Killshot

  The State Police investigator told Wayne to take it easy, to look at facts. There was no apparent connection between the Cadillac and Lionel Adam’s murder. Investigating one did not lead to the other. Lionel’s body hadn’t been found in the marsh till three days later.

  Wayne had been told that much. Duck hunters had come across the body, shot three times in the chest. “But what day was he killed? Haven’t you found that out yet?”

  “When we do we’ll let you know,” the investigator said. “How’s that?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” Wayne said. “You might also let me know, when you get around to it, why they want to kill us. My wife didn’t do nothing to them. Is it they want to shoot her on account of me? Who are these guys? They’ve been around here a week almost and you can’t find them? Where the hell are you looking?”

  Local police and county deputies walked off as Wayne spoke, got in their cars. The State Police investigator waited till he was through, then went out to the woods where evidence technicians were still looking around.

  Carmen said, “That was some speech,” and took Wayne in the house. “But what good is yelling at them? It just gets them mad at you.”

  “That’s the whole point of what I’m saying. They act like it’s our fault. Did I antagonize the two guys? Did you aim at the one when you shot at him? I would’ve, I know that, and if I hit him I’d be in jail up in Port Huron awaiting trial.”

  “They’ve been nice to me,” Carmen said, “but you rub them the wrong way. Why did you go into all that about getting the speeding ticket and driving through Ohio?”

  “Because those are times I got pissed off at cops and didn’t say anything, when maybe if I had I would’ve felt better.”

  “You feel better now?”

  “Not much. Let’s have a beer.”

  Carmen said, “That sounds like a good idea.” She said, “You know how when you cross your t you put the bar above the stem?”

  “You said it meant I was witty.”

  “It does, but sometimes—I’ve never told you—there’s sort of a downward slant to your t bar and that shows a quick temper.”

  “I’ll work on crossing it straighter,” Wayne said, “see if I can improve my personality.”

  “You might just try to lighten up,” Carmen said.

  Later on, when the FBI special agent called and asked if it would be convenient for them to stop by, Carmen said yes, of course. When she told Wayne they were coming he didn’t say a word and Carmen wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She had never seen her husband in a fight or a situation where he ever hit anyone, but believed it could happen almost anytime now.

  Two of them, both wearing dark suits, got out of the Ford sedan. The one on the other side of the car walked off toward the woods. Carmen saw the State Police detective out by the tree line looking this way. The one that got out from behind the wheel had thick dark hair, beginning to show gray, and was nice-looking. He nodded to them on the porch saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Colson, I’m Paul Scallen, I called you earlier. May I come up?”

  Carmen said, “Please.” Wayne didn’t say a word.

  The man was taller than she’d thought, growing as he came up the steps, taller than Wayne and older, probably in his late forties, showing them his credentials now in a case with a gold shield pinned to it. Carmen saw FBI in big light-blue letters and his name printed over it in black, much smaller. Paul Scallen. It said he was a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States Department of Justice. On the bottom part was his picture and more writing too small to read. Carmen wondered if there was a difference between a special agent and just a plain agent. She liked his rust-colored tie with the blue shirt and dark-gray suit. No hanky in the pocket. He looked like a businessman.

  Wayne was staring at the credentials. Carmen wondered if he was reading the small print until he said, “That’s the same color as the guy’s car”—meaning the light-blue FBI letters—“a big goddamn Cadillac nobody can seem to find.”

  Swell, Carmen thought. Here we go.

  She was surprised when the FBI man said, “You noticed that too,” sounding a little surprised himself. “It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the car. The Windsor Police found it at the airport, the one over there.”

  “So they’re gone,” Wayne said.

  Carmen thought he sounded disappointed. It seemed to perk up the FBI man, who said, “Well, not necessarily. They found it the same day Mrs. Colson chased one of them off, I understand with a shotgun.” Giving Carmen a nod as he said it. “And the other one killed the girl in the store. So they didn’t fly out and they haven’t come back for the car. The Windsor Police have it under surveillance, but we think the two guys dumped it.”

