Man With An Axe: A Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mystery Part 10

A telephone rang, or buzzed, somewhere in back. Vera hopped off the stool and darted out of the room, quickly returning with a cordless, which she handed to me. "It's your buddy."

Jimmy had made a quick check with the Ferndale cops. They knew of no reason anybody would be surveilling that house or street. If I wanted, they'd send a cruiser by to roust my nosy parkers. "You get that?" Jimmy exulted. "Nosy parkers. That's pretty good, eh? I told the Ferndale guy-Terry Moser, remember him, from Palmer Park?-that was the best one I'd heard in ages. You want them to come around? Oh, I checked with a couple other guys who might know about drug stuff, but that was just a flying chance. I ran the plates and the car is registered to . . . well, guess."

I hate to guess. I sighed. "Humphrey DiEbola," I said.

"Close," Jimmy said. "It's a company car. Krispee Chips. Still doing business at the same old stand. Want me to send the Ferndale Fuzz around?"

"Yeah, send them by. Ask the guy to get I.D.s on both, if he can."

"You okay? I could send Stanos. He's standing right here. It's on his way home."

"Stanos lives in Ferndale? I thought you said everybody had to live in Detroit."

"Nominally, anyway. No, he lives in Hamtramck. For some reason Hamtramck is deemed to be living in Detroit. Don't ask. He's always lived in Hamtramck. But it's not far to Ferndale."

I thought about it. "I'm in no hurry," I told Jimmy. "If they don't leave before me, I'll give him a call-what's the number?"

I hung up and went to the window. "This could be interesting," I said. "Ferndale is sending a cruiser. While we wait . . ." I glanced over my shoulder, "Do you mind if I make an observation? You don't seem very cracked up about the vanishing of the two men in your life. What did Grootka tell you?"

She came and stood near me, looking over my shoulder. "It's been a long time. A lifetime. I made a life for myself." Her voice was still and collected. The grief must have evaporated long since.

But then she added, "I can still work up a b.i.t.c.h, if you get me started."

We watched the street quietly and her voice curled around my ear. I say that deliberately. It was almost palpable, although I couldn't feel her breath. A woman's voice in a still room on a quiet afternoon. I was very conscious of her standing just inches away.

"I came back to town. Tyrone and I had an apartment in the area below Highland Park, off Hamilton. Agge was at Janney's. She was normally there. He had a very nice woman who looked after her . . . well, you met her."

"Kenty's grandmother?"

"Yes. Sena. I went to Janney's and stayed with Agge and Sena. I thought I'd stay there until the boys returned; it's a much nicer place than the other. But they never returned, and not a word from anyone, of course. I was furious. I told myself that whatever happened, I wasn't living with either of these men anymore. Not Tyrone, who was so obsessed with himself and his music that nothing else really mattered; and definitely not with Janney, who had used his money to keep me around as a link with his darling Tyrone, and an occasional piece of a.s.s. No more."

"You sound like you're still angry," I observed.

"Only when I think about it," she said. "Finally, Grootka came by. He'd been to the apartment first."

I was about to ask what he'd said when the cruiser came slowly down the street. As it pa.s.sed the driver glanced over at us. He pulled up next to the Continental, a few doors down. Both officers got out, moving cautiously around to either side. No doubt they had already been apprised of the fact that the car belonged to Krispee Chips: it was explicitly a Mobmobile. That means different things to different cops. But it always means caution.

I stepped back to let Vera get a better view. She was intent. The cop on the driver's side approached carefully, his hand on his gun, as if casually resting it there. He leaned over from the rear seat position and said something. The window came down and they talked. Then the cop stepped back as the driver got out. On the other side a similar scene was enacted. Two young men in casual wear stood on either side of the car. They were white, about twenty or twenty-five, seemingly unresisting, even cheerful. They showed their wallets to the officers. They got back in the car. The cruiser backed up to allow them to pull out, then followed them down the block and beyond our vision.

"Where are they going?" Vera asked me.

"Nowhere," I said. "The cops just ran them off. I expect to hear from the cops shortly."

In fact, the cruiser came back down the street within minutes and pulled up in front. The driver got out and came to the door. I greeted him and invited him in. "This is Mrs. Jacobsen," I said to introduce them. He was a nice-looking fellow, white, about six feet tall with that little reddish moustache that so many cops seem to like.

