Since the Layoffs (11 page)

“Hi,” I say, to get her attention.

She looks down, recognizes me. “Oh, hi.”

“I saw you in Tulley’s last night.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Her voice is still smoky rough, and again it turns me on. I like the way she looks straight at me when she talks. “What’re you doing here?”

Okay, good question. What am I doing here? “Parking tickets,” I say quickly, my first experience with lying to the police.

“That’s Building One, downtown,” she says helpfully. “You’re in the wrong place.” She starts giving me directions when a big, muscular man in a perfectly pressed white shirt and a shoulder holster comes up behind us and interrupts.

“Mr. Skowran?”

“Yes?”

She stops talking, quickly realizing that I’ve fibbed about the parking tickets. My first attempt at lying to the police did not go well.

“I’m Detective Martz. You can come this way.” He motions for me to follow him.

“Nice seeing you again,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Say, what’s your name, by the way?”

“Officer Zadow.” She points to her name tag.

“No, your first name.”

“Sheila.”

“Sheila. That’s a nice name.” I’m about to be interrogated about a murder I’ve committed and I’m trying to pick up a cop in the lobby of the police station. I look at her left hand for a ring, and don’t see anything. I give her my warmest Jake smile. “I hope to see you at Tulley’s again sometime.”

“I’ll be there Thursday,” she says. “The darts tournament finals.”

“Excellent. See you there,” I say, as if she’s just agreed to a date. I turn to Detective Martz, who is waiting patiently. “Let’s talk,” I say.

Here’s what the cops do with me.

Detective Martz leads me along a maze of corridors and asks me to sit in a room with two chairs. The walls are yellow cinder blocks, and I sit and stare at them for fifteen minutes, until finally the door opens, and another detective, who doesn’t introduce himself, comes in holding a file.

“Are you Mr. Kendrick?” he asks. Before I can say no, he says, “No, Mr. Kendrick is black.” He nods to himself, happy to have sorted that out. Then he leaves. Five minutes after that a third detective opens the door and says, “Mr. Skowran?”

“Yeah?”

“Come with me, please.”

We go about five feet down a corridor to a different room, where he asks me to wait for a minute. This room is identical, except there are two chairs AND a table. I sit with elbows resting on the table for ten minutes, wondering if this is some kind of cop trick, faking you into thinking they’re so disorganized they couldn’t catch a killer if he walked in here and screamed “I’m the Killer!,” some kind of false-sense-of-security thing, then they spring it on you that they know everything, they’re all really smart and well organized. I notice a pen on the table, and I stare at it for a few minutes. “Shawford Industries” is written on the pen, with a phone number. I remember Shawford Industries, a business park a half hour north of here which closed shortly before our plant did. I practice balancing the pen on my nose for a few minutes, then inexplicably start chewing on it. Then I put it down, just as the door opens.

It is yet another detective. “Mr. Skowran?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, the detective investigating the Brecht homicide isn’t here at the moment.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Could you call him later today?”

“Do you have his number?”

The detective hands me a business card. “Thank you for coming in,” he says.

“Yeah, sure.” I had nothing better to do with this hour than sit in different chairs and chew pens, I almost say, but don’t.

I say goodbye nicely and throw the business card in the lobby trash can on my way out the door. The trash can appears to be hand-carved wood. That’s where the local government funds are going.

I’m back at home feeling safe (my opinion of the local police is even lower than usual) when Karl comes by. This time, for once, I’m wide awake.

“Karl, my man. Good to see you,” I lie.

He nods, almost smiles. He’s being suspiciously more pleasant than usual. We go down to the car, and he strikes up a conversation.

“Where you been? Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Where’re you from?” I am rifling through my pockets, looking for a ball point. “Damn. Have you got a pencil on you? I gotta write a note.”

Karl is quiet for a few seconds, then finally says, “I’m from Shawford. I used to work at Shawford Industries, but I got laid off.”

I’m about to tell him about my twice-in-one-day experience with the name Shawford Industries when he cuts me off. “Stole plenty of pens on my way out the door, though,” he says. He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket and hands it to me.

I’m looking at a Shawford Industries pen for the second time that day. It’s the same pen. It has my teeth marks on it.

