The Blind Pig Read online

  “Have you tried to get hold of DenBoer or Cecil?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Yes. There was no answer at either number,” Vanni said.

  Mulheisen made some notes on a note pad. “Let's see,” he said, “DenBoer lives where?”

  “He lives with his parents, on East Canfield,” Vanni said. He gave Mulheisen the address and the telephone number from memory.

  “And there was apparently no one at home? What time was this?”

  “Well, no one answered the telephone, anyway,” Vanni said. “I called about ten o'clock, I guess. And then I called Mandy and there was no answer there, either. Do you want her number?”

  “I've got her number,” Mulheisen said. He picked up the telephone and dialed DenBoer's number. There was no answer. He hung up the telephone and sat back in his chair, drawing thoughtfully on his cigar.

  “Vanni,” he said finally, “I'm afraid you are in heavy water.” He lifted a hand quickly to forestall Vanni's indignant reaction. “No, no, don't give me any bullshit. I don't want to hear it. One"—he ticked off on his fingers— “a gunman is surprised and shot to death behind your garage. Two, a couple of mob soldiers come into the Town Pump, a bar you are known to frequent, possibly looking for you. Not finding you present, they shoot up a couple of vending machines that they have taken the trouble to find out belong to you. Three, a burglar breaks into your house but doesn't steal anything; in fact, there's hardly any trace that he was there—just a lucky eyewitness account.”

  Mulheisen looked across at Vanni, who sat upright, noncommittal.

  “Okay, four,” Mulheisen went on, still ticking on his fingers, “your secretary is seen in a blind pig with members of a gang now being sought for a spectacular gun hijacking which, incidentally, included the brutal murder of eight men and considerable danger to the public when a train was deliberately derailed.”

  Vanni looked surprised at this statement.

  “I'm glad to see you're paying attention,” Mulheisen said. “Now. Five, the secretary disappears. Six, perhaps coincidentally, one of your most trusted associates disappears at the same time. Both of these disappearances roughly coincide with the time of the hijacking.”

  “Sergeant, I—” Vanni started to interrupt.

  “No, one minute"—Mulheisen held up his hand—"I'm not through yet. Clever detective that I am, I have discovered that you also knew the suspected hijackers. That, in fact, it was through you that Mandy Cecil came to know them. I have also discovered, rather belatedly, I'm afraid, that Mandy Cecil was no ordinary secretary. She was an undercover agent for the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms Bureau. I see you're shocked. Well, just let me say a few more words and then I'll listen to you.

  “Apparently, the ATF believed that you had something to do with the robbery of some M-16s from Selfridge Air Force Base several months ago. In telling you this I am violating the confidence of the ATF, but I don't give a damn about that. They haven't done me any favors lately. I don't care whether you were involved in the Selfridge deal or not. It's none of my business. I'm just putting my cards on the table.

  “You're a poker player, Vanni. Tell me I'm bluffing. Better yet, call me.”

  Mulheisen watched the young man. Outside of the show of surprise at the revelation of Mandy's undercover role, Vanni did not display any emotion. Mulheisen saw that the man was a good poker player, after all.

  “I now have to ask you some questions. The answers to these questions may, in one way or another, tend to incriminate you and your answers could be used against you in a court of law. You are not, at this time, being accused of any crime. Still, it may be advisable for you to have the benefit of professional counsel. Do you have an attorney?”

  “Yes,” Vanni replied.

  “Do you wish to contact him?”

  Vanni unbent a little. “Uh . . . what kind of questions?”

  “They're questions about Mandy Cecil, about Leonard DenBoer, about the hijacking suspects. I'm not asking anything about the Selfridge deal, but I do want some straight answers about your relationship with the mob.”

  “I can tell you right now,” Vanni asserted firmly, “that I have no connection with the mob. As for the rest, I guess you might as well ask the questions and I'll consider whether I want Homer when I hear them.”

  “Homer? Is that your attorney? Homer Ferman?” Mulheisen asked. Vanni nodded. Homer Ferman was well known to Mulheisen. He was a pleasant, fat man with a deep and reassuring voice. He always reminded Mulheisen of a jovial innkeeper, but he was also the most respected criminal lawyer in Detroit.