  Wayne said, “But you don’t know if they’re still around.”

  “We think they are.”

  “You’re not sure though.”

  “Let me say we have reason to believe they are.”

  “You check the car registration?”

  “It belongs to a company in Toronto. We contacted the police there, they followed up and were told the car was stolen. But we don’t believe it. We think they gave the car to one of the guys to use. For another matter first, something that happened in Detroit the day before they came to the real estate office.” The FBI man looked at Carmen. “I understand you work for Nelson Davies.”

  “I did; not anymore.”

  “Well, I can understand, after what happened.”

  “That wasn’t why I quit.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wayne said. “What kind of company loans a car to a guy that kills people?”

  “A company that hires him to do it,” the FBI man said. “A company that’s operated by the organized crime people in Toronto. Mafioso, just like the ones we have here.”

  “You say they gave the car to one of the guys,” Wayne said. “Which one, the Indian?”

  “Part Indian, Ojibway, part French-Canadian. His name’s Armand Degas, at least that’s who we think we have here. We know he was seen on Walpole Island last week and we assume, if it’s the same guy, both you and Mrs. Colson got a good look at him.” The FBI man paused, staring at Wayne. “You had to have been pretty close to hit him with that iron-working tool. What do you call it, a sleever bar?”

  Wayne nodded and seemed to think about it a moment, Carmen wondering what he was going to say next.

  “What I should’ve done was broke a few bones, put those guys in the hospital, in traction.”

  Now the FBI man was nodding. “That’s not a bad place to question suspects, when they’re in pain and can’t move.”

  Carmen watched. Neither one of them smiled but it didn’t matter. She could sense that all at once they had tuned in to each other’s attitude and were going to get along fine from here on. Now Wayne was asking Scallen if he wanted a beer. Another good sign. Or he could have instant coffee; they were temporarily out of the real stuff. Scallen said no thanks, he didn’t care for anything, but went into the kitchen with them and took a place at the counter. Carmen turned on the overhead light. She watched Scallen take a white envelope from his inside coat pocket. Wayne asked her if she wanted a beer and she hesitated because a federal special agent was sitting there and then said, okay, why not? Wayne said, “We’re not working, he is.” Scallen smiled. He said to Carmen, “That slug barrel gives a kick, doesn’t it?” Carmen touched her shoulder and rolled her eyes just enough. He said, “It took an awful lot of nerve, what you did, to stand up to a man like that.” Carmen said she hoped she’d never have to do it again. She saw Scallen taking two black-and-white photos out of the envelope, laying them on the counter. Wayne popped open the cans of beer and handed one to her saying, “My wife’s a winner, that’s why I married her.” She saw Scallen half-turned on the stool, waiting.

  He said, “Are these the two men?”

  She felt Wayne’s arm slip around her shoulders, his hand creeping down her arm, moving with her to the counter. They lo
oked down at the photos, posed, front-view mug shots: the photo of the Indian, Armand Degas, dark; the photo of the other one much lighter, pale skin, a drugged expression.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” Wayne said. “They look different there, but those are the guys.”

  After a few moments Carmen nodded and looked up at Scallen. “If you get them, you want us to identify them in court, is that it?”

  “There’s nothing we’d like more,” Scallen said. “But I should tell you something about them first, before you agree to do it. These guys are both pretty bad.”

  Carmen pointed to the one with long hair. “What’s this one’s name?”

  Scallen glanced at the photo. “Richie Nix. He’s a convicted felon with a number of federal and state detainers out on him. That means he’s a wanted criminal.”

  Carmen said, “Richie?”

  “That’s the name on his birth certificate.”

  She was looking at the photos again. “Both of them have killed people?”

  Scallen nodded. “That’s right.”

  Wayne said, “You know they’re the ones killed Lionel?”

  Scallen nodded again. “Bullets taken from his body match the three that were found in Nelson Davies’s office, they dug out of the wall. And, the same gun was used to kill the girl in the Seven-Eleven, when Richie Nix was trying for you.”