I’m staring at the pen, just staring, blankly, wondering what to make of this, when Karl says, “Hey buddy, can I have my pen back if you’re not gonna use it?”

I give it back to him.

“Did you steal anything from your place when you got the axe?” he asks jovially. I know right away there is something wrong with this. Karl never got laid off.

“Uh-uh,” I say. Karl starts chattering on about how wonderful it is to steal stuff from work. I nod as if I’m listening, but I’m trying to think. I’m thinking, Karl has been in the police station today. I’m thinking, Karl has been in the police station today because he works there.

There is no other explanation.

We pull up to Ken Gardocki’s little hangout, the bar off in the woods in the middle of nowhere, just as it is starting to snow. Gardocki is in the parking lot, playing with a rottweiler puppy who is bounding around, trying to catch snowflakes. He waves at me as I get out of the car.

“Jake, how ya doin’? Look at this little guy.”

I watch the puppy for a few seconds. No doubt he is cute, but there is an undercover cop right behind me, just waiting for one of us to slip up, say something which will let everything out of the bag. Is he wearing a wire? Karl is standing only a foot from my left shoulder, almost breathing down my neck as I watch the puppy. The invasion of space bothers me.

“Ken, I’d like to talk to you for a second,” I say finally, when I think he’s just going to play with the damned dog all night.

“Sure, Jake. I want to talk to you, too.” The puppy comes up to me and starts bouncing around on my boots, waiting for my attention. I stare straight ahead.

I take a step toward Gardocki, and Karl follows. I turn around and say, politely, “Could you go inside for a minute? Me and G got something personal we need to talk about.”

Karl takes a step back but doesn’t go into the bar. The puppy gives up on me, runs up to Karl, and he starts playing with it.

“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?” Gardocki says. “I just got him today. I’m calling him Rufus Junior.”

“What happened to Rufus Senior?” asks Karl, who knows damned well what happened to Rufus Senior. He gave me the gun to do it, he hangs out with Gardocki all the time, he knows Gardocki’s wife and dog have passed away. He’s just asking to get something on tape, I figure. Before Ken can give any kind of answer, I wheel around on him.

“Are you fucking deaf? I just asked you to go into the bar?”

“Hey, man … “ he starts to protest. I guess he figured our bonding session, where he told me all about stealing pens from an imaginary factory he never worked in, had made us friends for life.

“Easy, Jake,” says Gardocki, finally taking his attention from the puppy and turning to me. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

I am still staring at Karl. “Get in the fucking bar. Leave us alone.”

“I don’t take orders from you—”

“Ken, will you tell this asshole to get in the fucking bar so we can talk?”

Gardocki and Karl look at each other for a few seconds, then Gardocki nods at him. “We’ll be inside in just a few minutes,” he tells Karl. “Why don’t you order us a pitcher of beer.”

Karl walks off into the bar, giving me what he probably imagines is a hard stare. I watch him go until the door is closed behind him.

“Ken, that guy is a cop.”

“Oh, shit, Jake. You’ve never liked him.”

“And now I know why. Because he’s a cop. He was down at the police station today.”

Gardocki thinks about this for a second. “What were
you
doing down at the police station?”

“The cops asked me to come and talk to them.”

“About what?”

“The guy from the convenience store, Brecht. I’m a suspect.”

“You stupid asshole, I told you to throw that gun away—”

“You’re missing the point. Karl was there. He was at the police station.”

Gardocki shrugs. “You were at the police station. Does that mean you’re a cop?”

I put my head in my hands and walk in a circle, and the puppy starts bouncing around my feet. I kick it, and it thinks I’m trying to play, so I kick again, harder. The puppy yelps.

“
Hey
!” Gardocki yells. “What’s the matter with you? You already shot one of my dogs …”

I pause for a second and take a deep breath. “Did you hear what you just said?”

Gardocki is comforting the puppy. It is wagging its tail madly, looking at me with doubt.

“That’s exactly the type of slip-up he’s waiting for, Ken. He’s wearing a wire, I guarantee it.”

Gardocki is thinking. The man isn’t stupid, he’s been a criminal in this town for a quarter of a century. All the drugs and gambling go through him. He didn’t get to where he is by not considering every angle, and I can see now that I’ve cracked something, that he is really considering the idea that Karl might be a cop.

“How did you meet him?” I ask.

