Текст книги "On the Street Where You Die"

Автор книги: Al Stevens

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter 5  

The northeast quadrant of Delbert Falls was the fashionable part of town. Upscale residences, large houses, even some mansions in the Heights; the town center with the county courthouse, the city police department, and city government buildings; expensive restaurants and hotels; and fashionable shopping malls catering to the more affluent citizenry. I had worked at police headquarters there when I was on the force. The Heights were uptown.

I drove north to the Interstate then a few miles east across the railroad tracks and took the exit for the Heights. A few miles to the north and I was in the Heights. A few more miles and I turned in and stopped at the guarded gate that protected residents of the Tall Oaks subdivision from invasion of the riff-raff.

The gatekeeper was an elderly fellow in a clean, pressed uniform that didn’t fit. The stitched-on name tag said, “Bob.” I wondered whether he was Bob or just wearing Bob’s uniform.

He came out of his guard shack and went behind my car with a clipboard. He looked at my license plate and then at the clipboard.

He came to the driver’s side of the car and asked, “May I help you?”

Why do people always ask that when what they really mean is, “Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?”

So I said, “Yes you may. Open the gate.”

Apparently Bob had expected a different answer. He glared at me and looked at my car, a nine year old compact station wagon with faded paint and, if you looked inside, worn upholstery and trash on the seats and floorboards. And if you didn’t look inside too. Bob looked inside.

“What is your business here, sir?”

“Just that, Bob. My business.”

“Who do you wish to see? I’ll call and ask whether you are allowed into the compound.”

The compound? What’s that? Bob’s request placed me in a quandary. Buford liked to keep a low profile, and I wondered whether his name was known at Bob’s guard shack.

“Tell you what. I’ll call him myself,” I said.

Bob looked puzzled as if that had never happened. He was supposed to do the calling. I punched Buford’s number into my cell phone.

“Buford, it’s Stan.”

“You got progress to report?”

“Yes I do. I’m sitting here at the guard shack at your compound, and Barney Fife won’t let me in without authorization.”

“How did you learn where I live?”

“Rodney,” I said. “What about this rent-a-cop? I’d like to get in before it’s time for his nap.”

“Let me talk to him.”

I handed the phone to Bob. After a brief conversation, he gave my phone back to me, went into the shack, and did something after which the gate raised. It made him grumpy, and he didn’t wave. Denying access is control. Being ordered to allow access is subservience. Not the way to treat an armed minion of security.

I said into the phone, “Thanks, that did it.”

“You’ll need the address,” Buford said.

“Already got it. See you in about two minutes.”

I hung up before Buford could respond. I thought about peeling rubber just to piss off Bob even more, but the old heap wasn’t up to it and would probably have blown a tire and dropped the transmission in the roadway.

I drove in and to the left around a circular lane with well-manicured lawns and mansions set back from the outer side of the road and a park and country club in the center. When I got to Buford’s place I turned into his entranceway. Another gate and another guard shack. No one was in this one, and the gate swung open. I drove in around the circular driveway and parked at the front door.

Buford’s shack was impressive. A three story colonial with a full-length front portico and Corinthian columns the height of the house. Tall windows on either side of a huge double door, which swung open when I got out of my car. Buford came out to greet me. We shook hands and went inside.

What a place. The foyer opened onto a long wide hallway and a huge circular staircase. Paneling, paintings, and stained glass lined the walls. Statues in the hallways, chandeliers, and antique furniture along the walls completed the palatial picture. It looked like the lobby of a Victorian museum. We walked past the staircase and down the halls. A row of mahogany chairs lined one side of the wall.

“Anybody ever sit in them,” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” Buford said. “How did you find this place?”

“Let’s get settled somewhere, and I’ll explain. Maybe in the ballroom, the amphitheatre, or the rugby stadium.”

He pointed to a door that went out the back to an enclosed patio. “Go out there and find a seat. I’ll be out soon. Ramon will bring you a drink.”

He turned away, went into what looked like either a study or the British Museum library and pulled the paneled pocket doors closed.

