I saw them in the parking lot beneath an LED light mounted on a tall metal pole, a young, light-skinned African American dressed for success and two older white men wearing the colors of the St. Paul Police Department. No shots or angry words were being exchanged when I arrived. In fact, it looked as if everyone was getting along just fine.
I found a slot for the Mustang, parked, and strolled up to them. The kid saw me coming and smiled. The cops were somewhat anxious, so I made sure they could see my empty hands as I approached the circle of light. It was only about 5:30 P.M., yet in Minnesota in December it might as well have been midnight.
“Are you McKenzie?” the kid asked. He told the officers, “This is the man I came to see. Listen, I’m very sorry about all of this. I certainly didn’t mean to frighten anyone. But I do have a license to carry a concealed firearm.”
“Not in private establishments that have posted a sign banning guns on their premises,” the taller officer said. “The owner here doesn’t think guns and alcohol should mix.”
“I appreciate that,” the young man said. “That’s why I’m content to lock my gun in the trunk of my car. At the same time—there are no legal penalties for entering a private property or business that has posted these signs.”
“Funny how you know only those parts of the law that benefit you.”
“Again, I apologize. I’m sure you officers have more important things to do than hassle me.”
“Is that what we’re doing, hassling you?”
The kid grimaced. An African American male trying to make nice with white cops and not doing a very good job; I didn’t blame him for being concerned.
“A poor choice of words,” he said. “I apologize again.” The young man turned from the officers toward me. “Mr. McKenzie?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“With a gun?” I asked.
The young man sighed as if it were a topic he had long grown tired of.
“I meant nothing by it, as I just explained to the officers,” he said. “I have since secured my firearm in the trunk of my car—”
“So I heard.”
The young man sighed some more.
“Can we talk?” he asked. “Officers, again I apologize for taking you from more important duties.”
The two cops stared as if they wanted to slap the cuffs on him for something, anything, yet couldn’t think of a good reason or even a bad one. “Have a nice day,” one of them said, even though it was evening. The other didn’t speak at all, at least not to us. He did speak quietly to his colleague, though, as they walked off. Probably discussing how they’d like to put an arm on the kid for violating the jackass ordinance, if nothing else. After a moment, they separated, went to their respective patrol cars, and drove off.
“Let’s talk,” the young man said.
“Start with your name.”
“That’s right. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Jackson Cane.”
He offered his hand, but I didn’t take it. Instead, I flashed on one of the names I had just read in Maryanne Altavilla’s SIU case file.
“Are you related to LaToya Cane?” I asked.
My question jolted the kid, although he tried to hide it.
“That’s my mother,” he said.
“Okay.”
“How do you know my mother?”
“She lived next door to Leland Hayes.”
“That was before I was born.”
“Okay,” I said again, trying to not give anything away.
“Can we go inside?”
“No.”
“It’s twenty degrees out.”
“Winter in Minnesota, get used to it.”
Jackson was wearing a thigh-length quilted nylon parka with a fur-lined hood large enough to fit over a suit coat, black slacks, and black dress shoes, but no hat or gloves. He reminded me of a bank teller as he rocked back and forth against the cold. I, on the other hand, was perfectly comfortable in my leather coat, leather gloves, boots, and a maroon knit hat emblazoned with the gold M of the University of Minnesota pulled over my ears.
“This is ridiculous,” Jackson said.
“Tell me what you want. Tell me why you came to this place looking for me with a gun.”
“The gun—I have a right to carry a concealed weapon.”
“So do I. Why did you come here?”
“I knew this was a place where you hung out.”
“How did you know that?”
He paused before he answered, “Research.”
“If your research told you that, it would also tell you where I live. Why didn’t you go there?”
Jackson didn’t answer.
“Was it because of the guys sitting at the security desk?” I asked. “Was it because of all the cameras? Guess what. You’re standing beneath a camera right now.”
I pointed upward. Jackson’s gaze followed my finger to the camera mounted to the light pole.
“Tell me what you want,” I told him.
“I have a business proposition for you.”
“Go on.”
“About the money.”
“What money?”
“McKenzie, you know what money. The $654,321. It belongs to me.”
“How does money stolen from an armored truck before you were born belong to you?”
