Man with an Axe (11 page)

But I woke up when Vera comes out. Vera is Tyrone's wife. She was the broad I seen earlier, which I thought it was a whore of Lonzo's, not that Lonzo actually runs whores, he's not a pimp by trade, but he's into just about anything and so I figured this blonde with the big boobs must be one of his whores. But she looked familiar, like I said, and now it hit me—this is Vera Addison. I met her before a couple of times. She seemed like a nice enough babe. I didn't pay her any mind after I got through scoping that frame, like any guy would. She's one of these gals that loves to show it—low-cut dresses, miniskirts, real high heels, and, of course, hair blonder
than what's-her-name, the Swedish bombshell. You run into babes like this in jazz circles, groupies. They're into black stuff, it turns ‘em on, I guess. Usually they're low-life babes, attracted by the myth of the big black cock, I guess. But not always. I had a vague notion that maybe Vera was different, I guess because Tyrone was different. Tyrone wasn't a nigger.

I should take a minute to get this straight. There's niggers and there's niggers. Some of them are white and some are black. You heard me talk about this, Mul. To me a nigger is any f——ing lowlife regardless of race, color, or creed. A loser, a shiftless, no-account kind of guy. They make a mess ever’ where they go, they take more than they could ever give if it even occurred to them to give. You know what I'm getting at. There's an awful lot of niggers in this world. They're a f——ing drain. But the average person, white or black, ain't a nigger. The average person has got more sense than to shit in his own nest. Okay. Enough of that.

Vera comes out in the back. She's wearing a lot of clothes for Vera, a blouse and jeans, a big straw hat and wraparound shades. But she's carrying a blanket and a straw bag and she walks back by the bushes where I'm hanging out. There's a little ditch or something behind the bushes and she jumps across. Back there is a nice little private space, shielded from view from the road by the bushes and the willows, and there aren't any close neighbors anyways. She spreads out her blanket and starts taking stuff outta the bag—a book, some lotion, a towel, a little radio. She turns on the radio and it's tuned to some jazz station. It ain't much of a day for sunbathing, being kind of cool and the sun going in and out of the clouds, but by God she starts taking off her clothes and, believe me, it's a real production number. You'd think she was in a skin flick. She's moving kind of easy, swaying her hips to the music, slowly rotating like she's on a stage, each button of the shirt and the jeans is a number in itself. It turns out she's got a bikini on under the jeans
and shirt but that don't stay on for long and it seems like she's already got a pretty complete tan. I mean this babe is an eyeful. The breeze is raising a lot of goosebumps and her nipples are tighter than an Eskimo's asshole, but she sure is enjoying herself. And I'd be happy to spend an afternoon filling my eyes, but I know that a pretty girl can maybe find a place where no one is looking if she's alone on a desert island. I figure I got maybe a minute before someone starts looking. Someone from the house for sure, and maybe from somewhere else, a airplane or a balloon. Somebody will spot this gorgeous babe lying out here, getting a little sun, especially now that she has taken off the bikini. Mul, this broad has tits like what's-her-name, the Swedish actress I mentioned before. You wouldn't think tits that big could stick straight out like that, sort of like the nose cones on a 747. And I might as well tell you right now—Vera is not a natural blonde. Anita Ekberg. That's who I was thinking of. [
Grootka actually spells it “Needa Heckburger.”—
M.]

But as much as I enjoy the view, it also means that someone is likely to spot yours truly, lurking in the f——ing bushes like a goddamn Peeping Tom. So I figure I better make the most of it. I creep over to the nearest point to Vera and I whisper, “Hey! Vera!”

Jesus, you should of seen her! If she'd been wearing underpants she'd of spoiled ‘em for sure. [
Grootka has scribbled a little note here, in the margin: “I don't mean that she actually peed, or nothin’, this is just a figger a speech.
”—M.] She flops on her belly and snatches a towel, but finally, when she's covered up, more or less, she says as angry as a bunch of ants whose hill you been pissing on, “Who is that?” Or words not exactly like that, but the same idea.

I kind of stick my head out a little bit and grin. “It's me, Grootka. How ya doin'?” For some reason this don't calm her down. I finally hadda pull the Old Cat on her. That chilled her.

“Whatta you want?” she says, her eyes as round as silver dollars. But give the woman credit, she is whispering outta the corner of her yap and not letting on that she's talking to me.

“Who's inna f——ing house?” I ask.

She looks puzzled for a minute, then it clicks and she says, “You're Grootka! Oh my God! Oh God, oh God!”

