North of Nowhere

Chapter Six

It was a beautiful day in Sault Ste. Marie. For much of the year you couldn’t say that with a straight face. In the dead of winter, especially, it would be nothing but gallows humor. On this day, the day after the Fourth of July, Sault Ste. Marie was a better place to be than anywhere else I could think of.

The rest of the country was hot that day. I saw it on the weather map in the paper that morning, all the nineties and hundred-pluses throughout the South, the West, the Midwest, even the Northeast. It was ninety-three degrees in New York City that day. It was ninety-two in Detroit. I’ve been in that kind of heat in Detroit. I’ve done it wearing a police officer’s uniform and watching what it does to everybody else around me.

On this day in July, while the rest of the country stewed and simmered, it was eighty-one degrees in the Soo, with a constant breeze off Lake Superior. I didn’t feel like getting right back in my truck. I just couldn’t do it. The City-County building sits at the east end of Locks Park, so I took a walk along the St. Marys River. There was one freighter heading toward the locks, along with a few smaller boats and a couple of jet skis. The center of town was busy. It was a holiday week, and such a goddamned gorgeous day, I wasn’t surprised to see all the people. I suppose I couldn’t blame them for wanting to be here. I’d take the tourists any day over a man like Win Vargas, with his new-money dreams of condos and golf courses. The tourists came up here for a few days at a time, they stayed in one of the new hotels, they watched some ships go through the locks, bought T-shirts for their kids at the gift shops. Maybe they had their own boats on trailers, took them out on the lake for a few hours, caught a few whitefish. With the casinos up here now, maybe we had a few more tourists than we ever did before. But I could live with them. They come, they spend some money, they take some pictures, and then they go home.

I walked up Water Street, past the Ojibway Hotel. This was one of the original buildings in town, with a formal dining room overlooking the locks. All the new hotels, they were out on the Business Spur, close to the highway.

Vargas had said something about one of those hotels, about his wife being there with Swanson the lawyer. And his private investigator documenting every move. I thought about that and laughed out loud. Then I replayed my little meeting with Chief Maven and laughed out loud again.

Hell, I was in town anyway. I had to see for myself. Ashmun Street, the Chief said. His office had to be right here in town, with Ashmun running perpendicular to the river, through what passes as a business district and then across the old power canal. I didn’t figure it would be too hard to find. Hell, I knew it would be the only private investigator’s office in this part of the state, let alone this particular street.

I started at the intersection with Portage Street, and worked my way south. There were gift shops on either side of the street, where you could buy your postcards, your imitation Indian headdresses, and of course your little iron-ore freighter replicas, with “Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan” embossed on the side of the hull. There was an ice cream shop after that on one side, a bookstore on the other, another gift shop, this one specializing in crystal jewelry and those little ceramic figurines that people collect. A restaurant, one more gift shop, and then it crossed Spruce Street. I knew I was getting warmer, because I was seeing serious business going on now. A three-story bank on one side, an accounting office on the other, then a travel agency and a place where they’d make you a sign for your business in twenty-four hours.

I almost missed Leon’s door. It was set between the sign place and a car insurance office. The lettering on the door read “Prudell Investigations, Second Floor.”

I opened the door and went up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a small hallway at the top, with a couple of different offices that looked empty. I stood in front of the last door on the left, looking through the glass at my old partner Leon Prudell. He was sitting at his desk, looking out his window at the street below. He was the same man I knew, fifty pounds on the heavy side, and that hair, so red it was orange and pointing in every direction. He didn’t have his flannel shirt on, though, or his hunting boots. He was actually wearing a white shirt and tie. For a moment I just stood there watching him, remembering the night he had come out to Paradise and waited at the Glasgow Inn for me, drinking Jackie’s whiskey and working up the courage to fight me in the parking lot.

I had taken his job-or so he thought. He’d been doing some work for Lane Uttley, a lawyer here in town. Lane found out that I had been a cop once, that I had been shot and still had a bullet in my chest. He came to me and talked me into trying out the private investigations business. I was dumb enough to give it a shot, just long enough for some truly horrible things to happen. Leon was the odd man out. To this very day, as I stood in front of his office door watching him sitting at his desk, he still didn’t know what a great favor I had done him.

After that, being a private eye was the last thing in this world I wanted-or even worse, being a private eye and also Leon’s partner. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He started acting like my partner, and damned if he didn’t help me out of a couple of tight spots. He even saved my life. So I told him, okay, I’ll be your partner. Your silent partner. Your occasional, call me if you really, really need me partner. He helped me out of another tight spot, but this time I figured it was time for me to stop getting into tight spots in the first place. I asked him to take my name off the business, and off the Web site he had made up. No more Prudell-McKnight Investigations. No more business cards with the two guns pointed at each other. I hadn’t talked to him much since then. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about it.

