Dead Bang (30 page)

“That'll be fine,” the manager announced from the office.

In the elevator, I stood at the back, and Jamal held a suitcase in each hand. Wendy said, “You could set those down.”

“Load's balanced just right, ma'am,” said Jamal.

The “suite” turned out to be two ordinary motel rooms with an adjoining door. One room had been set up with a bar, refrigerator, and living room furniture—the other remained generic. Wendy tipped Jamal, and he left.

“What about the FBI detail on our house?” asked Wendy.

“Matty said she'd ask. Either way, she'll call.”

“If she doesn't call, we aren't staying here,” said Wendy.

“Give Matty a couple of minutes. If she doesn't call, I'll call her. What did you give him?” I asked.

“Ten,” said Wendy. “Was that too much?”

“Nope, I think we're going to be his favorite guests. We just got off to a poor start.”

“He seems nice enough,” said Wendy. She cracked out the laptop and fired it up. “The package is on Ouellette south of Wyandotte in Windsor.”

“I've got a McDougall address on this bank statement.”

Wendy extended her hand, and I gave her a copy. “Four hundred and ten thousand dollars! There wasn't nearly that much money in that suitcase.”

“Canadian dollars,” I said. “Worth about seventy cents American. Maybe he already had some money in the account.”

Matty called. “We can cover your house until you get home,” she said. “You better be on the way.”

“I've got a GPS location on Manny,” I said, hoping it was true.

“Shoot.”

“What for?” I asked. “So you can read it to your boss with your next list of shit, so he can read it to his boss? The address is good now.”

“I'm coming down to the Detroit office,” said Matty. “I'll look at it myself.”

“It's in Canada.”

“Don't even think about it,” said Matty.

A male voice came on the line. “This is Special Agent in Charge Perry Haster, Mr. Hardin. I think we'll be able to cover your home until late tomorrow. Should you take some pictures on your visit, I'm sure Agent Svenson would like to see them.”

“That'll work,” I said.

“Just pictures, Mr. Hardin.”

“You want the address?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “You may take pictures of whatever you like. Specifically, we don't know why you're in Detroit. We will never have a revelation. Even after days of reflection, Mr. Hardin, nothing will come to mind.”

• • •

We found a safe in the closet of our living room, locked up our firearms, and went back down to the car. For grins, we took the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. The pleasure-boat traffic on the Detroit River looked like class change in a junior high school hallway.

On the Canadian side of the bridge we worked our way up to a sign that read
“Arret”
and some other things in French that meant, “Wait here until the car in front of you has been released.” I knew that because the signs were in English, too. The border guard, a young woman, wore a blue uniform and a scowl.

“Citizenship?”

“U.S.,” I said.

She reached her hand out of the booth. “Identification?”

I gave her our driver's licenses.

“When was your last visit to Canada?”

“It's been years,” I said. “We moved out to western Michigan.”

“What's your destination?”

“Casino.”

“How long did you plan to visit?”

“Two hundred dollars,” I said. “However long that is.”

“You have any tobacco products?”

“I have three or four cigarillos. My wife has a couple packs of cigarettes.”

“You have any firearms or ammunition?”

“No, ma'am.”

She handed back our licenses and a piece of paper with a number scrolled on it with a black felt marker. “Park under the portico, leave your keys in the ignition, and take this to the immigration office.”

Wendy and I frowned at each other and drove to the covered parking area. Through the immigration door, we met ladies in tan uniforms behind a counter with a Plexiglas shield. One took my numbered slip of paper and directed us to a glassed-in seating area with a cement floor. We
shared the space with a young couple and their three-year-old boy wearing a shirt, a diaper, and a pair of bare feet. He padded up to us and showed us a green sucker on a white stick from his mouth.

Wendy smiled. I said, “How ya doin', partner?” He laughed, popped it back into his mouth, and padded off.

A woman's voice announced from a speaker in the ceiling, “Get some shoes on that child or get him off the floor. People piss, shit, and vomit all over in there.”