I had to shake the Old Cat at her to get her attention. “Who's in there? What the hell's goin’ on”

At first she claims there's nobody there, just her and Tyrone, but after a second or two she says “some friends.”

“What friends? Tyrone is friends with Carmine? You're kidding.”

Just about this time I get this feeling that she's not as spooked as she seems. I mean, sure she's spooked, but now there's something cool in her face. And I notice she ain't exactly clutching the towel like it was the only thing between her and the preacher man. One big fat tit is peeping out, her ass is definitely feeling the breeze, and she keeps stealing a look at the house. And finally it dawns on me—the chick
is
putting on a show. But for who? Not me, she didn't know I was here. Must be for the house.

I take a quick look at the house, what I can see of it from this deep in the bushes, and I'll be damned if I don't see a shadow or something, like somebody sneaking around the corner. It's a real quick glance, believe me. Who ever it was has disappeared. But he looks kind of short and stocky.

“Grootka, you idiot,” she whispers outta the corner of her mouth, “get the hell out of here! You're screwing up everything.” But all the same, she starts doing some exercises. Touching her toes, twists. Man, forget the f——ing towel, it's a show! And I just sit back to enjoy it.

But too damn quick the back door opens and Tyrone sticks his head out and yells, “Hey, Vera! Come on! The guys are leaving!”

Vera real quick yanks on her bikini and her jeans and blouse, ignoring me now. Without looking up she says, again, real low, “Get the hell out of here. Somebody's gonna get hurt.”

I tell her, “Won't be me, babe. Nobody knows I'm here. Except you.” I emphasize that last point and she nods to show she gets it.

She sashays on back to the house and I hear people talking out front in that familiar way, saying good-bye, that kind of thing. By now I've worked my way back toward the front of the bushes but the best I can make out is the Fat Man and Cooze, bringing up the rear as they go down the drive and get in the Caddy. From the little I could hear, which wasn't nothing, it must of been Carmine and at least a driver—probably Carlo what's-his-name, plus the two I mentioned. And Lonzo and Tyrone. Where Lonzo's boys went, I dunno. Probably to the casino. I see Lonzo's Caddy is not there.

After all the usual
so longs
and
see yas,
Carmine's Caddy drives off and Lonzo and Tyrone walk back to the house. Well, I sit back, chewing all this over. I don't know what the hell it means. And I'm just about ready to get the hell out of there, like Vera said—which I gotta admit has got me puzzled now—when I see that fucking Cooze slippin’ back down the hill. On foot!

Let me tell ya, it's one thing when you see Grootka out flappin’ the soles, but at least I got a history of walkin’ the beat, anyways. You see a sharp Dago like Cooze tiptoein’ through the pasture on his Florsheims and you're lookin’ at somethin’ that's no good. The chick was right. Somebody was gonna get hurt.

Cooze gets within about twenty feet a the back door and he has to jump for a tree trunk ‘cause Tyrone sticks his head out the door and he whistles. Naturally, being Tyrone, he don't just give your standard wolf whistle. This is about a G-major/B-flat/D whistle, sort of a blues. Followed by “Yo! Janney,” or something like that. That's what it sounded like. Janney. But it could be Jamie, or Jimmy.

He does this a couple times, looking all around the backyard. Fucking Cooze is trying to squeeze his skinny frame into the
trunk of a elm. But I notice he's got his arm hanging straight down and at the end of it is a fairly large piece, like maybe a Python [
a Colt revolver, usually .357 caliber—
M.]
.

Pretty quick a short, stocky white guy sticks his head out of the bushes on the other side of the house. He's kind of tentative. “They all gone?” he kind of whispers.

Tyrone comes all the way out on the back steps and he gestures with that big hand of his. “Sure,” he says, “come on back in.”

And at that, out jumps old Cooze and waves the cannon. “Okay, Pops,” he says, “let's go for a ride.”

But Pops don't want to go ridin’ with Cooze, it seems. He was only a step or two outta the bushes and now he turns and bolts, like a rabbit, diving for the briar patch. And Cooze, he don't hesitate. He hoists the cannon and takes one shot.
Boom!

Actually, the trees and bushes must have muffled the shot pretty good. It was more a flat, cracking sound, like breaking a big limb. It looked to me like the bullet must of hit Pops in the back of the head. Anyway, there wasn't much doubt he was dead, cause he just pitched forward into the grass.

And then, of course, I took out Cooze.

Now, Mul, I can just hear you saying, “You what?”