I went into the patio area. Whenever a fictional detective goes into a mansion, there’s always a beautiful young woman wearing almost no clothes, lounging around, looking bored, and ready to jump the bones of the first man who comes along. Just like real life.

I was right. A woman was there. A young woman. But not scantily clothed and not beautiful. She wore a robe and those ugly fuzzy pink slippers that women like and that look like troll feet. She was sitting in a chaise lounge reading a tabloid magazine. Her hair was up in curlers, and she was smoking a cigarette. She looked up when I came in and returned to her magazine.

The glass-enclosed patio overlooked a large lake with clusters of trees all around it. It was late fall, and the trees were mostly bare except for the pine and fir trees. A golf course was off to one side and tennis courts to the other. The good life.

A young Latino man in a white uniform appeared out of nowhere.

“Would you like a drink, Señor?”

I looked at my watch. Mickey Mouse said eleven o’clock plus or minus a few minutes. I couldn’t be more precise than that. Mickey’s gloved finger was too chubby.

My resolve to quit drinking was weakening so I modified it. I said to myself, “I hereby resolve to not drink too much.” Then to the servant, “Bourbon, please. Neat.” I was sure Buford’s kerosene would be better than mine, and I looked forward to it. If I could hold it down.

“Are you Ramon?” I asked the servant.

“Si, Señor.” Then he turned to the young woman and said, “Does Missy care for a drink?”

The young woman nodded, and Ramon disappeared into the house.

The woman lowered her magazine and looked at me.

“It’s a bit early,” she said as if to explain that she didn’t usually imbibe at this hour, an explanation I didn’t believe.

“Not in Madagascar,” I answered.

“Where’s that?”

“Beats me. Are you Mrs. Overbee?” Buford had said he had a twenty-two year old wife. I expected something a little nicer than what was sprawled out lounging a few feet away, however. Her age was right, but this tomato had not taken care of herself.

“No, I’m Miss Curro.” She sounded annoyed. “Mrs. Overbee is my trophy stepmother. She’ll be along soon. She’s getting her massage.”

Miss Curro put out her cigarette and lit another one. I took a cue from her and lit one for myself. My last, I told myself.

“Is Missy your name?” I asked.

“It’ll do. It’s all that wetback greaser can remember. What’s yours?”

“Manuel Garcia,” I said just to piss her off. She sniffed and returned to reading her magazine.

Ramon returned with my drink and put it on a lace paper coaster on the round frosted glass table next to me. He handed Missy a shot glass full of a brown liquid, and she knocked it back and gave the glass back to Ramon, who vanished again.

“Isn’t it a bit early?” I asked.

“Not in Mada—wherever,” she said.

I took a small sip to see whether my demons from last night would return to churn my innards. An empty silver champagne bucket stood on its stand nearby. I kept it within reach in case the booze evicted the oatmeal and cantaloupe. The bright white porous patio deck looked like it would permanently stain from whatever came out of me.

To my surprise and delight, the bourbon was not only smooth, but it stayed down where it belonged and where it went immediately to work. Another swallow and I had that glow that comes only with the first drink. That’s when you love everything and everybody. Another couple drinks and the love evaporates as you get drunk and depressed. If they could come up with a drink that keeps that buzz going, I’d buy stock in the company. Maybe Buford could advise me.

I remembered my resolve. Don’t drink too much. I finished the drink, settled back, and Ramon was there again with a refill.

“What the hell,” I said. “I’ll quit some other time.”

Missy looked up. “Quit what?”

About that time Buford came out onto the patio. He sat next to me, and Ramon was there right away with what looked like a tall glass of tomato juice. Buford stirred it with the celery stalk that stood up in the glass.

“Am I drinking alone?” I asked.

“Stoli and V8. Great for a hangover.”

I made a mental note of that.

“Now,” Buford said, “How did Rodney find where I live?”

“Your cell phone lives here too. He tracked it with the GPS.”

“Holy shit. Technology. You can’t escape it.”

