Ring Game (14 page)

“No. I’m dying. Can’t you tell?” She made the sound again, something between a groan and a scream, drawing it out until she was sure everyone in the room was staring at her. She waited, remaining silent until their attention drifted to other things, then repeated the sound, this time punctuating it with a spell of dry coughing. Carmen looked over at the nurse, who was fixedly staring at the top of her desk. Carmen produced another wail of pain and despair, aiming this one directly at the nurse and holding it until she looked up and their eyes met. The nurse turned away, but both she and Carmen knew who was in charge now.

It too a full five minutes of howls, groans, wails, and coughs for them to come for her. A nurse appeared with a wheelchair and motioned for Carmen to have a seat. Carmen’s histrionics instantly ceased.

As they entered the examination room the nurse said, “You know, you’ll have to wait just as long as you would have outside. We only have so many doctors.”

“That’s okay,” Carmen said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

In fact, she was counting on it.

“As far as his criminal record goes, he’s clean, Joe.”

“Like me.” Crow pressed the phone to his ear and gazed into the Formica top of his small kitchen table. Overlapping green and blue boomerang outlines on a pale yellow background.

Wes Larson said, “No, not like you. Do you want to know what we’ve got on you?”

“Not really.”

“Okay. But I’ve got it right here if you need it.”

“Thanks a lot, Wes. I’m more interested in Hilton.”

“Okay. I got a few hits on his name, but he’s never done time. And he’s never been married in Minnesota or Wisconsin, at least not under his own name, which, it appears, is genuine. I have a Hyatt Hilton born in Biwabik, Minnesota, forty-five years ago this coming September. Does that sound right?”

“Could be.” Crow wrote the date down on the phone book cover. “He doesn’t look quite that old. You said you got a few hits. What’s that mean?”

“You sure you don’t want to know what they’ve got on you?”

“Not unless it’s an outstanding warrant.”

Wes did not reply immediately. Crow heard the clatter of thick fingers on plastic keys.

Wes said, “No warrants.”

“I’m so relieved. What about Hyatt Hilton?”

“He was named in a few drug investigations. Identified as a small-time dealer, questioned a few times but never cracked. Your friend is right to be concerned. He sounds like a bad guy never got caught.”

“But no convictions?”

“Never even got himself arrested.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. He filed an assault complaint last spring. I got a copy of the report here. Just a second.” Rustling papers. “May third. He claimed to have gone to a meeting of this church group, made a few unwelcome comments, been dragged out behind the building and beaten up. The injuries were superficial. Case never went anywhere.”

“Why not?”

“Apparently, Hilton had not been invited to the meeting. He was being disruptive. Refused to leave. They threw him out.”

“Who were ‘they’?”

“Just a second. The name of the place was … um … ACO Ministries. Rupert Chandra, Polyhymnia DeSimone, Charles Bouchet, and Charles Thickening were named in the complaint.”

“I think the first two were Hilton’s partners in the health food store,” Crow said.

“I see. Apparently, Hilton was totally out of control, screaming threats and obscenities at Chandra and DeSimone. When Bouchet tried to escort Hilton to the door, according to witnesses—there was a whole room full of people—Hilton kicked Bouchet in the shin and took a swing at him … ‘fists flying,’ it says. This is pretty good. The guy should’a been a writer. Let’s see … Thickening and Bouchet grab Hilton, hustle him out the back and toss him in a dumpster. After hearing all this, told back to him—listen to this: ‘Upon being apprised the opposing point of view, the complainant elected to drop the charges.’ Reading between the lines, I’d say the officer taking the complaint told Hilton to get lost.”

“I’m getting too old for this kind of work,” said Lawrence Bolles, M.D., who had recently celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday. “What have I got next?” He was scrubbing his hands again, the twenty-third time since the beginning of his shift. Having just finished stitching up another Roller-blader, he was preparing to minister to his twenty-fourth patient. He hoped that it would be someone unconscious. He’d run out of bedside manner six patients ago.

“You’ve got an abdominal pain,” said the nurse, Ginny Stevens.

“Oh,
man
!” Dr. Bolles preferred the straightforward mechanical jobs: cuts, tears, breaks, punctures, and dismemberments. Things that could be sewn, splinted, taped, or clamped back together. Bellyaches were the worst—they could be anything, but were almost always nothing. “Can’t you let Varley handle that one?”

