Repo Madness (9 page)

“My daughter? She means everything to me,” Jimmy replied, sounding surprised I would even ask the question.

“Could that be it, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, all of a sudden you have this adorable little girl in your life, your own daughter you never knew you had, and you love her and want to do right by her, and so maybe it seems like you should love the mother, too. That you and Alice and Vicki are a family unit—and her husband's a jerk, even a little abusive. You probably feel this is the best way to protect your daughter. It's pretty rational.” I nodded at my impeccable logic. Part of me wished Alan were awake to witness my deft analysis.

Jimmy brooded over the truth of my observation for a minute. “You know, Ruddy, you can be a real asshole sometimes.”

I stared at him, shocked. His ridiculously chiseled jaw pulsed, and he glanced at me, his eyes hot, before turning back to the road. “I'm not a kid. I don't need you trying to explain that what I'm feeling could be because of Vicki. I've been with enough women to know that this is different. I came to you because I have a problem. Alice is afraid of her husband's temper. She's worried he might hurt her or Vicki. You know how to handle stuff like that. That's why I want your help. I don't need you to try to talk me out of Alice.”

I wasn't sure that Jimmy had ever been this angry at me before. “Sorry, Jimmy,” I finally apologized. “I didn't understand the situation.”

Jimmy nodded, still staring moodily out at the road in front of us. After a moment I turned my gaze in the same direction.

All right, I believed him: He was in love with a woman who was married to a potentially violent man. They thought they were covering their tracks, but William Blanchard suspected something was going on, and they were afraid of his reaction if he got any actual proof.

That didn't mean I knew what to do about it though.

*   *   *

My pickup was where I left it—at Milt's repo lot. Someone had taken the time to scrape the snow off my windows, and I saw why—there was a small piece of notepaper wedged under the wiper.
Please see me in the office. Kermit.

I felt Alan stirring, and I let the note hang loose in my hand as I stared at the gray skies and concentrated on the sensation. It was exactly as I remembered it from the last time I'd had Alan as my brain guest, the odd feeling of a light bulb coming on and growing brighter. But if it were all my imagination, why would it be any different now than before?

“What are we looking at?”
he wanted to know.

“
I
am looking at the sky,” I responded. “You don't have eyes, so you are looking at nothing.”

“Good old Ruddy McCann,”
he observed after a moment.
“Always cheerful and friendly.”

“I'm just missing Milt. God, it's so tragic. I have to believe he was on some sort of medication that got him depressed—otherwise, he was so full of life.”

“So you believe it was deliberate? Suicide?”

“Are you saying you don't?”

“No, just the opposite. You said the cancer had spread to his liver.”

“Yeah. Probably pretty painful.”

“Not just that. You have liver cancer, you're not going to sit and drink a bottle of vodka unless you know it's your last night.”

“I didn't even think of that,” I admitted. I continued to contemplate the sky. “I only wish he'd said something to me about it,” I said softly. “Instead we just talked about Repo Madness.”

“Not exactly a victimless crime,”
Alan agreed.
“Leaves behind a lot of guilt, a lot of questions.”

I decided I'd had enough sympathy from the voice in my head. “Have a nice sleep?” I asked him.

“It's not like you think. I don't get tired, and I don't get rest, but I do feel myself slipping into unconsciousness, and it's exactly what it's like when I used to doze off for a nap after an open house weekend.”

“And what about when I sleep?” I challenged.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. When I sleep, if you wake up, what do you do?”

Alan was silent.

“Alan? What do you do, or I guess, absolutely
not
do, when I'm sleeping?”

He sighed.

“Dr. Schaumburg says I have a choice between having a voice in my head or dissociative personality disorder, which is where I fall asleep and you get up to do the laundry. I can't have both. So
you
can't have both. We clear? This time you must not, not ever, try to do something with my body while I'm sleeping.”

“I don't understand your problem.”

“I asked if we are clear.”

“Fine.”

I kicked at a chunk of ice, sending it skittering across the lot. “Let's go see Kermit,” I suggested.

“I can't believe you still wear those ugly rubber boots. Where do you even buy such things?”

“From the repo menswear catalogue.”

Kermit was in Milt's office. The effect was jarring—here was short, squat, dark-complexioned Kermit sitting behind the desk where the pale, white-haired Milt had always sat. I felt a flash of annoyance at the sacrilege. The body was still in the morgue; what did Kermit think he was doing? Going through the drawers, reading Milt's files?

I brandished the note. “What the hell is this, Kermit?”

He blinked at me. “Uh…”

“You don't
summon
me, okay? This was like being told I need to go to the principal's office.”

“Sorry. I mistook my intentions,” he apologized.

“I don't work for you.”

“I should have done it differently.”

I turned to sit in the big overstuffed chair in the corner, but it was occupied. “Jake?” I demanded.

My dog regarded me mournfully.
Please don't make me get up,
his eyes pleaded.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

“He likes it here,” Kermit responded defensively. “Katie asked me to look after him, and I thought it would be easier to just do it here.”

“That makes sense. Jake has someone to watch him all day,”
Alan observed in his maddeningly rational voice.

“He doesn't need someone to watch him all day,” I snapped. Then I caught myself and glanced at Kermit, who didn't seem to think my statement was odd.

“I know, but I don't mind it,” Kermit replied. “Kinda nice to have company. I'll be here every day now—my aunt Trisha put me in charge. That's why, after he was diagnosed, Uncle Milt wanted me to move here, so I could absorb the operation. My brother, Walt, was pretty pissed off, but all he would have done was sell the business.”

“So that makes Kermit your boss?”
Alan speculated, laughing.