“Turn off the GPS when you don’t need it,” I said and showed him on my phone what Rodney had shown me.

“I take it you met Melissa.” Buford gestured toward the lump in the chaise lounge. “My daughter, my pride and joy.”

Melissa smiled at him, got up, and pulled her chaise lounge over next to Buford’s.

The door from the house opened, and a young woman came out. Now this was more like in the detective novels. She was tall and slim with blonde hair and wearing designer sunglasses, elevated sandals, and a white terrycloth robe that fell open in the front to reveal a tiny black bikini on a hard body.

The bikini did its job, covering those parts of her that were not supposed to be seen in public and not much else. She might as well have been wearing two Band-Aids and a cork.

Just the kind of ten I never got. Even when I was young enough.

“Oh, great,” Missy whispered to herself. “The princess.” She rolled over on her chaise lounge so she wouldn’t have to look at the vision of loveliness that had just joined us.

“You didn’t tell me we expected company, Buford,” the vision said. “I would have gotten, y’know, like dressed. Aren’t you going to, like, introduce us?”

She still had that unmistakable teenaged girl dialect that everyone recognizes right away. “Didn’t” was “didunt,” and she bore the valley girl look. Her name had to be Muffy or Tiffany.

I tried to stand up, gentleman that I am.

“Don’t like get up,” she said.

Good thing. Getting up would be a problem. Buford’s fine bourbon was beginning to take hold.

“Mr. Stanley Bentworth, this is my wife, Serena.”

Not Muffy, but close enough.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bentworth,” she said. She sat on a chaise lounge, adjusted her robe for maximum exposure to the sun, making sure everyone was watching, and lowered herself to a reclining position.

“My pleasure, Mrs. Overbee.”

She adjusted herself on the lounge and opened her robe to fully expose her body. The sun beat down through the glass ceiling.

“No matter how I try, I can’t seem to, y’know, get a tan,” she said.

“It won’t work here,” I said. “Greenhouse effect. UV light changes its waveform when it passes through glass.”

“Huh?” she said.

“The words are too big, Mr. Bentworth,” Missy said. “Serena, the tanning rays can’t get in through a glass roof. That’s why you’re so pale. You have to go outside.”

“But it’s like cold out there,” the valley girl answered. “Buford, sweetums, why don’t you buy me a, y’know, tanning bed?”

Missy made a face like she was about to like, you know, puke.

Serena said to Buford, “Honey, how many have you like had? You know I don’t want you drinking so early in the day.”

“Thank you, darling,” he said. “Ramon knows my limit.”

Serena put her earphones on, adjusted her iPod, and tuned out the rest of us.

“Let’s go in the study where we can talk,” Buford said.

We got up, and left the ladies to themselves. Buford led me back into the house and into his large, paneled study. We sat in facing leather easy chairs.

I looked around the magnificent room and said, “So, when you kack, are you going to say, ‘Rosebud’?”

His gun collection was prominently displayed in walnut cabinets with glass doors on two walls. It looked like he had at least one of every kind of handgun, rifle, and shotgun. I spotted an Uzi, an AK-47, an M-16 and two Thompson submachine guns.

“Those pieces fully automatic?” I asked, pointing at the assault weapons.

“They are,” he said. Silly of me to ask.

“Now,” he said, “what do you have to report?”

“First,” I said, “This is what I know about you.”

I recited all the facts we’d learned about Buford’s past from the U.S. Marshals Service website. Buford sat quietly during the recitation.

When I finished he said, “Why did you need to learn all that?”

“You need to know how easy it can be to find out that kind of shit, is why. You’re trying to stay out of sight and incognito, and an eighteen-year-old boy with orange hair learns everything there is to know about you in less than an hour. You don’t think somebody else can do the same thing?”

“I see. About that murder rap, Stan, just so you know. The vic was a drug dealer. He was peddling his shit in my neighborhood in Philly. My daughter was one of his best customers. He didn’t respond to conventional forms of persuasion, so I took a different tack. Problem solved. After that no one would sell to her. Got her into rehab, and she cleaned up.”