Wendy and I scoped the joint out. It seemed pretty clean to me. Wendy glanced at me and shrugged. Through the window, I could see a pair of young men in blue uniform coveralls searching and admiring Daniel's Camaro.

“Oh dear, Mawtha,” I said, doing my best English aristocrat impression. “I do hope that Jeeves has remembered to take the bazooka from the trunk.”

Wendy smiled and gave me an elbow. “Just doing their job, Art. Besides, they're probably listening.”

The young couple was struggling to keep the child in their laps—to his loud complaint—when we received our summons from the speaker in the ceiling. “Mr. and Mrs. Hardin, please come to the counter.”

A woman in a tan uniform and a brunette ponytail said, “Things have changed in the last few years. When you come to Canada, you should bring your passport or a birth certificate.”

“Never needed that before,” said Wendy.

“Still don't,” she said. “You need it to get back into the United States. Enjoy your visit.” We stepped away. “Mr. Hardin.” She beckoned with a finger, allowing one eyebrow to raise. “Just you.”

I turned back. “Yes, ma'am.”

She leaned forward and said quietly, “About that bazooka, Mr. Hardin. If it's up your arse, I can arrange to have someone look for it.”

“Oh, I do hope that's not necessary.”

She showed me all her teeth and narrow eyes. “Enjoy your visit.”

We breezed out the door. “What was that about?” asked Wendy.

“She said they were, in fact, listening.”

We headed for the McDougall address on the bank statement. I turned right off Wyandotte, and all of the storefront signs morphed to Arabic with English subtitles. “Sweet Jesus,” I said. “We're in Canuckistan.”

“Looks just like Dearborn,” said Wendy, snapping away with the disposable camera she plumbed from the depths of her purse.

“Yeah,” I said. “Help me watch the numbers.”

The address on the bank statement turned out to be a video rental
shop, painted bright yellow and featuring decorative wrought iron covering the window and the door glass. Windows on the second floor suggested the possibility of flats or apartments above the storefronts. We checked the alley, creeping along in first gear. No white Escalade, but outside stairwells provided access to second-floor flats. Clotheslines strung between the stairwells drooped with laundry. Women in flowing dresses and head scarves loitered on the stairs watching children skitter in the alley and parking lot. Wendy snapped a few shots.

“Kinda crappy digs for a guy with half a million bucks,” I said.

“Canadian dollars,” said Wendy. She opened the computer.

“This is Canada,” I said and kept moving. The sudden weight of all the eyes on us exceeded safety limits.

“The package is still on Ouellette north of Wyandotte,” said Wendy. She fingered the turns using the map on the computer. We found the Escalade parked in front of the Buck Shop, “All Items One Dollar.”

I slid into a parking space in a strip mall across the street. From our spot, I counted three immigration law offices, all offering American and Canadian immigration services, visas, and certified Arabic-English translations.

“I think we should keep our distance from the Escalade,” said Wendy.

“No argument from me,” I said. “There's a soft ice cream shop over here. What say we get a cone, maybe with a chocolate dip, and sit at the tables in plain view where no one will see us?”

“Banana split,” said Wendy.

We took our time. Cool springtime air preserved our ice cream, and as the dimming sun gave way to the buzzing of neon signs, Manny and Mr. Unibrow strolled out of the Buck Shop.

Manny wore a tan suit and a stubble beard. He clutched a flat brown bag under his arm. Mr. Unibrow locked the shop door. Wendy snapped away until they both climbed into the Escalade. We dumped our refuse in a trash can, returned to the Camaro, and followed the Escalade to a comedy club on Wyandotte, The Brass Ball—“Open Mike Tonight.” The cover charge came to eight bucks American. “So anybody can get on the stage tonight?” I asked.

The doorman, taller than me, with a scarred face, broken nose, and a buzz cut, handed me a clipboard with a ballpoint pen on a chain. The heading on the roster clipped to the board had been printed in French and English. The English part explained that open mike participants had up to five minutes onstage at the management's discretion. The first hour had been booked solid. Half the names were Middle Eastern. None of them was Rashid Erekat.

The doorman said, “Think you're funny, eh?”

