“So why did you go to his motel room?”
“Alex, the man called me on Saturday. At home. He said he wanted the money that day. I told him I had a party that evening, and that I wouldn’t be able to get away. So he said I better drop it off at his motel room after the party, or he would never handle any more of my action. Okay?”
“I thought you said you were only betting five hundred or a thousand at a time. It sounds like you lost five thousand on that one game.”
“You’re busting my balls, Alex.”
“Sorry, Edwin. I can’t help it.”
“What’s the matter with you, anyway? Why are you asking me all these questions? You’re worse than Chief Maven.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I said. “I’ll put in a good word for you when I see him today.”
“Oh God. He wants to see you?”
“Yeah, and I don’t think he’s going to ask me to the prom.”
I heard Sylvia’s voice in the background, so I said goodbye and hung up. I woke up every other morning thinking I still might not be over her. I didn’t want to picture her lying there in bed next to him. Or standing next to the bed, putting her clothes on.
I put myself together and got out of there. While I was driving, I went over it again. He said he saw Edwin and the bookmaker at a bar, so it made sense to stop at the Mariner’s Tavern, see if anyone saw anything suspicious. It was unlikely, but worth checking out. Aside from that, what do I do? Tell the police about it? I couldn’t picture myself telling this story to Chief Maven, but he was the logical choice.
But first, I had this other stupid thing to take care of. I swung into the town of Rosedale and found the trailer park again. The capsized trailer was still there, untouched. A couple of the local women stood in the road, steaming mugs in their hands. They were staring at the trailer and then when I drove by in my truck, they stared at me. First a trailer tips over, now a strange man drives by. What was this neighborhood coming to?
The woman I had talked to lived two doors down. I pulled into the little driveway and got out of the truck, waving to the two women in the road. They looked away. When I knocked on the door, I didn’t hear anything. I knocked again, louder.
“Who is it?” It was a man’s voice from within.
“My name is Alex McNight. I’m a private investigator.”
“What do you want?”
“I work for Lane Uttley. I was here on Saturday. I spoke to your wife.”
“What were you doing bothering my wife?”
“I was just asking her a couple of questions about the trailer accident over here. Will you please open this door and talk to me?”
There was a small rectangular window in the door. I saw the man peek at me and then disappear. I heard his wife yelling at him, and then his own yelling in return. One thing for sure, this man was not the man who had called me the night before. He was a harmless lughead doing his overprotective husband routine, just like I told Uttley. I was about to knock on the door again when suddenly it opened.
The man had a rifle. He leveled it right at my chest. “Get the fuck out of here right now before I blow a hole right through you.”
It came back. As strong as the night before, when I was standing in that motel room. That day in Detroit. The gun pointed at me. I cannot stop him. He will shoot us, Franklin first and then me.
I took a step backward and fell. Stairs. I fell down some stairs. I’m on the ground. Get up and get out of here. I couldn’t move. I felt like I was up to my neck in wet cement.
Franklin next to me on the floor. He is dying. All that blood.
“Get going!” the man said. “If you ever come around here bothering my wife again, I’ll kill you! I promise you that, mister!”
Get in the truck. I got myself off the ground, remembered how to walk. Get in the truck. I fumbled with the door, opened it finally. Keys. I need keys. They were in my hand already. Which key goes in the ignition? I tried one, then another. Finally, I put the right key in, started the truck. I put it in reverse and punched it, almost backing right across the street into another trailer. I tried to put it into drive, but the engine just raced. It’s in neutral. I couldn’t breathe. Put it in drive. Why can’t I breathe? The two women in the road scattered like pigeons as I finally found a gear and then barreled past them.
When I was a few miles out of town, I stopped the truck. I sat there on the side of the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Relax. Just relax. I made myself take a deep breath and then another.
All right, take it easy. You’re okay now. That asshole just wanted to scare you. And he picked a hell of a day to do it. You lost your cool for a moment. After the weekend you just had, it’s understandable.
And besides, that was the first time someone has pointed a gun at you since Detroit.
I remember sitting in an office with a psychiatrist. The department made me go see him, after the shooting. I thought it was a waste of time. I didn’t listen to much of what he was saying, but I did remember one thing. He said I’d always have this hair trigger in my head. One little thing and I’d be right back there in that room, lying on the floor with three bullets in me. A loud noise, like a gunshot or even a car backfiring. Maybe a certain smell, he said.
Or maybe the sight of blood.
The Mariner’s Tavern looked just like you would expect it to look. It had the fishnet with the shells and starfish in it hanging from the ceiling, an old whaling harpoon stuck to the wall. It was on Water Street, right next to Locks Park, with big windows on the north side of the building. During the summer you could sit there and see a freighter or two going though the locks every hour, getting raised or lowered twenty-one feet, depending on which way they were going. Now that November had arrived, the freighter season was almost over.
I meant to just stop in and have a quick word with the bartender, but I ended up sitting at a table for a while, the only customer in the place, looking out that window at the St. Mary’s River and on the other side of that, Soo Canada. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a drink before noon, but this day seemed to need it.
I made a little toast to myself. Here’s to your brilliant decision to become a private investigator.
Lane Uttley had found me at the Glasgow Inn one night that past summer. He told me that Edwin was one of his clients, and that Edwin had told him all about me, the fact that I had been a cop in Detroit, even the business about getting shot.
“A man who takes three bullets has to be one tough son of a bitch,” he said. “Edwin tells me you still have one of the bullets in your chest. Do you ever set off the metal detector at the airport?”
“It happens,” I said.
“What do they say when you tell them about the bullet?”
“They usually just say, ‘Ouch.’”
“Ha,” he said. “I imagine they do. Anyway, Mr. McKnight, I won’t waste your time. Reason I’m here is, I have a big problem and I’m wondering if you can help me out. You see, I have this private investigator working for me named Leon Prudell. Do you know him?”
“I think I’ve seen him before.”
“Yeah, well, at the risk of speaking unkindly, I have to say that the situation with Mr. Prudell is not working out. I imagine you’re familiar with what a private investigator really does?”
“Mostly just information gathering, I would think. Interviews, surveillance.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s very important to have someone who’s intelligent and reliable, as you can imagine. I’ve done a little bit of criminal defense work. And I have some long-standing clients like Edwin, you know, for wills, real estate, and so on. But a lot of my work is negligence, accidents, malpractice, that sort of line. That’s where I really need a good information man.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked. “I’m not a private investigator.”
“Ah,” he said. “But you could be. Have you ever thought about it?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“The private eye laws are pretty loose in this state. All you need are three years as a police officer and a five-thousand-dollar bond. You were an officer for eight years, right? Spotless record?”
“Are you asking me,” I said, “or did you already check me out?”
