Randy Dixson showed up in his light poplin jacket covering a .357 Mag beneath his left arm; squinted at the scene chewing his gum; learned that some crazy fucker was in there with automatic weapons, guy used to be a rent-a-cop, first reported to be wearing a T-shirt and armed with a revolver, but now wearing, it looked like, some kind of uniform and moving from window to window firing all kinds of weapons at them. They'd glimpse him as he'd yell something and then fire his weapon and they'd return fire, blowing out his windows, all except the ones on the second floor that looked like they'd been boarded up, like the guy had been preparing for a shoot-out. He kept yelling something about 'fury' or 'furor.' It didn't make sense, sounding like he was crying; but when they'd try to talk him out with a bullhorn, he'd rip at them with his machine gun. Crazy fucker, you couldn't talk to him.
They put Randy Dixson on the porch of the house next door to the left. He could edge his face past the corner and see the side door of 1035. A couple of TMU guys with riot guns were there pressed against the house, looking like they were about to go in. But after a few minutes, looking toward the street, nodding and giving hand-signals back, they moved away from the house. Randy Dixson kept looking at that side entrance to 1035.
He watched it until he decided fuck it, it was citation time; he'd rather fight crime than Dutch-elm disease and went over the porch rail, across the drive and in through the side door. (Why hadn't the TMU guys just done it?) Randy Dixson stood in the short hallway looking into the living room that was all blown to shit, rubble. The cop- shooter was near the front windows, crouched behind a maroon couch, lifting his head to see out without being seen. Young Randy had him, saw in his mind the Medical Examiner's report describing exit wounds in the guy's chest, said, 'Hey!' loud, and put three .357s into Richard Edgar Monk dead-center as the swastika arm came swinging around with a burp gun.
Mickey opened the front door Friday morning, picked up the Free Press from the stoop and saw Richard smiling at her from the picture, Richard standing in his T-shirt by a birdbath, the statue of the Virgin Mary looking over his shoulder. The headline read
NAZI CULTIST KILLED IN GUN BATTLE WITH POLICE
Mickey stood barefoot in the kitchen with her coffee and the Free Press, as she did every morning, and read about Richard Edgar Monk, cultist, racist, anti-Communist, ex-private security guard. Cultist. She didn't think of Richard as a cultist, she thought of him as a frightening but unsuccessful rapist. She read about his gun collection, Nazi flag, photographs, war memorabilia.
She read about a woman's purse (the same one she had carried to work her last week at Saks) found in the upstairs bedroom, cold cabbage on the stove, dishes in the kitchen sink, as though several people had been recently living in the house.
She read about the siege and about Richard with interest, though quite calmly, with a feeling she identified as relief. Richard was dead. Louis wouldn't hurt her. She wondered if Louis had seen the paper. Probably not. She bet Louis would sleep late; maybe he'd see it on the TV news later, maybe not.
She thought of calling Louis and telling him. Nine-five-six, nine-five-four-seven. She remembered the number. She was quite sure she remembered everything they had talked about. Louis, Richard, Ordell Robbie. Melanie ... Frank. Frank and Melanie. She saw Frank in lime-green paisley, his golf tan, his hands in tight pockets, elbows sticking out, cool-serious Frank entering the casino with his girlfriend. The big jerk. Old enough to be her father probably. Melanie thin, but with big boobs, overdressed, lots of fake jewelry, rings. Melanie looking at him worshipfully, listening to a replay of his golf round. Melanie would have to be pretty dumb and impressionable.
Mickey had remembered to take a pack of Salems from the cluttered pizza-beer coffee table and had forgotten to take her bra. Louis could have it.
She still didn't have one on beneath a loose cotton top and it felt good. It was good to feel clean again. She'd decide later what to do about Frank's closet, if anything. She lit a Salem, went to the wall phone and without hesitating or getting words ready, dialed the number in Freeport.
A girl's voice answered.
Mickey said, 'Melanie?' and was surprised at the quiet, even tone.
