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

Two large, muscle bound men shoveled the foul conglomeration from the pile and dumped it into large metal barrels. A third man, only slightly smaller than his workers, supervised the chore from the pier. Although ten years had passed since Lansing had seen Fred Minton, he recognized the ex-cop immediately. Minton had gained at least twenty pounds and his paunch formed a hump under his Navy blue turtle-neck sweater. A gray-black beard decorated his face and he wore a battered sea captain’s cap with a cracked plastic bill.

“If you can’t get it all into those four barrels, we’ve got more in the warehouse,” Minton told his laborers. “Don’t stuff those things too full or we won’t be able to seal the lids on tight.”

“We know what we’re doin’, Captain ,” one of the men, a hard-faced stevedore with a shaggy brown beard, replied gruffly.

“Just make sure you do it right, Sol,” Minton growled. “And don’t spill any of that crap over the side. The EPA inspectors love to catch petty violations like that.”

“My, my,” Lansing commented as he strolled closer. “From Flatfoot to Captain Bligh. How you’ve come up in the world, Minton.”

The ex-cop turned sharply. A puzzled expression dominated his face until his mind recalled a name to suit the major’s face. “Clifford Lansing? Jesus, I thought you’d been killed in Vietnam or something.”

“And I thought you would have been jailed for taking bribes from every loan shark and dope-dealer in Detroit,” Lansing replied with a sneer. “But I see you still can’t help associating with garbage of one kind or another.”

“Didn’t they teach you any manners in the Army, Lansing?” Minton muttered. “I suppose you came back for your father’s funeral. Read about that. Sorry your Dad bought it. He was a good cop.”

“I’m surprised you’d recognize one.”

“That snotty talk can get you a busted head,” the ex-cop warned. “Especially around here. But I can understand you being upset, so just get the hell outta here before I have Jake and Sol tear you apart like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.”

“It must feel good to be able to tell somebody what to do after taking orders from hoods for so many years, eh, Fred?”

“You want something, Lansing?” Minton snorted. “Or did you just come here to admire the view?”

“My father was interested in your current occupation,” the major replied. “I thought I’d see what you were up to that’s so fascinating.”

“John C. was looking into my business?” Minton chuckled. “I’m a seafaring garbage man, Lansing. I go all over Lake Huron to pick up fish rejects from nets and slop from the diners and ships’ crews. Why would your dad want to know about that?”

“Maybe he suspected you might be hauling around more than one kind of junk.”

“Drugs?” Minton smiled. “You know me better than that, Lansing. Look, I’ll level with you. Sure I was on the take. With the lousy salaries we got for risking our lives in a zoo like Detroit, who wouldn’t be?”

“Any good police officer,” Lansing answered.

“An overgrown boy scout like you,” Minton scoffed. “But I never got involved deep enough to get caught. I’m not stupid, Lansing — and only an idiot would try to run drugs in a garbage scow. Since the Canadian government is bent outta shape about marijuana coming from the States, the narcotics boys are sniffing around the docks constantly. The goddamn Environmental Protection Agency checks me out any time they feel like it too. Besides, I know the local fuzz were told about my under-the-table deals in Detroit. Lexington’s finest are keeping an eye on me as well. No way I’m going to deal in dope, gun-running or anything else.”

“You’ll just keep making your living as an honest shipping magnate,” Lansing shook his head. “You couldn’t stay clean as a cop and I doubt that you’ve turned over a new leaf, Minton.”

“You don’t like me,” the scow captain frowned. “Well, that just breaks my heart, Lansing. But you haven’t been with the police department for a long time. So unless the United States Army wants me for something, you’d better get off my back and keep your mouth shut. There’s laws against slander and libel, and I’ll sue your ass off if you give me any more trouble.”

“Don’t be so touchy, Fred,” Lansing said. “I won’t take up any more of your time. You can get back to your stink now.”

The motel room was small and spartanly furnished, but it served Major Lansing’s needs. He closed and locked the door and pulled the drapes before he removed his windbreaker. The snubnose .38 was holstered high on his right hip. Lansing stripped off his belt to remove the revolver. Tucking the S&W under the pillow on his bed, Lansing placed the briefcase on a desk and popped it open.

A knock at the door drew his attention. “It’s me, Cliff,” David Lansing’s voice announced. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” the major replied, unlocking the door for his brother. “I’m glad you came.”

“I had to talk to you after I blew my stack today,” David explained, entering the room.

“Forget it,” Lansing said as he shut the door. “It probably seemed like I was giving you the third degree.”

“Father and I weren’t very close, Cliff,” the younger man admitted. “But I would never have done anything to harm him.”

“I don’t really know you anymore, Dave,” Lansing confessed. “But I don’t believe you’d participate in killing our father.”

“But the guy on the phone mentioned San Diego and something worth two million dollars,” David said, sinking into a chair. “Do you have any idea what he was talking about?”

The major sat on the edge of the bed. “The first things that come to mind are items like heroin, stolen jewels, art objects and such. Harrimon Carter, one of the suspects, used to be a fence in Detroit but he was a small-timer and I doubt he’d be able to handle anything on that level. If he had some big connections, he wouldn’t be running a two-bit novelty shop. Besides, both Carter and the other suspect, Minton, are under constant surveillance by the authorities. They’d have to be crazy to smuggle in anything from California that would arouse suspicion.”

“I want to help if I can, Cliff,” David said.

“Well,” his brother sighed. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got so far — although some of it may have nothing to do with the case.”

He told David what he knew about the two main suspects and extracted the Xerox copies of the news articles from his brief case. “And I found these in Father’s desk.”

David frowned as he examined them. “Tuna boats? What the hell could this have... Cliff! There are tuna boats along the San Diego coast!”

“Maybe Father wasn’t interested in the boats seized by the Mexicans. Perhaps it’s something taken from vessels still in the States.”

“Those big rigs are worth a fortune, Cliff,” David replied. “But I don’t see how anybody could disassemble a tuna boat and transfer it across the country to Michigan.”

“Just a minute, Dave,” Lansing began, shuffling through the copies. “Did your insurance company ever do business with the tuna industry?”

“Sure,” his brother replied.

“Maybe the thieves didn’t have to steal an entire boat to get something worth a fortune,” the major mused. He found the article he wanted and gave it to David. “Notice the list of materials taken by the Mexican coast guard when they grabbed the tuna boats?”

“What am I supposed to notice?”

“The ‘costly and valuable nets’ confiscated.”

“Of course!” David snapped his fingers. “They insure those damn things for almost half a million each!”