Dev Haskell Box Set 8-14 (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator) Page 5

  Fifteen minutes later, I was on my best behavior, seated across from Tubby at his massive desk I was in a chair so low my chin almost rested on the desk. A linen table cloth was positioned between us. The slabs of fat on Tubby’s sides hung heavily over the arms of his chair. He had a round, full face, with a ruddy complexion, topped off with a bulbous nose the size of a baked potato. It would appear his ears, like all of Tubby, had never ceased to increase in size, and the lobes seemed to dangle just above the top of his collar. His hair had been dyed a sort of orangish-ginger tone that from twenty feet away could be spotted as a color not found in nature. It was long, sparse, and greased back against the sides of his skull, allowing the flesh to appear between the slick strands.

  I sat and watched as he expertly twirled a forkful of linguine from a large bowl, then washed it down with a red wine whose name I probably couldn’t pronounce, and a price tag I certainly couldn’t afford. Tubby didn’t offer to share.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what in the hell you’re talking about,” he said then slurped more wine. He had a white linen napkin tucked under two of his three chins. He cut a meatball in half, twirled some more pasta then stabbed half the meatball. He crammed the entire mess into his mouth then reached for his wineglass.

  It was an intimate meeting, just the three of us, Tubby, me, and Tubby’s concierge, a ‘gentleman’ by the name of Bulldog. Bulldog looked like he hadn’t had a positive thought in quite a long time. He had a face that suggested anything you might think of had already been done to it. Judging from the scar tissue around his eyes, and a unique curvature to his nose, I guessed he perhaps wasn’t the most affable of individuals. He seemed incapable of a smile, and stood immediately off to my side, maybe a half step behind me. His plaid blazer was a dreadful red and green affair that looked like it had been designed by a sick Scotsman. He wore it unbuttoned, revealing the cross hatched grips of what looked like a .45 stuffed into his waistband.

  “So let me get this straight,” Tubby said, then stared off into the distance apparently deep in thought. “Some idiot slits another idiot’s throat in the county jail, and you think it would be a good idea to mention me and my son as somehow being involved. Is that about right?”

  “Well, no sir, not exactly.”

  “Please, enlighten me,” he said, then aggressively stabbed an entire meatball, opened wide, and crammed the thing into his mouth. A mound of red sauce formed on either side of his mouth, which he quickly attacked with his tongue, then grabbed a spare linen napkin off the table and dabbed. He chewed aggressively, turning crimson in the process, and I wondered what would make more sense; attempt a Heimlich maneuver or just watch him choke to death? Unfortunately he swallowed, gasped for air then reached for his wine glass again.

  “Well, sir. You see it appears that the individual in question, this guy named Duncan Nixon…”

  “Never heard of him. Bulldog?”

  Bulldog gave a barely perceptible shake of his Neanderthal skull.

  “I was under the impression he may have done the occasional odd task for you. At least that’s what I had been led to believe.”

  “Who the hell told you that?”

  “I don’t quite recall. I think it might have been one of the detectives downtown.”

  “Christ.”

  “Anyway, circumstances would seem to suggest that this Duncan Nixon guy instigated some sort of domestic assault on his girlfriend with the intention of being arrested, put in jail and then placed in close proximity to Daryl Bergstrom.”

  “The idiot kid who got his throat slit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And my question still stands, what the hell does any of this have to do with me, or my son?”

  “Well, sir, ahhh that would seem to be a matter of supposition. See, suppose that Ben, just a thought, but suppose your son Ben sensed from the start something wasn’t right with this van parked out there filled with bricks of cocaine. And suppose he maybe offered to pay his friend, Daryl Bergstrom a hundred bucks to drive the van to a parking ramp just in the off chance it was being watched. Daryl Bergstrom gets arrested and is being pressured by the police to give them a name. Of course the only name he had would be your son, Ben Gustafson. So, as a precaution, Duncan Nixon gets himself thrown in jail, and then gets the word, or better yet, decides on his own, it would be a wise decision to make sure Daryl Bergstrom won’t give Ben’s name to the police.”

