The Blind Pig (13 page)

Fourteen

“After many a fretful hour I know why I'm here,” Joe Service said.

The Fatman seemed pleased. They were sitting at lunch at the Villa Di Roma, in Bloomfield Hills. They had just returned from the buffet, heavily laden with Italian delights. “This is a lot better than that gyp joint in Chicago, eh, Joey?”

“I'll say,” Service replied. He plunged into the ravioli with a good appetite.

“That joint,” Fatman said contemptuously. “What prices! You know that lousy dinner cost me thirty bucks! And what did we get? A coupla skinny dabs of veal. Look at all this.” He gestured lovingly at the array of soups, salads, antipastos and assorted entrées that he had trucked back from the buffet with the aid of two lackeys, who had taken a nearby table. “Here,” he said, “a man can
eat.
”

They occupied themselves with the food in relative silence for several minutes, then Joe said, “I still can't get over how Sidney got nailed.”

“It was those cops,” Fatman said.

“But what was Sidney doing there?”

“Obviously, he was working,” Fatman said, not looking up from the mostacioli.

“For you?” Joe asked.

The Fatman shrugged and reached for a hunk of garlic bread. “That doesn't concern you, Joe. What concerns you is getting those guns. You see now what a bright man Carmine is? He was afraid of something like this. So now he's got you on the job. You get the guns, there's a hundred big boys in it for you.”

“I haven't seen the hundred yet, Fatman,” Joe said.

“I give you twenty last week,” Fatman protested.

“I need all of it,” Joe said. “My contract is to find the guns.
You
have to get them. I just find them. And the deal is, I get a hundred whether I find them or not, right? Now, I never guarantee a job like this, but I always come through. So before we go on with this conversation, let's count the money, okay?”

The Fatman belched quietly into his fist and pushed himself away from the table, with the result that the table slid closer to Joe. Fatman picked up a glass of Valpolicella and drank thirstily, watching Joe. Then he crooked a finger.

One of the lackeys at the nearby table quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin and hurried over. He leaned down with his ear next to Fatman's mouth. Then he straightened and went out. A few minutes later he was back with a cheap blue vinyl briefcase that had a folding flap that snapped shut. It looked like a door-to-door salesman's sample case. After a nod from the Fatman the lackey handed the case to Joe.

Joe started to open the case.

“Not here!” the Fatman hissed.

“Why not?” Joe said, grinning, but he contented himself with only cracking the case open a little, so as not to embarrass the Fatman by displaying all the money arrayed within. There were many packets of banknotes. Joe slipped his hand inside the case and withdrew a single bill from the center of one packet. He laid the bill next to his plate on the table and
set the briefcase down next to his foot. He studied the bill while he ate pasta. It had a picture of William McKinley on it.

“They aren't all five hundreds, are they?” Joe asked.

“No, mostly they're hundreds and fifties,” Fatman said. He went on eating while Joe rummaged through the briefcase again and examined specimen bills.

“What are you, counting it?” Fatman said, annoyed.

Joe looked up. “It's all here?”

“It's all there,” Fatman assured him.

“I believe you. I was just making sure that it was all good money. Had that happen to me once, in Reno.” Joe chuckled.

Something in the chuckle made Fatman uneasy. “You got it all straightened out, though, eh?”

Joe looked at him with his clear blue eyes. “Oh yes,” he said. He took another bite of ravioli, chewed for a moment, then said, “You remember I was talking about people who might get Dunlop-ed?”

“You mean, you run this guy over, in Reno?” Fatman said.

“
These
guys,” Joe amended. “There were three of them involved. But, no, I didn't Dunlop them. In that case I Hillerich-ed them.”

“Hillerich-ed?” Fatman raised an eyebrow.

“Hillerich-ed and Bradsby-ed,” Joe said, stuffing his mouth with ravioli.

“I don't get it,” the Fatman said.