  “Okay,” Mulheisen said, “but you do understand that you may have your lawyer here, if you like, and that if you do answer it is of your own free will?”

  Vanni nodded. Mulheisen got up and went out. He came back a few seconds later with Maki and, in his presence, repeated the whole litany again and got Vanni's agreement. Then, with Maki lounging against the wall, Mulheisen proceeded.

  “First of all, do you know where Mandy Cecil is, or what might have happened to her?”

  Vanni said no.

  “Do you know where Leonard DenBoer is, or where he might be, or what might have happened to him?”

  Again Vanni said no.

  “Do you know, personally, any of the following persons: Angel DeJesus, Francisco Morazon, or Heitor Casabianca?”

  Vanni said that he knew all three of the men, but that he knew them only casually and socially. He had met them at a restaurant and had later seen them at a blind pig, known as Brandywine's. To further prodding, he said that he had no business dealing with the men and that he did not know they had intended to rob the Cadillac Gage Company, nor that they had intended any kind of criminal activity.

  “Did you know, or do you know, of any reason why the man presently referred to as John Doe number nine-eighty-nine—the man apprehended and killed at the scene of your garage—was in that garage?”

  “No,” Vanni said.

  Mulheisen looked at Maki and shook his head wearily. Maki scowled at Vanni. Vanni sat calmly upright, as unperturbed as a boy scout.

  Mulheisen sighed. “Can you account for your whereabouts between the hours of four-thirty P.M. yesterday and one A.M. this morning?” Mulheisen asked.

  Vanni sat silently, considering. Then he said, “I'm afraid I can't answer that.”

  Maki leaned forward abruptly, his face only a few inches from Vanni's. He shouted, “Why not? What are you covering up?”

  Mulheisen jumped up and took Maki by the arm. Maki angrily shrugged his arm away. “Look at him, Mul! He's lying, the son of a bitch! Why doesn't he answer.”

  Vanni smiled. “Don't pull this old ‘Mutt and Jeff’ crap on me, fellows,” he said.

  “ ‘Mutt and Jeff? I'll give you ‘Mutt and Jeff'!” Maki shouted.

  “Don't mind him,” Mulheisen said calmly. “He's working on a case, you've probably heard about it—the ‘Mutt and Jeff robberies? Yeah, well, why can't you tell us where you were yesterday, Vanni? What's the problem?” He sounded very understanding.

  Vanni sat very straight, with a stubborn expression. “I just can't,” he said. “It's . . . it's a matter of honor.”

  “A matter of honor?” Mulheisen said, puzzled.

  “A woman's honor,” Vanni said stiffly. He clamped his mouth shut.

  It was Mulheisen's turn to be outraged. “Woman's honor? You talk about woman's honor?” he shouted. “I'm talking about a woman who's been missing for twenty-four hours! A woman whose life may be in danger! Don't give me this bullshit, Vanni! You fucking Lothario! Where the hell were you for eight hours yesterday, and let's have names!”

  Vanni leaped to his feet. “Did you hear that?” he demanded hotly of Maki. “You heard him! He called me a name. He thinks I'm some kind of dago, or wop, that he can insult! I don't have to put up with that! I'm an American! I own my own company! I want my lawyer, right now!”

  Mulheisen and Maki both looked at him with surprise. They looked at each other. There wa
s a long moment of silence, then Mulheisen said placatingly, “Okay, okay, sit down. Take it easy.”

  Vanni looked furiously from one to the other, then he sat down and was silent, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. Mulheisen sat down, too, and fiddled with his cigar, which was out. He got out another and clipped it, then lit it. “Go get us some coffee, Maki,” Mulheisen said. “You want some coffee, Vanni? What do you take—black? Two blacks, Maki.” Maki left. The two men watched each other in silence until Maki returned with the coffee in paper cups.

  Finally, Mulheisen said quietly, “Now, what's all this about a woman?”

  “You called me a name,” Vanni said petulantly, sipping at the hot coffee.

  “I called you a Lothario,” Mulheisen pointed out. “It's not necessarily an insult. I meant no slur on your nationality or anything else. A Lothario is, well, it's used to connote a lover. You're pretty popular with women, aren't you, Vanni?”