  I sat back and softly exhaled, satisfied I had just finished laying out a fairly accurate, if not chilling rationale to Daryl Bergstrom’s murder in the Ramsey County jail.

  Tubby sat there and looked unimpressed with my conclusion. He held his fork like he might jump across the desk and stab me. Instead, he nodded at Bulldog to help make his point, then twirled more pasta.

  The smack reverberated in my ears, and my head bounced off the edge of the desk. “Ouch, what the...”

  “Listen to me, you idiot. Bulldog would like nothing better than a weekend long workout with the likes of you. Just the sort of thing that might improve his attitude and at the same time make my life just a little bit simpler. God only knows why I once again find myself in a generous sort of mood,” he said shaking his head. “Here’s what you’re going to do to help me. You are going to report back to me within the next twenty-four hours. You will have a name or names of individuals falsely linking Ben to this ridiculous drug bust. Next, and more importantly, I want you to find out when those DEA chumps take possession of the drugs from our local police. I don’t want that stuff contaminating the good citizens of this saintly city. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I can’t remember who I talked to on the police force. As for the DEA, they sort of made it pretty clear the last time I was involved with them that they would prefer I just stay away. I couldn’t…”

  I think Bulldog hit me before Tubby had the chance to finish his nod. It really hurt.

  “What the hell part of your simple task do you not understand, Mr. Hassle?” Tubby asked, spitting an explosion of pasta across the table linen in the process.

  “Haskell.”

  Bulldog hit me again, only this time he wrapped his knuckles against the back of my skull which gave off an audible thunk. I saw stars for a moment.

  “I’ll expect to hear from you within twenty-four hours,” Tubby said then crammed another meatball into his mouth. He audibly gulped a good half glass of wine, dribbling onto the napkin beneath his chins in the process. He carefully set the wine glass down then looked up at me, grew suddenly crimson and yelled, “What the hell are you waiting for, get out of my sight.”

  I was only halfway out of my chair when Bulldog grabbed me by the collar and belt and yanked me up. He marched me toward the doorway picking up speed with every step. At the very last minute, he altered course slightly, and slammed me face first into the door frame. I crumpled onto the floor. My forehead throbbed. My nose began dripping blood down the front of my golf shirt and onto the floor.

  “No more than twenty-four hours before I’ll expect to hear from you,” Tubby called from his table and then sort of toasted me with his raised glass of wine.

  Bulldog pushed the door open, watched as I crawled out on all fours, then gave me an encouraging kick in the rear, and yelled, “See ‘ya.” Then he slammed the door closed behind me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “And he was eating spaghetti?” Louie asked then handed me the bag of ice.

  “Yeah, well actually linguini with these giant meatballs, and this red sauce all over the place.” I gently pressed the ice against the bridge of my nose in an attempt to keep the swelling down. My head throbbed, my eyes were swollen, and in the process of gaining a distinctive purple cast. “But, that’s not the point. I’m supposed to ‘report back to him’ with some cop’s name that mentioned his kid, and then I’m supposed to tell him when the DEA takes possession of the drugs.”

  “Who’s the cop?”

  “I made that part up. Actually, I guess it
would be Crickett who really told me, but I don’t want her mixed up with Tubby Gustafson or his pal, Bulldog. I think I’ve got an idea on how to deal with that.”

  “An idea?”

  “I’ll just tell him that jerk Manning told me.”

  “Bad idea. Don’t you think you’re in enough trouble where Detective Norris Manning is concerned?”

  “The guy already hates me and besides how’s he even gonna find out?”

  “Well, he is a detective, and whether you like him or not, he is pretty good.”

  “Yeah maybe, but I got a tough time seeing him questioning Tubby about me.”

  “Just be careful, there,” Louie said and shook his head. “What’s he want to know about the DEA?”

