Twin Cities Noir

NOIR NEIGE by K.J. Erickson Near North (Minneapolis)

You could spend a lot of time trying to figure out how three guys as different as Tom Leigh, Earl Dethaug, and Jorge Mendez ended up working together at the Minneapolis Impound Lot. What it came down to was that each of them, in his own male-impaired way, loved the other. But it took a lot of time and bad luck for them to figure that out. And like a lot of love stories, it ends as a tale of revenge.

The only snow Tom Leigh had seen before moving to Minnesota was snow that melted as it hit the ground. So he wasn’t prepared when he woke on an early November morning at his girlfriend’s apartment. Hung over. No idea that seventeen inches of snow had fallen since his last conscious moment. Or that the city of Minneapolis had something called Snow Emergency Rules. Rules so complicated they took three pages of closely printed type to explain.

His girlfriend got up first, took one look out the window, and said, “Shit.”

Tom rose on one elbow, eyes clenched shut to avoid light.

“Where’d you park last night?” Carla said.

Tom leaned forward slowly. A faster motion would have been disastrous for his gastrointestinal tract. Not to mention Carla’s bedding.

“Where’d I park?”

“There’s serious snow out there, and the tow trucks just hit my block. If you parked on the street…”

“Tow trucks?” Tom said, still not hearing anything that warranted opening his eyes.

“It’s a snow emergency, numb nuts. You park on the wrong side of the street, wrong day, wrong time—during a snow emergency—and your car gets towed. And from where I stand, it looks like my side of the street just hit the snow emergency trifecta. They’ve already loaded a bunch of cars…”

A surge of bile hit the back of Tom’s throat. He dropped back on the pillow. He was pretty sure he’d parked directly in front of Carla’s apartment, but he was also pretty sure he didn’t much care.

“So they tow my car. They’ve got to bring it back after they plow, right?”

Carla was still at the window when she said, “There it goes. That is definitely your car. A pile of snow fell off when they loaded it on the flatbed. And no. They don’t bring it back. You have to go get it. Which is going to be a problem. Buses probably aren’t running and there’s no way you’re going to get a taxi in this weather. With tow fees and fines, it’s going to cost you, like, two hundred dollars to get your car back. And impound fees, if you don’t get down to the impound lot to pick it up…”

Tom was out of the bed, naked and farting, running toward the door. He grabbed his jacket off the couch and made it down to the front door in seconds.

Then he hit the snow. It would take a shovel and fifteen minutes to get him from where he was to the street. All he could do was stand there, watching the tow truck turn the corner, heading toward downtown, Tom’s car on the flatbed.

It was then he felt the cold. It was then he realized he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He was wearing Carla’s jacket, which stopped about seven inches north of his cold-withered dick. And it was then that his beleaguered gut gave way, leaving Tom no choice but to drop his butt down in the snow and let loose. Standing up, he made the mistake of looking back at the darkened snow where he’d sat. His reaction to what he saw was reflexive, born out of years spent as a floundering French major. Noir neige. Black snow. Who said being a French major had no practical application?

The city impound lot is located under the I-394 overpass at the western edge of downtown Minneapolis, shadowed by tons of concrete. A couple dozen columns, each maybe six feet in diameter, support the nonstop vibration of cars crossing the overpass. It’s a forbidding sight. But what was really depressing was the line of people snaking toward a concrete block building at one end of the lot. There must have been two hundred of them. Miserable-looking people. Cold. Unkempt. Mad. Every one of them looked mad.

Tom had not been able to feel his feet for more than an hour by the time he made it through the line to a bleak, unheated hallway leading to the service windows. Behind the windows, two guys processed tickets. And behind them were handmade signs that made clear this was the kind of place where the customer was never right.