“In a bar. Tulley’s. About five months ago. He said he needed work. He was with a guy from Shawford that I knew, guy who used to bring down drugs from Canada. The guy vouched for him.”

I think for a second. “That guy must have got busted. He made a deal. Introduce you to Karl for a free ride. The drugs, the gambling. They wanted you for something. They knew you were the closest thing this town has to a mob boss. He set you up.”

Gardocki is far away, thinking hard. “I haven’t seen that guy since,” he says. “You might be right.”

“I
am
right.”

Gardocki goes over to his sports car, opens the trunk, and takes out something wrapped in an oily rag. He hands it to me. I don’t even need to unwrap the rag. I know the weight by now. I put the bulky pack in my inside coat pocket.

“Let’s go talk to Karl,” he says.

We go into the bar, where Karl is waiting to order beers. Gardocki puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Let’s just get a couple of six-packs and head out to my lodge.”

Karl shrugs, orders the six-packs, and Gardocki pays for them.

We get in and Gardocki motions to Karl that he is driving. I get in the back seat and Gardocki pulls out onto the small, winding country road and turns away from the town. We drive out into increasing wilderness as the snow starts coming down harder.

“You’ve got a lodge out here?” Karl asks, and I wonder if I hear anything in his voice other than curiosity.

Gardocki nods and turns up the radio. We drive on for a few more minutes, and I don’t see a single car on the road in either direction, just increasing snowfall.

“We going to the Upper Peninsula?” asks Karl, and this time I’m sure I hear fear. Like he is trying to control it. Gardocki pulls the car over onto the shoulder. “Gotta take a leak,” he says. “Anyone else?” He looks at me.

“Yeah,” I say, and hop out. It is quiet out, except for the nearly inaudible hiss of snow falling into the pines all around us. Gardocki walks over to a ditch, and I find a spot a few feet away. I’m expecting him to say something to me, something that Karl isn’t supposed to hear, but Karl hops out of the car and stands between us. Either he thought he was being excluded from a conversation or he really needed to piss, I don’t know.

I never find out. I step back, walk behind Karl, take out the gun and shoot him in the back of the head.

BANG.

Karl falls forward into the ditch.

“AAAARGH!” Gardocki screams. He jumps back, still holding his dick in his hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I shot him, Ken. Wasn’t that the idea?”

“You crazy fucking maniac! You madman! What’s the matter with you?” Gardocki is staring at me, pale. “I wanted to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“About whether or not he was a cop. Remember that, Jake?”

“And you thought he was going to be completely honest with you?” I put the gun in my jacket pocket, and look at Gardocki. “Will you put your dick away?”

Gardocki puts his dick away, and goes over to the ditch and looks down at Karl. “Jesus,” he mutters. Then he looks back at me. Despite a life of criminal behavior, I doubt he has ever seen a dead body before or witnessed the death itself. For me this is old hat.

I step down into the ditch and grab Karl’s jacket, and pull up his shirt, looking for the wire. Nothing. I grab his wallet out of his coat pocket, flip through it. A Wisconsin driver’s license. Karl Ravecheska. A bowling league membership card. Eighty dollars in cash, four twenty-dollar bills. That’s it. Not much of a wallet. I toss the wallet up to Ken.

Ken flips through it. “There’s nothing here to make me think he was a cop,” Ken says.

I roll Karl over, still looking for the wire. “What’d you expect? His membership card to the Police Athletic League? It’s called undercover, Ken. It’s what you don’t see that’s important. No pictures of loved ones, no supermarket discount card, no library card. That license was all the fake ID the cops could be bothered to make. That’s a fake wallet. His real one’s probably back at the police station.” I go through Karl’s pockets. Cigarettes. Coins. Lint.

“There’s no wire, is there?” asks Gardocki.

“Not yet.” Now it occurs to me for the first time that I might have made a mistake, and Gardocki senses the doubt.

“You just shot my assistant,” he says. “You shot my assistant, my wife, my dog, your boss …”

“You paid me to shoot your wife,” I say, not really paying attention to him. I am starting to sweat now, the notion of having killed someone for no reason starting to swell in my mind. I don’t want to show Gardocki my face, so I keep turned away from him. For reasons I’m not sure of, I unlace and pull off Karl’s right boot.