Hit on the House (13 page)

“It's on my way home, as a matter of fact,” Mulheisen said.

“Oh, yeah.” Lande nodded. “I guess I knew that . . . You ‘n’ Bonny, you went to St. Clair Flats High, or something so that figgers. So whataya wanta know?”

Mulheisen looked around at the empty room and said, “What I want to know is what kind of club is this? How come the kid went home and left me here with the bar open?”

“Whatayou, thinkin’ of robbin’ the joint? There ain't nothin’ to rob but a few bottles a booze.”

“It's unusual, wouldn't you say? Rather an exclusive club. Just you.”

“Oh, I got a few other members,” Lande said. “Me ‘n’ a couple other guys bought it, ya know. This developer built it, about twenny years ago now. He had a cash-flow problem and wanted to unload. I
was already a member, so I bought it. It's all legit. You could look it up.”

“I never knew anybody who actually owned his own golf course,” Mulheisen said. “Do you run it as a business?”

“Sure, but it ain't actually a going concern at the moment. No problem for me, though. These other assholes,” Lande said savagely, “they didn't give a rat fuck for the joint. I hada cut them out fin'ly. I haveta do just about everythin’ out here. If it wasn't for me, this place'd be a dump. A gawf course is a kinda black hole for money, you know. But it happens I know quite a little bit about gawf courses. I made a study of it, see? I know a lot when you come down to it. And I gotta couple a good kids in here. They do what I tell ‘em, and they know their shit. One of ‘em even graduated from a gawf-management school down in Arizona. Well, this kid Eric—you met ‘im—he can't find his ass with both hands when it comes to business, but you oughta see his swing.” He shook his head, gazing off at the course, now nearly lost in darkness. “Yanh, the little shit can swing that club. You realize that kid qualified for the Open? He never made the cut, but jeez—just to play in the Open! I damn near qualified once.” He looked wistful.

“Was one of your partners Ray Echeverria?” Mulheisen asked.

“Yeah. Why?” Lande seemed wary.

“How did you meet Echeverria?”

“He was a member here. We both was. When the developer got into a mess, me ‘n’ Ray and a coupla others, we bought him out. No crime in that, is it?”

“What are you so huffy about?” Mulheisen asked. “Do you have other dealings with Echeverria?”

“I hardly know the guy. He never even comes around anymore. Well, he was a lousy gawfer. Said he was a fifteen handicap, but I never seen him break ninety. Now that's just stupid. Most guys, if they cheat on their handicap, it's in the other direction. But not Ray, . . . he'd rather lose a few bucks and have you think he just wasn't playing to his handicap. Dope.”

“Where were you this morning, between four and six?” Mulheisen asked.

“Me?” Lande recoiled. “This morning? You serious? Where the hell you think? Home in bed.”

“Really?”

“Sure, whataya think? I played a little cards earlier. At the East-gate. You could check. Then I bullshitted for a while, with the guys, and went home.” He watched Mulheisen truculently. “What is this, anyways?”

Mulheisen said, “I suppose you have some witnesses?”

Lande mentioned a couple of names, and Mulheisen got out his notebook to jot them down. “And you left when?”

“I don't know. I di'nt check my watch. It musta been, oh, three, four
A.M
. After that, you can ast Bonny, which I guess you prob'ly already did. Am I right?”

Mulheisen looked at the man—feisty, self-important, and abrasive. After a moment he said, “How is it you know Frosty Tupman?”

“Who says I know Tupman?” Lande looked belligerent but on his guard.

Mulheisen considered for a moment, then said, “You don't have to answer my questions. You have the right . . .”

“What the hell is this?” Lande said, rising. “You readin’ me my rights? I know my rights. You wanta ast me somethin’, just go ahead. I ain't got nothin’ to hide.”

Mulheisen nodded. “OK. You know your rights. We have evidence that you are acquainted with Tupman.”

Lande poured out another shot of whiskey for himself and Mulheisen. “I don't know Tupman,” he said.

“Tupman had three phone numbers listed for you in his personal phone book.”

“So what? I can't help that. Maybe he wanted to buy a computer, or maybe he wanted to join the club. That's not illegal, is it? Is that all you got? Jeez, fuckin’ cops!”

Mulheisen said, “You mentioned his name the other night when we were having dinner.”

“I mentioned his name? I thought you did.”

Mulheisen couldn't remember if he had mentioned Tupman first or if it had been Lande. He shrugged. “How about Sid Sedlacek? Did you know him? Or his girlfriend, Germaine Kouras?”