It doesn’t take a hell of a lot to become a private investigator in the state of Michigan. All you need is either three years as a law enforcement officer, or a college degree in police administration. Leon went the college route, right here in town at Lake Superior State. He should have left, though. He should have gone south and started his business down by Detroit, or any other city downstate. Somewhere where there was enough business, somewhere where everybody didn’t remember him from school, that goofy fat kid with the glasses who always sat in the back row and got in trouble for reading the private eye novels during class.

I rapped my knuckle on the glass. Leon twirled around and looked at me. He looked puzzled for just one second, and then he smiled. “Come on in, Alex,” he said. “The door is open. What do you think of my office?”

I stepped in, looked around the place. It was small, maybe ten feet by twelve. There were some file cabinets, Leon’s desk. Two guest chairs in front of it. He had a calendar on one wall, with the Lake Superior State hockey team on it. “Go Lakers!” it said. There was a print on the other wall, the International Bridge shrouded in fog. And then the window, looking down at the street one story below. It looked exactly like what a private investigator’s office would look like, if somebody had gotten the crazy idea of putting such an office in Sault Ste. Marie. “It’s perfect,” I said. “It’s you.”

“Thanks. It’s good to see you.”

“I was over seeing my old friend Chief Maven,” I said, sitting down in one of the guest chairs. “He told me you had an office now. I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Chief Maven, huh? I bet I know what the two of you were talking about.”

“Yeah, about this guy Vargas…”

“My client,” he said. “Winston Vargas.”

“Yeah, your client.”

“You were present at his residence last night,” he said. One of the things I’ve always loved about the guy is the fact that he’ll say I was “present” at a “residence,” instead of just being in a house.

“I was there,” I said. “He happened to mention that you were working for him. Something about his wife.”

“As long as he told you I was working for him, yes, I can confirm that.”

I looked at the ceiling. Confirm that, he says. “Leon, what’s the deal? Are you following his wife around, trying to catch her fooling around with the family lawyer? What was his name, Swanson?”

“My activities on his behalf are strictly confidential, Alex. You know that.”

“Leon, for God’s sake, it’s me, okay? I was your partner.”

“You were my partner, yes.”

“Look, I told you-”

“It’s okay, Alex. I don’t hold that against you. I’m just saying, you know I can’t discuss this with you.”

“Leon, I don’t care what-” I stopped, made myself slow down. Maven was right, it’s all in how you react to things. Leon’s putting on his one-man show, which always drives me nuts. So I should just stop letting it get to me. “I’m just making conversation,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask you to divulge any information that would jeopardize your relationship with your client.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Thank you.”

“But I was there last night, when you called him. He told us that you had followed them to a hotel. And then I think he was getting ready to accuse us of covering for Swanson. Or accuse Jackie and Bennett and Gill, anyway. I was just the innocent bystander. Me and Kenny.”

Leon took a manila folder off his desk and opened it. “Those were the five other players at his house last night.”

“Yes,” I said. “Until the men with the guns joined us.”

“I’ll ask Chief Maven for a copy of the police report. I understand you were the only man who could help them with physical descriptions.”

“I sort of figured Vargas would ask you to look into it,” I said. “I told Maven to expect to hear from you.”

“How did he react to that?”

“I don’t know. Maven doesn’t let himself react anymore. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” Leon said. “I know you and Maven never hit it off.”

“I’m not on his Christmas card list, no. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I’m just wondering what Vargas is gonna ask you to do now. Is he thinking his wife and Swanson were behind this?”

Leon looked up at me.

“I know, I know,” I said. “You can’t share that information. I was just wondering, okay? It’s just natural human curiosity.”

“I understand,” he said. “I do. You were there. It’s natural.”

“He’s gonna have you running all over the place, isn’t he. Trying to get to the bottom of this.”

Leon just shrugged at that.

“I’ll save you some time,” I said. “I’m the guy you’re looking for. It was all my idea.”

“Come on, Alex. This isn’t a joke.”

“You’re not doing your other job anymore? The snowmobile thing? And the outboard motors in the summer?”

“I’m a private investigator, Alex. Full-time.”

“This office has to cost some money. Do you have any other clients besides Vargas? I mean, you don’t have to tell me any names…”

“Most of my time is going to Mr. Vargas right now,” he said. “He’s keeping me busy, believe me.”

“Leon, I hope he’s not going to ask you to do anything stupid, okay? That’s all I’m saying. He seems like the kind of guy who could do that.”

