The Blind Pig Read online

  “I been thinking, Mul,” he said. “I ought to open a dining room. Just a little place, room for about eight people. I'd serve one or two parties a night. I'd make it as expensive as I could imagine—maybe seventy-five to a hundred dollars a head. Then I'd get me Alois Belanger, the chef at the Old Plank House, and pay him whatever he had to have. Or maybe I'd get different chefs on a one-week rotation. I bet I'd be booked solid within a week of opening. I already have a very good wine cellar, but I'd have to expand—it'd be a good excuse to go to France for a month.”

  “You've got a wine cellar here?” Mulheisen said, looking up from his Wild Turkey and water (he'd ordered a Wild Turkey Ditch).

  “Hell, no,” Benny said. “I ain't taking no chances. I never been raided yet, but I don't want the first raid to bag my good wines. I keep it next door, where I live.”

  “The restaurant sounds like a good idea,” Mulheisen said.

  “The question is,” Benny said, “why do it here if there ain't no question of legality. I mean, why not open up public?”

  “Why not?” Mulheisen concurred.

  “I don't know,” Benny said seriously. “Somehow . . . I just don't like the idea of a legit business, you know? All them taxes and everything.”

  “I never thought about taxes,” Mulheisen admitted. “What do you do about taxes?”

  “My lawyer and my accountant are working a deal where I pay the IRS and the state on my investments. But it's hard to fudge investment income, and the IRS knows I have a bigger income than I'm claiming. I don't know if they know about this place, but when they find out, the shit is going to hit the fan. They ain't like no beat cop—you can't just slip them a few bucks to keep quiet.”

  Mulheisen thought about that. “You better open the restaurant, then. That'll give you a legitimate source of income and you can funnel your blind pig take through the restaurant.”

  Benny considered that for a while. “True,” he said at last. “It's just that I hate going legit.”

  Mulheisen looked around the room. He noticed one of the mayor's assistants talking to a well-known mob bagman, but didn't think anything of it, since that sort of business would have been concluded hours ago, during “Happy Hour.” They were probably just friends. A couple of girls looked lonely, and an inevitable drunk was sagging over his glass. Otherwise, Benny's was dead. “Where's all the action tonight?” Mulheisen asked. “Let's go someplace else, Benny.”

  “Let's see,” Benny said. “You like music, we could go to Brandywine's. He's got a new jazz group.”

  “Brandywine? Never heard of him.”

  Benny was shocked. “You don't know Brandywine? That's odd. He's a native. He was here when the Indians came.”

  “That long, eh?”

  “Well, he's part Indian,” Benny said. “His great-great-I-don't-know-how-many-greats-grandfather came here with the French explorers. That's right! There was some brothers with the French, you didn't know that?”

  Mulheisen mused on this while they drove toward down-town in Benny's Cadillac. He had a vision of a giant cargo canoe hurtling through the rapids of the St. Lawrence, portaging onto the Ottawa, then into Lake Nipissing, onto the French River, thence onto Lake Huron. From Lake Huron the canoe would enter the St. Clair River and drift steadily past the site where Mulheisen's home would be built one day. Then it would ride out onto the smooth bosom of Lake St. Clair and float gently down into the Detroit River—d'Etroit, the throat itself—pass by Belle Isle and draw up on the shore where Cobo Hall now stood and the Detroit Pistons played basketball. In this imagined canoe was a tall, strong black man from Senegal now named Maurice Brandaouin after his master. Maurice would find love and comfort among the Chippewa in a heavily forested plain by the side of the river, in a country provisionally named New France.

  Mulheisen and Benny pulled up in front of a duplex on Riopelle Street. Riopelle would be named for another French settler, of course—laid out along the ribbonlike edge of his farms as they ran back a mile or more from the river.

  There was a fat black man at the door of the duplex. He grunted suspiciously at Mulheisen, but at Benny's gesture, he let the two in. There were thirty or forty people inside, in a somewhat dingier and smokier atmosphere than Benny's. This was more like a house party. People stood and talked with whiskey glasses in hand and passed around joints of marijuana. Mulheisen recognized a young vice-squad detective sitting on a sofa talking to two white girls who were evidently not prostitutes but just a couple of Wayne State University coeds out for a little fun.