“You must not have been born in this country,” Joe said, looking at the Fatman with interest. “Every American boy knows who Hillerich and Bradsby are. They make Louisville Sluggers.”

“What's that, a baseball team?”

“Baseball bats,” Joe said. “Now I have the money, so all I need is some information.”

The Fatman was glad to change the subject. “What do you want to know?”

“I take it that Carmine didn't have any kind of deal with these Cubans,” Joe said. The Fatman's look of disgust answered that. “I didn't think so. So who did you deal with?”

“You know, with the punk. Like I told you.”

“Then how did these Cubans get involved?” Joe wanted to know.

“How the hell do I know?” Fatman said. “That's your job. I told you things had gotten complicated.”

Joe nodded, then shook his head in disgust. “If the public only knew how fucked up the mob really is, they wouldn't have any respect for you at all. If you guys didn't have all the money, I'd never do another job for you. Well, the fat's in the fire now. Have you even heard from the punk?”

Fatman got a pained expression on his face.

“You haven't even heard from him,” Joe said, shaking his head again. “Your two heavy troopers still in town? The guys who had such a dandy time at the bar? They are? I thought so. What's the deal, Fat—if the kid doesn't come up with the guns, you're going to waltz over there and provide him with some ballast, that it?”

“Something like that, Joe,” the Fatman said. He had begun to eat again.

Joe Service sat back in his chair and picked up the briefcase. He held it on his lap. “In the meantime, I go on looking?”

“That's right,” the Fatman mumbled through a mouthful of pasta.

“Let's see, then. The kid engineered the job, the Cubans helped him, and now you don't know where the guns are and the kid hasn't called yet. By the way, I guess you knew that the girl was a ringer?”

“Yeah, we knew that,” the Fatman said complacently. He mopped his mouth with an already stained napkin. “That was only one of the complications I was telling you about. We thought we had that taken care of, but . . .” He shrugged.

Service stared at him for a moment, then he said, “Oh, no.” He slapped his forehead. “Am I stupid! Well, I'm not
the only one, am I?” He started to get up, then sat back and asked, “How long do I have?”

“The deal was the kid would contact us as soon as he had the guns in a place where he could make a delivery. So maybe he'll come through, after all. That don't mean that you should stop looking. If you find the guns, who knows? We might be able to get them a little cheaper than we bargained. There'll be a bonus for you, of course.”

Joe smiled grimly. “Just remember, Fat. I'm not going to deliver the guns. I'll find them. That's the deal, okay?”

“Okay. Whatever you say, Joe. Carmine has the greatest confidence in you.”

“Just a couple more things, Fat. What was the idea behind that shoot-out? Was that your idea?”

“No, no,” Fatman waved his hand. He belched quietly. “That was just a little back scratching, that's all.”

“Must have been a powerful itch,” Joe said. Then: “Just for my own information, Fat, who was Sidney's contact here?”

The Fatman thought for a minute, then said, “This is private? It won't involve Carmine?”

Joe nodded agreement.

“His name is Lorry. Lorry the Shoe.”

Fifteen

Shyla Lasanski lived on Cadieux Road. It was a small one-story white house with blue painted shutters and trim, surrounded by a sturdy wire-mesh fence. Inside this fence was a dog. This dog gave every appearance of living up to its billing, a sign posted on the gate which read
MEAN DOG
! There was a mailbox on the gate post, so that explained how the mailman coped. Mulheisen wondered how Vanni coped, assuming that Vanni occasionally visited here.

The dog was apparently a mixture of Labrador and Alsatian. It was a male, thick-chested with powerful legs, but one of the legs was injured, so that the dog walked with a limp. Mulheisen was willing to bet that the leg had been injured in a fight. The dog did not bark. It limped slowly over to the fence and stood there, out of reach—not that Mulheisen had any intention of reaching. The dog cocked its head slightly and uttered a low growl. Mulheisen felt the hairs on the back of his legs prickle and he was sure there was a draft somewhere.

