Die a Stranger: An Alex McKnight Novel Page 9

  We waited there another thirty or forty minutes. The group of six men got up to leave. They all went outside, and for a moment it looked like the whole thing had been a waste of our time. But then about two minutes later, one of the men came back inside. He looked over at us and gave us a little head bob. We got up and went to the side door.

  When we were outside, he came out and joined us.

  “Who’s this?” he said, pointing at me.

  “He’s my friend,” Lou said. “Don’t worry, he’s cool. He looks pretty straight, but he needs his herb, man. Helps him with the nausea.”

  “What, like you mean he’s sick?”

  Lou put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not even go there,” he said, “but yeah, it’s pretty bad. You’re really helping him out.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. It went into the young man’s hand before I could see the bills, and something else was passed from the young man to Lou. For one brief second, I flashed back to the streets of Detroit. This was where I’d make my move, handcuff them both and call for backup.

  “My man Buck says this is the place,” Lou said. “I’m glad he was right.”

  “You know Buck?”

  “We go way back. Haven’t seen him in a while. Have you?”

  “Not lately. He was supposed to be here tonight, but he’s been gone for like three days.”

  “Ah, whatever,” Lou said. “He’ll turn up. You know how Buck is. So listen, if we need a little more of this, where can we go?”

  “You come right here, man. I’m here most every night.”

  “No, no, I mean if we really need more, you know what I’m saying? There’s gotta be somebody else up the line, right?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “Come on, be a good friend to a couple guys in need,” he said. “Do it for Buck. Or hell, do it for a little finder’s fee, eh?”

  Another wad of money came out of the pocket and disappeared into the man’s hand.

  “All right, man. I’ll give you an address. But it can’t come from me, you got it? Tell him Buck sent you or something, but you can’t give him my name.”

  “You haven’t even told me your name,” Lou said. “So how could I pass it along? You’re as anonymous as the wind.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. Lou produced a folded receipt from his pocket, along with a pen. The man wrote down a name and address on the back of the receipt and passed it back to him. They exchanged a complicated handshake, then the man looked at me like he still wasn’t sure what to make of me. Then he was gone.

  “How much money did you give him?” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lou said, holding the paper up in the cheap light. “If this works, it’ll be a bargain.”

  “I’m serious. You already flew out here on short notice. That had to run a couple thousand dollars. Now you’re here throwing money around like some kind of big shot.”

  “I got some saved,” he said. “So what? What else am I gonna spend it on?”

  Maybe child support, I was thinking, going back a number of years. But I let it go.

  I looked at my watch. It was after one o’clock now. Inside the Cozy, somebody started the jukebox and the bass notes came rumbling out under our feet.

  “I haven’t been to the Soo in years,” he said, handing me the paper. “You think you can find this address?”

  “I’m sure I can.” I didn’t even bother looking at it.

  “Then it’s your turn,” he said. “Mr. Ex-cop. Let’s go pay this guy a visit, see how good you are at sweating a suspect.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I drove east through the darkness, with Vinnie’s long-lost father sitting in the passenger seat. I looked over at him more than once just to confirm to myself that this was really happening. He sat there in complete silence, looking out the window at the landscape he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years.

  We were alone on the road until a car finally came toward us. He had his high beams on and it woke Lou from his trance. He patted his shirt pocket and took out the bag he had bought from the young seller at the Cozy. He flipped on the interior light, held the bag up, shook the contents in the harsh glare for a few seconds, then turned the light back off.

  “Good stuff?” I said.

  “It’s not ditchweed, that’s for sure.”

  “From Canada, you think?”

  “Definitely hydro. Very clean. So yeah, maybe Canada.”

  “It could have come over on one of those planes,” I said.

  “Not the last plane, I’m thinking. The cops are smoking that stuff right now.”

  I let that one go. He didn’t.

  “You ever do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Find a big ol’ load of the green stuff.”

  “Not a big load,” I said. “Maybe an ounce or two in somebody’s car.”

  “Did it all go into evidence?”

  I looked over at him.

  “I won’t tell anybody,” he said. “I’m just wondering.”

  “Yes, it all went into evidence.”

  He made a clicking sound and shook his head. Like, what a waste.

  “What’s the big deal with this stuff, anyway?” I said. “Why fly it over from Canada when you can grow it in your own basement?”

  “Who says you can do that?”

  “Well, it’s not legal, of course. But, I mean, I don’t know what it’s like out in Nevada. Here, people are getting pretty loose about it.”

  “You think so? They’re getting loose?”

  “Overall, yeah.”

  “So you probably won’t have the Michigan State troopers knocking on your door, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “How about the feds? Are they ‘pretty loose’ on it, too?”

  “Not the feds so much, no.”

