Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

“I was afraid you’d find out about that, Cliff,” Winfield sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“He was doing investigations for private companies, wasn’t he?”

“From time to time,” the detective said. “He couldn’t get it out of his blood. Sixty-three-years-old and still had to keep tracking down the bad guys. Hell, I’m ready to retire tomorrow and sit on my ass for the rest of my life. But you wouldn’t understand that. You’ll be just like John when you get to be his age.”

“He must have stayed in touch with the department,” Lansing said. “What sort of information was he asking about?”

“Cliff,” Winfield began helplessly, “your father didn’t tell you or Dave he’d turned P.I. because he figured you’d worry. He asked me not to mention it to you in my letters.”

“I’ll find out one way or the other, Bob,” the major told him. “I used to be with the department myself, remember? You can tell me now or I’ll dig around until I get the answers later.”

“You Lansings are the most hard-headed bastards I ever met,” Winfield said wearily. “Okay. John had quite a reputation as an investigator in Michigan, just as you’ve got to be a living legend in USAEUR. He handled cases for insurance companies, worked with private security outfits, did a few jobs for industrial companies and for various firms, large and small.”

“Was he working on anything after January?”

“He’d asked for data the department had on a local low-life named Harrison Carter.”

“That sounds familiar,” Lansing frowned. “Didn’t Father bust Carter back in 1975 for receiving stolen goods?”

“That’s right,” the cop answered. “Carter was a small-time fence here in Detroit. The judge gave him a five-to-ten sentence and he served four years in the joint before they released him for good behavior. I guess that’s not too bad considering how easy they go on some of these clowns nowadays. Anyway, since ‘79 he’s been struggling along at various business ventures. None of them have done very well, but as far as we can tell, he’s kept his nose criminally clean. In 1981, Carter and another ex-con named Mike Sumter (who has a record for assault and battery)opened a shop that specializes in novelty items. They keep buying hula-hoops and skateboards by the gross, hoping they’ll hit a big fad and make a fortune. Right now, it looks like they’re heading for the financial toilet again.”

“They’re still in the city?”

“You can find them in the yellow pages if you’ve got a magnifying glass.”

“Was Dad interested in anybody else?”

“An old acquaintance of your’s, Cliff. Remember Fred Minton?”

Lansing grimaced. “Badge for sale. The whole department knew he was on the take, but nobody could prove anything. It was a lot of fun to work a stake-out with a guy when you knew there was a fifty-fifty chance he was on the pay roll of the crooks. Did you ever nail that son of a bitch?”

“No such luck,” The cop frowned. “But we sort of ‘encouraged’ him to resign a couple of years ago. He hired on to three security guard jobs and got fired from all of them. Drinking on duty twice and once for ‘unbecoming behavior.’ But Minton doesn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s self-employed and the skipper of his very own ship — a garbage scow up at Lexington Harbor.”

“Thanks for the information, Bob,” Lansing said.

“Cliff, neither of those two were ever into anything big — and it would have to be real big to make it worthwhile for somebody to have John C. Lansing killed. Half the department is trying to find the man who did it and the other half is standing in line for their turn at bat. A lousy burglar did it — not a washed-up fence or a has-been cop.”

“You’re probably right,” Lansing agreed, heading for the door.

“Cliff,” Winfield said sharply. “I don’t have to remind you that you aren’t in Germany working for the CID, do I? You don’t have any authority in Detroit. You aren’t a civilian cop anymore and you’re not Clint Eastwood riding off for revenge in the movies. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” the major assured him. “I’m just plain old Clifford Lansing.”

He left the office and closed the door.

“Yeah,” Winfield sighed. “John Lansing’s son.”

The legend Carter’s novelties had been painted with cheap red paint that had been partially worn by exposure to weather an and no one had bothered to touch up the letters. The sign above the small shop on the corner of Maple and Prescott Street was barely legible. Major Lansing parked the VW Rabbit on the curb and entered the building. Shelves with rubber spiders, magic tricks, “whoopie” cushions, squirting flowers and other trinkets, lined the walls.

Lansing found no one in the front room, so he moved to a side door that led to a combination garage/storage area. Boxes labeled “hula-hoops” and “frisbees” were stacked in the corners. A tractor-trailer rig had backed into the garage. Two men inspected the open rear of the truck. Lansing strolled closer and gazed inside to see the rig was literally stuffed with an enormous pile of thick netting.

“What the hell?” a short, shapr-faced man with a cigar-stub in his wide mouth exclaimed with alarm when he noticed the major. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m doing a survey on why businessmen fail,” Lansing replied. “From what I hear, you’re an excellent reference source, Carter.”

“Want me to throw this smart ass out, Harry?” the other man, a wide-faced black with a build like a mail box, inquired.

“Take it easy, Mike,” Carter replied. “I want to give him one more chance to answer my question.”

“My name’s Clifford Lansing and I want to have a chat with you about your current efforts to give the free enterprise system a bad name.”

“Lansing, eh?” Carter scratched his pointy jaw. “Must be related to Big John C. Sorry to hear he got wasted, but he made a lot of enemies.”

“Including you?”

“What?” the ex-con snorted with disgust. “You figure I’d wanta blast him ‘cause he sent me to the joint a few years ago? Hell, fella. He was a cop. That was part of his job. You don’t hold somethin’ like that against a guy.”

“Father didn’t tell me you two exchanged Christmas cards.”

“Look,” Carter removed the cigar stump and used it to point at the truck. “I’m a legitimate businessman. See? I got me about a ton of hammocks. It’s gonna be a big thing this year.”

“How can anyone get along without one,” Lansing commented dryly. “Considering your track record, I’m surprised you can afford that eighteen wheeler.”

“We manage, Lansing,” Mike Sumter stated with a surly stare. “I’ve driven it all over the country to get the best quality material available for our shop.”

“Things must be looking up for you two high-rollers,” the major smiled. “Or maybe you’ve got another source of income the IRS doesn’t know about.”

“You’re lucky I’m on parole, punk,” Mike hissed. “Otherwise, I’d bash your teeth in for that remark.”

“Shut up, Mike,” Carter said flatly. “This guy’s trying to dig up some dirt on us. Don’t hand him a goddamn shovel.”

“What sort of dirt might I find if I looked?” Lansing inquired. “The same thing my father was investigating?”

“I thought your old man retired a while back.”

“You didn’t know he still worked private investigations?”

“You’re joking,” Carter snorted. “He musta been old enough to collect social security, for crissake.”

“He was interested in your activities, Carter. Why?”

“Seems to me I recall one of Old Man Lansing’s brats used to be a cop before he got a patriotic hair up his ass and decided to join the Army,” Carter smiled. “You know what I think? I think you’re that tin soldier and that means I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”