It was Tom’s first sight of Earl Dethaug, one of the two guys behind the windows. The first thing you noticed about Earl was that he was fat. The way you get fat if you only eat white, yellow, and brown food. What Tom could see of Earl’s clothing was a dirty T-shirt and a down vest with wisps of white feathers sticking out of the seams. His arms were heavily tattooed. The tattoos suggested Earl had once been thin; they had faded as his skin spread over expanding girth.

The next thing Tom noticed about Earl was how unconcerned he was by the nonstop abuse he took from each and every person who presented themselves, rumpled tow tickets in hand.

The guy directly in front of Tom drove his fist into the window after finishing his business with Earl. It was a mistake. The window was bullet proof, and from the sound of the impact, Tom guessed the guy broke some bones.

From the window speaker, Earl said, “Next.”

At which point the guy turned fast, bumping into Tom. He spat in Tom’s direction and said, “Move your dumb ass!”

Tom didn’t even have to think about it. “Fiche-moi lecamp!”he called after him. And then, louder, “Va te fairefoutre!”

Earl was staring at him as Tom stepped up to the window. “I personally impose a surcharge on anybody who don’t speak English, buddy.”

“I speak English,” Tom said. “But I curse in French.”

Earl continued to stare. “You speak anything else?”

“Spanish. Some German.”

“Hot damn,” Earl said. “You want a job? One of my guys is out sick. Georgie. The one that speaks spick. We’re getting killed. How about it, Frenchy. I’ll give you seventy-five bucks to work from now until 10 o’clock tonight.”

Tom thought about it. How hard could it be? And besides, after he paid the tow ticket and fine, he wouldn’t have any cash left for the rest of the month.

Tom said, “Is it heated in there?”

“We got infrared heaters above and floor heaters besides.”

Tom said, “You cover my tow bill and fine, and I’ll do it.”

Earl grimaced. Then he said, “I’ll cover if you stay until 7 tomorrow morning.”

That had been four years ago. Since then, whenever there was a snow emergency, Tom’s phone would ring and it would be Earl.

“Dirty drawers, Frenchy.”

Dirty drawers was Earl’s code for his personal snow emergency drill. Earl wore the same unwashed underwear he’d worn every snow emergency since he’d taken over the city impound lot. Tom made it a point not to ask how long that had been.

“It’s like this, Frenchy,” Earl said. “Snow emergencies—I don’t shave, I don’t shower. Hell, I don’t brush my teeth. And then I’ve got my specially aged underwear going for me. Gives a guy an edge. Know what I’m saying?”

It had never entered Tom’s mind that he’d be working at the impound lot for four years. When he thought about it, he considered the possibility he’d miss being the guy in control on the other side of the bullet-proof window when the pathetic hordes of towees showed up. He considered the possibility that he’d miss the drama of the twenty-four-hour snow emergency shifts.

There was always lots of drama.

Earl said, “I’ve had to duck twice working impound lots. The third time I have to duck, I’m out of here. Not gonna push my luck.”

The first time Earl ducked had been back when he’d run a private impound lot. He’d handled cars parked illegally on private property. Earl operated out of a ten-by-twelve-foot ice-fishing shack he’d bought off his brother-in-law for fifty bucks. He’d had a hole cut in the shack and installed a piece of glass with a pass window in it.

Three months after Earl started business in the shack, he’d dropped a handful of quarters on the floor. An eye blink after he’d bent over to pick them up, a brick came through the glass window, right where Earl’s head would have been if he’d been standing up.

The second time Earl ducked was after he’d left the shack to take a leak behind one of the impounded cars. He was maybe two car lengths away from the shack when he heard something behind him. Like a rock had hit the shack. It was another eye blink before the whole shack exploded.

The police bomb squad said somebody had lobbed a Vietnam-era grenade at the shack.

After that, Earl had a twelve-by-twelve cement-block structure put up. A bullet-proof window in front. A john at the back.

“Sweet,” Earl said, “but volume at the city was better. And I got benefits. So I sold the private lot. Came out ahead. Besides, once I read the city’s snow emergency rules—ka-ching!—I figured it was a license to print money.”