Yeah, I took him out. I had to. It was reflex, almost. I had the Old Cat out and I just gunned the fucker down. Yeah. You can't stand by and watch a clown like Cooze blowin’ folks'es heads off and not do something. I hit him in the middle of the upper back. A very good place. I figure it blew his cold fuckin’ heart right out of him. And afterwards, in case anybody axed, I said, loud enough to hear, “Halt, or I'll fire.”

You wanta read more? I got more. A lot more. What you need, Mul, is a good read. Kick back and smoke one a them Havanas yer always talking about. Put a nice berg in yer black Jack and marvel at the story he'll give you.

7

Grave Groove

I
t wasn't too hard, when I put my mind to it, to figure out what Grootka's cryptic little message at the end of book #2 meant. It was the combination of
Havana
and
berg.
I used to get my cigars from a man named Marvin Berg who ran a store over on Fort Street, downtown. He was a big, fat man who was a little creepy in ways, but basically a gentle soul. Alas, he had long since passed on and the store was no longer in business. But I remembered that his last amour—if that's what she really was (it was hard to imagine Marvin Berg actually engaging in amorous activities)—was a strange little creature named Becky, who had a fast mouth. She didn't seem to care what she said, or to whom, but Marvin was clearly delighted by that. I enjoyed her lip, as well, for all it's apparent sourness. I wondered if she was still around and if she knew anything about this notebook of Grootka's.

The problem was, I didn't even know Becky's last name. And now that Marvin was long gone, how would I find her? Well, being a wise old detective I looked up Berg in the phone book, thinking that I might get a lead, anyway, though I hardly knew what it could be. But there was a Marvin Berg, in Pleasant Ridge. This is an odd little suburb, out by the zoo, no more than a hundred acres, or so it
seems. I called the number. A woman answered who I thought might be Becky. When I asked if she was, she snapped back, “Who the hell is this?” When I identified myself, there was a snort of disbelief and then a truly Beckyesque comment: “I'd have thought you'd disappeared up your own asshole by now.”

That was our Becky, all right. It was never difficult talking to Becky; the trouble was getting to a conversation about something, rather than mere badinage. But she sounded great. It had been at least five years since I'd talked to her. My last image was of a woman of about thirty, dark hair in bangs, very white skin, and wearing exceedingly red lipstick. It would be interesting to see what she was like post-Marvin. “Drop by, or drop dead,” she replied to my suggestion, which appeared to mean that she had no objections, anyway, although she claimed to have no knowledge of any material that Grootka might have left with Marvin.

I took the Chrysler Freeway to the Walter Reuther Freeway and swerved off at Woodward—thinking, as I did, that Detroit would never name a freeway after its
most
famous labor leader—no, no, there would be no James R. Hoffa Freeway. Marvin's house was quite large, suitable for a family of seven, rather than a diminutive widow. It was an old house, but in excellent condition, set back from the road among some mature maples.

“I like it,” I said, and I did. Becky was standing in the yard, dressed in an old University of Michigan sweatshirt and jeans that had dark wet dirt on the knees. “I'm looking for a new place to live, but this looks too big for one person. Maybe I should move in.”

“Do I have a choice,” she sneered, “or am I Poland welcoming Hitler?”

She looked pretty nice, actually, pale as ever but her eyes were bright and she hadn't neglected her lipstick. Kind of a dashing little figure in rubber boots, amusing and gamine. She said she'd been cleaning up the flower beds. “I get a lot of guys asking to move in,”
she said. “For some reason they're all old farts, like you. Are you really looking for a place?”

I was a little taken aback by that last, but of course, I was looking for a place. Unfortunately, it wouldn't help my situation to move to Pleasant Ridge: I'd still be “out of town.” I explained that and she shrugged, then moved toward the front door. “Too bad. I could use a cop around the house, and we might have had some fun.” No smile. For some reason I shivered in the spring sun.

“So what's all this crap about Grootka?” she asked when we were seated in the huge living room, with its solid oak wainscotting and cold fireplace. I had refused a drink, but she was sipping a Stroh's from the bottle. “He's still dead, ain't he?” She displayed a comic alarm.

“Oh sure. Not even Grootka can beat the Man with the Axe,” I assured her.

“Man with the Scythe, you mean,” she said. “The Man with the Axe is the jack of hearts, I think.”

“Or a saxophone player,” I said.

“Anyway, it'd be the Devil who took Grootka,” she said.

“Do you think so? Hey, listen, did you give any thought to what I asked you about?”

