Before leaving the cemetery, I wrote out a check and handed it to Big Jake. He stared at the check for a moment, then squinted at me.
“What I’ma do with this?” he said.
“Buy yourself a case of Auchentoshan scotch,” I said. “You deserve it.”
He scowled. “This ain’t no blood money is it?”
“It is,” I said. “My blood.”
He nodded, shoved the check in the inside pocket of his work coat and said, “Got me some nieces and nephews. Momma’s been on hard times since this city done fell off the face of God’s green earth. Think fort I get me that scotch, I’mo make me a little trip to Toys “R” Us.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said.
We shook hands and I left.
On the way back to my house, I called Frank. After Brewster’s visit to the cemetery, it seemed a good time to get a download on what was happening in Traverse City. Especially since Brewster appeared determined to make good on his threats.
“Oh, man, the colors up here have just exploded, dude!” Frank said. “Colleen made some awesome chili. No meat, but really good. Then we went to Traverse City State Park and—”
“Listen,” I said, wheeling my rental car into the narrow driveway of my house, “I’m glad your fall color tour is a screaming success, Frank, but something’s just cut loose down here and I need you locked and loaded. I’m coming up.”
“Bad?” Frank said.
“Bad enough.”
“On the job, boss man,” Frank said.
No sooner had I entered the house—hand on the grip of my Glock—than Jimmy Radmon knocked on the door.
I let him in.
“Oh, damn, bro,” he said, surveying my face. “Them cable guys again?”
I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. “What’s up, Jimmy?”
“That Mexican dude across the street?” Radmon said. “Rodriguez? He come down to Carmela and Sylvia’s. Got his tool belt on talkin’ ’bout helpin’ me out. What’s up with that?”
“You two are partners now,” I said. “He helps you, you help him, you both get paid.”
Radmon nodded. By this time I think I’d earned at least a bit of trust from the kid.
“Listen, Jimmy,” I said. “I got things to do, okay? I’m gonna be away for a while. If I’m not back in three or four days, I need you to take a letter to my lawyer.”
I quickly wrote out a letter assigning ownership of the house to Radmon, along with a bit of money and a stipulation about him going to school. I didn’t let him see it before I stuffed it into an envelope, sealed it and wrote my attorney’s name and address on the front of the envelope.
He took the envelope, stared at it for a moment, then looked up at me. “Those weren’t the cable guys, were they?”
“No.”
Radmon nodded and we stood quiet in the kitchen for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know what you into, man. All I know is you helped me out, so anything—”
“Keep an eye out for Carmela and Sylvia,” I said. “You’re putting your mark on what’s left of this neighborhood. It’s yours now. Take care of it.”
Radmon nodded again, and I sent him on his way.
It took me less than ten minutes to pack a bag for Traverse City. The same black leather duffel that had seen me through a year in India and Europe was now full of ammo for my Glock and my Smith & Wesson .38. I didn’t feel confident with only two handguns; Brewster’s men appeared well-equipped. Two guys like Dax strapped like the men at the cemetery would be all it would take to wipe out a village. A beaten up ex-cop, an ex-grocery bagger, a watercolor artist and her wife didn’t stand much of a chance against odds like that.
I made a stop by Tomás’s house north of me near Bagley Street in Mexicantown.
“Jesus,” Tomás said. “You look like crap.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s been a crappy couple days. Any other night crawlers?”
Tomás shook his head. No one else had bothered him or his family.
Tomás offered me a cup of strong Mexican coffee and a pastry. I said no to the pastry and yes to the coffee. I was operating on a sleep deficit and could use the caffeine charge to keep the battery going. Elena was with her daughter and Carlos Rodriguez’s wife, Catalina, at Home Depot looking at interior paint color chips. Tomás didn’t expect Elena home for another two, three hours—he suspected the ladies had made a joyous labor of the paint selection by stopping for a glass of wine or two first.
“You got any weapons I could borrow?” I said, knocking back the coffee and pouring another demitasse.
“Jesus,” Tomás said. “Most people borrow a cup of sugar or a fucking lawn mower.”
“I’m not most people,” I said.
“Ain’t that the God’s honest truth.”
Tomás led me to the basement. In a dark, cobwebbed corner between his workbench and stacks of plastic storage tubs was his gun locker. Tomás pulled the cord of the bare light bulb, illuminating an ancient poster of Emiliano Zapata, the legendary hero of the Mexican Revolution, which he’d taped to the doors of his gun locker, splitting it down the center where the double door seam ran.
“Nice poster,” I said.
“Elena didn’t like how scary the locker looked.” Tomás twirled the combination lock. “So I put the poster on it.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, staring at the maniacal dark eyes and imposing black mustache of the legendary Mexican revolutionary. “Nothing says cute and cuddly like Emiliano Zapata.”
“Fuck you.” Tomás opened the doors of the locker.
Eight rifles, including an AR-15, five handguns and ammo for all.
“Holy shit, Tomás,” I said, looking at the cache of weapons. “Preparing for the zombie apocalypse?”
“This wasn’t always a safe neighborhood. And I wasn’t always an altar boy.”
I carefully surveyed the locker’s holdings. “Mind if I take the Beretta Outlander and the DPMS?”
Tomás pulled the rifles out of the locker and handed them to me. He reached to a top shelf of the locker and retrieved a small lock box. Opening the lock box, he pulled out the firing pins for both. I put the firing pins in the side pocket of my jacket. Then he handed me boxes of ammo.
“I take it the registration numbers have been filed and acid washed?” I said.
Tomás gave me a sour look. I’d asked the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “Sure you don’t want the Winchester Diamond Grade?”
“It’s pretty,” I said, “but I don’t think there’s any elephants in Traverse City.”
“Handguns?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“How ’bout an extra gun hand?”
I put a hand on Tomás’s shoulder. He understood and nodded.
As I loaded the weapons into the trunk of my car, Tomás said, “This is a helluva welcome-back for you, Octavio. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
I shut the trunk. “It all ends soon.”
Tomás said he and his family would pray for me. Which meant Elena would light novena candles and bow her head in solemn prayer while Tomás planned his own miracles.
We shook hands, then I got in the car, navigated my way out of Mexicantown and got on the I-75 North entrance ramp, heading for Traverse City.