  Vanni permitted himself the hint of a smile.

  Mulheisen said reassuringly, “Of course you are. Why not? That's no crime. You're young, good-looking, successful. Now, what's all this about a woman's honor? Come on, spill it. Who is the woman and where did you spend eight or nine hours with her yesterday?”

  Now Vanni smiled outright. “Actually, it was two women,” he said smugly.

  Mulheisen nodded. “At the same time or separately?”

  “Separately, of course,” Vanni snapped. “I don't go for that kinky stuff.” He then revealed his activities for all of the preceding evening. He had left the trucking company office at 5 P.M. and had driven to a bar on Eight Mile Road, where he met one Shyla Lasanski, who was a married woman. They had dinner together in a restaurant connected to the bar, and afterwards they had driven to a nearby motel, where Vanni had rented a room. By 9:30 P.M., he was out of the motel, parting from Mrs. Lasanski, and had driven downtown to an apartment near Wayne State University, where he had visited with one Kari Wordlaw, a student at the university. He had left Wordlaw's apartment by midnight, alone. He had stopped at the Alcove Bar, on Woodward Avenue, for a drink and around one o'clock had arrived home, where he found Mulheisen and two patrolmen.

  “The thing is,” he explained, “Shyla's married to one of my drivers. I don't want to get her in trouble with her husband.”

  Or yourself in trouble with her husband, Mulheisen said to himself. “What about this Wordlaw woman? You're not worried about her?”

  “Kari can take care of herself,” Vanni said. “But Shyla, she's had a hard time with Dick, her husband. Hell, she already feels so guilty that she wants to tell him all about our affair, for Christ's sake!”

  Mulheisen said that he would have to check it all out. He asked for the names and addresses of the two women and copied them down on a sheet of notepaper. “Now, when did you last see Mandy Cecil?” he asked.

  “She left the office about four-thirty. She and Leonard both left about the same time.”

  “Together?”

  “Well, more or less. See, Lenny's always after Mandy, if you know what I mean. Always asking her to have a drink with him after work, that sort of thing. So I guess he finally talked her into it. Anyway, he had to drive one of our trucks down to LaCasse's garage, to leave it for some repair work. Mandy was supposed to meet him at LaCasse's and they were going on from there.”

  “What's LaCasse's number?” Mulheisen asked.

  Vanni consulted his pocket secretary and read out the number. Mulheisen dialed it.

  “I'm calling about a truck that was supposed to be dropped off yesterday, from Vanni Trucking?” Mulheisen told the man who answered the phone.

  “Yeah,” said the man, “where is it? If you get it in here real quick I'll try to slip it in this afternoon.”

  Mulheisen looked up from the telephone. The guileless face of Jerry Vanni gazed back at him.

  “I'll see what I can do,” Mulheisen said into the telephone. He hung up and turned to Maki. “Get a stenographer, have him make a full statement and sign it.”

  He got up and left.

  Fourteen

  “After many a fretful hour I know why I'm here,” Joe Service said.

  The Fatman seemed pleased. They were sitting at lunch at the Villa Di Roma, in Bloomfield Hills. They had just returned from the buffet, heavily laden with Italian delights. “This is a lot better than that gyp joint in Chicago, eh, Joey?”

  “I'll say,” Service replied. He plunged into the ravioli with a good appetite.

  “That joint,” Fatman said contemptuously. “What prices! You know that lousy dinner cost me thirty bucks! And what did we get? A coupla skinny dabs of veal. Look at all this.” He gestured lovingly at the array of soups, salads, antipastos and assorted entrées that he had trucked back from the buffet with the aid of two lackeys, who had taken a nearby table. “Here,” he said, “a man can eat.”

  They occupied themselves with the food in relative silence for several minutes, then Joe said, “I still can't get over how Sidney got nailed.”

  “It was those cops,” Fatman said.

  “But what was Sidney doing there?”

  “Obviously, he was working,” Fatman said, not looking up from the mostacioli.

  “For you?” Joe asked.

  The Fatman shrugged and reached for a hunk of garlic bread. “That doesn't concern you, Joe. What concerns you is getting those guns. You see now what a bright man Carmine is? He was afraid of something like this. So now he's got you on the job. You get the guns, there's a hundred big boys in it for you.”