"They're a couple of wise guys," he told us, "right out of the movies. Names on the licenses are . . ." He looked at his notebook. "Michael Arthur Simi and Alessandro Gee-ah-cammo Abb-Abba-bob . . . what do you make of that?" He showed me the name.

"Abbaglione? Something like that. Both from Detroit, hunh? Same address? That's-"

"Krispee Chips," he finished for me. "Must be a finishing school, eh? They have a dormitory, nice gym facilities, I hear . . . swimming pool. Of course, these young men were surprised to learn that they were making the housewives nervous. Sorry ma'am." He nodded to Vera. "I had to tell them something. But I didn't say where the complaint came from."

"Did they ask?" I asked.

"No. No they didn't. They said they were just having a talk and they had parked in a quiet place. Didn't mean to disturb the peace. They were leaving."

"They Americans?" I asked.

"Well sir, they got Michigan driver's licenses, but they don't talk American. European, I'd say. Speak good English, though. Bit of an accent, but not bad."

I thanked him and sent him on his way. He said they'd keep a rolling surveillance on the house and street, to see if the Continental returned, but I could see that his heart wasn't in it, and I didn't think it called for any encouragement. Wouldn't hurt, though, if they cruised by now and again.

When he'd gone I agreed with Vera that her suspicions had been well-founded. Of course, it was possible they were watching some other house . . .

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she snorted.

"Well, tell me what Grootka said."

"He didn't say much, that's for sure. I was pretty distraught at the time, of course. He just tried to calm me down, while letting me know that Ty and Janney weren't coming back. I don't know." She looked pensive. "I don't suppose it's much different for war widows, or women whose husbands have died in a plane crash. No." She shook her head, matter-of-factly. "It can't really be any different. I'd been worried, but Grootka was pretty straight about it, pretty firm. I suppose I should have been grateful-at least I didn't waste any more time waiting."

"What the h.e.l.l did he tell you?" I demanded.

"He said it hadn't gone right. He was sorry, but they wouldn't be coming back. He said I shouldn't ask any more questions. There wasn't anything useful he could tell me. He'd brought Tyrone's soprano sax. That was all he could save."

"He said that? All he could save? What does that mean? A fire? A wreck?"

"He wouldn't say. I think he said, All he could save. I can't be positive now. It's what I remember, but maybe I just put it that way to myself. It was what I had of Tyrone. And I don't have that. I gave it to Grootka. He was grateful, as I knew he would be."

I was aggravated. I think that's the best I can say. Not quite angry, because I had no real object for my anger, but more than peeved. "He never gave you any hint? No word about Hoffa? Did they meet with Carmine?"

"Nothing. He just gave me some money, a pretty nice amount, which he said was from Tyrone, and the sax. Said it was all he had for me. Yeah, I think now that it was, 'All he had.' Not 'saved.' Yeah, that's it," she said. "He said, 'This is all I have for you.'"

"How much money?"

"It was about ten thousand dollars, in fairly large bills, in a roll. I knew it wasn't from Tyrone-how could it be?-but must have been from Janney. He liked to carry a roll, sometimes, though I never saw one with that much cash. So anyway, I knew Janney was dead, too. He wouldn't give Grootka any money for me."

"And Grootka didn't say what had happened? Didn't explain?"

"When I asked him what happened he said, 'Sorry, babe. Things didn't go right. Nothing went the way it was supposed to. They ain't comin' back.' And he never would tell me any more about it."

"That was it?"

"That was it. Once in a while I'd b.u.mp into him in a club where there was some good jazz and we'd talk. Usually, after one of those times, he'd call me back in a day or two, say how good it was to see me, and all that. And then if I asked about what had happened, insisted that I deserved to know, he'd say that maybe it would all come out someday. In the meantime, I should keep my mouth shut. 'For how long?' I'd asked. And he'd tell me how it was best left up to his good friend Mulheisen. Old Mulheisen would figure it all out when the time came.

"Then one day about four or five years ago he called and said he'd like to come by. He brought this notebook. It was all wrapped up, just like that. He said I should keep it in some safe place, maybe even a safe-deposit box. He said you would come for it one of these days. When you needed it. But in the meantime, if I got into a jam, or if I noticed people hanging around, strangers-like those two guys-then I should try to get in touch with you. But he was pretty spooky on this point. He said there were people in your department, or bailiwick, whatever it is, who couldn't be trusted. I shouldn't just go and make a complaint, because then there would be this formal investigation and all kinds of h.e.l.l might break loose and you would certainly get b.u.mped off the case. He gave me your home phone number, just for emergency, but I lost that a long time ago."

