“You’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it. We’ll just take a quick look.”
“Whoa,” Marino said, “where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside,” Klein said. “We have reason to believe you may be involved in a kidnapping. Stand aside.”
“The hell I will! Who are you people—?”
Without warning, Klein drove a fist into Marino’s belly, spinning him face-first into the wall, dropping him to his knees. I yanked Klein around but before either of us could swing, a shotgun blast shattered the air, freezing everyone.
Jeanie Marino came humming around the side of the house in her chair, the short double-barreled shotgun cradled in her arms. The shot she’d fired had perforated the Cadillac in a dozen places. For a silent moment the only sound was the Caddy’s rear tire wheezing flat.
“That’s enough,” Jeanie said quietly. “You boys had best git in your car and go. While you can.”
“Lady, you’d better put that gun down—”
“Save your breath. Get moving. Now.”
Klein licked his lips. “You’ve only got one round left in that thing.”
“That’s right. Who wants it? You?” She shifted the weapon to cover Jack. His eyes widened, staring down the double barrels.
“Jesus, lady!”
From his knees, Marino launched himself up at Klein, tackling him waist-high, tumbling him down the ramp into the dirt at Jack’s feet. Without a word, Jack hauled Klein up and thrust him into the Caddy’s passenger seat. The other two piled in as Jack slid behind the wheel, fired up the Caddy, and roared off, thumping down the dirt road on their flattened tire.
“Honey, are you all right?”Jeanie asked.
“Yeah, I think so. What the hell was all that, Axton?”
“Security types. They work for Krystal’s husband. I’m sorry, I had no idea they were coming.”
“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t quite cover it.” Marino winced as he massaged his ribs and touched a cut on the corner of his mouth. “We’ve told you what we know, now I want you out of here. We’ve got a new life. We don’t need any crap from the old days.”
“Understood,” I said. “And I really am sorry.”
“Stuff happens,” Jeanie said, humming up to me, offering a firm hand. “Maybe you can come back again sometime. Say in another ten years?” The twinkle in her eyes took the sting from the zinger.
“It’s a date. In another ten years.”
“Do you remember the lawyer’s name?” Marino called after me.
“Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
Afraid was the word. The name Zeman runs through the legends of the Motown mob the way Capone’s does in Chicago. Only there were a lot more Zemans than Capones. Brothers, cousins, uncles. The grandfather was a member of the original Purple Gang, a stone killer who always carried three automatics. Or so they say. His grandsons pack law degrees or MBAs, which makes them a lot more dangerous.
Back in the late thirties, Capone sent two thugs to Detroit to talk to the Purples about an alliance. They disappeared. No warnings, no threats, no horse’s head in a bed. They just vanished. The way Jimmy Hoffa would a few years later.
Damn! Why did I have to think of that story in the elevator heading up to Anthony Zeman’s office?
The offices of Barrett, Arlington, and Zeman occupy most of a floor in the Renaissance Center. Twenty-three stories up. The place was busier than a wacko ward during a full moon, but I had no trouble getting in to see Tony Zeman, Jr. Just by saying I was a licensed investigator who wanted to talk about babies.
Zeman came around the desk carrying a golf club. A squat, powerful man, heavily built. Almond shirt and slacks, dark hair, thinning on top, blue jowls. Fortunately, the club wasn’t for me.
“Do you mind? I’ve got a foursome at one.” He lined up a few balls, squared his stance, and began putting them toward a narrow electronic cup against the wall. It beeped each time he scored. He never missed. “What can I do for you, Mr...?”
“Axton. I’m looking into an... adoption you arranged eight years ago or so.”
Zeman shrugged, loosening up. “We handle some adoptions through this office, but all data concerning them is confidential, as I assume you know. So why are you wasting my time?”
“Because there may be a problem with this one. My clients are wealthy and determined. If you blow me off, they’ll go to the police and they have the political juice to make things messy. No one wants that. Just give me what I need and I go away. No problem.”
He glanced up. Light gray eyes, cold as Rouge River ice. “If I thought you were a real problem you’d be gone already. What do you want? Exactly?”
“The man who arranged the adoption was Bobby Penn. Tall, scruffy blond hair?”
“A singer or something? Claimed he had a few hit records in the seventies?”
“That’s the guy.”
“Then I definitely can’t help you. We didn’t handle that case. I only recall it because Penn brought a buddy who kicked up a fuss. I had them escorted out.”
“The pal says he was thrown out. But Bobby wasn’t.”
Zeman paused in mid stroke, frowning, then followed through. “Actually, he’s right about that. Penn did stay a bit longer to plead his case. But we didn’t do a deal.”
“No?”
“No,” Zeman said, straightening, examining the head of the putter. “Let me enlighten you about the work we do, Mr. Axton. When sufficient capital is involved, and those are the only cases we take, finding eligible children is no problem. Appalachia, Russia, former Iron Curtain countries, it’s a buyer’s market. So to speak. We arrange proper health care, cover hospital expenses, and the mothers have the comfort of knowing their babies will be placed with families who can afford our services. And if those families sometimes offer a... gift to soothe the young mother’s anguish, that’s no concern of ours. Are you with me?”
“So far.”
“Good. Then you must see that the scenario I’ve just outlined has no place in it for your Mr. Penn. He was a junkie, so was the baby for all I knew, and it was seven or eight months old. We only deal in — excuse me, arrange adoptions for — newborns. It simplifies the paperwork.”
“And an eight-month-old could have its name and footprints on file in the hospital where it had been born. Which could present problems if anything derailed later on.”
“Exactly. Which is why I never seriously considered doing a deal with Mr. Penn. The man had trouble tattooed on his forehead. His pal got out of line that day and now you’re here. I don’t like problems, Mr. Axton. But I’m very good at solving them. Are you going to be a problem for me?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.”
Sulka tie and his precious Ping putter aside, Anthony Zeman was a thug, the son and grandson of thugs. And he was apparently still in the baby business, tap-dancing through legal loopholes to supply desperate people with the ultimate treasure. For a price. Doubtless using the same rationale his grandpop used to justify running booze across the Rouge from Canada during Prohibition, and numbers, drugs, and hookers since.
Victimless crimes. Unless you somehow get crossways of the Zemans, in which case they’ll make you a victim in a heartbeat. Maybe even a vanishing victim.
I had no doubt Tony Zeman would lie like a pol on election night if it suited his purposes. But that didn’t mean he’d lied to me. He wanted me gone with minimum fuss. If the truth would make me disappear faster than a lie, why not tell it?
And I was fairly sure he had. He was running a lucrative operation, judging from his pricey office and polished golf game. Would he jeopardize it for one junkie’s kid?
Unlikely. Besides, Marino pitched a bitch in Tony’s office. If the deal had closed, Marino could have posed a threat to the Zeman family business. And he probably wouldn’t be breathing.