1 Motor City Shakedown (22 page)

TWENTY

Johnny Two Leaf emerged from county lock-up with a big yellow envelope in his hands that contained a key to his parents’ house, his wallet, two expired condoms
, and the eleven assorted finger- and ear-rings they’d made him take off when he was processed.

He blinked in the afternoon glare and looked around the jail parking lot nervously. The Ace of The Game’s grand scheme of dominating the Marquette drug trade had steadily evaporated during his night in jail. He’d spent his time huddled and shivering on his cot while the drugs that had animated him worked their way out of his system. Around midnight, Johnny
became a sober and frightened twenty year-old, surrounded by urine-stained concrete and cold-eyed, staring inmates.

That morning, they fed him a moldy bologna sandwich and a cup of yellow water. Sitting there, staring at the inedible meal while another inmate grunted and hunched over the open toilet in front of him, Johnny Two Leaf abandoned hi
s grand scheme altogether.

Now he was out, and he didn’t know why. The deputy who’d fetched him from his cell and walked him through the out-take process had only been willing to tell him that he’d been bailed out, but not by whom.

He looked around the parking lot, and his gaze came to rest on a single person among the rows of vehicles. She was leaning against an old and beaten sedan, her arms folded across her chest. As he watched her, she stared at him with a singular, dead-serious expression.

‘Maybe Dad got me a lawyer,’
he thought.

That idea in his mind, Johnny descended down the little sidewalk that emptied out into the parking lot
, and approached the woman. She was wearing a business-woman’s blazer and a long skirt. Johnny squinted, and thought her clothing looked rumpled and dirty. As he got closer, and came to stop in front of her, he realized with a jolt of apprehension that the woman’s blazer, shirt, and skirt were all stained with blood.

That fact, coupled with the intensity of her gaze, leant Issabella Bright the appearance of a woman who had just undertaken the business of gruesomely murdering someone. Johnny swallowed with a dry click in his throat and wondered if this menacing apparition was some killer from Detroit. His young imagination ran away with notions of a deadly and beautiful female assassin, sent by her kingpin handlers to deal with him now that Vernon was dead and their heroin was unsecured. She’d have a name like ‘Bloody Mary’ or ‘The Widow’, and her seductive beauty would be surpassed only by her mercilessness.

Johnny forced himself to focus and cleared his throat with a nervous, faltering sound.

“Right, so what’s the rumpus
…” he started in his feigned cockney, but stopped.

That nonsense was behind him, he reminded himself. No more punk affectations. No more silliness that would land him back in a room with scary people who pooped in front of him.

He started over.

“Did you bail me out?”

She continued to stare at him for a long moment, her unwavering gaze appraising him, judging him. She looked like a person at the absolute end of her rope.

“I did,” she said. “I’m Issabella Bright. I’m your lawyer.”

“Did my dad hire you?”

He watched her stony expression soften, and for no reason that he could define the sudden softness in her eyes sent a terrible fear rustling through him.

“Johnny, we have a lot to talk about,” she said. Inexplicably, she reached out and put a hand on his arm. Johnny felt horribly afraid. “Get in the car. You need to come with me and I’ll tell you everything.”

Johnny did as she said.

*

There was an immeasurable time of darkness, in which he was formless and immaterial. When it passed, and a single spot of light appeared far away, Darren Fletcher swam up and out. His eyes opened and he was once again within the world.

That world was uncertain. He blinked and stared at the hospital room, every object fuzzy and indistinct. A rush of fear threatened the drug-haze serenity, a sharp memory of darkness and pain. She wasn’t leaving. She was staying there, in the darkness with him, and the realization tore at him. He wanted to stand up and push her out the window, push her into light and life.

“Izzy, go,” he heard himself croak.

Someone appeared over him. A soft hand touched his cheek, and he was gone, back into a darkness that was no longer threatening.

*

Issabella was still leaning over Darren, brushing his cheek and listening to the metronome beep of the machines monitoring his condition, when Special Agent Isaac Schultz walked into the room on the third floor of the Marquette General Hospital.

“Issabella Bright.”

“Agent Schultz,” she said, a simple acknowledgment, and turned back to the man in the bed.

Schultz walked around to the other side of the bed and looked down at Darren Fletcher. The sleeping lawyer was pale and haggard, his jaw covered in three days’ worth of whiskers. His right shoulder and pectoral were heavily wrapped and bound, a large white compress bandage affixed over the ball of his shoulder.