“You mean some notebooks of Grootka's? Well, they might be in a box of stuff that Marvin left for me to return. Toward the end he was kind of getting ready. You didn't come around. . . . Okay, okay!” She held up a hand to stop my protests. “You didn't know ‘cause I didn't tell you. He had about five heart attacks in his last couple of years, you know, and after he got over the first two, I quit calling people and rushing around like it was the end of time. And then, naturally, he has the big one. Well, what can you do? C'mon, we'll go downstairs and look.”

There was a tremendous basement, all very clean and orderly, complete with a workout room with its de rigueur treadmill and
weights, all nicely dusted and polished. Evidently not anything that Marvin had ever used, but judging from Becky's lithe form they were still in use. The boxes were stacked in a little enclosure in a corner, up off the concrete floor, and she uncomplainingly took down one after another and set them out, opening them and casting quickly through the contents.

“Ah, here's something you'd like,” she said. She handed me a large wooden casket or box, obviously a cigar humidor. “You can throw this crap in the dump if you don't want it,” she said. “In fact, I think Marvin said something about getting you to haul it away.” It was full of genuine Havana cigars, from the wrapping rooms of H. Upmann. Fifty or more Coronas. I was astounded. I started to protest but a glance from her hushed me.

“I'm not smoking them,” she said, “and I sure as hell ain't handing them over to Customs. Besides, for all I know, they came in before the embargo. They any good?”

I felt a couple of them, rolling them in my fingers and thumb. They were in excellent condition. “They're wonderful,” I said.

“Good. I got about twenty more boxes, never opened. You can haul those off to the dump for me, too.”

Fifteen minutes later we came upon a box that contained, among a lot of old cigar catalogs, a familiar-looking notebook. I snatched it up. It was full of Grootka's writing.

Grootka's Third Notebook

[
Note: Grootka had written a note congratulating me on finding this notebook, and it was attached inside the cover with a paper clip
.—M.]

Actually, Mul, I just put all that shit in there about the guy being shot in the head to make me look good. Cooze never got a shot off. The way it went was when I saw Cooze lift his gun I took him out. I had to do it. I didn't know who the guy was. For all I
knew, it was Hoffa. But it wasn't. It was some pal of Tyrone's, a Dutchman named Jacobsen. This damn guy, Janney, I never liked the sonuvabitch, but Vera, she kinda liked him. He was always hanging around. I seen him in the clubs, once I thought about it. He's one a them jazz buffs. Sorta like you, come to think of it. Except that he's got some money and he don't mind spending it on a guy like Tyrone, which is better than he could probably find to spend it otherwise. [
That's what he said.—
M]

The thing is, when I popped Cooze I seen Jacobsen jump in the bushes like it was him gettin’ shot, and maybe he thought it was! Only when the smoke cleared he noticed he wasn't shot after all, so he come crawlin’ out and seen it was Cooze who was dead. Which sets him to rockin’ on his knees and sayin‘
Oh God, Oh God,
which seems to be a regular thing for folks to say when the shit starts flyin’, did you ever notice?

So now I got a dead asshole on my hands. No sign of Carmine and Fats, by the way. They musta been around somewhere, but they sure as hell ain't stickin’ around to trade lead with the Old Cat. I don't know, actually, if they knew it was me, but they knew when Cooze didn't come back from the shootin’ that he wasn't comin’ back. So they must of split. So now I got a bunch of f——ing loons, black and white, staring at me and sayin’ “What we gonna do now?” like I'm their big brother, or something.

I got them to find some tarp, it was that black plastic stuff, VizQueen or whatever they call it, that the contractors use, and wrap ol’ Cooze in that. Then we went in the house and everybody had a good, stiff drink.

Now, who all was there? You'll wanta know. It was me, Vera, Tyrone, Jacobsen, Lonzo, and Mr. Jimmy Hoffa, no less. Pretty soon along comes a couple of Lonzo's boys, which I think their names are Krizmo and Baits [
Evidently, Charismo Fredericks and Johnee Bates, both of Detroit. Both deceased as of this writing.—
M.]

Mr. Jimmy Hoffa was in the bedroom, but he came out when I came in. It seems that Vera's little strip show was meant to entertain the Mobsters while Jimmy hid under the bed. How's that for crazy bullshit? And Jacobsen wasn't even supposed to be there, but he'd showed up maybe ten minutes before the Mob, ‘cause he'd been looking all over town for Vera and Tyrone, ‘cause they'd stood him up for dinner at the Red Fox, which was where they'd run into Hoffa. But I'll get to all that. The important thing was, somehow he got thinking that they might have gone up to Nigger Heaven (which I'm not gonna even try to apologize for or explain, anymore—that's what everybody called it, even to me).