“I mighta met Sedlacek sometime,” Lande conceded, then he
brightened. “Yeah, that's right! This chick Germaine, she sings at the Blue Moon sometimes, right? I used to go there, once in a while. I thought she was great. I met her, and I think she introduced me to Big Sid. I di'nt think nothin’ of it. Anybody can meet a singer and her boyfriend, can't they?”

Mulheisen sighed. This wasn't going well. He asked, “Did you ever have a relationship with Miss Kouras?”

“Are you kidding?” Lande was frankly surprised. “Hey, I gotta wife who's a helluva lot better looking than that broad. I shou'n't haveta tell you that.”

This last was said in a way that insinuated a great deal. Mulheisen replied, “You must get a charge out of being obnoxious.”

Lande looked pleased. “Gotchoo, eh? You dig them tits, don'tcha? Hey! Fifty million guys whacked off on that centerfold. Join the crowd.”

Mulheisen leapt to his feet, his face red. “You are an asshole!”

“So? Who ain't?” Lande had risen. He looked up at Mulheisen pugnaciously. “You knew her when, din't djou? You prob'ly saw them tits in the flesh! D'jou fuck her?”

Mulheisen came close to smashing Lande in the face. The man, with his outthrust jaw, seemed to be inviting a blow. Mulheisen forced himself to a casualness he didn't feel. He looked down at the cigar in his hand. He had almost crumpled it. He took a tentative drag and sat down.

But Lande wouldn't let it go. “I knew it,” he crowed. “You fucked her. And you'd still like to shag her. Well, go ahead.” He abruptly lapsed into a peculiar mood and slumped back onto his chair. “That's prob'ly why you went over there yesterday. She ast you to come over, din't she?”

Mulheisen shook his head, mystified. “What's wrong with you, Lande? You seem to care for Bonny, but you say things like that!”

Lande looked up dully. “You wouldn't know. You don't know nothin’. Bonny digs you,” he said.

Something in his tone unsettled Mulheisen. “Are you nuts?” he said. “Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘I don't know anything'?”

“You went to see her yesterday,” Lande said. “You din't notice
nothing? Nanh, why would you? You on'y had one thing on yer mind. Bonny's sick, you big prick.”

Mulheisen was stunned. “Sick?”

“Yanh. Sick. She's got cancer. Terminal.” Lande's face had turned bitter.

For Mulheisen the entire world turned grotesque and bilious. “This better not be some kind of joke,” he rasped. He ground the cigar into the ashtray violently.

“It ain't no joke,” Lande said. “She got a tumor in her womb bigger'n a can'aloupe.”

Mulheisen stared, mouth open. Lande looked at the floor.

“How long have you known this?” Mulheisen asked.

Lande looked away, his face mottled with anger, the foolish mustache bristling, his eyes small and watery. “'Bout a month,” he said, “maybe a little longer. The docs said it prob'ly wasn't much, at first. They fin'ly tol’ us the troot just the other day.” His face suddenly crumpled. “Ah, shit,” he said. He gulped down the whiskey angrily and uttered a slight gasp. When he looked at Mulheisen again, he said gruffly, “Ya don't see a wooman like that . . .” he stumbled, “. . . off-ten.”

The two men sat in silence for a long time, occasionally glancing at one another, then away. The light outside had failed. The light inside was weak, emanating from the bar.

“You ever been in love?” Lande asked after a while.

“Ah . . . well,” Mulheisen said softly, “I guess so.”

“I never been in love,” Lande said, musing. He looked at the rain-streaked windows. “I thought it was some kinda joke . . . you know, like in the movies or somethin’. I din't know what it was at first. I jus’ felt like . . . you know . . . everythin’ you do is for the broad.” He cleared his throat. “It's . . . diff'runt. I din't know you could wanta do things for another person . . . for her, I mean. Yer allus doin’ something for the other person, see? An’ you like doin’ it. Ever'thin’ I do is for Bonny.”

Mulheisen picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured them both a stiff drink. He drank from his glass and said, “How do you know it's
sure? They're wrong about these things a lot. They have all kinds of therapy. I have a friend, he's a doctor, he could—”

“She seen enough doctors,” Lande said bitterly. “She has to go in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? For what?”

“Surgery—whataya think, stupid?”

Mulheisen couldn't believe it. “I just talked to her. She didn't say a word.”

“To-fuckin'-morrow.’’

Mulheisen said, “Well, if they're going to operate, they must think there is a chance.”

“There ain't a chance. The doc talks about surgery, then radiation . . . There ain't no chance.” He drank some whiskey and said, “It ain't fair, Mul. There's all kinda assholes in this world, and they just go laughin’ along.” He rubbed his mustache reflectively. “They won't laugh. They ain't gonna laugh.”

