hadn''t fought for custody. "I think he may be using drugs."
He patted her on the back and she took the cue to bury her face in his chest, mashing his cigarettes with her forehead.
"There, there, you don''t know that," he said. She still felt like the old Loretta, as soft as a chamois cloth he''d used to buff his truck when it was new.
"He goes to those raves, they take that ecstasy drug."
"Not everybody. I don''t know how much good it''ll do, but I''ll talk to him if you want me to."
"I was thinking we could visit over Christmas, and you two could get to know each other."
Another siren sounded, and they went to the window to look out. "I wonder what that could be?" she said.
"Must be a bad one. I think I should tell you, before you count on me too much, that I just got evicted from my apartment."
She looked up at him with her disarming brown eyes, very much like Peggy June''s, but without the evil glint. "But you sent me that money," she said.
"I''m a handyman, Lorie. I live fist to mouth. I had five hundred dollars I won in a card game, but I blew it on a football bet. Besides I still drink. I don''t think I''d be the best influence for Blake."
Then, before he knew what hit him, she was kissing him. She''d always had the softest, most finger-licking-good lips. "All my fault," she said when she came up for air.
"No it wasn''t. I was drinking before Darwin, you know."
"Darwin was a boy; he''s still a boy. I should have been able to tell the difference."
"I''ll quit drinking, Lorie. I''ll even go to the AA meetings."
She snapped her purse open, dabbed at her eyes with a little
embroidered handkerchief. "I don''t know how you could ever trust me again."#
Will came to, just as Sheriff Tibbetts and Andy Tell arrived on the scene. His right arm was useless and his head hurt like the devil. Blood was dripping in his eyes. When he looked in the mirror, he could see a gash across his forehead the size of a gravy boat.
Forcing the door open, he stumbled out into the road. What was left of Bradshaw''s Camaro had rolled over in the ditch, steam rising from the radiator, the smell of gasoline causing Will to choke. Back at the Cherokee, amidst shattered glass and twisted metal, Zwald sat on the ground, watching blood spurt from his leg. "Get a tourniquet on that kid!" he screamed. But when he tried to move in that direction, he fainted.
Will slowly rose out of oblivion. He was in Sheriff Tibbett''s cruiser, a make-shift bandage tied around his forehead.
"Looks like he''s coming around," the sheriff said, spitting chewing tobacco in his ever-present Folger''s can..
"How''s the Bradshaw boy?" Will said.
"Dead as a Baptist mixer. Did you have to total the cruiser? That''s twenty thousand out of our budget."
"They had me surrounded."
"What''s the ETA on that ambulance?" he snarled into the radio mike. "This boy is as white as a sheet."
Will had an idea who the headless body in the woods was.
HONEST THIEF, TENDER MURDERER is a work in progress. Dave Schwinghammer''s published novel, SOLDIER''S GAP, is available on Amazon.com.
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