  “Yeah, not so much. If they get you in their sights, they’ll still come to your door, right? But instead of knocking they’ll bust it right down. Shoot your goddamned dog right in front of you. Then they’ll take your house. Take your kids away, even. Burn your whole life down, leave nothing but a pile of ashes. All because you’ve got three pot plants in your basement.”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “I’ve seen it happen, Alex. Not to me personally, but I know people who’ve lost everything. Got sent away for a decade or more. So I don’t have to wonder why these guys would rather just fly the stuff in from Canada. There you don’t have the Mounties breaking in your door with their guns blazing. In fact, it might as well be legal.”

  “Okay, I understand what you’re saying. I’m not defending what the feds do. Not if they’re breaking down the door and shooting your dog.”

  “You even it up on both sides, at least, then you don’t have people moving stuff across the border. You realize it doesn’t matter what the stuff is, right? It could be bubble gum, for God’s sake. As long as people want it and it’s more legal on one side than the other…”

  “I know,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “It’s kind of the golden age for sellers right now. More general acceptance means more people smoking it. Which means a lot more sales for them until it finally becomes legal and Phillip Morris puts them out of business.”

  “How come you know so much about selling pot?”

  “I don’t sell, if that’s what you mean. Never did.”

  Then my cell phone rang and I had to spend the next few moments locating the damned thing on the floor.

  “Mr. McKnight, I’m returning your call.” It was Chief Benally.

  “Hello, Chief,” I said, trying to remember why the hell I had called him. This was earlier in the day, before I had found Vinnie’s father and everything had taken such a sudden left turn.

  “What’s going on? My officer said you wished to speak to me.”

  “I guess I was just wondering if you had heard anything from Vinnie yet.” I sense
d Lou sitting up straight and leaning closer.

  “I told you I’d be in touch if I heard anything. Where are you right now, anyway? You sound like you’re in your vehicle.”

  “I’m just heading into town,” I said, looking over at Lou. He gave me a double wave of his hands, like a man signaling to the bartender not to tell his wife he’s there.

  “Kinda late, isn’t it?”

  “I’m a night owl, Chief. But I appreciate you calling me back.”

  “I’m dead serious,” he said. “You’re not out there trying to find Vinnie, are you?”

  “I’m driving to the Soo. I can’t imagine why he’d be there. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  The line was silent for a few seconds. I could picture him on the other end, closing his eyes and counting to three.

  “I think I’ve been very up front with you,” he finally said. “I was hoping for the same in return.”

  “I’ll try to do the same,” I said, not quite sure what else to say. “Not that I’m in the loop here. At all.”

  He hesitated again, but then he let me off the hook and wished me a good night.

  “Which chief are we talking about?” Lou said as I put the phone down.

  “Bay Mills. Chief Benally.”

  “Benally? I don’t know that name.”

  “He’s not a local. They brought him in from Wisconsin.”

  “Are you kidding me? A foreigner is running the Bay Mills police?”

  “I said Wisconsin, not France.”

  “That’s been a steady gig for somebody on the rez ever since they formed the department.”

  “Maybe getting some new blood is a good idea, then.”

  He shook his head at that one. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I notice you didn’t want him to know you were in the truck with me. You were assuming he’d remember you?”

  “There’d be a few of the old-timers who’d be surprised to see me around, put it that way. Even if this guy didn’t grow up on the rez, I’m sure he’s got a few other guys around him who have.”

  “So what’s the big deal? What happens if some of these old-timers find out you’re back after all these years?”

  “I think we’ll probably find out eventually,” he said. “I just don’t see any reason to flag down the welcome wagon.”

  I looked over at him, wondering just how high the pile of ashes was from all of the bridges he had burned in his life. I kept driving down that dark empty road, listening to his breathing. He sounded tired. It was a long, long day for him, one that had started on the other side of the country, but I didn’t figure he was ready to rest. Not quite yet.

  I hit the highway and gunned it north until we reached the first exit.

  “Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan,” he said as we pulled onto the side streets. “I spent a few years drinking in the bars there. I wonder how many are left.”

  “I’m guessing one or two of them are still around.” I looped up to Ashmun Street and headed into the downtown area, or what you’d call downtown if the Soo were big enough to have one. We were looking for a Mr. Andy Dukes, apparently the man to see for high-quality marijuana if you’re in Sault Ste. Marie. He lived on Hursley Street. I vaguely remembered that street hitting Ashmun somewhere around the power canal.

  We passed a few cars coming in the opposite direction. It was just after 1:30 A.M. now. Almost closing time, but all of the good bars were down this way on Portage Street so this would be the one part of town still awake. As if to make that point, a solitary Soo police car sat still and dark in front of the theater, waiting for somebody with beer-dulled senses to come roaring by.

  The bridge over the power canal was just ahead of us. That’s when I saw the turn for Hursley Street, the very last turn before the canal. I took the right and drove down the street. Once we had put Ashmun behind us, it quickly became two parallel rows of suburban houses, not much different from any other street in any other town. Although even now on a warm July night, you could see how the long winters had taken their toll on these houses. There wasn’t a single sheet of siding or a single window frame that didn’t bear the scars.