Okay, so here's the scene. They're all goin’ nuts, blaming each other, suspicious of each other—you know, Who let the Mob in on this?—and Hoffa is . . . well, he's kinda cool. Hoffa is thinking. The immediate rush is over, but his little
punim
is scrunched up in a frown and the Great One is thinking. He's thinking he's gotta get the hell outta there. Which I don't blame him, but where's he gonna go?

But, first things first. I gotta get rid of this body. I see it's up to me, mainly ‘cause these guys can't wipe their ass with both hands, but also ‘cause he's
my
corpse. I mean, I popped him, so I gotta get rid of him. Well, it's no big deal, but I'm not in any hurry and I figure I oughta get some help. So I get on Lonzo's case.

Lonzo is taking a lotta shit at the moment ‘cause everybody figures he's the prick who tipped Carmine that Hoffa is here. Who else would do it, unless it was some neighbor or something, or maybe Vera or Tyrone let it slip when they were out shopping or talking to someone on the phone, or something? But Lonzo is a good suspect, ‘cause he's in with the Mob, so even though Tyrone is his dead sister's boy (a point he keeps making) everybody figures he sold Hoffa to the Mob, if only to keep them off his own ass when they find out that Hoffa is his guest.

Jacobsen, to give him credit, don't agree. “I think we owe Lonzo,” he says. “It was Lonzo who kept telling Carmine he was sure Jimmy wasn't here. Why would he say that if he brought the killers here?”

“Aw man, that was bullshit,” Tyrone says. And of course, Vera agrees, very loud.

“He had to say that,” she claims, “ ‘cause he couldn't let on that he was the fink.” She's pointing at Lonzo and screaming.

Lonzo is glaring around with those yellow eyes. He looks like he was about to kill him a couple of whiteys and maybe Tyrone, too. Fortunately, I'm there to keep the peace, with the Old Cat.

I can see that all of this is making Hoffa real nervous, but what the hell, there ain't no way of settling it real quick and there are more important things to do. “So, Lonzo,” I say, “what's the deal? Did you tip Carmine?”

Lonzo reels off a coupla yards a language that woulda had Sister Mary Herman kneeling on his chest crammin’ a bar of Fels Naptha down his throat, but all it means is “Nope.” So I explain to him, in case he don't get it: “These folks all think you set them up. You got to admit, that's the way it looks. Now you and me know Carmine can't be interested in nobody but Mr. Hoffa, here, and I don't even know why he's hot about that, but these folks are in the way and they could get zipped, so you can see why they're hot.” (They were listening and had quit yelling, so I just kept on yapping—sorta thinking out loud for their benefit.)

“Carmine ain't gonna bring a heavy shooter like Cooze out here just to get some fresh air. He meant to take out Hoffa. Probably he, or somebody, was watching that little shoot-around out there. They seen, or think they seen, Cooze take down a short, white, middle-aged guy and unless they know something we don't expect, they prob'ly think it was Hoffa. I don't know if they seen

Janney crawl back outta the bushes, but they sure must of seen me take down Cooze.”

They didn't seem to get the point right away, but I'm sure you do, Mul. Like I said, Cooze didn't come back on his own. My guess was that Carmine didn't know that Hoffa wasn't hit. But it was only a guess. And anyway, they hadda know that Cooze was down, whether they knew it was me took him down or not. My second guess, and this was more than a guess, was that they would be back as soon as they picked up some more soldiers. And when they did, you can bet they wasn't going to do nothing less than clean house.

So, should we blow this pop stand? Would you of stayed? Where was there to go?

This is where my man Lonzo comes through. He says, “What if we was able to convince Carmine that Hoffa was dead?”

“Good idea,” I say. “Let's shoot the fucker our own selfs and throw his ass in the Red Fox parking lot.”

Krizmo and Baits start laughing their asses off, but Hoffa, of course, don't like this kind of talk, even in fun. He gives us a pretty good imitation of Edward G. Robinson, telling us all to shut up and start thinking again.

But really, I explain, Lonzo's got a idea there. We got to get the word out on the street that Hoffa was croaked, but that there wasn't gonna be no corpse to show for it. If the Mob bought it, the chances were real good that they wouldn't be back. Then after a couple a days, Hoffa could tiptoe back home and by then everybody's had a chance to cool down and see that it's better this way and Hoffa could tell the F.B.I, some bullshit thing about he was fishing, anything. And the Mob could see that Jimmy's a standup guy and nobody's gonna get hurt and we can get back to business as usual. That seemed like the best bet to me.