Jorge Mendez—Georgie to Earl—said, “What I hear is people are gonna be able to sign up for an e-mail notification on snow emergencies. That could hurt our business some…”

Earl rolled his eyes.

“Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. You worked here how long? A year more than Frenchy, right? And you still haven’t figured out that our customers couldn’t get it together to move their cars if you and me went out and personally whacked each one of them over the head with a two-by-four.”

As usual, Earl was right. Nine times out of ten, people who got towed were people whose lives were already seriously out of control. These were people for whom bounced checks, parking tickets, and overdue rent were a way of life. They were running on a short fuse before they got towed, and getting towed was just one of a lot of things that lit their match.

Tom liked Jorge almost as much as he liked Earl, hard pressed as he was to explain what any one of them had in common with the other. Maybe the one thing that Tom and Jorge had in common was that neither could explain why they’d worked for Earl as long as they had.

“Does it bother you that he calls you Georgie,” Tom said, “instead of pronouncing your name right?”

Jorge shrugged. “I corrected him a couple times when I first started working here. Then he put my name up on the schedule spelled, Whore-Hey.So I told him to skip it. Just call me Georgie. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is, stuff like when my mom was here from El Paso. Earl gave me extra to take her out for dinner. And the second year I worked impound, I had mono, and he paid me the whole time I was sick. That came out of his pocket, but he made me take it. With Earl, what you see isn’t necessarily what you get. Know what I mean?”

It was Tom’s turn to shrug. “I guess.”

Jorge said, “Does it bother you he calls you Frenchy?”

Tom said, “I never really thought about it. Just like I never really think about why I’m still here.”

“I guess I like the flexibility,” Jorge said, “and the money’s not bad. It leaves me time for my music. That’s what I care about. Kind of like you and your French.” Jorge stopped, looking at Tom. “How long does it take to finish a French major, anyways? You’ve been at the U how long now?”

Tom thought a better question would be, how long had it been since he’d registered for a class at the U.

“It’s not like there’s a rule about how long it takes,” Tom said. “I’m doing a lot of independent reading. I’ll finish when I finish.”

Jorge’s eyes narrowed and he continued to look at Tom. “So you finish your French major or whatever. What do you do then?”

This was a question that Tom got a lot, and he liked it less every time somebody asked.

“It’s not like with a French major there’s a job that you do. I could do a lot of things. Like teach, or translate or—whatever.” He changed the subject. “The thing is, I’ll be qualified to do something. That’s what you need to be thinking about, Jorge. You need to have options. You need to have a Plan B in case your music thing doesn’t work out. You don’t want to end up like Earl, working at the impound lot when you’re sixty years old.”

“I got a Plan B,” Jorge said.

“Such as…?”

Jorge looked away from Tom. “You ever been to First Avenue?”

“First Avenue?”

“The club down by the Target Center. You know. Where Prince filmed Purple Rain.The Replacements played there in the ’80s. Every major rock and roll band from the ’70s and ’80s played there when they started out. It’s, like, a historic venue.”

“I was there once, I think. Music’s never been that big a thing for me,” Tom said.

“Maybe not for you, but for a lot of people, First Avenue is like Mecca. People who know anything about music, they’ll, like, come thousands of miles to see First Avenue. Just to breathe the air. Just to say they’ve been there.”

“I’m having a hard time figuring out how this music Mecca ties in with your Plan B.”

A smug look settled on Jorge’s face. “I’ve got two cans of the paint they used to paint the place. The original black paint.”

Tom shifted around a bit. “I’m still not seeing two cans of black paint as being your Plan B.”

“It was when I was helping out with the sound system at First Avenue. I found the paint in a back room at the club. One of the owners said I could have it. I’m going to sell it on eBay. It’ll be worth a fortune.”

“That’s it?” Tom said. “Two cans of black paint from First Avenue? That’s your Plan B?”