I handed him back the clipboard. “Maybe I'll just watch tonight.” He nodded.

“Boxer?” I asked.

“Hockey, eh?” he said. “Who's your team?”

“Maple Leafs, no doubt about it.”

He laughed. “Maybe you are funny, eh?”

A draft beer cost three bucks, but the overwhelming aroma in the club was burning hemp. “My guess is they don't mind if we smoke,” I said.

The tables near the stage had been crowded full. People gave up their seats to make room for Manny and Mr. Unibrow. We claimed a table at the rear of the room near the door so that we could sit with our backs to the wall. Wendy ordered iced tea. I couldn't pass on a Molson's draft.

“What do we do now?” asked Wendy.

“Let him come to us.”

“P
UT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER
,” said the emcee, a cigarette levering in his mouth and a draft beer sloshing onto his hand, “and give up some love for a Brass Ball favorite.” He clenched an eye against smoke from the cigarette. “The Martyr of Madcap—the Sultan of Satire—Mahmud Salim!” The audience answered with a clatter of applause and a couple of whistles. The emcee turned his head to look at Manny as he mounted the stairs. “Give it up.” He only pretended to applaud, but still managed to dribble beer onto the stage. “Mahmud, Saaa-liiim, everybody!”

The emcee made his exit, and Manny walked up to the mike, the left side of his face looking very red in the klieg lights. He opened his brown bag, looked inside, and raised his face to show the audience a devilish grin. The crowd rewarded him with a snicker. He snatched a folded bed sheet out of the bag and held it aloft as if he were displaying the head of a vanquished enemy. The crowd chanted, “Ouna! Ouna! Ouna!”

Wendy poked me and whispered, “What's Ouna?”

“I haven't got a clue,” I said.

Manny snapped out the sheet and draped it over his head. Holding it out from his face, he opened a slash with a box knife. Peering through the slit—only his eyes and a bit of his nose visible—he leaned into the mike and whispered in sly falsetto, “Hello, infidels.” The crowd roared. Manny adjusted the microphone down to the level of his chest.

Manny shot a pointed finger at the audience, but at no one in particular,
and yelled, “No! I don't drive. Could you drive a car with a sheet over your head?” Leaning over the mike he whispered a falsetto, “Silly infidel.”

“Yes!” again with a pointed finger. “I always walk behind my husband. My husband stole my uncle's goats. My uncle found out and said to give them back, but my husband poisoned them. I always walk a few steps behind my husband.” Into the mike, still in the falsetto, he said, “So I don't get any bullets on me.”

Manny waited for the laughter to subside then waved a finger in the air. “Always! I wear my burka when I am outside. Is like ten thousand sunblock and keeps the dust out of my hair and off my clothes.” Leaning into the mike, he squeaked out, “After the goats, would you want anyone to know who you are?”

“Ring, ring,” he said and produced a silver cell phone from his pocket and held it to his face. “Hello, hello, yes this is Ouna! … Hello Uncle. … Yes, I am in Windsor. … Oh, that is very sad about my husband.” Manny waited for the laugh and then peeped a whisper into the mike, “I didn't like him, even when he was just my cousin.”

After the rim shot, Manny turned from the mike with the cell phone still held to his face. “No, I don't have the money. … I invested it. … Yes. … In a red convertible,” Manny held the cell phone away from his head as if startled, waited for the laugh, and then put it back to his ear. “Yes, that is a very good investment. It has a stereo.” Manny sang some Arabic rock lyrics, made serpentine dance moves, and then whispered into the mike, “No, I don't drive it.”

When the laughter subsided, Manny went back to the telephone. “No, I did not do that. … I have a better idea. … There is money here just to rake up. We can make a whole business of painting infidel fingernails. … No, they do not want to paint their hands with henna. … No, just the women!” Manny turned to squeak into the mike, “Mostly.”

“I said no. … I didn't do that. … No, I have not seen Satan. … I have seen the Queen of England.”

Into the mike Manny explained, “She is on their money.”

“No, I cannot look across the river and see Satan. … In America they are very devout.… I can't take their money into the bathroom because all of it has the name of God on it.”