Instead, I went to my Jeep Cherokee and fired it up. The rear lights of the Acura changed from red to white to red again, telling me that the driver had put his SUV in gear and was ready to follow wherever I went. I knew I could shake him easily enough, only you know what? Screw it.
Bending across the seat, I removed the Beretta from the glove compartment, checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and set it on the seat next to me—I was bending down so the tail wouldn’t see what I was doing. I looked left then right then left again for traffic. There was a lull, with no vehicles or pedestrians approaching from either direction. I drove out of the parking lot and up the street to where the Acura was parked, abruptly stopping when my rear bumper was parallel with the SUV’s front bumper. The driver seemed surprised when I got out of the Cherokee and approached him. He was even more surprised when I raised the Beretta. He brought his hands up and turned his head, not that it would have helped him any.
I put one round into his rear tire. The exploding rubber was louder than the gunshot. The SUV suddenly listed hard to the left. The driver looked at me, an expression of terror on his face. He was wearing a suit and tie; he looked like a middle-management wonk. I didn’t know what he actually did for a living, although following an armed and slightly deranged ex-cop apparently wasn’t it.
A moment later, I was back in the Jeep Cherokee and maneuvering my way toward Minneapolis.
“Problem solved,” I said, except I didn’t really believe it.
The Phillips neighborhood is located in the center of Minneapolis and has some of the city’s oldest and most historic buildings. It also has a high percentage of crack houses, slum apartments, poverty, and crime—ninety-three rapes, robberies, burglaries, auto thefts, assaults, and homicides had been committed there this month alone. It seemed the entire area was on the skids, with house after house and shop after shop trying to nudge each other into ghetto status. The buildings on the street where I was driving all had closed drapes, bolted doors, bars on the windows, aging vehicles, and no children, yet I knew from experience that invisible eyes were watching every move I made.
I found Chopper’s van in the parking lot of a small grocery store. He must have seen me coming, because the door on the side of the van glided open, the platform his wheelchair was on slid forward, and the elevator slowly lowered him to the ground before I even parked my car. Herzog was at his side, helping him off the platform and then retracting the elevator back into the van.
“Chopper, how did it go last night?” I asked.
“Do I look like a cuddler to you?” he said.
“Ahh, no.”
“No is fuckin’ right. I don’t snuggle. I’m a dude, man. Only this Em-ma, she’s like stay, stay, stay. Stay the night? Cuddlin’? The whole fuckin’ night? What reason have I gots t’ stay the night unless we goin’ again? Then her roommate shows up and I’m like whoa, cuz she’s hot, Ali is, and I’m like, ’kay, I’ll stay the night if the roommate joins in, and all of a sudden it’s git out, git out, git out.” Chopper shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “I don’ understand women.”
“They are a mystery,” I said.
“You carryin’?”
“I am.”
“That piece o’ shit Beretta, I bet.”
“She gets the job done.”
“There ain’t no carryin’ in Cid’s place. ’At’s a rule. You go carryin’ in Cid’s place they might shoot you walkin’ through the door.”
“Pussy,” Herzog said.
I didn’t know if he meant me or the person who might shoot me, and I didn’t ask.
“Best leave it here,” Chopper said.
He reached out his hand. I set my Beretta in it. Chopper held it up by the barrel. Herzog reached over Chopper’s shoulder, took the gun, and tossed it in the back of the van as if it were a flyer distributed on a street corner by one of those Jesus Saves groups. I heard it clatter against the metal frame of Chopper’s elevator just before Herzog slammed the door shut.
“You gonna be cool, now, ain’tcha, McKenzie?” Chopper said. “Not gonna do nothin’ rash?”
“Who? Me?”
“Yeah you. Fuck.”
“I’m just going to ask the man a few questions.”
“It’s like he says—you can ask. Just don’ go pushin’ no buttons is what I’m sayin’.”
“I promise.”