Raid and the Blackest Sheep (4 page)

    
“He asked about Raid.”

    
Huusko didn’t seem to be listening. He finished off his shot of vodka, then poured the rest into a plastic flask.

    
“C’mon, let’s go.”

    
The veterans were at the table rehashing World War II. They had just gotten through the Battle of Summa and were starting into the Battle of Ihantala, the largest battle in Nordic history. There, Finnish forces had halted a Soviet advance despite being outnumbered three to one.

    
Jansson said hello to a few of the vets he’d gotten to know. The taxi was already waiting outside the door.

    
One fellow who’d been in the spa with Jansson noticed the taxi.

    
“You boys off to the dances?”

    
“We’re coming too,” said another.

    
“You guys stick around and hold down the fort,” said Huusko.

    
“I hear they’re supposed to have a live band tonight,” said Jansson’s friend.

    
The dance floor was open every night, but only on Wednesdays and Fridays did they have live music.

    
“Have fun tonight,” said Jansson.

    
“Not too much, though,” added Huusko.

    
“Don’t drink too little,” shouted one of the vets.

    
The Millhouse Tavern was in the heart of town, half a mile away. The low building had been built in the seventies, just as the town’s central area shifted to a new area. Next to it were the social security office, a bank, a liquor store, a supermarket and a hardware store.

    
The interior of the tavern was trying for a sort of earthy, cabin feel. German-style painted elves, about as charming as a painted toilet, had been hung all about.

    
Huusko ordered two beers at the bar and brought them to the table. The place was nearly empty.

    
“Why is Kempas interested in Raid?” asked Huusko, puffing at the froth at the top of his glass.

    
“Was it hard for you to wait till now?”

    
“Not at all.”

    
Jansson told him.

    
“Kempas is a good cop, but he’s no nice guy. A killjoy, you might say.”

    
A small red car stopped in the parking lot. Huusko sat up as a blonde-haired woman stepped out of the car wearing a grey skirt and a thin blue jacket. She was about forty years old. She pulled a flat handbag out of the car, closed the door and headed toward the restaurant in swinging strides. It was the same nurse who, in the pool that morning, had faulted Jansson’s posture.

    
“Some broads really know how to walk,” said Huusko.

    
The woman stopped at the entrance and looked around. After noticing Huusko, she came to the table. Huusko played the gentleman, took her coat and offered her a chair.

    
“Plenty of space for a beautiful woman. You two know each other, right? Boss, this is Anna. Anna, this is my boss, Lieutenant Jansson.”

    
Jansson shook her hand, but she avoided his eyes. He tried to seem friendly and carefree, not wanting her to think he’d been bothered earlier.

    
Huusko scuttled off to get her a drink.

    
“Huusko tells me you’ve lived here for quite a few years. You must enjoy it?” said Jansson.

    
“I’m from around here… Nothing wrong with the place, and if I get bored, Helsinki’s just over an hour away.”

    
She fiddled with the diamond ring on her middle finger.

    
“Is this your first time at
a
rehab center?”

    
“Do I look like it is?”

    
She laughed.

    
“No comment. Are you enjoying yourself?”

    
Jansson paused.

    
“If I said yes, I’d be lying. Three days in and I’m already running out of reasons to stay. At this rate I’ll end up drowning myself in the hot tub.”

    
She laughed again. A few wrinkles showed on her face, but her smile softened them.

    
“Some people come again and again…feel right at home.”

    
“I suppose that depends on what home is like.”

    
“You don’t seem to have anything to complain about in that department.”

    
“Could be worse.”

    
Huusko returned with two fresh beers and a drink for the lady.

    
“We figured we’d have steaks. You’re not gonna tattle, are you?”

    
“Depends on the bribe… I’ll have to leave at eight, unfortunately. I have a new fitness program that has to be ready by tomorrow. But you guys can stay as long as you like, I’ll drive myself…”

    
Jansson looked at the woman, then at Huusko. Maybe their spark wasn’t as hot as Huusko had hoped. Though Jansson always stood up for his team, he had to admit that this woman had just the kind of sensitivity and style that would go to waste on a guy like Huusko. Apparently, it went to waste on this whole little town.

    
Huusko looked disappointed.

    
“The band doesn’t start till nine. I won’t get to dance with you.”

    
“Another time.”

    
“How ’bout now.”

    
Huusko dug some change out of his pocket and weaved his way over to the jukebox. He scanned the list and pushed the button for a classic Finnish folk tune, “Hobo’s Rose.”

    
“Are you serious?”

    
“Of course. I’m a hobo and you’re a rose.”

    
“I don’t feel like dancing.”

    
“Something slower?”

    
“Not today. Sorry to be a bore. Just not in the mood…maybe I shouldn’t have come…all I can think about is work…”

    
“Join the club,” said Jansson.