“You know I always play it straight, Alex. Straight down the middle.” Another thing that only Leon would say.

“What does your wife think about all this?”

“She’s letting me give it a shot,” he said. “She wasn’t so sure about it at first. But hey, she knows how much it means to me. I’m lucky to have her.”

“That’s true,” I said. “Kids are okay?”

“The kids are good.”

“Say hi to them for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Me too,” I said, getting up. I shook his hand. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“Alex,” he said. “You know that you’ll always be my friend, right?”

I looked at him. The late afternoon sun came in right over his shoulder, casting a long shadow across his desk. “Of course,” I said.

“You know my first priority has to be to my client,” he said. “And my second priority has to be the official channels of law enforcement.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He let that one hang. “That’s just the way it has to be,” he finally said. “You know that.”

“Sure,” I said. “Of course. When you’re done with all this, give me a call. I’ll buy you a beer.”

He nodded and gave me a little smile. Then he turned and looked down at the street. I left his office, closing the door behind me. “What the hell was that about?” I said aloud as I walked down the stairs. Something was going on in Leon Prudell’s head, and as usual, I couldn’t even guess what it was.

I made my way back up Ashmun, cutting east behind the Coast Guard installation, back to the City-County building. I got in my truck and headed out of town.

Just for the hell of it, I stopped in at O’Dell’s place. It was a big wooden two-story building at the end of Bermuda Avenue, in a neighborhood they call “The Shallows.” The river narrows there, just before opening up into Whitefish Bay. I figured I’d have a quick one, and see how Bennett was doing.

I parked right in front of the place. It looked like it had been there for at least a hundred years. The cedar siding was weathered gray by the wind off the water. You’d have to pay a lot of money to get your house looking the same way. The “distressed” siding alone would kill you.

Bennett was pouring a draft behind the bar when I went in, looking just like the owner you’d expect-a big man who’d seen it all, rough around the edges, like the bar itself. He was looking up at the Tigers game on his big-screen TV. The place was pretty quiet for a late summer afternoon-I knew it would pick up around five o’clock, and stay busy until two in the morning.

“Alex McKnight!” he said when he saw me. “What brings you here? Where’s Jackie?”

“Last I heard, he was still in bed,” I said. “And while you’re pouring…”

“Coming right up,” he said. “Yeah, I don’t blame the guy for sleeping that one off. I was awake myself most of the night. You know what I mean? Just staring at the ceiling.”

He did look a little ragged. But then he was no movie star to begin with. “Thanks,” I said when he slid the draft over.

“You know what I was thinking as I was staring at the ceiling all night? That it was all my fault.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Vargas, that horse’s ass, when he was building that house over there, he stopped in here a few times. I got to talking to him, he asks me if there were any regular poker games going on. So I told him yeah, I got a few guys who play here a couple of times a month. You know, Jackie and Gill and a few other guys. He starts coming over on poker nights, but he’s playing for bigger stakes than most guys here want to play for. So eventually we sort of break off this other game, just Vargas and that Kenny who works for him, me and Gill, and Jackie. And Swanson…”

He stopped and looked at me. He couldn’t help smiling.

“Until he started nailing Vargas’s wife, I mean. Then we needed another player, so Jackie dragged your ass along. Don’t you feel lucky now?”

“I am truly blessed.”

“Jackie was feeling a little bad for you, Alex. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. He said you were keeping to yourself too much. Said he hasn’t seen you much lately.”

“I was in a little slump,” I said. “I’m okay now. Really.”

“That’s good to hear, Alex. Jackie’s just looking out for you, you know that. He’s a good man. Hell, Jackie and me, we go back almost fifty years now, can you believe that? We used to do our homework together, right over there in the corner.” He pointed to the far corner of the bar, where now a dartboard hung on the wall.

“Must be a lot of memories in this place for you.”

“Alex, you don’t know the half of it.” He looked up at the screen again. “Can you believe this new ballpark they’re playing in now? Comerica Park, they call it? Is that for real?”

“I’ve seen it,” I said. “It’s not like Tiger Stadium, I tell you that much.”

“Of course not,” he said. He picked up a wet dish towel and threw it at his son. Ham O’Dell was even taller than his father, at least six foot six. He’d played power forward at Northern Michigan. He was what the newspapers politely called a “physical player,” meaning that he couldn’t do much besides get in other people’s way. Ham peeled the wet towel off his face and threw it back at his father, missing the man by three feet.

“Basketball players,” Bennett said. “No coordination.”