Schultz looked at Issabella standing watch; saw the depth of feeling in her face
.

Minutes passed in silence before she raised her head and offered him a steady gaze.

“I need to eat,” she said. “We can talk in the cafeteria.”

*

She picked at her salad and glanced around at the handful of hospital employees and visiting family members situated throughout the hospital cafeteria. Agent Shultz sipped a can of Coke and produced his pocket notebook.

“What do they say about Mr. Fletcher?”

She sighed and answered. “His shoulder is destroyed. He was shot by the leader of the TAC Team. We met him at the hospital in Vernon’s room. Allen Phelps. The local police found a sniper rifle outside Vernon’s crematorium up here. He shot Darren with a high velocity bullet that just…destroyed the enter shoulder joint.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged and nodded. She pushed the uneaten salad away from her.

“They can’t replace the joint here,” she said. “It’s just a regional hospital. Tomorrow they’re going to fly him down to U of M in Ann Arbor. The doctor I talked to said they can replace the entire joint. I guess he has, like, Donald Trump-level insurance.”

“That’s all good news.”

“I know. I know… it’s just a lot to take in. I’m still trying to get it all arranged and ordered in my head.”

They were quiet for a little while, until he decided to just wade into what he needed to discuss.

“Johnny Two Leaf,” he said.

She regarded him with a flat and level expression.

“That would be my client,” she said.

“I need him,” he said. “From what we’ve found at the crematorium, and after going through all of Vernon’s tax records, it looks like your client is mixed up in the drug-running business with the TAC Team and Vernon.”

“Really.”

“Issabella, he’s in serious trouble.”

“So charge him.”

“I want to
talk
to him,” he said, careful to keep his voice conversational. “Allen Phelps is still on the run and unaccounted for. One of his TAC buddies was burned to death in a Detroit landfill. Johnny Two Leaf might be the only person who can tell me how extensive the police conspiracy was. He needs to come in, and he needs to come in now.”

Issabella uncapped the bottle of water she’d bought and took a long swallow.

“Transactional immunity,” she said. “He gets a free pass. He’s a very mixed-up kid whose father just got murdered because Johnny was unlucky enough to get swept up with Vernon and his crummy little schemes. He’s got more guilt right now than anyone should have to suffer. If you can sign off on that kind of immunity, I can produce a Johnny who will absolutely sing for you about the Detroit Police Department. Vernon liked to talk.
A lot
.”

Agent Schultz finished his Coke, thought for a moment, then nodded his head.

“That’s not impossible,” he said. “I’ll make the deal, if I can.”

“Good,” she said, and got up. She put her tray away and walked out of the cafeteria without a backward glance.

*

In the darkness, the little green-eyed girl held Darren’s hand in hers.
He didn’t know how long she’d been there, standing stock-still at the side of his bed, a diminutive and silent sentinel.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry nobody ever found you. I think…I think maybe it’s too late now.”

The green eyes of the child shifted in the darkness, sliding over to rest on his.

“You’ll have to wake up,” she sing-songed and he felt her grip tighten, stronger than he would have imagined. “You’ll have to wake up, wake up, wake up…”

“Shoshanna, I’m so sorry.”

She smiled. A wide, unabashed child’s smile. Darren stared into the dark voids where her teeth were missing. Tears welled up in his eyes and he screwed them shut against the grinning specter.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t get the words out.
He swallowed hard against the sadness and regret. He took a deep breath and started again. He told Shoshanna the one true thing he knew, the only true thing he’d discovered since his life had fallen apart around her disappearance.

*

Issabella’s head snapped up. She leaned forward, still cupping his hand in hers. His eyes were still closed, but he had squeezed her hand. He’d squeezed it tightly and begun to speak for the first time in the several hours she’d sat there.

“I have to try,” he whispered, a hoarse and weak sound that only barely reached her ears.
“With her. I have to try again.”

“Darren?”

He gave her hand another squeeze and she watched a hint of a grin touch his lips.

“Okay,” he softly agreed.
“Okay. You go outside and play, sweetheart.”

*

Time passed.

Late on a Wednesday, Darren woke in his bed and found Judge Chelsea Hodgens sitting silently near the window.

When he stirred, she looked at him and smiled.

“This all took a rather odd turn, didn’t it?” she said.

“Is Izzy here?”