“What do you mean?” Mulheisen asked.

“I don't mean nothin’,” Lande said, looking up calmly. “She ain't gonna . . . Somebody's gotta pay, Mul. Some a these pricks, they weren't too good to her—”

“Lande,” Mulheisen said, “don't talk like this. Whatever is happening to Bonny, it isn't anybody's fault. It happens.”

“Oh yeah? Whatayou know about it? She got kicked around pretty good. A wooman like that!”

“What are you talking about? Who kicked her around?”

“None a yer bidness. Whatayou care, anyhow? Oh, sure, you got the hots for her, yer an old pal ‘n’ all . . . but didjou ever think that just because a wooman's beautiful, it might nota been a bed a roses? Guys hittin’ on her alla time, guys promisin’ shit, and then when she won't go out on the street for ‘em, they start bangin’ on her.”

Mulheisen had an image of how this might be, as Lande said, and it was a little shocking, particularly since it had a plausible ring. “Well, you took her away from all that, didn't you? You were her knight in shining armor?”

Lande cocked his head, not displeased with this image. “Yeah, you
could say that.” Then his face knotted. “But it ain't over. They still come around. I ain't mentionin’ no names, but I know who it is. Anyways, they can't hurt her now. Now it's this . . . this goddamn shit that you can't do nothin’ about. She don't deserve this.”

“Nobody deserves cancer,” Mulheisen said. “Things happen to good people, we don't know why. It just happens. You can't hold other people responsible. That's naive, silly.”

“You think it's silly? What the fuck do you know?”

“That's crazy,” Mulheisen said wearily. He had to leave, to get away from this awful little man.

“How come you don't like me?” Lande asked suddenly. “You think I'm some kinda jerk. Yer the jerk. You got the hots for my old lady. I don't mind that. You knew her first. She digs you. But I got a lot goin’ for me, you know that? I'm drivin’ a fuckin’ Cadillac, and yer pushin’ some kinda weird taxi or somethin’. You ain't shit, Mulheisen. I'm a inventor! D'jou know that?”

“What?” Mulheisen almost laughed. “What did you ever invent?”

“A lotta things,” Lande said. “I invented a new gawf bag.”

Mulheisen laughed. “A new golf bag? What the hell is that?”

Lande jumped up and ran outside, dragging his golf bag back in. “See this?” He demonstrated how the bag had a kind of built-in tripod, evidently activated by the handle. “I invented that” he said triumphantly. “It keeps the bag standing up. But when I showed it to the bag manufacturers, they laughed at me, and then they ripped me off. Now some asshole's making a million bucks oudda it! And I invented it!”

“So what?” Mulheisen said.

“So what? They screwed me, that's what! I invented a car jack, it inflates offa tire, or a air bottle. They ripped that off, too. But there's a buncha shit they couldn't rip off. I'm gettin’ royalties right now on a buncha machines that I couldn't even explain to a dumb shit like you. Ford and GM bought machines offa me. I invent computer systems. I
figgered
out a way to use old glass for all kindsa stuff.”

“All right, you're a genius,” Mulheisen said. “Why don't you go home? If Bonny has to go to the hospital tomorrow, she needs you.”

“Yeah, I'm goin’ home. No point in sittin’ here talkin’ to a dumb
ass like you. Who don't understan’ nothin’. Yer s'poseta be a big detective, but it looks like you don't know shit.”

Mulheisen could hear something in Lande's voice, but he couldn't discern what it was. “What am I supposed to understand?”

“Nothin’. I tell you somethin’, and you sit there like a fuckin’ turd.”

Mulheisen drained the whiskey from his glass. He was a little drunk. “You know, Lande, you're one of the most tiresome bastards I've ever met.”

Lande seemed to take that as an accolade. “Thanks, Mul. Say, why don't you come over to the house with me? Bonny could fix us something.”

Mulheisen looked at him with awe. “Bonny could fix us something? Isn't she sick? What's the matter with you? Why aren't you home looking after her?”

“I'm lookin’ out for Bonny, don't worry ‘bout that. I just want her to be happy. Whatever she wants.”

“I don't think you know what she wants,” Mulheisen said.

Lande scoffed. “Yer the wise guy, tell me what she wants.”

“For reasons I can't fathom,” Mulheisen said, “she wants you.”

The little man just gazed at him, his eyes glittering. Finally he said softly, his voice choking, “You . . . ah . . . you . . . that's a very kind thing to say.” He turned away to hide his emotion but soon turned back with his customary sarcasm. “That's the kind of guy Bonny said you was. Just a big ol’ soft-ass pussy.”