  “Not about the DEA. He said he wants to make sure they take possession of the drugs or something like that to keep the city safe. Probably doesn’t want the competition is what I’m thinking. I’m supposed to let him know when the transfer will happen. Yeah, right, like I’m in the information loop, God, I tell ya.” I tilted my head back, closed my eyes and adjusted the ice pack, it didn’t seem to help.

  “And you’re supposed to report back to him?”

  “Tubby? Yeah, within twenty-four hours. I’m thinking I might just leave town for a week or two. Take a little vacation.”

  “You actually think that would work?” Louie asked.

  “No.”

  “So, might there be a backup plan?”

  “Not really. I suppose I could warn Crickett. Maybe check with the cops to see if in fact the DEA has taken possession of that cocaine bust. You know, try and get on Tubby’s good side.”

  “You think he even has one?”

  “Well, if he does, I certainly haven’t seen it.”

  “Watch yourself, something’s up. God knows what, but he’s up to something.”

  “Tubby’s up to what he’s always up to, no good. You got any aspirin? My head is killing me.”

  Louie opened his computer bag and rummaged around. He pulled out a couple of cords, a set of head phones, a cordless mouse, and finally an aspirin bottle, which he shook. The thing was empty. “You up for an early afternoon beverage?”

  “At this point it can’t hurt,” I said.

  “That’s my boy.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  My head was killing me. We’d been in The Spot for barely half an hour and the pounding in my head had gotten worse. It felt like a base drum booming in a small closet.

  I drained the last of my Mankato beer, then said, “I’m sorry, Louie, but this ain’t really helping. Besides, I think I better touch base with Crickett, and let her know Tubby’s asking questions around town. It just might be best to keep things quiet regarding this whole affair.”

  Louie took a long sip from his drink, basically drained the thing then signaled Jimmy the bartender for another. “My advice, for what it’s worth just stay away from her, and Tubby, and anyone else involved. Don’t take this on, don’t do anything for a fee, pro bono, or for benefits,” he said arching an eyebrow.

  “How dumb do I look?”

  “You mean with the black eyes and that swollen nose? Right now pretty damn dumb.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’m just going to alert her to the fact that Tubby’s looking around for names and tell her to keep quiet. That’s all, what could go wrong?”

  “Don’t even go there,” Louie said then nodded thanks to Jimmy as he slid a fresh Jameson across the bar.

  I pulled in front of Crickett’s house not long after that. It was a little past three in the afternoon. There was a late model gray van parked across the street, and down a couple of doors, with one of those ‘Baby on Board’ signs in the rear window. Other than that, the street was empty, well except for the shiny black S65 AMG Mercedes parked in front of Crickett’s house. I didn’t know what they went for other than it probably cost more than my house. The thing sported a pair of designer license plates that read ‘BeniBoy’.

  My Aztek finished sputtering at the curb just as I rang the doorbell. After a wait, I attempted to open the screen door so I could knock, but the door was hooked from the inside. I rang the doorbell again. Crickett finally opened the door after my third ring. She looked glassy-eyed, and spoke to me through the screen door, strongly suggesting there was no way I was going to come inside.

  “Oh, Dev, it’s just you.” She sounded more than a little disappointed.

  “Hi, Crickett, mind if I come in?”

  “Yeah, actually. See its nap time so we were just about to climb in bed.”

  “You and Oliver?”

  “He’s already asleep, and I was going to lay down, sorry,” she said and began to close the heavy oak door.

  “No, wait, Crickett. Hold on, I just wanted to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” she scoffed, then said. “And what the hell happened to you? You look like shit. You fall down the stairs or something?”

  “Gee, thanks, sorry nothing that dramatic. Look, I’ve put some feelers out, and at least for the time being, I think it might be a good idea if you maybe didn’t mention anything about Daryl, his arrest or anything connected to it.”

  “I’ve already moved on from all that, Dev. It’s time for me, now.”

  “For you?”