“Did you do the deed yourself?”

“I took the fall. I’m telling you this just so you know that hits were not in my job description. The family had other resources for that.”

“Understood,” I said, relieved. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about more than a broken arm or two if Buford and I ever had a falling out. Which I fully intended to avoid.

“What did you learn about my shake-down artist?” Buford said.

I took the note from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Name, address, phone number. Do you know him?”

“Mario Vitole. No. It sounds like he could be one of the boys, but I never heard that name.”

“Out of town, maybe? Brought in to bring you down?”

“Not with blackmail. The family doesn’t do it that way.”

“You think he could be one of the feds?”

“Don’t know. But I’ll know soon enough. Or it won’t matter.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go in armed with more knowledge?” I said.

“I’ll be armed.”

“But it’s better to know what you’re up against. Let’s see what Rodney can come up with.”

I pulled out my cell, put it on speaker and called Rodney.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“The Cheap Peeper Emporium.”

“Jesus, kid. Don’t get a sore wrist. You got your laptop with you?”

“Always.”

“Can you get into the Marshals server again?”

“Yep. I’ll have to get near a wi-fi router. There’s a McDonald’s near here. You see, without a signal—”

“Just do it. Go in there, and see what you can find out about Mario Vitole. See if the feds have anything on him. Call me when you have something.”

“And if I can’t find anything?”

“Call me either way.”

Buford fidgeted in his easy chair. He downed the drink, and Ramon was there right away with a refill. That guy was always there when you needed him, Johnny-on-the-spot.

“He knows my limit,” Buford said. “When I reach it, he stops bringing more.”

“What if you insist?”

“Then he brings more.” He took a sip of the new drink. “Why don’t I go see this Vitole hump right now? I can probably straighten things out with a few well-chosen words. His main defense is that I’m not supposed to know who he is.”

“Wouldn’t you like to get your twenty grand back?”

“Sure. How would I do that?”

“Rodney.”

“Jesus, is there anything that kid can’t do?”

“He can’t get money that isn’t there. You go shoving Vitole around and he’ll pull all the cash out of the account. Wait till we get the dough. Then you can let him know he’s been busted.”

“In more ways than one.”

Buford had a look in his eye that I had not often seen in a man. Not an adversary to be reckoned with.

“Okay,” he said. “We can wait. But not long.”

My cell phone rang. Rodney was calling.

“Uncle Stanley, I have what you need.”

“What’d you get?” I asked.

“Mario Vitole is a retired U.S. Marshal. His last duty station was the witness protection program in the New York corridor. He retired about a year ago.”

“Vitole is a retired fed,” I said to Buford. “He had access to your files when you were active. Now he’s shaking you down I suppose to supplement his pension.”

“Dirty rotten son of a bitch.”

That’s what I would have said.

“Might you know him by another name?” is what I did say.

“No. We didn’t use nicknames. I knew my handlers by their real names, and they knew mine.”

I spoke into the phone again.

“Great job, Rodney.”

“That’s not all, Uncle Stanley. I’m hacked into that OnlinePay account. What do you want me to do with it?”

“What’s the balance?”

“About fifty grand.”

I whistled. Vitole must have been shaking down other well-heeled protected witnesses. Or selling antiques on ebay.

“Stand by again.” I turned again to Buford. “You want your twenty grand back?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Got an offshore account somewhere that the feds can’t see?”

“Of course.”

“Get me the account numbers.”

Buford got up and went to his desk, a huge mahogany behemoth with ornate carvings and inlays and not much clutter.

I said to Rodney, “I’m getting you a bank routing number and the client’s account number. I want you to transfer twenty grand from Vitole’s account into the client’s account.”

“Can do. I can get it all if you want. Put it in your account?”

I must admit I was tempted. “No. Just the twenty grand.”

The feds might not know about Buford’s account in Grand Cayman, or wherever, but my bank was in town with my name on file.

Buford returned with a slip of paper.

“Here they are.”