“She was.
I told her to go home and get some sleep. Your surgeon told me she hasn’t left your side since they flew you down here to Ann Arbor. I think maybe you’ve got yourself a companion.”

Darren nodded, glad to hear that someone had managed to convince Issabella to tend to herself.
Theresa had tried on both occasions she’d visited him before his surgery, but Issabella hadn’t budged. She’d stayed with him in the crematorium’s closet, and all throughout the ordeal of his recovery. Apparently, it had taken a judge’s order to force her to tend to herself for a little while.

“She’s amazing,” he said, more to himself than for Chelsea’s benefit.

“I wasn’t sure,” she admitted. “When I met her in my chambers, she seemed a bit…uncertain. Nervous. I suspected you might run roughshod all over her.”

Darren remembered standing beside Issabella in the parking garage, while she explained to him the realities of her personal storm of anxieties.

“She faced her fears,” he said. “When I was shot. She…I don’t know. I think she probably knows her worth now.”

Chelsea got to her feet and walked over to him.
She put a hand lightly on his mop of curls, a motherly gesture.

“I’m glad she was there with you,” she said.
“I’m glad you’re still in the world, Darren.”

“I’m a little relieved, myself.”

“I convinced Judge Sharpe to dismiss the contempt charge. It took some doing, but he’s been secretly in love with me for a while. We’re having dinner, apparently.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“You didn’t need to serve a judge with a bogus lawsuit in open court.”

“Admittedly.
Yes.”

“You better keep her close, Darren.
You’re lousy on your own.”

Judge Hodgens retrieved her purse from beside the chair and gave him a final smile.
He watched her walk out, saw her pause at the doorway. When she looked at him, her expression was flat and stoic.

“Shoshanna Green is dead, Darren.
If you don’t know that, then it isn’t she who is haunting you. You’re haunting her. You know that, don’t you? You can only help the living.”

She turned and walked out the door before he could answer.

TWENTY ONE

S
ummer gave way to the withering months of autumn, and the streets of Thunder Bay, Ontario were transformed into slick, ice-packed trenches between sidewalks heaped with plowed snow. The prime fishing season was coming to a close and the days were drawing into themselves, stunted and pale under the distant sun. Beards thickened, tires were strapped and bound in chain, and the idle boatmen hustled through the evening hours from tavern to home, calling out their farewells to one another in the sharp chill.

One man stalked briskly across the downtown sidewalks, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his big, overstuffed coat. A black knit cap was pulled down to his eyebrows, and a rough beard of brown curls afforded him the look of any other local laborer. He kept himself hunched, head down against the snapping breath of Lake Superior’s northern edge.

Allen Phelps coughed haggardly into his fist, huffing plumes of frost into the air. He shuddered and came to an abrupt, shaky halt long enough to tamp down the dizziness that swam up and through him. He’d been sick for three days now, and he was certain he was in the worst of it now. His joints felt like they were stuffed full of sawdust, and he was consumed with an exhausting fever.

He started off again once the wave of nausea subsided, and made it the two blocks to the public pay phone mounted on the wall outside the Blue Moose Pub. Allen lifted the receiver out of its cradle and stuck the end up under the lip of his cap, against his ear.

He fed a stream of coins into the slot while he looked from left to right, keeping his eyes moving and searching through the gloom of evening.

Two intersections away, the light flashed green and a blurry, rumbling mass started toward him. Allen stared at the indistinct vehicle and his face settled into a resentful and ugly mask. He held his free hand over his right eye and the edges of the pick-up truck sharpened, pulling into focus. Its blinker signaled and the truck turned away.

Allen had spent weeks treating his eyes with over-the-counter wash kits. But after enough time with no improvement, he had accepted reality. His sniper’s vision was never going to be restored. The rotten bitch had half-blinded his right eye, and his left was still less than perfect.

“Yo.”

Allen pushed the resentment away and focused on the mission at hand.

“It’s me,” he said. “Three and a half weeks, bud. When the hell is this happening?”

“When I don’t feel nervous anymore.”

“
You’re
nervous?” he hissed. “I’m shitting my pants every time a tow truck turns its flashers on. I sit in this fucking fishing hole any longer and I’m going to grow gills.”

“That’s funny. But what do you want? You’re too popular, bro.”

