It came back. As strong as the night before, when I was standing in that motel room. That day in Detroit. The gun pointed at me. I cannot stop him. He will shoot us, Franklin first and then me.
I took a step backward and fell. Stairs. I fell down some stairs. I’m on the ground. Get up and get out of here. I couldn’t move. I felt like I was up to my neck in wet cement.
Franklin next to me on the floor. He is dying. All that blood.
“Get going!” the man said. “If you ever come around here bothering my wife again, I’ll kill you! I promise you that, mister!”
Get in the truck. I got myself off the ground, remembered how to walk. Get in the truck. I fumbled with the door, opened it finally. Keys. I need keys. They were in my hand already. Which key goes in the ignition? I tried one, then another. Finally, I put the right key in, started the truck. I put it in reverse and punched it, almost backing right across the street into another trailer. I tried to put it into drive, but the engine just raced. It’s in neutral. I couldn’t breathe. Put it in drive. Why can’t I breathe? The two women in the road scattered like pigeons as I finally found a gear and then barreled past them.
When I was a few miles out of town, I stopped the truck. I sat there on the side of the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel. What in God’s name is wrong with you? Relax. Just relax. I made myself take a deep breath and then another.
All right, take it easy. You’re okay now. That asshole just wanted to scare you. And he picked a hell of a day to do it. You lost your cool for a moment. After the weekend you just had, it’s understandable.
And besides, that was the first time someone has pointed a gun at you since Detroit.
I remember sitting in an office with a psychiatrist. The department made me go see him, after the shooting. I thought it was a waste of time. I didn’t listen to much of what he was saying, but I did remember one thing. He said I’d always have this hair trigger in my head. One little thing and I’d be right back there in that room, lying on the floor with three bullets in me. A loud noise, like a gunshot or even a car backfiring. Maybe a certain smell, he said.
Or maybe the sight of blood.
The Mariner’s Tavern looked just like you would expect it to look. It had the fishnet with the shells and starfish in it hanging from the ceiling, an old whaling harpoon stuck to the wall. It was on Water Street, right next to Locks Park, with big windows on the north side of the building. During the summer you could sit there and see a freighter or two going though the locks every hour, getting raised or lowered twenty-one feet, depending on which way they were going. Now that November had arrived, the freighter season was almost over.
I meant to just stop in and have a quick word with the bartender, but I ended up sitting at a table for a while, the only customer in the place, looking out that window at the St. Mary’s River and on the other side of that, Soo Canada. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a drink before noon, but this day seemed to need it.
I made a little toast to myself. Here’s to your brilliant decision to become a private investigator.
Lane Uttley had found me at the Glasgow Inn one night that past summer. He told me that Edwin was one of his clients, and that Edwin had told him all about me, the fact that I had been a cop in Detroit, even the business about getting shot.
“A man who takes three bullets has to be one tough son of a bitch,” he said. “Edwin tells me you still have one of the bullets in your chest. Do you ever set off the metal detector at the airport?”
“It happens,” I said.
“What do they say when you tell them about the bullet?”
“They usually just say, ‘Ouch.’”
“Ha,” he said. “I imagine they do. Anyway, Mr. McKnight, I won’t waste your time. Reason I’m here is, I have a big problem and I’m wondering if you can help me out. You see, I have this private investigator working for me named Leon Prudell. Do you know him?”
“I think I’ve seen him before.”
“Yeah, well, at the risk of speaking unkindly, I have to say that the situation with Mr. Prudell is not working out. I imagine you’re familiar with what a private investigator really does?”
“Mostly just information gathering, I would think. Interviews, surveillance.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s very important to have someone who’s intelligent and reliable, as you can imagine. I’ve done a little bit of criminal defense work. And I have some long-standing clients like Edwin, you know, for wills, real estate, and so on. But a lot of my work is negligence, accidents, malpractice, that sort of line. That’s where I really need a good information man.”
“What does this have to do with me?” I asked. “I’m not a private investigator.”
“Ah,” he said. “But you could be. Have you ever thought about it?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“The private eye laws are pretty loose in this state. All you need are three years as a police officer and a five-thousand-dollar bond. You were an officer for eight years, right? Spotless record?”
“Are you asking me,” I said, “or did you already check me out?”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I told you I value good information.”
“Well, I’m going to have to pass on your offer. Thanks just the same.”
“I sure wish you’d think about it. I’m prepared to make this well worth your time.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “FU think about it.”
He was back two nights later, this time with one of Prudell’s reports in his hand. “I want you to read this,” he said. “This is what I have to deal with every day.”
Prudell had apparently been sent to a resort out on Drummond Island to document some haphazard life-guarding in support of a suit over a drowning. The report was a jumble of irrelevant notations and misspellings.
“Listen to this, Alex,” he said. “Twelve-fifteen. Subjects back on duty after eating lunch under a medium-size tree. Subjects become aggravated upon observation of my picture taking with the camera.’ I assume that when he says subjects, he means lifeguards. Why can’t he just say lifeguards, Alex? I tell ya, this guy is killing me.”
“What makes you think I could do a better job?” I said.
“Alex, come on. Don’t make me beg.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Uttley.”
“Alex, you work when you want to work, and you name your price. I’ll even put up your state bond myself. You can’t beat it.”
The truth was, I had been thinking about it. As a cop, I was always good at dealing with people, making them feel at ease, making them feel like they could talk to me on a human level. I was pretty sure I could make a decent private investigator. And I still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of drawing three-quarter disability pay and not having much else to do except cut wood and clean up after deer hunters.
“There’s just one condition,” I said. “No divorce cases. I’m not going to go following some guy, waiting to get a picture of him with his pants around his ankles.”
“It’s a deal,” he said. “I haven’t done divorce work in ten years.”
A month later, I had my license. He apparently knew someone in Lansing, was able to get the forms through that quickly. One day in late August, after I had just received the license, he gave me a piece of paper with a name and address on it.
“Who’s this?” I said.
“It’s a dealer in the Soo,” he said. “I’ve ordered a gun for you. You have to pick it up yourself, of course. Fill out the paperwork. You know some guys in the county office, right? You’ll need your permit, too.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What kind of gun are we talking about?”
“A. 38 service revolver. That’s what you used when you were a police officer, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I really don’t want to carry one again, if you don’t mind.”
“Hey, no problem,” he said. “Just keep it at home. You never know.”