Mulheisen stood there, undecided. Maybe he should go see the other woman? No, he was here and he ought to go in. He noticed that the fence ran all the way around the house, so
there wasn't any point in trying an approach from the rear. He could just haul out the iron and shoot the damn dog; probably save someone's britches, he thought. At last he decided, Oh to hell with it, and was turning to go when the front door opened. An attractive woman leaned out the door and called to him.

“Can I help you?” She was clutching a bathrobe together at the throat and her hair was somewhat disheveled. Mulheisen took out his identification folder and held it open. At this distance she'd be able to see the badge, at least.

“Police. I'd like to talk to you,” he said. She was fifteen feet away and he noticed the look of terror that swept her face.

“Wh-what's it all about?” she asked plaintively. She had a low, quiet voice.

“I'm investigating a man named Jerry Vanni. Do you know him?”

“Yes.” She looked around. There was nobody else on the street, but cars were passing. She was obviously aware of her state of undress. “You'd better come in,” she said.

“What about the dog?” Mulheisen asked.

“Oh. Yes. I'll get him.” She came out and called the dog, whose name was Ivan.

“. . . the Terrible,” Mulheisen appended, under his breath. Attila would have been as appropriate, he thought—or Hitler.

The dog came to her reluctantly and she stooped to catch hold of the collar, releasing the throat of her robe briefly. That was all it took for Mulheisen to be treated to a fleeting view of two very large, bulbous breasts with large pink nipples. She led the dog away to the back. A few minutes later she reappeared at the front door and beckoned to Mulheisen.

Once inside, Mulheisen explained his purpose again and introduced himself. He couldn't help noticing that Shyla Lasanski was a very attractive woman and she was naked under the robe. She had a lovely face—gray eyes and a
straight, fine nose, a small mouth but rather sexy lips that were full and almost translucently pink, like a child's. Her hair was fluffy and blond. She said she had just come from the shower. She said it with some embarrassment. Mulheisen thought it was odd that someone would take a shower in the middle of the afternoon, but he didn't say so.

“What is it you wanted to know about Mr. Vanni?” she asked. “He's my husband's employer, you know.”

“That's what I understand, Mrs. Lasanski.”

“Oh, don't call me Mrs. Lasanski. It's so horrible. Call me Shyla.” She smiled, and Mulheisen wasn't positive but he got the feeling that she was being seductive. He eyed her curiously. She was about forty years old, but they hadn't been brutal years. At the same time she possessed a definite girlishness that was very appealing. It wasn't just her girlish face but also her short, almost fragile stature. Incongruously, perhaps, her fragility was accentuated rather than marred by her extreme bustiness. She looked lost and lonely and wistful, in need of some strong, kindly man. It made Mulheisen feel avuncular, but he fought the feeling, telling himself that she was probably his senior by a couple of years.

“I hear that you're rather close to Vanni,” Mulheisen said bluntly. He added, “Shyla.”

She suddenly looked frightened and Mulheisen's resolve softened. “I mean, uh, Vanni told me that you had dinner with him last night.” Ordinarily, he would not tell a witness the source of his information; it helped to make people think that you knew more than you actually did.

“Yes, we did have dinner,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”

“It's a matter of establishing Mr. Vanni's whereabouts yesterday,” Mulheisen said. “Now, what time did you meet Mr. Vanni last night?”

“About five-thirty, I think. Dick—my husband—was supposed to be there, but he never showed up. We were just going to meet for a drink, that's all. But when Dick didn't
show, I accepted Mr. Vanni's invitation to dinner.”

Mulheisen made some notes of this, then asked, “What time did you leave Vanni?”

“About nine-thirty, I guess.”

“Long dinner,” Mulheisen said.

She flashed the seductive smile again. “We were hungry.”

“And where was your husband?”

“He went bowling, he said. But Jerry told me there was a poker game at the office. Sometimes the drivers sit around the office after work. Jerry buys them a case of beer.”