I read the numbers to Rodney. I waited while his fingers did their tap dance on the laptop keyboard.

Then he said, “It’s done.”

“Great work, Rodney. I’ll try to get you a bonus. Maybe a new shirt.”

We hung up, and I said to Buford, “You got your twenty grand back, you got the name of the shakedown artist, and you know where he is. What else can I do for you?”

“I’m impressed. How did you get the twenty grand?”

“Rodney got it.”

“Won’t there be a trace to who got it and where it went?”

“Only if the guy complains. And Rodney doesn’t leave a clean trail in cyberspace. What’s the asshole going to tell the cops, anyway? ‘I blackmailed a guy, and he hacked my account and took the money back’?”

“Good point.”

Buford handed me an envelope.

“There’s ten grand in there.”

He sure knew how to get a guy’s attention.

“That puts you on retainer for a month, weekends off,” he said. “I don’t have anything for you to do right now, but something will come up. I want you standing by while I get to Mr. Vitole before he realizes we got to him.”

I put the envelope in my jacket pocket. Ten grand. Willa would be ecstatic.

“Have you considered turning Vitole in to the feds and letting them handle it?”

“I have not. I do my own housecleaning.”

“How about if I go talk to him? Explain what we have on him and that we’ll rat him out to his former employer if he doesn’t back down. I think him knowing that we know should be enough.”

“What if he doesn’t go for it?”

“Then do it your way.”

“Let Mr. Bentworth try, Daddy,” Missy said. She was standing in the doorway. She must have heard everything. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or you can send Sanford to do it.”

“Who’s Sanford?” I asked Buford.

“Sometimes he’s my lawyer.”

Sometimes? How can you be a part-time lawyer? What do you do the rest of the time? Repossess pacemakers?

“Well, ask him. Whatever you do might have legal consequences. I don’t want Rodney and me on anybody’s accessories list. Before or after the fact.”

“A pragmatist,” Buford said.

“Every time,” I said.

“I hate pragmatists,” he said. “Okay, make a call on him. Let me know how it turns out.”

Missy nodded her approval of our plan.

Chapter 6  

I enjoyed a pleasant drive on a thoroughfare to the south, going across the river and under the Interstate. It was lunch time. I stopped at a fast food drive-through and got a burger and fries. With the hangover gone, the thought of all that grease and gristle didn’t bother me. I got back on the road and ate while I drove.

Mario Vitole’s house was a rambler in a suburban subdivision. Nothing fancy, but nice. A new Buick was parked in the carport, and the lawn was well-tended. A cute but tacky sign on the lawn announced to the world that the house was the dwelling of Mario and Stella Vitole.

I parked across the street and a few houses down. My car had tinted windows so, unless someone looked closely, they couldn’t tell that I was in there. I took my digital Nikon camera from the glove box, put the long range lens in, and waited.

This was routine for me, the same kind of surveillance I did on cheating spouses. Only this time, instead of catching an indiscretion, I wanted to chart the target’s movements to see where he went and what he did. I’d choose a way to confront him based on that.

At about two o’clock, a man came out of the house. He was about sixty-five, with a medium height and build, and curly black hair with streaks of white. Tan and good-looking for an old guy. I rolled down the window and snapped a picture of him. He walked up the sidewalk to the residence two houses away. I took pictures. He went in the front door. Odd. He didn’t knock, just went in.

I drove up a few yards to just across from the doorway of the house where he went in.

About an hour later the door opened. I started snapping. He came to the doorway, and a woman came along behind. She was wearing a robe. He kissed her, came out, and returned to his own house. I took more pictures. I wrote down the neighbor’s house number. Then I called Rodney.

“Rodney, find me the name of whoever lives at 512 Cherokee Avenue.”

Rodney tapped and clicked. After about a minute of that, he said, “William Sproles. Do you need more information?”

“Can you get his wife’s name?”

Tap, tap, click, click. “Marsha. Anything else?”

“Find out what you can about them.”

I called Vitole.

