The Blind Pig Page 4

  Vanni was on the telephone when Mulheisen entered, arguing volubly with someone about “down time” and “fleet prices.” Mulheisen didn't mind; it gave him an opportunity to appreciate Mandy Cecil. He decided that raincoats were terrible things, although last night he had considered hers rather fetching. This morning she was wearing a one-piece jumper/slacks outfit in soft, form-fitting wool, with a long-sleeved blouse that had ruffles in the front and buttoned all the way up to the neck. It sounds prim and demure but it had an opposite effect. The form it fitted was worth fitting.

  Mandy Cecil was one of those women who give an impression of greater physical stature than they actually possess. She appeared to be tall and statuesque, but closer inspection revealed a somewhat busty, slender woman of average height. The main attraction was the fiery red hair that accented the fine ivory complexion of her lovely face.

  Mandy Cecil smiled pleasantly at Mulheisen and continued to type. Vanni waved and continued to talk on the telephone. Mulheisen was content to sit and watch Mandy Cecil.

  When he had finished his telephone conversation, Vanni came through the little gate in the railing and shook Mulheisen's hand. He led Mulheisen outside, where, he said with a nod in Cecil's direction, “We can be more private.”

  “You need a bigger office,” Mulheisen said.

  “We're building one,” Vanni said, gesturing toward the excavation. “It'll be about four times the size of our present quarters, all stone and glass.” He turned and waved a hand at several vacant lots that lay behind and to one side of the fenced-in area. “And I've bought some space there, so I can park more trucks, when I get them.”

  Mulheisen nodded at the idle excavation equipment. “What's holding things up?” he asked.

  “The usual,” Vanni said, “getting the financing, arguing with the architect and the contractor, and not enough time. But we'll get at it before long.”

  “You seem to be doing all right,” Mulheisen said.

  “Not bad,” Vanni said with obvious pride. “I don't like to brag, but not many guys my age have come this far. And seven years ago I didn't even know how to drive a truck. Do I look like a truck driver?”

  Mulheisen had to admit that Vanni did not. He was a tall, slender man with heavy black hair and a stylishly drooping mustache. It gave him a dashing look that went well with his strong, straight nose and flashing white teeth. Vanni dressed well. He wore a turtleneck sweater under a blue-and-white hound's-tooth jacket. His trousers were modestly flared and his shoes looked like $100 Italian.

  Jerry Vanni was clean. He was so well shaved and scrubbed that he exuded an air of expensive soap and lotion. If Mulheisen had had to guess the man's occupation, he might have said “television producer.”

  “I rarely drive a truck anymore,” Vanni said. “Only when a driver is sick and I can't get a relief man. I've got twenty-two double-tandem gravel trains now. We're hauling on that new interstate highway, plus I'm finishing up a runway contract at Selfridge Air Base.”

  “You did all this in seven years?” Mulheisen asked.

  “It's not that fabulous,” Vanni admitted. “The overhead is out of sight—you wouldn't believe what just one of those trucks costs, and fuel and maintenance are sky-high. They burn gas like a goddamn 747. But I take very little out of the business. Well, I bought a little cabin cruiser—Lenny and I went halves on it—but I still live in my parents’ home, for instance.”

  “Your parents still live there, on Collins? I thought you said you lived alone?” Mulheisen asked.

  “My parents died seven years ago,” Vanni said. “A head-on collision. They left me the house and some insurance money.”

  “Was your father in trucking?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Oh, no. He worked at Dodge Main, in Hamtramck. Worked on the assembly line for almost thirty years.”

  “So how did you get into trucking?”

  “After the folks died I dropped out of Michigan State and just sort of moped around,” Vanni said. “Then a neighbor of mine got on my case, said I ought to get busy. He got me a job with a landscaper in Grosse Pointe. I had some money, so I bought an old dump truck and started hauling peat moss for the landscaper. Then I put in a bid for a city street job, hauling sand, and I got it. Next thing I know, I've bought a half a dozen used trucks and I've got some employees. Before you know it” —he gestured around him—"here I am. Lately I've been branching out into other things.”