“What do I want? I want one of your dipshits to get on a plane and flap their ass out here. Make the exchange and fucking have a nice day. I need to move. And sooner than later I’m going to do exactly that. If I do that before one of your boys comes around, the fairy dust is going down the fucking toilet.”

“That would be very unfortunate.”

“Sure would.”

The voice in the phone was quiet for a long minute, and Allen started to worry the amount of time he’d bought would run out. He fished in his pockets for more change and strained to hear the muffled conversation transpiring on the other end of the line.

“Alright,” the voice said, and Allen stopped patting his pockets.

“Alright what?”

“Kid’ll fly out tomorrow. Same terms. Just stay inside and be there when he gets there.”

“Beautiful,” Allen said, and hung up the phone.

He stifled another fit of hacking and slunk back through the gloom.

Once he’d made the trip to Thunder Bay on the big public ferry, Allen had quickly found the local paper-- a thin pamphlet of mostly-classified ads available for free in little street-corner boxes.

An hour later he’d secured a rented flat on the second-floor above an antique shop named ‘Olde Tyme Wonders’. The owner of both the shop and the building was a plump, overly-cheery woman who didn’t so much as blink at the handful of crisp, large-denomination bills Allen passed to her.

Now, energized with the anticipation that the heroin would get transformed into hard cash come daylight, Allen tromped up the weather-beaten stairs to the second-floor landing. He paused a second to suffer another wracking fit of coughs, then keyed his way into the rooms he’d been hiding in for a month now.

Once he stepped into the threshold and stomped the caked snow off his boots, Malcolm Mohommad emerged, unseen and silent, from the bathroom doorway to Allen’s left.

Malcolm wrapped one large hand over Allen’s mouth and used his free hand to reach around and sink a six-inch kitchen knife into Allen’s stomach. The point went in through his belly button and sank all the way to its handle, wedging itself inside his intestines and settling there when Malcolm released it.

Allen screamed into Malcolm’s muffling palm, and he jerked like a marionette. Malcolm held him easily, keeping him from thrashing away or falling over. He held him like that for several minutes, as blood filled Allen’s abdomen and his flailing grew weaker. Eventually, his breath became shallow, his eyes went vacant and he stopped struggling altogether. Malcolm continued to hold him in his arms for another minute, listening to the man’s miserable groaning and wheezing.

Satisfied that Allen had passed the point where he could hope to struggle his way into alertness, Malcolm eased him to the ground. He left Allen lying on his back, his shoulders and head propped up by the corner where the front wall and the side wall met. His head lolled and his chin touched his chest like a junkie on the nod.

Malcolm disappeared into the unlit depths of the rooms. When he returned, he was carrying the little table-lamp that had been sitting next to Allen’s bed. He plugged it in near Allen and spent a few moments placing it in various spots on the floor near the softly weeping TAC lieutenant.

“Lighting is very essential,” he said, and moved the lamp a few inches to the left. He looked at the way its light poured over Allen, throwing his shadow high on the wall. “A novice artist is likely to ignore it and focus exclusively on line weight and form. But the contrast of light and darkness is far too important to take lightly, much less ignore.”

Malcolm straightened. He dragged a chair in from the little dining nook and positioned it a few feet away from Allen. The big man shed his Carhartt jacket, neatly hanging it on the back of the chair.

“Wh…who…,” Allen wheezed, and his eyes rolled like marbles in his head.

Malcolm disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a moment later with a plastic bag full of the art supplies he had bought at the Marquette Meijer’s.

“Don’t…”

From inside the Carhartt jacket, Malcolm produced a camera. He pushed the button to power it up and crouched down in front of Allen. He began to take photos of the dying man, occasionally tabbing through the camera’s digital menu to double-check the quality of a particular shot. He took dozens of photographs, silent and contemplative. He leaned in close and took a photo of Allen’s grimacing visage.

“No real artistic statement can be achieved in a single image,” Malcolm said, and took another picture from above Allen, looking down at the length of his prone form. “Any great masterwork is the brother of a thousand, unheralded sketches and failed attempts. Photography is a practical tool in preserving the original subject for later artistic interpretation. No matter how accomplished the sketches I produce tonight may be, still they will be far from worthy. That will come over time and labor, with these photographs as an aid.”

A bubble of saliva formed in the corner of Allen’s mouth. The handle of the kitchen knife quivered with each shallow intake of breath like some foreign antennae growing out of him.