“Anyone who finds it can keep it,” Jackson said. “I know how the law works.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I’m willing to give you a portion if you help me.”
“How much is a portion?”
Jackson hesitated before he answered, “Twenty-five percent.”
“You big spender, you. What, pray tell, do I need to do to earn it?”
“There’s someone we need to talk to, someone that knows exactly where the money is hidden but refuses to say.”
“What do you expect me to do about it? Make him an offer he can’t refuse?”
Jackson’s response was to stare at me.
“For God’s sake,” I said. “Who told you I was that guy?”
He didn’t reply.
“How the hell do you know who I am in the first place?”
He refused to answer.
I moved a few steps toward him.
Jackson moved a few steps backward.
I was thinking how much fun it would be to drive the palm of my hand against his nose the way I had done to Karl Anderson. Jackson must have been reading my mind, because he abruptly pointed up at the camera above our heads. He wasn’t grinning as if he had won something, though. Instead, he looked like he was afraid I was going to punch him anyway. Which is why I didn’t.
“You had a business proposition for me,” I said. “Okay, here’s one for you—I’m going after the money myself, for no other reason than to keep someone else from getting it. You can help. Start by telling me who told you about me, who told you my name. I’ll give you a portion.”
“The money belongs to me.”
“Not if I get it first.”
“The money belongs to me,” Jackson repeated.
“Have it your own way,” I said. “Oh, just so you know—I have a gun, too.”
I turned and walked toward the entrance to the club. I was tempted to look behind me to see if the kid was impressed with my parting line, yet resisted just in case he wasn’t.
Rickie’s was crowded. It was Monday night, and the elegant upstairs dining room and performance hall were closed; a red sash was fixed across the entrance of the carpeted spiral staircase that led to it. All of Nina’s customers, instead, were gathered in the comfortable downstairs bar. Most of the small tables, wooden booths, and comfy chairs and sofas gathered around the fireplace were taken.
Butch Thompson was playing Scott Joplin from the small stage set in the corner, working “Sunday Rag” before sliding effortlessly into Jelly Roll Morton’s “Winin’ Boy Blues No. 1.” I stood just inside the door and listened to him. Butch was one of the last great ragtime and stride jazz pianists. I wondered briefly who would replace him when he moved on and couldn’t think of a single name. It made me sad.
I pulled off my hat and turned toward the bar. There was an empty spot at the corner, and I asked myself if it had been reserved for me. I answered yes when the bartender set a fresh Summit Ale in front of me without asking if I wanted it. But then, Nina’s people had always been good to me. We had an arrangement. They would take my order, yet never give me a bill. In return, I would always leave a tip large enough to cover the order and then some.
“The place is hopping,” I said.
“Partly it’s Butch,” the bartender said. “He always draws a crowd. I think it’s mostly the weather, though. People are enjoying it before the real winter sets in. Do you want to see a menu or just order or what?”
“I want to talk to the boss first.”
“I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Only, he didn’t need to. Nina stepped around the corner where the restrooms and her office were located. She took a deep breath and exhaled as if she were relieved to see me.
What did she expect? my inner voice asked. To find you lying facedown in her parking lot?
The woman worries too much, I told myself, but not her. I knew it would only start an argument.
Nina moved to where I was sitting. She rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled. She was not one for public displays of affection, but then neither was I.
“Hey,” I said.
“What happened?”
“The kid wanted me to help him find Leland’s loot.”
Leland’s loot—I kinda like that.
“Why you?” Nina asked.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say, and I resisted the urge to beat the truth out of him.”
“That was nice of you.”
“I thought so.”
The bartender appeared in front of us.
“Anything, boss?” he asked.
“No,” Nina said. “I’ll be in the office.”
She asked me to join her by yanking my arm. I grabbed the ale, slipped off the stool, pulled a ten from my pocket, dropped it on the bar, and followed after her. Once inside her office, Nina closed and locked the door. The locking surprised me. She had never done that before.
“Nina,” I said.
She took the glass from my hand, made to set it on her desk, thought better of it, and put it on a shelf instead.
“Nina,” I repeated.
She wrapped her arms around me and brought my head down close enough to kiss my mouth.
“This is not like you,” I said.
“I know.”