“Oh. So in other words, I actually do work for you,” I concluded. If the alternative was being unemployed, I thought I could probably adapt. I tried to shove Jake over so I could sit with him, but he saw my efforts as unwelcome. Eventually I sat on the arm of the chair, my hand unconsciously reaching down to stroke Jake's velvety basset ears.

“Uh, well, you could still contract with Kramer Recovery if you want. I don't know—maybe you're sick of repossessing cars.”

“How would anyone ever grow sick of
that
?”

Alan snorted.

“So, Kermit, do you suppose that because of the cancer, maybe with medications, that's why your uncle…?” I trailed off.

Kermit was shaking his head. “No way. This was an accident. My uncle would never commit self-suicide. He just had too much to drink.”

“Do
not
tell him about how a man with liver cancer wouldn't drink vodka unless he intended to kill himself,”
Alan instructed sternly.

I gritted my teeth. Of course I wouldn't tell him. “Sorry, Kermit.”

Jake sighed. All this talking was disturbing his nap.

“Well, okay then, we'll resumption everything,” Kermit continued. “But about your fee, there's a little problem.”

I held up a hand. “Stop right there, Kermit. I can't take any less than what I'm already getting.” Kermit looked really uncomfortable, and I bit back my anger. Who else was he going to get to steal cars for him? Why would he try to negotiate this? I was his brother-in-law: He knew I didn't take any money from Becky during the winter, not even when I tended bar and there was cash in the tip jar. “Seems like you've got something to say to me,” I observed coldly.

Kermit squirmed. “Well, what was your deal with my uncle?”

“Half,” I replied curtly. “Fifty bucks for these morons who don't understand about turning in their cars at the end of the lease. Two fifty for a standard repo. Five hundred for a skip.”

“Yeah, but, Ruddy—”

“Yeah, ‘but, Ruddy' what?” I interrupted testily.

“We transact two hundred just for opening file.”

I stared at him, not sure what he was saying to me. “Opening file?” I repeated stupidly.

“Two hundred on assignation, plus two hundred for lease early term, a grand for a repo, two grand for a skip, plus expenses.”

“In other words, you haven't been getting half; you've been getting a fourth,”
Alan explained helpfully.

“I can do the goddamn math,” I snapped at him.

Kermit nodded resignedly.

“So Uncle Milt has been
lying
to me?” I stood up, and Jake raised his head, concerned at the emotion in my voice.

“That's why effectuated immediately, your fee needs to be half,” Kermit said rapidly. “I never knew the numbers, but even Becky says you were supposed to be getting half.”

“It's still not very much money,”
Alan observed.

I stared down at Kermit. He looked afraid, as if I were about to start ripping apart the furniture. I realized then that I felt bad that he would fear me. There was a time, before he married my sister, when I wanted him to be frightened—in fact, I wanted him to run away, leave my sister and me alone. But he stuck it out because he loved Becky. “I would never have known about this if you hadn't told me,” I pointed out. “You could have made a lot more money.”

Kermit raised his hands, palms up. “Wouldn't have been right though. You thought you were getting half. You should get half.”

“You're an honorable man, Kermit. If Milt were here, I'd have a few words I'd want to say to him, but you're making it right. I appreciate your honesty.” I held out my hand. “Boss.”

He shook it. We grinned at each other. “Well, since there's been no dissolution,” he said after a moment, handing over a repo folder. “Here's one from a new client. Bank in Traverse City says their regular agency said to go … now what is it when you petition the court?”

“Writ of replevin,” I responded automatically.

“Right. Replevin. So they're giving us a shot. Be good business for us, Ruddy; their bank finances a lot of the local car dealers. Customer's name is Tony Zoppi. You know him?”

“The Zoppi family? They're practically mafia; everyone knows about them,”
Alan whispered worriedly.

Why was he whispering?

“Never heard of the guy. Also, there are no keys,” I pointed out, shaking the empty key packet.

“Yeah. The bank had complete neglection on getting key numbers.”

“All right. But I don't have a tow truck, remember?”

“Yeah, it was totaled. What a mess. You okay? It's almost hard to believe you walked away from that one.”

“I didn't walk; I was taken in an ambulance,” I answered dryly. “Yeah, I'm down to one symptom.”
A voice in my head
.

“Symptom. So clever,”
Alan observed caustically.

“My point is,” I continued, “without a tow truck, and without keys, how am I supposed to bring in Zoppi?”

“I don't know, but I'd love to land that account. We're getting plenty of Strickland skip business, but repos are pretty slow.”

Jake and I exchanged a look. There seemed to be a veiled suggestion that perhaps I wasn't pulling my weight in the operation compared to Barry Strickland. Of course, all Jake was doing was
napping
.

“Oh, if you get it, call me and I'll rendezvous you at the bank,” my new boss advised.

“The bank? You don't want me to bring it here?”

“No, they want it at the bank. You're supposed to ask for William Blanchard; he's the bank president. He specifically mentioned you by name, so your reputation predates you.”

“William Blanchard,” I repeated.

“Yeah.” Kermit nodded.

I gave Jake a final pat on the head before I left.

William Blanchard. The man who was married to Alice Blanchard, who was having an affair with my best friend, Jimmy.

*   *   *

I decided to drive my pickup north to Traverse City and see if Zoppi was at his place of business, which was a furniture-refinishing place south of town. His family owned it and, according to Alan, half a dozen businesses that were supported by some huge crime ring involving drugs and murder and who knew what else.

“Like
The Godfather,
” I mused.

“What?”
Alan responded.

“That's the plot from Puzo's novel. I just read it; it was in my mom's collection. The Corleone family takes their proceeds from their illicit ventures and buys legitimate operations.”

“The book? You mean you never saw
The Godfather
movies?”
he demanded incredulously.

“Of course I've seen the movies, Alan,” I retorted. “I'm a
guy.
”