  Carmen looked up. “Is that what you want to tell us?”

  “There’s more,” Scallen said.

  Six P.M., nine miles north in Marine City, Armand found a gas station where it looked like only one man was on duty, a run-down place that offered discount prices. Armand drove Donna’s red Honda up to the row of pumps, got out and told the man to fill it up and check the oil and the tires. The gas-station man looked at Armand but didn’t say yes sir or okay or you bet or anything, just looked at him and walked over to the car. He wore a hunting cap cocked to one side and was older and bigger around in his dark-brown uniform than Armand, but seemed worn out, not much life in him.

  Armand went inside the station, picked up the phone on the desk and dialed a number in Toronto. Standing away from the plate-glass window he watched the gas-station man take the hose from a pump and stick the nozzle into the Honda’s filler opening. A voice came on the phone saying this was L and M Distributing and Armand said, “This is the Chief. Let me talk to him.” He waited, watching the gas-station man move to the front of the Honda and raise the hood while gasoline continued to pump into the tank.

  The son-in-law’s voice came on saying, “The fuck’re you doing? Where are you?”

  Armand said, “You don’t want to hear about the old man, ‘ey?”

  There was a pause before the son-in-law said, his voice lower, “It was in the papers, pictures of both of them.”

  Armand said, “Both?” And said, “Oh. Yeah, I forgot. Listen—what he said, don’t tell me it was in the papers. I’m the only one heard it.”

  “Where’re you at?”

  “He told me you’re a punk, you not gonna last six months. He told me to tell you that. Listen—but the main thing, I need a car, a clean one with papers. I want you to arrange it.”

  “You call me up,” the son-in-law said, “you give me some shit—I don’t give a fuck what you need.”

  “Yes, you do,” Armand said. “You don’t want me to get picked up for some reason and they start asking me who I work for, who sent me, was I in Detroit last Friday with your car, things like that. Pretty soon they mention, well, if I give them something maybe they let me go home. That’s not what you want. What you want to do is call that guy in Detroit, you know who I mean, guy with the cars, and arrange for me to get one tonight.”

  Armand watched the gas-station man close the hood of Donna’s car as the son-in-law was saying he wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know what happened to the Cadillac, why it was left in Windsor. Armand said, “What difference does it make? It’s a blue car, that’s all. There’s nothing in it can hurt you.” Through the window he watched the gas-station man return the hose to the pump and hook the nozzle in the slot. Armand said, “Hold it a minute. Don’t go away.” He placed the receiver on the desk and stepped to the open doorway.

  “You forgot to check the tires.”

  The gas-station man, coming toward the station now, stopped in the drive. “What?”

  “I want the tires checked.”

  “You do that yourself.” Glancing off he said, “Over there,” and started toward Armand again. “That’s nine-forty for the gas.”

  Armand moved to the desk, picked up the phone and said, “Listen to me. Tell the guy ten o’clock somebody will pick up the car.” The son-in-law started to speak and Armand said, “Listen to me. Ten or maybe later. This is for your good as much as for mine.”

  The gas-station man entered as Armand was hanging up the receiver.

  “You just use the phone?”

  “It was a local call,” Armand said. “How much you want?”

  “Local to where, across the river? You people, I swear. You come over here, you expect we’re suppose to give you everything. Well, I’m not one of them sees you as poor souls. Gimme nine-forty and go on get out of here.”

  Listen to him. Armand had to take a moment to stare at this fat, worn-out guy talking to him like that. He said, “What you trying to tell me, I shouldn’t come here, ‘ey? Is that it?”

  “You start anything,” the gas-station man said, “I can have the police here in one minute. They’re just up the street.”

  Maybe it was funny. Look at it that way. Armand shook his head. “Whatever you say.” He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the desk. “How about if you keep the change for the phone call? Okay?”