“Was this the first time you'd had ‘dinner,’ with Vanni, Shyla?”

Shyla Lasanski sat in an easy chair across from the sofa, where Mulheisen was seated. She had been sitting very primly, feet and legs together, her hands in her lap. Now, after a short pause, she sat back and crossed her legs. The movement exposed a great deal of white leg and in repose the hem of the garment barely came to her knees. Mulheisen found the view of her slender legs very appealing.

“I've had dinner with Jerry before,” she said.

“Does your husband know about this, uh, ‘dining arrangment'?” Mulheisen asked.

She looked down and spoke softly. “I don't think he does. Perhaps. I'm not sure it would make any difference. We've been married a long time, Sergeant.”

Momentarily Mulheisen was at a loss for what to say, and before he could begin, Mrs. Lasanski went on. “I used to love my husband. When we were married, I was the happiest girl in town. He used to be a musician, you know.” She looked up and smiled wistfully. Mulheisen didn't say anything. He just watched her.

“He played the C-melody saxophone. He played in lots of very good bands. Actually, he could play almost any instrument—tenor saxophone, trumpet, even piano. I met him at a dance at the old Greystone Ballroom. He was almost thirty and I was only eighteen. He was wearing a white jacket with
a red carnation and I thought he was the most handsome man I'd ever seen.”

She stopped and chewed on her lower lip pensively.

“But then the big bands went out of business, soon after we married. He was on unemployment a lot. He wanted to get into recording studios, but you have to be in New York, or L.A. for that, and he was afraid to leave Detroit, I guess. He always drank a lot. I think he went out with other women. In fact, I know he did.”

She looked defiantly at Mulheisen. “We hardly speak to one another, Sergeant. I'm here all day, of course. I cook supper and he doesn't come home till late, but if he comes home on time and supper isn't ready he gets in a vile mood. Sometimes he doesn't come home until I'm in bed. I pretend I'm asleep. I have to take sleeping pills—otherwise I get migraines and I can't sleep.”

She was speaking very freely, almost distractedly. Mulheisen listened gloomily. It sometimes happened this way. You get a witness talking and the next thing you know they spill their guts and the whole life story comes tumbling out.

“Sometimes he makes love to me in my sleep,” she said.

Mulheisen cleared his throat uncomfortably. This was going too far, he thought.

“I wake up in the morning and discover that I've been . . .” She waved her hand to indicate that she couldn't supply the necessary word. “It's even worse if I'm only pretending to sleep. Then I have to let him do it without revealing that I'm awake. That's difficult.”

She finally noticed Mulheisen's pained expression.

“It isn't love!” she insisted. “We haven't made love—real love—in years. I don't think he can bear to put himself in a position that would even suggest affection toward me. He can't say anything nice to me, especially if someone is around.”

Mulheisen was struck by the lack of rancor in her tone. There was no hint of self-pity, either. It was a rather clinical
description of a horrible relationship. Nonetheless Mulheisen felt compelled to mutter, “It's a two-way street, isn't it?”

“What? Love, you mean?”

“Well"—he waved his hand airily—"marriage, anyway.”

“You've never been married, have you?” she said. “I didn't think so. But yes, yes, it is a two-way street. It's other things, too. It should be children. I thought we'd have children.”

“Why didn't you?”

“We can't. He says it's because I'm sterile. But the doctors never found any evidence of that. He won't go to the doctor, of course.”

“You could have adopted a child,” Mulheisen suggested.

“I wanted to. He wanted to, once. But . . . for some reason it was never the ‘right time,’ if you know what I mean. We were always too broke, we had to buy a new car, the furnace needed to be replaced . . . it was always something.”

She stood up and walked nervously to the front window. The robe was rather thin and the sun shone through the window. Mulheisen watched as she stood with her back to him and looked out the window. Her body was quite visible, her legs slightly apart. She turned slightly and her large breasts swung against the thin cloth of the robe. Mulheisen was aware of a growing movement in his groin.