“Mon...hey…ah…ah…muuun…ayyyy…”

Satisfied that he had captured every vital angle, Malcolm placed the camera back in his jacket pocket and settled into the chair. He lifted the bag of art supplies into his lap and began to pick through them. Eventually he had a sketchbook open in his hands and an assortment of pens and pencils stuck in a row inside his shirt pocket.

“Pluh…please…”

Outside in the darkness, a truck rattled by, its chained tires grinding over the packed snow. Malcolm stared through the window, placid and still. Eventually the sound of the truck’s engine dwindled away and was gone.

*

Issabella was loading her office computer monitor into the back of Theresa’s unicorn-van when a beaten taxi puttered to a stop a few feet from her and disgorged Darren Fletcher. He shot Issabella a wry smile and bent back into the taxi. When he straightened again, he had a large rectangle bound in flowery gift-wrap held in his left hand. His right arm was bound across his chest in a sling.

“Did you get me a present?” she said, and kissed him as he came to a stop in front of her.

“A shared gift, really,” he said. “As much for me as for you. Well, mostly for you. But, still, a little for me. I’m not helping you carry things, you know.”

“Yes. That’s a given.”

“And I don’t think that means I’m not still very chivalrous.”

“I think you’ve earned a pass, yes.”

Theresa appeared from inside the little law office, the big woman carrying a cardboard box stuffed with law books. She added it to the nearly-full van, stood straight, and lit a cigarette.

“How’s the gimpy shoulder?” she said.

“Still gimpy,” Darren admitted. “The therapist says I’m not exercising it enough on my own.”

Theresa nodded and squinted at him around the cigarette smoke.

“That’s because you’re a lazy-ass,” she said.

Darren set the gift-wrapped rectangle down, propping it against the van’s bumper. He reached into his jacket and when his hand emerged it was held in a fist. He extended it toward Theresa, who stared at him skeptically.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Theresa,” he said. “Thank you for the booth and the coffees and for not just throwing me out when I was all messed up.”

He unfolded his fingers. Sitting in his palm was a small crystal unicorn. It was crafted and etched with exquisite care, and its horn was winking sapphire.

Theresa’s breath hitched in her throat. She held the unicorn in one hand, delicately.

“I wouldn’t throw out a frien
d,” she mumbled. She climbed into the driver’s cab of the van.

“You know, you have these moments when you seem like the most thoughtful guy in the world,” Issabella said.

“When we’re in bed?”

“Fleeting moments, admittedly.”

Darren lifted the rectangle back off the ground and stared at the empty office.

“That’s all of it?” he said.

“Yep. I’m going to make sure the breakers are all off and lock it up. If you want to head out with Theresa, I’ll follow in my car.”

Darren smiled.

“You want a moment alone to say your farewells.”

Issabella nodded. “Yeah, something like that.”

He kissed her cheek and climbed into the van with his rectangle. The engine burped to life and the van drifted off down the road. Issabella stared after it and sighed.

Then she pivoted on her heel and peered up the long, ugly height of the Bingham Tower. The autumn wind kicked dead leaves around the base of the depressing relic and whistled through its shattered windows. She had first made her stand and set out on her own here, in the oppressive shadow of the Bingham, among the ruins of this abandoned stretch of yesterdays. She tried to think of something to say, a meaningful statement that would help cement this memory. Finally she grinned and looked at the vacant building for the last time.

“I win, you ugly old boner,” she said.

Her cell rang.

“Hey, mom.”

“Are you out of that place yet, Bella?”

“Almost.”

“That’s wonderful. I am so happy for you, you know.”

“I do know that. Thanks, mom.”

“And you’ll come by when you’re settled?”

“I will. I’ll even see about bringing Darren down.”

“Do that. I’ll make something nice.”

“Okay. I gotta go, mom.”

They said their goodbyes and Issabella stuffed her phone back into her jacket pocket.
She climbed into her Buick sedan and drove away, picking up speed quickly, hitting the on-ramp, smiling out at her clear, untroubled horizon.

*

Darren and Issabella stood on the sidewalk together, his good arm behind her waist, and looked up at the sign on the two-story downtown building.

“BRIGHT and FLETCHER

CRIMINAL DEFENSE”

It was a tasteful and expensive-looking sign hung above the big glass doors that lead into the red-brick building. The letters were elegant and shiny silver. As they admired the sign, Theresa walked from the van with an armload of computer cables. She disappeared into the lobby of the building.