The voice said, 'Yeah?'
'This is Mrs. Dawson,' Mickey said.
'Oh, hi.'
Mickey hesitated, stopped for a moment. 'Is ... Frank there?'
'No, he's out. I think he had to go to a meeting.' 'With the Japanese?'
'I don't know who he's with, some business guys. Hold on a minute, will you?'
Mickey waited, feeling heat rise up into her face. She waited what seemed to be several minutes. 'Hi, I'm back. Any message?'
'Would you have him call me at home?'
'Sure. Bye.'
Mickey replaced the phone, her hand shaking. She had believed she was ready to talk to Frank-- with an even, normal tone, on an adult level--and listen quietly, unmoved, while the son of a bitch tried to explain what he'd been doing the past four days. And she had handled herself adequately just now, considering it was the first time she had ever spoken to a known girlfriend, each aware of the other's role. She'd handled it without preparation, without knowing it was going to happen. But she hadn't been anywhere near as poised or offhand as the girlfriend. It scared her.
It also made her mad. If she wasn't ready yet to take on Frank and his girlfriend then she'd get ready. Not by memorizing things to say, faking it, but by keeping a hard straight edge on her thinking. By keeping emotions in their place. By forgetting roles she might play and simply being herself. If she could.
Louis had gone to sleep in the recliner. He woke up at three-thirty and went to bed. He woke up again at ten, Friday morning, not feeling too red hot but passable. He had two ice-cold cans of Stroh's and a can of hot chili and felt a world better. What he ought to have done then was clean up the place, but decided the hell with it. He wasn't going to hang around here and think and wait for the phone to ring. Ordell would get back when he got back. Or, he wouldn't get back. There wasn't anything Louis could do about that; so he decided he'd call his sister in Allen Park and go visit her.
It was his older sister, Louise. Three years older. She was glad to see him, kissed him and was very nice to him, hoping he'd stay awhile. His brother-in-law, Chuck, was a boring-mill operator at Ford Rouge, which Louis thought was perfect since Chuck was the most boring fucking guy he'd ever met in his life. He came home from work and asked Louis if he was staying out of jail and made a few other remarks, like maybe Louis could get a good job busting rocks, with all his experience. Louis was polite in return, courteous, drinking the man's beer, and kept himself from breaking Chuck's jaw.
His brother-in-law didn't get the morning paper; he left for work too early to read it and didn't give a shit if anybody else might want to.
So Louis didn't learn about poor Richard Edgar Monk until the six o'clock TV news came on with its mini- camera coverage. He watched it while his brother-in-law told him all about their new UAW contract. Then, when it was over, his brother-in-law said, 'What was that all about?'
Ordell looked down and saw half of Richard's face in the lobby of the King's Inn, about four o'clock Friday afternoon.
It was Richard's picture on the front page of the Detroit News, the page folded once and lying on a set of rose-colored matched luggage, three pieces and golf clubs.
Ordell had been eying the luggage and the man it belonged to with the just-arrived Detroit Dental Association group, because the man was about Ordell's size, a dentist who was in shape and looked to be living clean. Ordell had already decided on the middle-size bag, because the big one would be full of the man's fat wife's outfits. But when he walked over to it, there was Richard looking at him, Richard in his rent-a-cop uniform giving the readers his serious no-shit look. Ordell walked off with the newspaper, took it into the cocktail lounge and had a big rum drink while he read the story, not seeing any mention of Louis or the woman. Ordell leaned back in the bar stool, said, 'Lovely,' and meant it, feeling like he'd just stepped out of the way of a truck coming to run him down.
No wonder nobody'd answered the phone.
He left his big rum drink, went out to the lobby and phoned Detroit, his apartment. Still no answer. Three times he'd called last night and no answer. Something was happening he'd have to find out about. One thing for sure though, Richard had not killed the woman.
What had he been thinking that he could call Richard up and tell Richard to kill a person like that with a gun?