Jorge looked disgusted. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Some guy just sold part of a cheeseburger Elvis bit into for thousands on eBay.”

Tom shook his head. “All I can say is, good luck.”

“Timing,” Jorge said. “Timing is the thing. If they close First Avenue—if Prince dies—my price goes up.”

Timing turned out to be important the third time Earl ducked.

Earl’s third duck came during what everyone was calling the storm of the century. It started as an eerily balmy January morning: the sun dim early on, heavy clouds gathering as the day progressed. The snow started slowly, purposefully. Like it had plenty of time to do whatever it wanted to do.

What it wanted to do was bury Minneapolis. Not once, not twice, but three times over a five-day stretch.

Tom, Earl, and Jorge had been in place behind the bulletproof windows for thirty-six hours, taking turns sleeping on an inflatable mattress Earl had in a corner on the floor, when the guy in the camel-hair coat showed up.

He came up to the window without standing in line. Ignoring the shouting from his fellow towees.

“Here comes trouble,” Earl said. The guy in the camelhair coat wasn’t your typical towee. The only thing he had in common with your typical towee was that he was mad. Really mad.

“Money on it,” Earl said. “He’s the classic white Porsche parked in A-33.”

Earl pushed the speaker button. “Back of the line, buddy.”

The guy stabbed a leather-gloved finger against the glass, his mouth moving furiously. Behind him, a towee clapped both hands on the guy’s camel-haired shoulders and started to move him away from the window. The guy spun, sucker-punching the other towee.

“That’s it,” Earl said. “I’m calling security.”

In the minutes it took for security to show up, almost everyone in line was involved in the fracas. Earl turned the speaker on to tell security to take the guy in the camel-hair coat. Then he yelled, “Everyone else. Shape up, or nobody’s getting their cars out of here today!”

The speaker was on long enough for them to hear the guy in the camel-hair coat’s final words.

“This isn’t over, jerkoffs. That car is worth more than the three of you will make in a lifetime. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” Then he threw the tow ticket on the floor.

To the guy standing nearest the window, Earl said, “You. Pick up that ticket and pass it through.”

Earl looked at the ticket and said, “Yeah. The classic white Porsche. A-33. Just like I said.” He tossed the ticket to the side and said, “Georgie. Frenchy. Watch yourselves when you leave. What I said first. This guy is trouble.”

Nothing happened, except two days later a guy came to pick up the classic white Porsche. Not the guy in the camelhair coat, but the paperwork was in order, so they released the car.

“A lackey,” Earl said. “Some guy he’s hired to clean up after him. Probably a full-time job.”

Earl ducked on the fifth consecutive day of the snow emergency.

Things had wound down, mostly because every car that could possibly be towed had been towed by then. Lines at the window had dwindled and Earl, Tom, and Jorge were spending hours back on the air mattress, too punch drunk to organize themselves back to a normal schedule.

It had been just Earl and Jorge at the window when Tom, on the mattress, heard Earl say, “Oh shit. Look what they’re hauling in. A junker. I’ve told them a hundred times, a car like that isn’t worth the price of the ticket. It’s just gonna sit here, and the city’s gonna end up paying to get it towed out.”

He turned. “Tom, take the window. I’m going out to tell the tow truck to get that thing the hell out of here.”

From inside the service center they couldn’t see what happened, but they heard it. First a small pop. Then a boom, followed by quiet, followed by a series of booms, sequential, one going off after the other. They could feel the explosions as much as they could hear them. The floor under their feet vibrated.

“I always said, the third time I duck I’m done with impound work.”

Earl was still at Hennepin County Medical Center, Tom and Jorge standing beside his hospital bed.

“Everybody said I’m lucky. Once they get the metal or whatever out of me, I’m pretty much okay. Damn lucky that the first explosive didn’t go full bore. Bomb squad said there were three bombs in the trunk. Then it hit the gas tanks on a couple other cars. Only by the grace of God it didn’t take down the overpass.”