“Your husband sounds like a regular bastard,” he said, to dispel the dangerous charm of the moment.

Shyla Lasanski turned to face him. “He's just an ordinary man. Would you like some coffee? I have some on the stove—just made it before I got in the shower.”

Mulheisen welcomed the change of mood. He followed her into the kitchen. It was very neat and clean. The stove and refrigerator were several years old, he noticed, and the Formica counter tops were scarred here and there with cigarette burns and knife cuts. But the room was light and cheerful, with dotted-swiss curtains and green plants hanging in macramé
slings. They sat at an aluminum and plastic table. The coffee was fine.

“Freshly ground,” she said. “I like to do things like that. I bake my bread. I bake a lot, actually. Cookies, mostly, for the kids in the neighborhood, although most of them are grown up, now. There used to be a lot of kids around here. I still bake. It helps to fill up the day.”

“What kind of cookies?” Mulheisen asked.

Shyla Lasanski blushed. “I don't have any right now.”

Mulheisen sipped his coffee. “I see,” he said. “Maybe you should get a job.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “But . . . ‘No wife of mine is going to work,’ “ she mocked her husband's voice. “I guess I could, now. He couldn't stop me. Maybe I will.”

“Have you, uh, talked to anybody about this? I mean, someone professional?”

“You mean ‘the clergyman of your choice,’ or a marriage counselor, or a psychiatrist? Yes. All of them. In fact, I even went to two clergymen, a Catholic and a Protestant. I'm not Catholic, but Dick is—or was. It didn't help. I couldn't take them seriously—dressed in their funny collars and black suits. What do they know about being a woman? And then, the psychiatrist wanted to sleep with me.”

“Isn't that unethical?” Mulheisen said.

“Well . . . it wasn't as bad as it sounds. He helped me more than the others. We talked a lot about sex. I feel I understand it better. He suggested I should have an affair. So I did, but not with him. Actually, I've had several affairs besides Jerry, though he's about the best.” She smiled lasciviously at Mulheisen.

“I made it with the furnace man, once. He called me up several times after that, but I wouldn't see him again.” Her voice dropped and she said softly, “He called me a whore the last time he called. Maybe I am a whore.”

Her hand strayed across the table and stopped next to Mulheisen's, not quite touching. He did not move. He looked
at the robe where it had fallen open to reveal all but the nipples of her breasts. It was very tempting.

Mulheisen had a feeling of great lassitude. It was quiet in the kitchen and the sky had clouded up, filling the room with rich, warm shadows. He could faintly hear cars passing on the street.

“Do you think I'm a whore?” she asked softly.

Mulheisen stood up, even though he had a partial erection. Shyla stood up as well, and took a tentative step toward him.

“So you can positively state that Vanni was in your presence from five-thirty until nine-thirty?” he said.

Shyla stopped and smiled her wistful, little-girl smile. Mulheisen could have sworn that her eyes got larger and mistier.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “We had dinner and then we went to the motel. I think it's called the Pines, or something like that. It's on Mack. We made love. Twice. Jerry's quite a boy. A little dumb, sometimes, but ambitious and healthy.”

Mulheisen made some notes. “Okay,” he said crisply. “I guess that should do it.” He started for the door.

“What's Jerry done?” she asked.

Mulheisen looked back at her. She stood in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the jamb. Her robe was open now, the ties held in each hand. Mulheisen thought, What the hell, might as well look, anyway. He took a long and eye-filling look. Her pubic hair, he noticed, was light and fluffy, so he guessed she was a natural blonde.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Mulheisen opened the door and went out. It was cool and sunny, a nice day in detroit. He looked around nervously for Ivan the Terrible, but evidently she had locked him in the back somewhere. He walked down the sidewalk to his car, thinking, God, I hope the other one's easier than this.