  “Not the ritziest street in the world,” Lou said. “Not for a successful pot dealer.”

  “This town doesn’t do ritzy.”

  “You’re right about that. Some things don’t change.”

  “Pot dealers like to stay under the radar, even if they can afford a mansion.”

  Lou looked at me and laughed. “Okay, Detective Friday. Whatever you say.”

  I shook my head.

  “That was from Dragnet. Gannon and Friday.”

  “Yeah, I got the reference.”

  “Which house are we looking for, anyway?”

  I slowed down and began checking the house numbers. We found the one we wanted a block and a half down, on the north side of the street. I rolled to a slow stop, turned off my lights and then the ignition. We sat there for a while, letting our eyes adjust to the darkness and listening to the warm engine ticking.

  The house was one of several in a row that seemed to have been built with the exact same plan, probably by the same builder in the same year. Dukes’ was two stories high, and it looked tall and narrow as it stretched back to make the most of the lot. There was an enclosed front porch, pretty standard for any house this far north, and there was just enough room on each side of the house for a driveway, with a detached garage in the back. Two beat-up old lawn chairs sat empty in the front yard.

  The house was completely and utterly dark. There was no car in the driveway or parked immediately out front on the street. We couldn’t tell if there was a car in the garage.

  “Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Lou said.

  “It is kinda late. Maybe he’s asleep.”

  “This is prime time for a pot dealer.”

  “What do you say we go knock on the door, just to make sure?”

  “You cops don’t have any manners at all,” he said, but he got out and went right along with me. I knocked on the exterior front door first, then opened it and stepped onto the porch. A distant memory told me this wouldn’t technically be illegal entry, although I may have had that wrong. Not that it mattered anyway. There was a doorbell next to the interior door. When I pushed it, I heard the bell ringing somewhere deep in the house. Then there was nothing but silence. As I left, I looked around the porch and saw a great mess of old furniture, broken-down antiques and toys and God knows what else.

  I looked around the side of the house and spotted Lou out back by the garage. He was peeking through the window.

  “There’s just junk in there,” he said as he rejoined me. “No car. You think he ran?”

  “If he knows what happened at the airport, I guess I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “But he’d only run if he thought it would come back on him, right?”

  I nodded, thinking it over.

  “Either the cops connecting him to it,” Lou said, “or somebody else. Somebody a lot worse.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Seems like you’d have to have a pretty active imagination to think they’d be coming after you, just because you happened to be in the same supply chain.”

  “Unless he was a little more involved in it.”

  “Or maybe we’re the ones with the active imaginations,” I said. “He could just be out at one of the bars. They don’t close for a few more minutes.”

  “We could wait,” Lou said, “unless you feel like talking to one of his neighbors.”

  The porch light was on in the house to the left, but otherwise the place was dark. The house on the right had no exterior light on at all, but we could make out a flickering blue glow coming through the side window.

  “Looks like somebody’s still up over here,” Lou said, “watching a little late-night TV. Think he’d mind a visit?”

  I crossed the front lawn and driveway. I was just about to knock on the door when I saw that this house actually
had a doorbell on the exterior. An amazing innovation. I pressed it and heard a two-tone chime going off inside the house. Lou was standing right next to me, and for a moment I wondered what we’d look like standing there at somebody’s door at almost two in the morning, my beaten-up ex-catcher ex-cop white face next to Lou’s sun-ravaged version of an old Indian. If it was a woman here in the house alone, say, then I could imagine her being scared right out of her socks.

  A light came on outside, just about blinding us. The exterior door opened and the late-night television watcher looked out at us. It was a man, and then some. He had to go around two hundred and a half, a lot of it beer gut, but he also had hamhocks for arms, with faded tattoos on either side. He was wearing an almost-white undershirt and black pants that sagged under his belly.

  “Who are you guys?” he said. He was unshaven and the hair he had left on his head was slicked back. “What the hell do you want?”

  “We’re looking for your next-door neighbor,” I said. “Andy Dukes. Do you happen to know where he is?”

  “He left,” the man said. “He drove to Texas a couple of days ago. I got no idea when he’ll be back. If ever.”

  “Do you know of any way to get in touch with him?”

  “I told you, he’s gone. I got no phone number. No address. No nothing.”

  “I’m smelling a little something in the air,” Lou said. He took a step closer and tried to peek around him, into the house. “I take it you’re a loyal customer of Mr. Dukes?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man said. “I think you guys should leave.”

  “If you’re not a customer, then maybe you sell some yourself? What do you say?”

  The man was flexing his forearms and looked about ready to jump on us both at the same time. But Lou stepped even closer to him.

  “Come on, friend,” he said. “We’re just looking to take the edge off, okay?”

  “I’m not your friend,” the man said, “and I still don’t know what you’re talking about. So why don’t you get the hell out of here?”

  “Can we leave a phone number in case you hear from—”

  “I told you, he’s gone and I don’t expect to have any contact with him.”