He looked at Tom and Jorge. “Man, wouldn’t that have been something? The whole shebang coming down?” I heard that first pop and I knew what was happening. Gave me time to duck.” He paused. “I told them. Told the cops. It was the guy in the camel-hair coat. I can smell it. Knew he wasn’t going to walk away from what happened.”

“So they’re going to get him?” Jorge said.

Earl frowned. “That’s the only thing that really bothers me about quitting now. They say one chance in a million they’ll be able to tie it to the guy in the camel-hair coat.” Suddenly, tears welled in Earl’s eyes. He reached out, putting bandaged hands on each of their arms.

“Not the only thing that bothers me about quitting. I’ll miss the two of you guys. I won’t forget that it was you guys who pulled me out.”

Tears rolled down Earl’s face. Embarrassed, he smiled. “I’m gonna will you my dirty drawers. The two of you will have to fight over who gets to wear ’em.”

“It’s okay, Earl,” Tom said. “We’ve been talking. It won’t be the same without you. We probably should have moved on a long time ago. We’re through with impound work too.”

They stood in front of the hospital for a while before they headed home.

Tom said, “Time to implement Plan B, Jorge.”

Jorge was quiet for a long time, then said, “I already did. Go ahead. Laugh. It didn’t work.”

Tom looked sideways at Jorge. “You put the paint on eBay?”

“The day the place blew up.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Not a nibble.” Jorge’s expression changed from depressed to angry. “I can’t believe it. I mean, where are people’s values, anyway? When a moldy cheeseburger is worth more than a piece of musical history…”

Surprising himself, Tom felt bad. At that moment, having Jorge’s Plan B work out would have made him feel better.

“Like you said, timing is everything. Who knows, a year or two from now it could still go big. Prince dies, you put the paint back on eBay with all the history about Prince and First Avenue…”

Jorge shook his head. But his face changed again. He didn’t look exactly happy, but he looked pleased with himself.

“Talking to Earl just now. It made me think. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hauling that paint around. It’ll just make me feel like a loser. I’ve got another idea.”

“Like what?” Tom said.

Tom pulled a wheeled piece of luggage behind him as he and Jorge walked down the parking ramp.

“You’re sure about this?” he said.

“I’ve spent the last week checking everything out,” Jorge replied. “Trust me. The setup is perfect for us. He’s got the Porsche parked in a special section just beyond the checkout booth. Supposed to give him extra security. But the checkout guy faces in the opposite direction, sleeps ninety percent of the time. If the Porsche was in the other part of the ramp, there’d be security cameras. But there’s nothing on the other side of the checkout booth. And it’s mostly contract parking, so not a lot of traffic going in and out this time of day. Just act normal.”

It was like Jorge said. The guy in the checkout booth didn’t even look up when they walked by him. There was a Lincoln Navigator next to the Porsche that completely blocked the view between them and the booth.

“Another piece of luck,” Jorge said, giving the Navigator a pat with his gloved hand. “You want to say something in French before we do this? Kind of like a baptism?”

“Let’s just do it and get out of here,” Tom said. He bent over and unzipped the suitcase, pulled out one can of paint, handing it to Jorge. Then he took out the second can and pried the lid off.

Together, it took maybe three minutes to cover the white Porsche in black paint. When there was maybe six inches of the thick, viscous old paint left in Tom’s can, he said, “Jorge. Check the driver’s side. See if the door’s open.”

“You want to do the interior?”

“No. I want to do the engine, if we can pop the hood.”

They were a half-block down the street when Tom noticed their boots were tracking black paint.

“Damn,” he said. “We’ve got to break our trail. Wipe down our boots over there, on that snowbank.”

Tom looked over his shoulder at the snow after they’d cleaned their boots.

“Now I want to say something in French,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Très convenable,” Tom said.

“Tray what?”

“Very appropriate,” Tom said. “The snow back there. Where we wiped our boots. It reminds me of something that happened the first day I started working for Earl.”