“This one’s been waiting for a while. She was making a lot of noise. Deedee says she’s faking it.”

“Deedee thinks everybody’s faking it. That’s why we love her.” He picked the chart from the wall. “Vitals look good. I guess I’d better have a look. Could be anything. Appendicitis, peritonitis, perforated ulcer—nah, not at her age. She isn’t pregnant, is she? Could be something. Probably not. Never know.” Dr. Bolles knew he was muttering to himself, thinking out loud as he often did near the end of his shift. “Where’d you put her?”

“She’s in six.”

“How old? Oh, I see. Twenty-three. Name? Carmen Miranda. Fruit on her head?”

“I didn’t notice,” said Nurse Stevens. “But she’s good looking, if you like the sleepy, big-chested type.”

“Oh?” said Dr. Bolles, suddenly interested.

Ginny Stevens, who was about the same age as Dr. Bolles’s older sister, gave him a crooked smile. Dr. Bolles chuckled. All the nurses were either hitting on him or trying to get him fixed up. They abhorred a single doctor the way nature abhors a vacuum. He stepped through the curtains into cubicle six wearing his sexiest George Clooney smile.

The supply cabinet doors were standing open, but no one was in the room.

Axel and Sophie stood near the center of the American Legion Post 684’s banquet room, a dimly lit, wood-paneled cavern that smelled of wet cardboard and Pine Sol. Folding tables and chairs lined one wall. A battered wooden podium stood forlornly on the small stage at the end of the hall.

“It’s hard to find a reception space on such short notice,” Sophie said. “But with the table settings and the flowers and the band, this room will look quite elegant.”

Axel grunted.

Sophie walked up to the lip of the low stage. “We can have the ceremony right here. Once we get it decorated, it’ll be really nice. You’ll see.”

“I thought they were going to get married in a church.”

“I thought so too, but Hy’s not Catholic and besides, we couldn’t get a nice church for the date we want. We were lucky to get this.”

“What about that place where we met that Reverend?”

Sophie said, “This will be a lot easier than everybody going to a church, then getting into their cars and driving over here.” She had wanted the church, too, but somehow—she couldn’t remember his reasoning, exactly, Hyatt had convinced her that this would be better.

Cap York, the post’s manager, bartender, and janitor, came in through the door connecting the banquet room to the bar. York was a large man, about Axel’s height with twice his girth. He wore low-slung khakis and a powder-blue American Legion T-shirt. Despite his considerable abdominal amplitude, York maintained a military bearing—feet at shoulder width, shoulders thrown back, head held high on his neck. His gray hair was cropped short, as was his bristled mustache. His beefy arms brandished an assortment of faded blue tattoos.

“Whaddya say, folks?” he barked.

Sophie smiled up at Axel.

Axel said, “What’s this going to cost me?”

“Basic rate, four-twenty. Includes set-up and cleaning, within reason. You got your own caterer, right?”

Sophie and Axel both said, “Yes.”

“I gotta have two hundred to hold the room. I got somebody else might want it, high school reunion, something. Whaddya say?”

Axel said, “Suppose the wedding is called off?”

He shrugged. “We keep the two hundred. Look, I gotta get back to the bar. I got customers. You want to think about it, fine. I’ll be up front.” He wheeled and marched out, his frame perfectly erect within his sagging abdomen.

Sophie crossed her arms and put her nose right up to Axel’s chin. “What do you mean, ‘Suppose it’s called off?’”

Axel took a step back. “You just never know what’s going to happen,” he said.

Novelty, portability, and good taste. You’ve got to have all three.

—Axel Speeter

J
OE? HOW’S IT GOING?”
Axel’s voice boomed over the telephone.

Crow held the receiver out from his ear. “It’s going okay,” he said. He had no idea how it was going. He’d only been awake for twenty seconds.

“What are you doing? I mean right now!”

“Just … ah … just getting started here, Ax.” Crow shuffled over to the refrigerator, opened the door, stared blearily at its contents. “Not really doing anything.”

“Well come on over then! I want you to try something.”

“Uh … I’m just waking up, Ax. Listen, you want to know what I found out about Hyatt? Can I call you back?”