  “I haven't seen the hundred yet, Fatman,” Joe said.

  “I give you twenty last week,” Fatman protested.

  “I need all of it,” Joe said. “My contract is to find the guns. You have to get them. I just find them. And the deal is, I get a hundred whether I find them or not, right? Now, I never guarantee a job like this, but I always come through. So before we go on with this conversation, let's count the money, okay?”

  The Fatman belched quietly into his fist and pushed himself away from the table, with the result that the table slid closer to Joe. Fatman picked up a glass of Valpolicella and drank thirstily, watching Joe. Then he crooked a finger.

  One of the lackeys at the nearby table quickly wiped his mouth with a napkin and hurried over. He leaned down with his ear next to Fatman's mouth. Then he straightened and went out. A few minutes later he was back with a cheap blue vinyl briefcase that had a folding flap that snapped shut. It looked like a door-to-door salesman's sample case. After a nod from the Fatman the lackey handed the case to Joe.

  Joe started to open the case.

  “Not here!” the Fatman hissed.

  “Why not?” Joe said, grinning, but he contented himself with only cracking the case open a little, so as not to embarrass the Fatman by displaying all the money arrayed within. There were many packets of banknotes. Joe slipped his hand inside the case and withdrew a single bill from the center of one packet. He laid the bill next to his plate on the table and set the briefcase down next to his foot. He studied the bill while he ate pasta. It had a picture of William McKinley on it.

  “They aren't all five hundreds, are they?” Joe asked.

  “No, mostly they're hundreds and fifties,” Fatman said. He went on eating while Joe rummaged through the briefcase again and examined specimen bills.

  “What are you, counting it?” Fatman said, annoyed.

  Joe looked up. “It's all here?”

  “It's all there,” Fatman assured him.

  “I believe you. I was just making sure that it was all good money. Had that happen to me once, in Reno.” Joe chuckled.

  Something in the chuckle made Fatman uneasy. “You got it all straightened out, though, eh?”

  Joe looked at him with his clear blue eyes. “Oh yes,” he said. He took another bite of ravioli, chewed for a moment, then said, “You remember I was talking about people who might get Dunlop-ed?”

  “You mean, you run this guy over, in Reno?�
� Fatman said.

  “These guys,” Joe amended. “There were three of them involved. But, no, I didn't Dunlop them. In that case I Hillerich-ed them.”

  “Hillerich-ed?” Fatman raised an eyebrow.

  “Hillerich-ed and Bradsby-ed,” Joe said, stuffing his mouth with ravioli.

  “I don't get it,” the Fatman said.

  “You must not have been born in this country,” Joe said, looking at the Fatman with interest. “Every American boy knows who Hillerich and Bradsby are. They make Louisville Sluggers.”

  “What's that, a baseball team?”

  “Baseball bats,” Joe said. “Now I have the money, so all I need is some information.”

  The Fatman was glad to change the subject. “What do you want to know?”

  “I take it that Carmine didn't have any kind of deal with these Cubans,” Joe said. The Fatman's look of disgust answered that. “I didn't think so. So who did you deal with?”

  “You know, with the punk. Like I told you.”

  “Then how did these Cubans get involved?” Joe wanted to know.

  “How the hell do I know?” Fatman said. “That's your job. I told you things had gotten complicated.”

  Joe nodded, then shook his head in disgust. “If the public only knew how fucked up the mob really is, they wouldn't have any respect for you at all. If you guys didn't have all the money, I'd never do another job for you. Well, the fat's in the fire now. Have you even heard from the punk?”

  Fatman got a pained expression on his face.

  “You haven't even heard from him,” Joe said, shaking his head again. “Your two heavy troopers still in town? The guys who had such a dandy time at the bar? They are? I thought so. What's the deal, Fat—if the kid doesn't come up with the guns, you're going to waltz over there and provide him with some ballast, that it?”

  “Something like that, Joe,” the Fatman said. He had begun to eat again.

  Joe Service sat back in his chair and picked up the briefcase. He held it on his lap. “In the meantime, I go on looking?”