  “Like what?” Mulheisen asked. He had lit up a fresh cigar and was perfectly happy to lean against Vanni's car on this sunny, crisp October morning and listen to tales of success.

  “Last spring I won a jukebox in a poker game,” Vanni said. “No kidding. This guy puts up a jukebox and I lay down three jacks. He had the jukebox in the Eastgate Lounge, over on Seven Mile. So I go in to check the machine out—you know, it's like a joke or something, right? Only the box is full of money! So I say to myself, Wait a minute, big fella! I start checking out the details of the business and I see right away that it's a license to coin money. So I bought some more machines, plus some cigarette machines. I've been living in this area all my life, everybody knows me, I get along. So pretty soon a lot of the bars around here put my machines in. But it takes up a lot of time. That's why I set up a new business: Vanni Vending. My buddy—you met him last night—Lenny DenBoer, he's going to run it. And Mandy, she's the secretary-treasurer.”

  “You've known her for a long time?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Ever since she was a skinny little hillbilly kid. Her and me and Lenny used to play in the fields down on Mack and Conners, where that shopping center and everything is now. I never thought she'd grow up to look like that, believe me. She was skinny, and tough! Outrun most boys and beat the hell out of them if they caught her. She had a Kentucky accent you wouldn't believe.”

  “How long has she been working for you?”

  “Not long. I lost track of her in high school. I went to Servite and she went to Southeastern. Then I think she got married or something. Then I guess, like she said last night, she was in the Army, for Christ's sake! Anyway, I bumped into her about three months ago. She was looking for a job. I had a secretary, but I let her go and hired Mandy. Believe me, the other gal was nothing compared to Mandy. Actually, Mandy's too smart to be a secretary. That's why I put her into the vending operation, as an officer.”

  “This vending business is interesting,” Mulheisen said thoughtfully, “in the context of the shooting last night.”

  “How so?” Vanni said.

  “I understand that operations like this have been infiltrated by the mob,” Mulheisen said.

  “I don't know about that,” Vanni said. “The Teamsters Union has put some pressure on. But so far I'm not big enough for them to bother with. Maybe if the business expands, I might have to deal with them.”

  “What kind of pressure?” Mulheisen asked.

  “There's this guy from the Teamsters, or says he's from the Teamsters. I'm not sure. His name is Sonny something or other—I forget his last name. I see him at Forest Lanes, once in a while. He was bugging me a couple weeks ago about joining the union. I thought he was kidding. I laughed at him and he got pissed.”

  “Sonny DeCrosta,” Mulheisen said. “He's got some kind of mob connection, but I don't know what it is. I don't know anything about this Teamsters routine. But what's this about a union? Don't you already have a union?”

  “Sure, for my drivers,” Vanni said. “No, this DeCrosta guy was talking about a vendors’ union.”

  “Vending machines need a union?”

  “The Teamsters have organized vending-machine operators,” Vanni said. “But the way I look at it, I'm not an employee, I'm an owner. And Len and Mandy are officers of the company. Take, for instance, the trucking company: me and Lenny and Mandy don't belong to the drivers’ union, do we? Ah, it's just another shakedown, if you ask me. My dad was a union man all his life; I'm not against unions. But this, this is just a racket. The trouble is, the vendor
is vulnerable, if you know what I mean. You can't be everywhere at once, can you? I've heard these guys, if you don't join the union, they go around and screw up your machines. They fill them up with slugs, or break them somehow. But I haven't had any trouble so far.”

  Mulheisen made a mental note to discuss this with Andy Deane, at Racket Conspiracy. “I'm still trying to figure an angle on this gunman, Vanni. Maybe DeCrosta is involved. I'll check it out. Now, what about DenBoer?”

  “I don't know anything about any gunman, Sergeant,” Vanni said crossly. “As for Lenny, he's my oldest friend. He's been working for me for years and now I've just made him executive vice president of the vending company. I don't see any connection between him and last night's incident. You keep saying ‘gunman,’ but as far as I can see, the guy was just a thief who broke into my garage.”