"Where did you keep the notebook?" I asked.

"In the refrigerator. That's why it's in that plastic zip bag. I took it out a couple of days ago, to see if it had been damaged."

"Did you read it?"

"I tried. Well, yeah, I read it. A long time ago. The handwriting's not bad, though the spelling is bizarre! But I got through it."

"What did you think?"

"It's bulls.h.i.t." She was firmly dismissive. "It's all Grootka's bull. Something happened, sure, but I'll bet it wasn't what he tells. How much of this stuff have you read?"

"Four books like this," I told her. "I presume this one picks up the story where the last one left off, which is when they are arranging to meet Carmine."

"Do you believe it?"

"Why not?" I asked. "Why don't you tell me your version, so I can compare?"

Here I can confess that the "Prologue," which I've provided as a simple narrative of the events before I was exposed to the notebooks, and before Grootka came onto the scene, is a reconstruction of events as seems likely to me. This reconstruction needn't be taken as literal truth or fact, but it seems to me to be the most plausible scenario. It is based largely on the story I was now told by Vera Jacobsen. There's no point in repeating her version, which doesn't differ remarkably.

We compared notes, and her major objection was to Grootka's depiction of her doing a striptease to entertain the Mob guys and distract them from searching for Hoffa.

"My G.o.d!" she exclaimed. "They came in there, leering and snuffling, eager to find out what was going on. They'd heard something for sure, but I had a feeling that they didn't really know anything. Anyway, what were they gonna do? Look under the bed? Well, if they had, they'd have found Jimmy, because he was under there. But they were mainly just trying to bluff Lonzo into giving the guy up. I got fed up and grabbed my towel and went out back to catch a little sun. We had a nice little sunning place back there, out of the way, but handy so I could hear Tyrone if he wanted me. And then this maniac, Grootka, pops up out of the bushes! He's waving a rod and his eyeb.a.l.l.s are popping out, gawking at my t.i.ts!"

The image was amusing, with its suggestion of Grootka priapically "waving a rod," especially as Vera unconsciously ma.s.saged her left breast (I realized that even at fifty-eight, or whatever she was, she was not beyond seductiveness.) But then I recalled with a start that a man had died.

"Yes," she nodded, sobered herself. "A thug. Never a more apt word," she added, an edge of derision creeping back in. "And, of course, at first we thought Janney'd been shot."

This was a point I hadn't gotten clear from Grootka's text. Had Janney been there all along? Or had he just arrived? With Carmine, for instance?

No, no, she a.s.sured me. Janney had been there earlier. A couple of days earlier. He had come up to talk to Tyrone about the recording gig, in L.A. On that occasion, now that she thought about it-"It was all so long ago, it's not easy to remember the exact sequence"-it seemed that Janney had left to go back to town without knowing about Hoffa's presence. Yes, she was pretty sure of it, now. Hoffa had stayed in his bedroom.

"And he had returned when?" I asked.

"Just at that time, just when Carmine and Humphrey had left. I went back in the house and Janney must have come walking up the driveway when that Cooze guy saw him. Cooze would have killed him, but Grootka shot first."

And Lonzo, I wondered? When did Lonzo get wind of Hoffa's presence?

Vera didn't know. He just showed up one night. She thought that he hadn't known about Hoffa being there, beforehand, but somebody had told him that his nephew and his wife were staying in his cabin, and they hadn't asked permission. "Although I thought Tyrone had," she declared. "He said he had. But I'll tell you what," she mused, "Lonzo was always after my a.s.s. If he knew I was up there, he'd be there like a shot. It had happened before, and maybe Tyrone didn't tell him because he knew he'd come sniffing around . . . not that Tyrone paid much attention to other guys' interest in me."

They couldn't hide Hoffa from Lonzo, of course, but she said he was cooperative and he did keep his boys out of the house. In answer to my next question she said she did not think that Lonzo had informed to Carmine. "If he had told them, they wouldn't have been poking around," she said, logically. "They'd have just grabbed Jimmy and probably shot the whole bunch of us on the spot. But they didn't really know."

"So who told?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Janney, of course. Trouble was, he didn't know for sure, and he was too chickens.h.i.t to come with them in case it didn't turn out."