  The gas-station guy didn’t answer. That was all right. Armand edged past him through the doorway, smelling grease and tobacco, and was crossing the drive almost to the Honda, when he heard the guy call out to him. Something about was he trying to cheat him.

  Armand turned.

  The guy was coming out, holding up the ten. “This here’s Canadian. You owe me another two bucks.”

  When Armand got back to Donna’s house he told Richie about it, in the kitchen while he poured himself a drink. Donna was in the bathroom, taking a shower. Richie said, “Yeah? So what’d you do?”

  “I gave him the two bucks. What would you do?”

  Richie said, “Jesus Christ,” shaking his head. “You didn’t teach him a lesson?”

  “I want to know what you’d do,” Armand said.

  “If I had my piece on me? Shit. If I didn’t, I’d get it and go back there. No, I’d use the shotgun, blow the place to hell.”

  “What about the guy?”

  “Him too. I know that gas station you’re talking about. You go in there the guy doesn’t say a fucking word to you.”

  “He did to me.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Richie said. “He ever talked to me like that and I was a Indian? I’d scalp the son of a bitch.” Richie paused and thought about it a moment. “I don’t know, that shotgun’s a lot of fun. Maybe what I’d do, shoot the place up and then scalp him.” Richie paused again and frowned, squinting at Armand, then opened a drawer and took out a paring knife, still frowning. “How do you scalp somebody . . . ?”

  “You do all that with the police up the street or maybe driving by, ‘ey? Or somebody else that sees you?” Armand said. “You know why I told you about it? To see what you’d do. Now I’m gonna tell you not to think like that, not anymore till we get this business done.”

  “You want me to think like you, huh?”

  “I want you to take it easy, how you think.”

  “I know you’re a cool fucker, Bird, but if that guy didn’t get you pissed there’s something wrong with you.”

  “Sure he did,” Armand said. “The same as every time it ever happened in my life. But wait a minute, what do we have to think about right now? This guy at a gas station or two people can send us to
prison?”

  “I’d have still done something.”

  “Listen to me. That guy at the gas station,” Armand said, tapping the side of his head with a finger, “I have him in here, I can go see him sometime if I want. Pay myself to do it. You understand? But we got this other thing to do first.” Armand touched his forehead now, tapping it with the tip of his finger. “We have to keep it here, in the front of our heads.”

  Richie was stabbing the knife at the kitchen counter, trying to hit a crack in the vinyl surface. Like a kid, Armand thought. Don’t want to be told anything.

  “Donna mentioned it was on the radio,” Richie said, stabbing away. “She listens to WSMA, this program called Tradio where you phone in and trade shit you don’t want no more. It’s where she got that pink robe. I go, ‘I thought you got it off the Salvation Army.’ She gets pissed you kid with her like that.”

  “You through?” Armand said.

  Richie looked up, the knife poised. “Am I through what?”

  “Donna mention something was on the radio.”

  “Oh, yeah, about the Seven-Eleven was robbed, suppose to be they said a couple hundred was taken. Bullshit, it was forty-two bucks, worst score I ever made. No, shit, I take that back. I only got twenty-eight bucks once, place down in Mississippi.”

  “You told Donna it was you?”

  “No, she kept talking about the girl being shot, did I hear about it, hinting around.” Richie was stabbing at the counter again. I just go, ‘Oh, uh-huh, an armed robbery, imagine that.’ See, Donna, she might suspect it was me, but it’s talking about it I think turns her on. The idea of a hardcase going in there with a gun. In her life, I bet she’s known more guys that packed one time or another than didn’t.”

  “Guys in prison,” Armand said.

  “Yeah, in the joint.”

  “Dumb guys that got caught.”

  “Hey, it can happen to anybody.”

  “Not to me,” Armand said. “Listen, you gonna pick up a car tonight.”

  “We got a car.”

  “This is a clean one, with papers. You take the van, leave it someplace in Detroit to get stolen, like you said, and pick up this one we don’t have to worry about cops looking for.” Armand could tell from Richie’s stupid grin he liked the idea, showing some respect for a change.