  Mulheisen and Benny stood at the flimsy dime-store bar and drank bottled beer. A pretty black woman in a blond wig came up to Mulheisen and rested her hand on the nape of his neck. It felt cool and dry. The hand slipped downward toward his hip, where the .38 nestled in its hip grip holster. Mulheisen stopped her hand with his right elbow and gently shoved her away. She drifted off.

  About three o'clock, four black men entered the barroom, carrying musical-instrument cases. In one corner there was a low platform made out of plywood and covered with green carpet. A basic drum set was draped with a sheet. One of the men whisked off the sheet and settled behind the snare drum. He set about adjusting the cymbals. Another man took a tenor saxophone out of its case and installed a new reed he'd been soaking in his mouth. The third man blew short, breathy notes from the cornet. He was the oldest, a balding forty-five, and he wore dark glasses in the dimly lit room.

  The youngest man switched on an amplifier/speaker behind the chair on which he sat. He held a flat electric guitar on his lap and fiddled patiently with the knobs of the amplifier.

  “Who are these guys?” Mulheisen asked Benny.

  “I don't know their names,” Benny said. “I believe I've seen that guitar player before.”

  The tenor man turned toward the drummer now and began to blow long looping phrases that caught the drummer's cadence on every fourth bar. He had a large, breathy tone and Mulheisen smiled involuntarily, remembering Lester Young.

  The cornet man shook his horn to get rid of some moisture. He came along with the other two then, making precise little stabs in tempo.

  Finally, the guitar chimed in and they all jammed along in G for a few bars. Then the guitar pointedly set out a brief chord progression and the two horns segued smoothly into “Last Year's Love.” Mulheisen was suddenly very happy, and he hummed along under his breath.

  A half-hour later, without warning, Mulheisen felt exhausted. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, yawning into his palm. His eyes felt gritty and the beer was gaseous. He wanted to break wind, but didn't. “Aagh!” he moaned quietly.

  “What's the matter, man?” Benny asked.

  “I don't know,” Mulheisen talked through a partially suppressed yawn. “I've had it. I've got to get the hell out of here, get some sleep.” He got up and paced a few steps into the next room. A couple of young men sat in easy chairs talking spiritedly about “. . . marijuana laws, then all the big tobacco companies will. . . .” They fell silent when they saw him.

  He drifted aimlessly through the room and into a hallway that ought to lead to a bathroom. As he passed what must have once been a bedroom, he heard Spanish being spoken excitedly. He did not hesitate but went on to the men's room.

  When he came out of the men's room, he saw a young woman standing outside the room where he'd heard the Spanish. She wore a fuzzy jacket and tall boots and she had brilliant red hair. She smiled as he approached.

  “Hi,” Mandy Cecil said.

  Eight

  “The last time I saw you,” Mulheisen said, “you were counting quarters. Where's Tall-Dark-and-Handsome?”

  Mandy Cecil shrugged.

  “You mean you're here alone?” Mulheisen was aghast. Brandywine's was not exactly the place for an unaccompanied beautiful redhead, unless she happened to be a prostitute. It wasn't so much that she would be bothered by the customers, although she would certainly have no deficiency of lewd offers, but that when she left, the neig
hborhood was extremely dangerous.

  “I'm not exactly alone,” she said. She nodded toward the room outside which they were standing. The Spanish voices were as voluble as ever.

  “Friends of yours?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Sort of,” she said diffidently. “But I spotted you passing by, so I—”

  “Why don't you introduce us?” Mulheisen said. He pushed the door further ajar and stepped past her into the room. The talking stopped. There were about a dozen men in the room, most of them fairly young, sitting around a large poker table. They were not playing poker, however. It looked like an informal meeting of some sort. They were all drinking beer. All of the men turned to look at Mulheisen.

  Mulheisen bared his fangs in a more or less friendly fashion and gazed back at them. Mandy rushed to fill the silence.