  “I'm not accusing anybody of anything,” Mulheisen pointed out calmly. “But the fact is, that guy was no ordinary burglar. He had a gun and I think he meant to use it. We turned up no evidence that the man tampered with anything in the garage, yet he was in there for at least ten minutes. He could have loaded up your van and driven away in that time. Instead, he just stands around. What was he waiting for? I'd say he was waiting for you. But you say you've never seen him before. And a half-hour later you show up with DenBoer and Miss Cecil. I don't think it's unnatural for me to wonder if there's a connection between this gunman and DenBoer.”

  “You'll have to ask DenBoer that,” Vanni said.

  “I will,” Mulheisen promised. “Where is he?”

  “He's out checking a project for me,” Vanni said, smiling strangely. Then he frowned. “There is one thing . . .”

  “What's that?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Well, when Lenny came into the company, just as a matter of course we got this ‘key man’ insurance policy. It insures each of the officers for fifty thousand dollars, but the company is the beneficiary. It's part of our regular group insurance. I can't see anyone knocking off me, or Len, just so the company is fifty thousand dollars richer.”

  “Are you the sole owner of the two companies, or is it a public corporation?”

  “The trucking company and the vending company are both wholly owned subsidiaries of a holding company called Vanni Services, Incorporated. I own most of the stock, but Lenny has some and so does Mandy. I see what you're driving at, Mulheisen, but if I die that doesn't necessarily improve Lenny's position. In my will I've left my stock to various relatives, some to Lenny and some to Mandy. But I don't think he'd be in a position to take over the company. Anyway, why are we talking like this! It's ridiculous. Lenny's my best friend.”

  Mulheisen agreed that DenBoer didn't seem to have much of a motive for hiring a killer. “There isn't anyone you know of, then, who would want to kill you? You said something about jealous husbands last night.”

  Vanni blushed. “That was just a joke, Sergeant. I'm sorry about that. I go out with girls, sure, and maybe one of them might have a husband, but I don't have anything serious going and I've never had any problems like that at all.”

  “How about an angry competitor in your business?” Mulheisen asked.

  “We put in a sealed bid, like anybody else,” Vanni said. “On a state job, or a federal job like the air base, the bids are opened secretly and the low bidder gets the contract. Not much room for bitterness there, is there? Anyway, all this talk about hired killers is awfully melodramatic, don't you think? It's kind of like TV, right?”

  “It's no joke, Vanni,” Mulheisen said. “I've met several hired guns. Some of them are in the penitentiary now, because of me. The guy in your garage was packing a gun that was so antiseptic he should have been wearing rubber gloves. He was real.”

  Vanni smiled. “If you say so, Sergeant.”

  “What's your deal with the mob, Vanni?” Mulheisen asked bluntly.

  “What?” Vanni seemed outraged. “What are you talking about? I have no connection with the mob!”

  Mulheisen shrugged, unconcernedly. “All right, then, who do you know in the mob?”

  “I don't know anybody in the mob!” Vanni retorted.

  “C'mon, Vanni, everybody knows somebody in the mob or, at least, someone who says he has mob connections. Who do you know?”

  Vanni looked relieved. “Oh, well . . . you meet guys like that everywhere in this town. I stop by the local tavern for a quick one now and then—the Town Pump. There's guys in there who'll take a bet, who claim to be in the numbers racket, or they say they can get you a TV or even a car, cheap, meaning that it's hot. But nobody pays any attention to those bums. They're a dime a dozen.”

  “Name one,” Mulheisen said.

  “No. I mean, I don't really know them, right? Just a loudmouth here and there, trying to make himself important. Maybe some of the old-timers who sit around the tavern all day are amused. I'm not. Sergeant, if there's something else, let's have it. I've got a business to run.”

  “Where's this poker game?” Mulheisen asked.

  “What poker game?”

  “The poker game where you won your jukebox,” Mulheisen said. “Is this a regular game?”

  “Well, what the hell. I mean, everybody likes to play a little poker now and then.” Vanni tried to laugh it off.

  “So where's the game?”

  “Oh, it's no big thing. Sometimes some of the guys come over, or someone calls and says there's a game. Sometimes I play with the drivers, after work. Just a little penny ante in the office. And sometimes, like we go to a blind pig or something, and there's always a game there.”

  “Which blind pig?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Any blind pig! What difference does it make?”

