Peter Leonard
Voices of the dead
1
11:30 in the morning, Harry Levin was on Orleans Street, cutting through Eastern Market on his way back to the scrap yard. He’d just withdrawn fifty thousand dollars from the National Bank of Detroit. Now he was driving past turn-of-the-century brick buildings, seeing signs for Embassy Foods, and F amp;S Packing, another one for Market Seafood, brick bleeding through faded blue paint. There were delivery trucks parallel parked on the street, and Hi-Los carrying pallets of food, zigzagging through the loading areas of wholesale food emporiums.
The sun had risen over the buildings and he could feel its warmth through the open windows of the Mercedes. It was a perfect blue-sky day, one of about fifteen a year you got living in the Motor City. The Chevy Nova in front of him was slowing down and Harry hit his brakes. Beyond the Nova, a semi with a forty-foot trailer, a heavy‚ was blocking the road, trying to back down a narrow street to a loading dock, blue cab at a severe angle, looking like it had jackknifed. But it kept moving, the driver angling for position.
Harry sat against the leather seat and waited, sitting there awhile, getting impatient, had a meeting at his office in twenty minutes. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black guy approaching the car from behind, watching his cool economical strut, man wearing white bellbottoms and a maroon shirt with collar points that reached his shoulders.
He looked straight ahead, saw the semi backing down the alley almost out of view when an arm came through the side window to his left, holding a carving knife with a long blade under his jaw, pressing it against his neck.
“Stay where you at, motherfucker,” the black guy said.
His eyes were bloodshot. He had a sparse mustache and a scraggly goatee and a high Afro with a putty- colored comb stuck in it at an odd angle. Man was a junkie and Harry knew he’d cut his throat without thinking about it. He heard a door open, glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the guy that was coming up behind him getting in the backseat, closing the door. This one was clean-shaven and more alert than the junkie, with shiny hair that looked like it had motor oil on it, combed back.
“Motherfucker, see where I’m at? See what I got, you don’t do what you tole?”
He had a pocketknife with a six-inch blade in his hand, leaned forward, put it against Harry’s jugular, pulling him back against the headrest, Harry smelling aftershave and sweat. Afro’s hand moved out of the window, and he went around the front of the car and got in next to him.
“What in the case?” guy in back said.
“Transaction reports.”
“Yeah? The fuck’s that?”
“I buy and sell scrap.”
“Know what we do? Take your money.” Afro gave him a sleepy-eyed grin. “Like this. Gimme your wallet, motherfucker,” he said, pointing the carving knife at Harry.
Guy in back said, “Let see what else in there you got?”
Harry saw him in the rearview mirror, watched him sit back and put the briefcase in his lap, fooling with the clasp, trying to open it with the tip of his knife blade. Tried for a while, gave up and looked at Harry.
“Where the key at?”
“In my pocket,” Harry said. He reached behind his back, felt the grip of the Colt Python, pulled his wallet out of the back left pocket of his khakis and threw it on the floor mat in front of Afro. Keep him busy.
Afro bent forward, reaching with his long arms, and now Harry drew the Colt, turned in his seat, back against the door as Afro sat up with the wallet, spread it open, looking at $750, grinning till he saw the gun.
“Easy,” Afro said. “Be cool.” He handed Harry his wallet back. “See? It all there. No harm done, nobody lose nothin’.”
Harry turned, two hands on the revolver, aimed at the guy in back, the guy preoccupied, still fooling with the briefcase. Harry pulled the hammer back and now he looked up. “Drop the knives out the window or I’ll blow your head off.” He said it calm and measured. They tossed the blades out and Harry heard them hit the street. “Give me your wallets.”
Afro took his out and put it on the edge of Harry’s seat. Guy in back slid his between the seats on the console.
“Now get the hell out of here.”
They did, and Harry left them standing on Orleans Street, wondering what had just happened. He looked straight, the Nova was halfway down the block, put the Mercedes in gear and took off.
In addition to junkies trying to rob him the IRS was trying to take his money in a more legitimate way. First he’d gotten a letter that said:
Dear Recycler:
As part of our review of tax compliance, the Internal Revenue Service has determined records maintained by S amp;H Recycling Metals may be insufficient to verify the accuracy of purchases of recyclable materials. It is the responsibility of taxpayers to maintain adequate records to substantiate items on their tax returns, including purchases of recyclable materials. Failure to maintain such records could result in the assessment of additional tax due to the disallowance of deductions. We appreciate your cooperation and willingness to work with us on this matter. If you have any questions, please contact the examiner named at the heading of this letter.
Sincerely,
Chief Examination Division
Harry was thinking, come on. What is this? Now they were preparing to audit his company. Harry had asked his secretary, Phyllis, to pull all the records‚ back up that supported his tax returns, everything from 1969 and ’70. He had no clue why they were coming after him. He’d maintained accurate, up-to-date records. The examiner named at the top of the letter was William Decker.
He was in the waiting room when Harry arrived, stood up and introduced himself as Bill. Looked like a former athlete, six three, a couple inches taller than Harry, but about his age, early forties, hair going gray, cut to the top of his ears, big hands, firm handshake.
Decker told him the audit was random, not personal, but Harry had trouble believing it. He paid cash for scrap, and a business like his was an easy target. Harry and his scale operator‚ Jerry Dubuque‚ loaded a dozen banker boxes in the back of Decker’s Fairlane station wagon, three years’ worth of shippers, cash slips, weight tickets, metal settlement reports, bids and contracts. The IRS would match it all up with what Harry said on his returns or Decker would give him a call.
Harry owned twelve acres on Mt. Elliot near Luce just east of Hamtramck. He’d bought the business from his uncle, in ’62. Worked there since he was seventeen. Harry had six million pounds of scrap, a mountain of auto parts, refrigerators, bed frames, steel beams, railroad tracks and farm equipment that rose up five stories and extended five hundred feet from end to end. To move the mountain he had two hydraulic crawler cranes, one outfitted with a magnet, the other a grapple. He also had three scales, a baling press, alligator shears, guillotine shears and four loaders to haul scrap to the mills.
When Decker left, Harry took the black guys’ wallets out and looked at them. Afro was Ray Jones, eyes