  She spoke in Spanish, at first, something about "muy bueno amigo, Señor Mulheisen.” She took Mulheisen by the arm and led him forward, gesturing toward an extremely handsome young man in his late twenties. “Mul, this is Angel. And this"—she turned to a middle-aged man with a somber expression—"is Francisco.” She went around the table, naming each man by his first name only. Each man stood and nodded slightly with a smile.

  Angel grinned broadly, displaying gleaming white teeth under a thick mustache. “I am so happy to meet Mahn-dee's frans, señor. Weel you have a cerveza?” He gestured with a beer bottle. “Or tequila, perhaps.” There was a bottle on the table.

  “No, thanks,” Mulheisen said. “I just bumped into Mandy in the hall. Sounded like you were having a party, but it doesn't look like it.” He looked around innocently. “Business, is it?”

  Angel laughed delightedly. “Oh, no, señor. It is much too late for business. We are indulging in that time-honored pastime of the exile—plotting revolución!”

  The others laughed—uneasily, Mulheisen thought. The dour old man growled, "Bufón.”

  “Don't be so groucho, Francisco,” Angel said gaily. “These Yanquis are well aware that we only plot. Only the CIA can make revolución, eh? But we have the luxury of talking about it.”

  “Where is this revolution taking place?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Nowhere!” said Angel. “Only in our cabezas. Ha ha! But if the CIA will permit, we would have our revolución in that most far-flung province of Soviet Russia, otherwise known as Cuba.” The latter statement had a bitter tinge to it.

  The burly Francisco rose now and put a heavy hand on Angel's shoulder. “Angel,” he said kindly, and the younger man subsided in his chair.

  Francisco turned to Mulheisen with a sad expression. “Mi amigo, he is having too many of Cuervo Especial. It is as he says, señor: we have the luxury of talk.”

  Mulheisen nodded amiably. “You are Cubans, then?” There was a general chorus of "Si,” but out of the corner of his eye Mulheisen caught someone who had risen quietly and was on the point of stepping out of the room. Mulheisen turned quickly. “And you? You are also Cuban?”

  The man stopped halfway through the door. He was a slight, sallow-faced figure in a nicely cut blue pin-stripe suit, in contrast to the others, who wore bright shirts and tight pants. The slender man smiled slightly. “No, Señor Mulheisen, I am not Cuban.”

  “But you are South American,” Mulheisen said.

  “Yes, I am,” the man said with scarcely a hint of an accent.

  “Brazilian, perhaps?”

  The man pursed his lips irritably, then replied, “Bolivian.” He went out then, closing the door behind him.

  Mulheisen turned to Mandy. “You about ready to go?” She picked up her large leather purse from a chair and slipped the strap over her shoulder. Then she waved to the circle of men.

  “Adiós!” they chorused enthusiastically.

  Mulheisen grinned. “Adiós, amigos.”

  Mandy took his arm and led him from the room. Mulheisen liked her hand on his arm because it brought his arm into contact with a firm but unbrassiered right breast.

  In the hall she muttered, “Always the snoop.”

  “I get paid to snoop,” he said. “Which reminds me: why are you here?”

  “It's a free country,” she said.

  “This place isn't free,” Mulheisen said.

  She smiled and leaned closer. He could smell her perfume, mingled with a sweet musty odor. “This isn't a raid, is it?” she asked.

  “I haven't made up my mind,” Mulheisen said.

  “A one-man operation?”

  “What's the matter, you don't think I could take them?” he replied.

  “Oh, don't be silly,” she said, losing interest in the repartee.

  They walked into the little barroom where the quartet was still ticking along like a good clock. A rather fantastic creature was standing next to Benny. He was six and a half feet tall with a creamy-brown complexion and thick, velvety lips formed in a perpetual pout. He wore an enormous wide-brimmed hat with a long feather drooping out of the crown. He also wore a calf-length fur coat that appeared to be made out of an entire generation of Arctic foxes. He looked out at the world through huge, pale-blue spectacles and flourished a long ivory cigarette holder.