That started a series of arguments about sports, and then about which generation had it harder. Somehow it went to fishing after that, and then finally to women. That brought Mrs. O’Dell out of the kitchen. Margaret O’Dell was a truly lovely woman, and neither of the two men in the room deserved her. That’s what she said anyway, and when she put me on the spot I was more than glad to agree with her.

“How’s Jackie doing?” she asked me. “I haven’t seen him in I don’t know how long.”

“He’s still the same,” I said. “Aside from last night, he’s doing fine.”

As I talked to her, I remembered something that Jackie had told me. Or had almost told me but not quite, about how he had loved Margaret once, years ago, and about how he had lost her to his best friend. I wondered if he had seen her face when his life was flashing before his eyes.

It was dinnertime when I got back to Paradise. I stopped in at the Glasgow again. Jackie was out of bed, God bless him, and sitting by the fireplace. He still looked a little tired, but nothing a little friendly needling wouldn’t cure. I had my dinner with him, and told him about my day-my meeting with Maven, then with Leon, and finally how I stopped in to see Bennett. And Margaret.

He gave me a slow nod and a smile at the sound of her name. “You really got around today,” he said. “Not bad for a hermit.”

When I finally made it back to my cabin that night, the light on my answering machine was blinking again. There were two messages this time. I pressed play and heard a voice I didn’t recognize at first. Then it came to me. It was Winston Vargas, inviting me to have lunch with him the next day. On his boat, of all places. The second message was from Eleanor Prudell, Leon’s wife, asking me to call her back as soon as I could.

It was late, but I figured Vargas’s message was one invitation I shouldn’t leave hanging. He had left his number-I dialed it and waited through five rings until a woman answered.

“Is this Mrs. Vargas?” I said. “I’m sorry to call so late. Is your husband there?”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s Alex McKnight. I was one of the men playing poker at your house last night.”

“Let me guess, you had so much fun you’re calling to set up the next game.”

“No, actually, your husband invited me to lunch tomorrow. On his boat. I was calling to decline. I hope I didn’t wake you, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”

“He’s not here right now,” she said. “He’s out having some kind of meeting with his hired goon.”

“With Leon Prudell? It’s almost midnight.”

“I don’t know his name. He’s the big guy with the orange hair, the one who’s been following me around for the last few weeks.”

I wasn’t going to touch that one. “Well, can you give your husband the message, ma’am? That I won’t be having lunch with him?”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “I hope it doesn’t break his heart.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And good night.”

“Alex, was it? Sleep tight, Alex.”

I was going to save Eleanor Prudell’s call for the next morning, but this business with Vargas was getting stranger by the minute. The way Leon had been acting, and that line about his first priority being his client, his second priority being the police. I was thinking that was just Leon being Leon, but now I wasn’t so sure. I figured it was worth returning his wife’s phone call, even this late at night. She answered on the first ring.

“Eleanor,” I said. “This is Alex. I take it you weren’t sleeping.”

I’d gotten to know Eleanor Prudell, enough to like her and to admire the way she put up with her husband’s private eye dreams. When Leon broke both his ankles, I watched her carry him around the house like he was a basket of laundry. If I ever needed back-up in a bar fight, Eleanor would be my first choice.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” she said. “It’s been so long, Alex.”

“Is everything all right? You sounded a little upset in your message.”

“I’m just wondering what Leon’s got himself mixed up with this time,” she said. “This crazy Vargas character called him seven times today. They’re out at some bar right now, having some kind of ‘pow-wow,’ he said.”

“A ‘pow-wow?’”

“That’s what he called it. He’s been acting real weird, Alex. I mean, even on the Leon scale. I was hoping you’d know something.”

“I really don’t,” I said, feeling a small stab of guilt. “I haven’t been spending any time with him lately.”

“I wish you would,” she said. “You know how to bring him back to earth sometimes.”

“Eleanor, I’m sorry…”

“You don’t have to apologize, Alex. I know you’re not really his partner anymore. I was just hoping you could find out what he’s up to.”

“Maybe I can,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do. “Vargas wants to have lunch with me tomorrow. Maybe I can find out what’s going on with Leon.”

“God, Alex, would you? I feel better already.”

I said I would, she thanked me a few times, promised she’d hug her kids for me, thanked me again, and then said good night.

I called Vargas’s number, apologized to his wife again, and told her I’d be making the lunch date after all.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. “I was just sitting here crying about it. Now I can sleep.”

I let her have that one, wished her a good night, and hoped to God that I’d never have to meet her in person.

Before I went to sleep myself that night, I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind coming in off the lake. I wondered what the hell was going on, what Leon was up to, and why Vargas would want to have lunch with me.

Go to sleep, I told myself. You’ll find out tomorrow.

Lunch on a boat. How bad could it be?