“Mr. Vitole, I need to speak with you privately.”

“About what? Who is this?”

“This is about one of the former clients in witness protection.”

“I retired. You must want somebody else.”

“This is about Anthony Curro, also known as Buford Overbee.”

The line got quiet for a moment. Then, “Who is this?”

“We need to speak alone,” I said. “I’m parked just up the street. Where’s a good place nearby to meet?”

“You want to come to the house?”

“Anybody else there?”

“No. I’m alone,” he said. “My wife won’t be home until about six.”

“Okay. Keep in mind, this is just a meeting. An exchange of information. I come in peace.” I smiled at the Captain Kirk reference. “I expect to be likewise received. If not, your next visitor won’t be so peaceful. Understood?”

“Understood.” So far my usual bluff was working.

He was waiting in the doorway when I pulled up. He had changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. I got out of my car and walked up the sidewalk toward him. He retreated into the house and waved me in.

He walked ahead of me down a hallway. He looked back to size me up. This was where my bluff really needed to work. Not only am I not tough, I don’t look tough.

The house was tastelessly decorated with pile carpeting, red flock wallpaper, and etched mirror tiles. New simulated antiques decorated the entranceway, and the furniture and wall hangings were new too, every schlock style imaginable, nothing matching, nothing coordinated. But much nicer than my place, you can be sure.

He led me into the living room and pointed to a chair. I sat and he plopped on a sofa across from me.

“You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks.”

“So, what’s this about Overbee?”

“Someone’s been shaking him down.”

He paused. “Really?” His mock surprise was not well-delivered, given what I already knew. “How?”

“They’re threatening to out him with his clients and with the mob.”

“No shit. You understand, I was not his handler. I never met the guy.” He was getting jumpy.

“I know. But you know all the major players in the Marshals Service. Maybe you can get the word out.”

“What word?”

“We traced the blackmailer’s e-mail address to his OnlinePay account and hacked into the account.”

His face got white.

“We recovered the twenty grand Overbee already paid the blackmailer. Next time the blackmailer signs on, he’ll be a lot poorer.”

Vitole started looking around as if he needed to check something. He took a gulp of his beer.

I continued. “It’s a short jump from the account to its owner. If the blackmailer persists in his extortion, we will make that jump and turn our records over to the feds.”

I watched for his reaction to that. His face turned red.

“If that doesn’t bring it to a stop,” I said, “Mr. Overbee and his business associates will make a personal call on the blackmailer. In fact, that’s what he wanted to do right off the bat, but I talked him out of it. I think we can safely say that whoever it is, he’s still walking around thanks to my intervention.”

You wouldn’t expect a retired U.S. Marshal to be that easily intimidated, but Vitole looked like he was about to crap his shorts.

Now for the clincher. “If this doesn’t go down right, if the blackmailer puts any more of a squeeze on, the shit hits the fan.”

I paused to let the indirect threat sink in. Vitole bit his lower lip and ran his hand across his mouth like a junkie needing a fix. His eyes darted from side to side, and he squirmed on the sofa.

“Why do you think I’d know who it is?” he asked.

“Witness protection is a small team. It’s got to be one of your former colleagues, probably also retired like yourself. Nobody else has access to the files to know who to target. So, try to pass the word along. And we can bring this matter to a peaceful close.”

I said a polite goodbye, went out to my car, and called Buford.

“I think he’s convinced,” I said.

“He better be.”

“But if not, I’ve got leverage. He’s fooling around with his neighbor’s wife. I’ll e-mail you the evidence when I get back to the office.”

I drove around the block and parked between Vitole’s house and the Sproles’s so I could watch both. At about six o’clock, Vitole’s wife came home from wherever she had spent the day and parked her Toyota next to his Buick. I took a couple pictures of her going from the car to the house. Not a pretty woman, she was overweight with gray hair and looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. She went in the house.

A short time later, a car pulled into the Sproles residence. A man got out and went into the house. He was middle-aged and looked like the couch potato type. I got more pictures. Then I headed back to the office.