“C’mon over. Let’s talk about it.”

“There’s not much to talk about. I checked into—”

“You know where the trailer is, don’t you, Joe? You know where Landfall is?” Crow heard a sharp voice in the background. Axel said, “Sophie says to tell you it’s not a trailer, it’s a mobile home. Just look for the place with the yellow metal awning. You’ll see my truck parked out front.”

Crow took a breath and said, “I hadn’t really planned to drive across town, Axel. I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Crow was still trying to find something of interest in his refrigerator. He had a collection of aging condiments, some week-old spring rolls from the Saigon Cafe, and a butcher paper package, unopened, that had been there so long he could no longer remember what it contained. Whatever it was, it had cost him six dollars and fifteen cents.

“So come on over. I’ll feed you. Come on. I want you to try something.”

“Look, Ax, it’s not like I’ve got anything to tell you about Hyatt. He doesn’t have any kind of criminal record in Minnesota. And he’s not married. That’s all I know.” Crow pried the plastic lid off a can of Maxwell House. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Sure, sure. Come on over, and we can talk about it, okay? What do you say?”

Crow peered into the Maxwell House can. Less than a teaspoon of stale coffee remained. He said, “How are you doing for coffee?”

Crow had driven past the village of Landfall hundreds of times, but he had never entered it. A mobile home community with about six hundred residents, Landfall abutted the north side of I-94, just east of St. Paul. From the freeway, it had an uninviting, run-down, trashy aspect. Up close, that impression was amplified. The small cluster of shops at the village gate showed few signs of life. The beauty salon and convenience store were vacant, their boarded-up windows covered with graffiti. Only the liquor store, which was advertising a special on wine coolers, remained open. Crow drove into Landfall feeling like a tourist in a ghetto. These homes might have once been mobile, but most of them now looked as though they wouldn’t survive another move. They would be here until they collapsed or were demolished by a tornado.

As Axel had promised, Sophie Roman’s trailer—mobile home—was easy to find. It was one of the few Landfall residences that displayed any pride of ownership. A neatly trimmed lawn with a charming border of hasta and petunias surrounded the aluminum and fiberglass home, separating it from its less-well-groomed neighbors. An oversize aluminum awning, egg-yolk yellow, shaded the front stoop. To the right of the front stood a new eight by six-foot deck with a built-in bench and a Weber grill chained to the railing.

Axel smiled and waved from the bench. Crow crossed the small lawn on a narrow walkway made from cast concrete stepping stones. He climbed the three steps up to the deck.

“Siddown, siddown,” Axel said, standing and waving Crow onto the bench. He was wearing his usual outfit—white short-sleeved shirt and black trousers held up by clip-on suspenders. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

Axel disappeared inside. Crow stood up and put one foot on the bench. He rested his forearms on his knee and looked out at Landfall from this new perspective. Mid-morning sunlight warmed his face. This was what Axel and Sophie saw every morning. The air smelled of auto exhaust and—despite the early hour—barbecue. Rush hour traffic from I-94 produced a constant background buzz. According to Sam, Axel was practically a millionaire, but until he’d moved in here with Sophie, he’d been living in a Motel 6 near the fairgrounds. For Axel, this was living large.

Axel appeared and handed Crow a mug full to the brim with black coffee, very dark. Crow sniffed, took a sip. “Thank you,” he said. He sipped again. “It’s very good.” He tried not to show his surprise. He had expected the coffee to match the surroundings.

Axel smiled, showing off his full set of blindingly white dentures. “I like it strong.”

The two men sipped coffee for a minute without talking, listening to the traffic and the sound of dogs barking. Crow said, “I smell barbecue. Who’s barbecuing this time of the day?”

Axel gestured toward the Weber. “She’s just getting warmed up,” he said, offering no further explanation.

Crow said, “Well, I got the info you wanted on Hyatt Hilton.”

“You told me over the phone. He doesn’t have a record, and he’s not married.”

“That’s about it,” Crow said.

“Joe, let me ask you something. If you were at the state fair and you wanted something really tasty, something good for you, something you could really sink your teeth into … what would you want?”

Crow hesitated, sensing that he was being tested. “Uh, look, Axel, I’m sorry I laughed when you suggested I open up a stand, but the fact is, I’m really not interested in that kind of a business.”