    
“You mind if we eat?” said Huusko.

    
“No.”

    
“I’ve got terrible table manners.”

    
“Doesn’t bother me. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

    
Huusko ordered a pepper steak and cheese potatoes. Jansson chose chicken and rice.

    
The chicken was dry and the steak tough. The knives were dull and Huusko had to struggle to get a bite-size chunk off the steak.

    
“Not exactly gourmet cooking?” she said.

    
“I guess it’s sort of like meat.”

    
“I’m on a diet anyway,” said Jansson.

    
Huusko mangled the steak.

    
“Guess what W.C. Fields said to the waiter in this situation?”

    
“What?”

    
“How much for this insult?”

    
The woman laughed. “Guess what I say in this situation?”

    
“You gotta go.”

    
“Bingo.”

    
She took her jacket, stood up, shook Jansson’s hand and nodded at Huusko.

    
“Don’t stay up too late.”

    
“We won’t,” Jansson promised.

    
Huusko watched her swaying hips as she walked away.

    
“That’s that.”

3.

Nygren was wearing sunglasses. In his long, open overcoat, he resembled an Italian multimillionaire whose silken sheets had entwined the better part of the Italian Riviera’s most beautiful women.

    
“You wanna drive?” asked Raid.

    
“I’ll let you drive for now.”

    
Nygren opted for the back seat again, settling in diagonally with one leg draped across the seat.

    
“I promised to tell the tale of this car,” said Nygren, patting the front seat backrest.

    
It seemed to Raid that Nygren had read his thoughts.

    
“If you’d like to hear it.”

    
“Sure.”

    
“Well, the original owner was a popular tango singer back in the early seventies. Died by drowning in his swimming pool around 1975. He had a red brick house with a flat roof, the kind with chinchilla fur on the toilet lid and mink pelts for toilet paper.”

    
“I think I’ve been there before,” said Raid.

    
“Was there a bar made of birch burl?”

    
“Something like that.”

    
“Then you know what I’m talking about. His wife sold the house and the other belongings and moved to Greece to carouse with the local boytoys. The car was purchased by an inconspicuously wealthy farmer from Turku.”

    
“Inconspicuously wealthy?”

    
“The type that goes around in a ragged sweatshirt and rubber boots patched up with inner tubes even though his bank accounts amount to millions and he has a suitcase of stock certificates under his cot. There’s a few of these types at every auction. The more trouble someone else is in, the more likely you are to find them. Then, out of the goodness of their hearts, they offer to buy your half-a-million-euro house for a hundred and fifty grand. You know the type?”

    
“Yeah.”

    
“Of course, they’re always stingy Scrooges. They tear up old newspapers for toilet paper, unless they can get a truckload of the stuff from a bankruptcy estate. If they have a party they might take out a roll, but they always ration everyone to one sheet per wipe.”

    
Nygren lit his cigarette.

    
Raid’s own first car was a Volvo Amazon. A red two-door with a two-liter B20 engine. He had dumped over ten thousand Swedish kronor from his earnings at a chocolate factory into the purchase. Still, the car had been worth every krona.

    
He had driven it around on his first summer vacation in Finland after moving to Sweden. The only downside was that the car still had Swedish plates, so at every stop someone peed on the tires or shouted profanities at him.

    
Raid glanced in the rear-view mirror. A blue Toyota van had been on their tail for a half hour now. Some time ago, the van had slowed down and nearly vanished from view, but now it was driving the same speed as they, not quite a hundred yards behind.

    
“You have something against the inconspicuously wealthy?” Raid asked.

    
“You noticed? As a guy who’s broken every one of God’s commandments, I don’t have many qualities to brag about, but thank heaven I’m not stingy or all that greedy, though others might have a different opinion. These phony bums convince themselves and everyone else that they aren’t really stingy; they just claim to dislike spending. Truth is, they like it immensely—they just love money more than things. They’d wear gold-mesh underwear if it was a gift. Gets on my nerves when they try to squeeze diamonds out of shit. Do you have a gun handy, by the way?”

    
Nygren’s question was jolting, though it flowed naturally within his discourse.

    
“Just happened to spot one of the shitheads about a hundred yards back.”

    
“I doubt we’ll need a gun,” Raid said.

    
“They might be stupid, but they’re still dangerous. At least that Sariola. The prison doc said he’s some kind of psychopath. For once the doc might be right.”

    
“What was his assessment of you?”

    
“The prison doc’s? Manic-depressive…but otherwise a nice guy.”

    
Nygren craned his neck back as he peered out the rear window.

    
“How’d they find us?” Raid asked.

    
“In this car, it’s tough to go unnoticed. They probably spotted us in Turku.”

    
“Maybe we should stop and clear things up.”

    
“They don’t need any clarification. They want money.”

    
“There was no disagreement over their split?”

    
“Nope. They got more than they deserved.”