It seemed that Jacobsen had long been dealing with the Mob in one way or another. Besides his printing business, he had gotten involved in a nightclub and various other enterprises that had brought him into contact with the Mob. He wasn't exactly a Mobster himself, or even a Mob wannabe, she thought, but more of a guy who was intrigued and excited by Mobsters and liked to hang around them, to pretend that he was "connected." He had a kind of innocence, or perhaps it was his European posture, that may have led him to think that he could flirt with the bad guys and not get dirty.

There was an edge of bitterness in her voice now, and she seemed aware of it. "Grootka," she said, as if clearing her throat. "If only he hadn't stuck his big nose into all this. What did we do wrong?" She looked at me, but I had no answer for her. I knew Grootka. "We didn't do any wrong," she insisted. "We were just trying to help. If Grootka hadn't come along, maybe Hoffa would have gone home, eventually, and everything would have been all right. He'd probably be alive today, and so would Tyrone, and Janney.

"But," she said, crossing her arms and a.s.suming a firm, no-nonsense expression, "it didn't happen that way. Now I've gone on to other things, a different life. I'm not unhappy with it. But I can't help feeling that Grootka screwed everything up, and I just wish I had him here right now to give him a piece of my mind. You knew him, you were his friend." She looked at me with a curious expression.

"I wasn't exactly his friend," I protested.

"Exactly," she agreed. "You couldn't be his friend. He chose you. Like he chose Books, or Tyrone. He decided you were somebody worth wasting his time on and so he imposed himself on you. He used to reconstruct my sentences, when I spoke to him. 'What you mean is,' he'd say, and come up with something I would never say. But it was close enough to what I meant that it wasn't worth struggling against him to correct it. He was always doing s.h.i.t like that. The guy was oblivious to other people, in a way. All he knew was his own point of view, which he a.s.sumed everybody else was interested in and would naturally accede to."

"You put it so well," I said.

"No, I don't." She sighed. "He was a complex man. He liked people, like you and Tyrone, Books. I think he liked me, too. And those he liked he tended to think a little too highly of, if you know what I mean. Maybe it's an extension of his egotism: if you were his friend you must be great, or if he was going to waste time on you, you must be something."

I was interested in her a.n.a.lysis and quite in agreement. "Did he choose you?" I asked.

"I suppose so. He used to praise me, not just to my face, but to other people. It could be embarra.s.sing."

"I know that one," I said.

"And then he'd hit on me."

"Hit you?" That didn't sound like Grootka, brutal as he could be.

"No, no-hit on me. He'd want to f.u.c.k."

"And did you?"

"Oh, sure. You want to know what it was like? No? Well, it was . . . vigorous. Yes, that's it. It wasn't bad. Very vigorous and I had my pleasure, which I think he liked the idea of, although he acted like he didn't care if I got off or not." She shook her head, not quite ruefully.

"But eventually you left Detroit," I said. "You started producing records. How did you get into that?"

"It was a natural development form Janney's business. Not the printing business, which I sold, but he had independently produced jazz recordings before, in Holland and here. I knew something about it, I was well acquainted with the jazz scene . . . it was natural. I've done well with it." She was matter-of-fact, but you could see she was proud of the accomplishment.

"Where did you get this name, Hastily Improvised Productions?" I asked.

"It makes sense," she explained. "I specialize in Free jazz, improvised music."

"Does that sell? I mean, do you make a living at it?"

"It's all right," she said. "I don't think you can get rich producing art in America, but if you work hard you can do all right. Anyway, I have plenty of money, enough for me anyway, and I can help out Agge, but she never needs help." She said this with an edge of pride.

"She seems quite competent," I agreed.

"Oh, she'll do well. She always has. She's one of those kids who just . . ." And I was treated to a long and happy exposition of the merits of Agge Allyson. I wondered if my mother had ever bored her friends with my triumphs.

11.

Kiss Your Axe Good-bye Grootka's Notebook, #5 We pulled outta n.i.g.g.e.r Heaven about 11 P.M., a little over a week after Hoffa dropped outta sight. We was gonna drive up north, and it wasn't a good idea driving in daytime on the interstate, 'cause somebody could of recognized Hoffa. So we took two cars, with Hoffa and Jacobsen and Lonzo in Lonzo's car, and me and Tyrone in my car. We stayed pretty close together, but not acting like we was together, and in a couple hours we were driving through Clare, which is a nice little town up where the woods begin. It's off the interstate, and from here we hadda drive about forty miles to find another back road.

[Here Grootka provides a map, which is of questionable value and not worth reproducing. It is possible to pinpoint the exact location of the cabin, however, using the map and internal evidence of the notebooks.-M.]