  The creature waved his free hand languidly at Mandy and said, “Ah declayuh, Miss Mandy, ah'd sho love to jump on yo’ bones.”

  Mulheisen flushed, but Cecil replied airily, “Jump, Mother Rabbit, jump.”

  The man laughed, displaying his gold teeth, and slapped Benny on the back. Benny coughed. “Benny,” the man gushed, “this delicious kumquat is known as Mandy. Now, don't y'all wish you was Rastus? But this other person . . .” He frowned, looking at Mulheisen with obvious distaste.

  “That's my friend I was telling you about,” Benny said.

  “I believe I've seen your friend before,” the man said. He extended a bejeweled hand on a long arm and Mulheisen shook it briefly. “I'm Brandywine,” the man said, “and you are Fang.”

  “Fang!” Mandy Cecil said. She looked at Mulheisen and laughed.

  Mulheisen smiled, demonstrating his teeth. He stared into Brandywine's eyes. “Call me Mulheisen,” he said.

  Brandywine tossed his head extravagantly. “Do I have to?” he said.

  Mulheisen laughed. “Let's go,” he said to Cecil. “I think I've got a ride,” he told Benny. “See you later.”

  It was very dark outside Brandywine's. Most of the street-lights had been broken by vandals, or perhaps on Brandy-wine's orders, to protect the anonymity of his customers. But it was not a nice neighborhood. Many of the buildings were abandoned and boarded up. A brisk breeze reminded Mulheisen and Mandy that it was late October. They set off in the direction of Mandy's car.

  Almost immediately Mulheisen heard the gritty sibilance of footsteps on the pavement behind them. After a half block Mulheisen turned and stopped. The steps ceased. Mulheisen could see nothing. They walked on, and a few steps later he heard the sound behind them again. It sounded as if it were two people. He stopped and flicked his coat open, drawing his .38. He held the gun out before him so that if anyone could see, they would see the gun.

  “Beat it,” he told the darkness.

  The only reply was a low chuckle.

  Mulheisen was aware that Mandy Cecil had stepped away from him and he heard the sound of her purse being unsnapped.

  “All right, then,” Mulheisen said flatly, “come on.”

  After a few seconds they heard the footsteps of two people walking swiftly away. Mulheisen holstered the .38 and took Mandy's arm as they walked on.

  She unlocked the driver's door of a large car and got in, leaning across the seat to unlatch the door for Mulheisen. He got into the car, and without closing the door he snatched up her purse. She reached for it, but he knocked her hand away. She glared at him in the yellow glow of the interior light.

  “Relax,” he said. “I just want to see what prompted you to open your purse back there.” He fished inside the purse and came up with a .32 caliber Beretta automatic pistol. “Damn nice piece,” he said. “I suppo
se you know how to use it?”

  “Of course,” she answered. “Close the door. The alarm buzzer is giving me a headache.”

  Mulheisen closed the door and the interior light went out. He dropped the pistol back into the bag and set the bag between them. “You have a permit to carry that?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She started the car. It was a new Ford LTD. With the aid of power steering she swiveled deftly out of the parking space and accelerated down the street. “Where to?” she asked.

  “My car's parked by Pingree Park,” he said.

  She stopped for a red light and looked up at the street sign. “I've always wondered why they would name a street ‘John R.,’ “ she said.

  “Local bigwig,” Mulheisen said. “His name was John R. Williams. He already had one street named after him, but wanted another. So . . .”

  She laughed.

  As they drove out East Forest, Mulheisen said, “What were you doing with all those Cubans?”

  “I wondered if you were ever going to ask,” she said. “Nosy Parker, aren't you?”

  “I can't help it,” Mulheisen said.

  “It's more than just the job, though, isn't it?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “I thought so. Well, after Jerry and I finished with counting the coins, we went downtown to Mexican Gardens for a late snack.”

  “What did you have?” Mulheisen asked.

  “Tostada,” she said. “Anyway, Angel and his friends were there, as usual. We've seen them there often. I think Angel's got a crush on me, but he's so vain he can't admit it. He said they were all going to Brandy wine's and why didn't we join them. Jerry was tired and begged off.”