  Mulheisen sighed. “All right, Vanni. Go back to work. If anything comes up, though, like with DeCrosta, give me a ring, eh?” He gave his card to Vanni. “Ask Miss Cecil to step out here for a minute, will you? I won't keep her long.”

  Vanni seemed relieved. He stuffed Mulheisen's card in his pocket and went inside. A moment later Mandy Cecil came out. The autumn sun made her hair blaze, and Mulheisen realized for the first time what poets meant when they rhapsodized about green eyes. Cecil said hello and leaned against Vanni's car, waiting for the questions.

  “I guess you've known Vanni for quite a while,” Mulheisen began. “I understand that you've been out of touch for several years. What brought you back together?”

  “I just happened to be driving through Detroit and I hadn't been here in a long time, so I thought I'd look Jerry and Lenny up. I was kind of surprised to find that they were both living in the same houses where they'd grown up.”

  “Why is that?” Mulheisen wanted to know. He lived in the same house he'd been born in.

  “It seems like everybody moves around these days,” she said. “That's all. My folks, for instance, they moved back to Kentucky years ago. Myself, I've lived in a dozen different cities.” She folded her arms and waited for the next question.

  “You were in Vietnam,” Mulheisen said. “When did you get out of the Army?”

  “About three years ago.”

  “What have you been doing since?”

  “I went back to school, took some graduate courses at Berkeley on the GI Bill, and I lived with a guy who I thought was a genius—only, he turned out to be just a dope dealer, so I took off. I worked for a consumer-research outfit in San Francisco, I tried to manage a rock group called the Multiple Function, I even danced topless. All this was on the Coast. Finally, I thought I'd go to New York for a change, so I started driving. When I got to Detroit, I called Jerry and here I am. I don't know for how long.”

  Mulheisen had a wistful vision of Mandy Cecil dancing topless, but he suppressed it. He took a long drag on his cigar and released it slowly into the cool October air. “Vanni says he's made you an officer of the vending business. That sounds fairly permanent.”

  “It's not much of a business yet,” she said.

  “How do you get along with Jerry these days?” he aske
d.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Just friends, eh?” Mulheisen said.

  “You mean, am I sleeping with him?” she retorted. “The answer is, when I feel like it, Sergeant.”

  Mulheisen didn't rise to that bait. “How about Lenny?” he asked. “Just another old pal?”

  “Exactly,” she snapped back.

  “How does Lenny like that?”

  “You mean, is Lenny jealous? Yes, I suppose he is. But would he hire a killer to bump off his best friend, who is also his rival? I doubt it, but you ought to ask him.”

  “I will,” Mulheisen said. He tasted his cigar again and liked it very much. It was really a beautiful day. He said as much to Mandy Cecil and she agreed. It was nice just standing here, he thought, especially with Mandy. But he didn't tell her that. He just said good-bye and walked away.

  Four

  “You know the phrase ‘dead as a doornail'?” Joe Service asked.

  Fatman nodded without looking up from the veal scallops. The two men sat at a table in the Seven Continents Restaurant at O'Hare International Airport, in Chicago.

  Joe Service looked down at his own veal. He tried to remember what the menu called this dish and why it required melted cheese. He pushed the plate away untouched. “It's a very ancient saying,” he said. “It dates from Piers Plowman, at least.”

  “Plowman? What is he, a farmer?” Fatman said, chewing slowly.

  “Well, yeah. Actually, it's a book about a farmer. A very old book. From Chaucer's time.”

  “Chaucer? I heard of Chaucer. Don't look so surprised, Joe,” Fatman said affably. “Just ‘cause I got a lot of business, don't mean I never read a book.”

  Joe beamed. He was a short, muscular man. He wore cowboy boots and a denim leisure suit. He was deeply tanned and his blue eyes were startling. He had heavy black hair and thick eyebrows. He was not a handsome man. His features were too strong—an aggressive nose, solid jaw and wide mouth—but he wasn't ugly. He smiled a lot and that helped. Also, he looked intelligent, and people will forgive homeliness in a brainy man. In his trade Joe found that his homeliness encouraged other people's confidence in him, as baldness will do sometimes.