Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 11. Enter the Lion’s Den

Back at the condo, I figured I should clean up a bit for drinks at the Country Club. After all, my Levi’s, jogging shoes, and gray T-shirt were a bit on the casual side. After carefully considering my options, I changed into my Justin black boots and threw on the black blazer. Blazers looked good with T-shirts, don’cha know.

The question running through my mind was this: why was I even going? The secret service agent who had enlisted me in the undercover assignment was dead. This provided two reasons to bail out. First, I no longer had a boss. Second, his death proved this was dangerous business.

On the other hand, a chance to drink beer with some guys, no matter the circumstances, was still a chance to drink beer with some guys. Ultimately, I decided that the undercover role was over, but that didn’t preclude me from having some fun.

The group clustered around Jorgenson at the Club was about what you would expect: middle aged white guys in polyester suits. Introductions revealed that they included an insurance agent, a commercial real estate appraiser, a banker, a building contractor, and a fellow from the zoning office of the local government. The conversation revolved around how hard it was to make money since the government was always throwing up obstacles to prevent entrepreneurs from doing their patriotic duty (i.e., driving the economy).

Since I was no longer under cover, I felt free to tell them what I really thought. When Jorgenson teased me about seeing me whizzing around town on my motorized bike, it gave me my opening.

“Yep, ten dollars for the bike and a couple of hundred for the motor. It gets me where I’m going. And how much did you pay for that caddy you’re driving, Moody?”

Jorgenson laughed. “You’ve got a point there, Ed.”

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to do something economical. The other night we went to a movie that showed a scene from India. Lots of motorized rickshaws or whatever running around. Miles per gallons for those little vehicles must be pretty good. That’s all we need for running around Fort Atkinson most of the time. And if more people drove them, we would reduce our dependence on foreign oil. This would mean that we would be less involved in military action in the Middle East, which means the average Joe in the Middle East would have less reason to hate us, which would mean that we would not have to worry about terrorism. And to top it off, we could manufacture that stuff locally instead of having to build it in Korea and pay to ship it half way around the world.”

I was warming to my subject. “So little fuel-efficient vehicles are in the public interest, besides being cheaper. Almost anybody can afford to buy and drive something like that. But for some reason, the economy does not make it easy to get them. You should be able to yank a bike motor off the shelf at Walmart. Heck, they’re afraid to sell a scooter because of state regulations against them, much less a bike motor. Briggs and Stratton has stopped making motors that might be used to power a homemade vehicle because they are worried that some dope will kill himself and the family will sue them under product liability laws.”

Now I was making myself angry. “I bought my bike motor off the internet. Before I ordered it, I went into a bike shop down in Whitewater to ask about bike motors. The guy running the place said he could fix me up with one that cost over five hundred dollars. Any other product was just imported junk, he said. Then he gave me a flyer for the company upstate where he buys his bike motors. Turns out the upstate guy gets his bike motors from, where else? Overseas via the internet.”

By now, I was standing up. “The bike store fellah is doing alright. He has a lot of high end stuff in there, including a Lee Iacocca motorized bike on sale for nine hundred dollars. So I said to him, ‘Look, I know you want to market to yuppies so you can meet your income goals. But if I paid those prices, I would just be supporting the yuppie materialist culture. What happened to Henry Ford’s philosophy of an affordable car for everyone? The Wright brothers were bicycle shop guys. They built an airplane out of spare bike parts. What happened to the spirit of frugal creativity, making things everyone can enjoy?’ He had no idea what I was talking about. So I walked out.”

At that I sat down. After a pregnant pause, the group broke into cheers and applause. They didn’t particularly care what my opinions were, they just enjoyed the show. That’s the great thing about beer with the guys, unless it leads to a fight.

Jorgenson clapped me on the back. “You’re right about one thing. We sure don’t have anything that equates to a Model A these days.”

He grinned at me. “You know, business is tough right now. My construction projects are way ahead of sales. Cash flow is a b***h. Getting together with the guys like this once in a while takes some of the pressure off. You added a heck of lot of entertainment value today. Just wanted you to know I appreciate it. Hope you can make it some other time.” He seemed to be completely sincere.

I had to take advantage of this brief moment of guy-type intimacy to ask him a question. “Hey, have you ever heard of a group called the Fist of God?”

He was completely mystified. “Never heard of it. But I don’t listen to rock music, so I’m the wrong guy to ask.”

Back at the condo, I settled into my usual spot on the deck with pipe in mouth, notepaper in hand. Jorgenson was convincing and I believed him. He had no knowledge of the Fist of God militia. It was starting to look like Johnson had been completely wrong about this investigation. On the other hand, something had gotten him killed. I just could not believe that Jorgenson had anything to do with it.

Betty stuck her head out past the sliding glass door. “How was your little party with the boys?” she asked.

“Just fine. And the girls who popped out of the cake were really sweet.”

“I’ll just bet they were.” “Yep. I would have to say they were downright wholesome.”

A voice called from below. “Hello up there.”  It was Cavanaugh, our neighbor.

“Hey Skip. Betty, this is Skip Cavanaugh. He lives next door. Skip, this is Betty. She runs things around here.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty.”

“Skip, if you have a minute, come on up. I have something I want to ask you about.”

Betty looked at me quizzically.

“Financial matters, dear, you wouldn’t be interested.”

She hit me then went downstairs to let Skip in.

I told Skip the whole story, leaving out nothing. I told him about the undercover assignment, the dead secret service agent, and how the cops thought the 100K in my account was payment for a hit on said agent. I told him about Jorgenson and the Fist of God and how I believed him to be completely innocent of any involvement with a militia group. “He’s just a business guy trying to do the right business thing. He would not go in for any violent insurrection. Hell, he’s a capitalist. Violence disrupts business. He would regard bomb-throwing as a giant pain in the ass.”

Skip carefully considered all that I told him. He seemed to accept my conclusions without question. He did not appear to harbor any doubts that maybe I really was a hit man.

“Well, you certainly have gotten yourself into a tangled mess, haven’t you,” he said sympathetically.

“Just minding my own business and trying to be helpful.” It seemed like a weak answer. Was it possible that I was somehow responsible for the mess I was in?

“Ed,” he said forcefully. “Try not to worry about all this. It will resolve itself sooner or later. Just relax.”

“But what about the cops thinking I killed Johnson?”

“You didn’t do it, so it should turn out okay. If they decide to press charges against you, then just get a lawyer. After all,” he paused with a grin, “you have a hundred thousand bucks you can use to hire a good one. For a fifty-fifty split, a good lawyer should be able to get you off the hook.”

 It seemed like a good point. I had nothing to worry about.