  “Yeah, his funeral is tomorrow. I suppose I’ll have to make an appearance, play the grieving widow kind of part, but after that, I just want to get what’s coming to me. What’s rightfully mine.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t have a job.”

  “Well, yeah, but there’s a trust fund or something, I mean, I think under the circumstances it might be the least he could do.”

  “He? You mean Charlie Bergstrom, Daryl’s dad?”

  “Yeah, stupid Daryl’s crabby old man. I mean let’s be honest, I certainly put in the time, and I had that baby with him and everything.”

  “Little Oliver.”

  “Damn right, that little shit’s gotta count for something.”

  “Oliver.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I think it might be a good idea to keep it quiet, any talk about Daryl, that is. The less said the better, and it’ll only help your cause in the long run.”

  She nodded in a sort of bored way, then adjusted her stance slightly so she could close the door. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, you know who owns that car, the Mercedes?”

  “That black one?”

  I looked over my shoulder, other than my car, and the ‘Baby on Board’ van down the block, the Mercedes was the only other vehicle on the street. It also happened to be black and parked directly in front of Crickett’s house. “Yeah, the one right there, in front of your house.”

  “Nope, no idea.”

  “Really,” I said and stood there nodding in a way that made it pretty clear I didn’t believe her.

  “Look, I gotta go, see ya,” she said then closed the door, a second later the lock clicked then I heard the chain lock being slipped on.

  I pushed speed dial on my phone as I pulled away from the curb and waited. She answered on the second ring.

  “Department of Motor Vehicles, this is Donna, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, Donna.”

  There was a painful pause before she lowered her voice, eliminated any prospect of positive thought or attitude and replied. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I need you to run a plate for me. Shouldn’t be too hard, it’s personalized. ‘BeniBoy’,” I said, then paused a moment before I spelled it out.

  She gave an audible sigh, then said, “Okay, hold on I’m doing it now.”

  I could hear her keyboard clicking in the background.

  “Hmm-mmm, seems to be a corporate. That’s registered to something called Big Boy Enterprises.”

  “Does it give a name?”

  “I just told you, it’s corporate, the name it gives is Big Boy Enterprises.”

  “I wonder if you could, hello? Hello, Donna?” She’d already hung up on me.
There was no point in calling her back, I’d worn my welcome out years ago. As long as I didn’t push, I could still make the occasional call, and intimidate her enough to get an answer. Big Boy Enterprises sure sounded like it could be Tubby Gustafson, and ‘BeniBoy’ sure sounded like it would be Tubby’s dumbbell kid, Ben. I figured the kid might be over there giving something more than just condolences to Crickett. That reminded me of the drink glasses, breakfast plates, and two coffee cups, in her kitchen sink the morning I’d rushed over to Crickett’s after she’s called. It suddenly dawned on me that Daryl had already been arrested and locked up for a few days. So, who was Crickett having breakfast with? I was afraid I may have just found out.

  “I told you. I warned you,” Louie said. He hadn’t left The Spot and was still sitting on the same stool a couple of hours later. “If I recall correctly, I think I said something to you along the lines of staying as far away as humanly possible from everyone and anyone involved in this disaster.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I’m just curious about what’s going on. If she’s in tight with Tubby’s kid, Ben wouldn’t that be a pretty strong indication that Daryl Bergstrom really was set up?”

  Louie took a sip and seemed to think about his response. “Yep.”

  “Well, what does that tell you, man?”

  “It tells me this is way more screwed up than either one of us originally thought. It tells me, God bless him, but young Daryl Bergstrom was even dumber than we thought or an awful big risk taker. And, it tells me that the distinct possibility of something going very wrong here is even greater than the one-hundred-percent probability I initially suspected.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No, Dev, not yeah. Jesus, what part of stupid don’t you get? I’m done talking about this. You know where I stand, I’ve told you any number of different ways that you’re an idiot for getting involved, and so now I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Okay? Just let it go and tell me about the latest woman that dumped you or what you got on tap for tomorrow.”