Текст книги "On the Street Where You Die"

Автор книги: Al Stevens

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Chapter 10            

The next morning I stopped at McDonald’s and got coffee and a sausage biscuit. Then I went directly to the police station. My army pals were on my tail again. They knew where I lived. I hoped they’d think I was a cop. So far, both times they’d tailed me, I’d gone to the police station. When I pulled into the parking lot this morning they sped off just as they’d done the previous time.

Whatever they had in mind, they obviously didn’t want to go into action here. Or at the McDonald’s drive-through. Too many cops here, too many witnesses there. It occurred to me that I might have to start carrying Roscoe. The last thing I wanted to do, though, was shoot an army spook. That would be some serious paperwork.

Maybe they were just trying to scare me off so I wouldn’t get on Jeremy’s case if he bothered Amanda again. Fat chance. I might be scared, but I wouldn’t be scared off.

I went into the station. The desk sergeant sent me to the interrogation room where Buford was waiting. He sat on the far side of the table where suspects were interrogated. A thin, greasy-looking guy in a cheap, ill-fitting black suit stood against the wall.

“Stan, this is Sanford, my legal advisor,” Buford said, indicating the skinny guy.

Sanford nodded and I nodded back. He did not look like a lawyer. He looked more like a street hustler, a pimp. The cheap suit didn’t fit him because it wasn’t tailor-made and he was as thin as a barbecue skewer. The pants were baggy and the jacket hung down off his shoulders. A thick watch chain dangling to the floor would have completed the fifties zoot suit persona, but he didn’t have one.

“Did you confess yet?” I asked Buford. He smiled and shook his head.

I told them what Penrod had told me about what he had on Buford so far. Sanford shrugged it off.

“Not much to go on,” he said.

“A witness seeing my car there, that’s kind of incriminating,” Buford said.

I looked Sanford up and down. He returned the examination. Not a guy to mess with. I needed him out of there.

“Buford, Sanford ought to wait out there,” I said, indicating the door.

“I stay,” Sanford said.

“We need someone out there making sure they’re not listening to what we say,” I said.

“I’m Mr. Overbee’s counselor, Bentworth. They can’t listen in. Attorney-client privilege.”

“I don’t know how much you know about police work, Mr. Sanford, but I used to be a detective here. We listened to everything. We couldn’t always use it in court, but sometimes it told us whether we were on the right track, or what track to get on, and shit like that.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “That violates a suspect’s constitutional right to counsel,” Sanford said.

“So it does,” I said.

“I’m staying,” he said again.

“Buford,” I said. “Unless Sanford knows everything there is to know about this case, you need to get him the fuck out of here. I need to be able to talk openly, and so do you.”

“Wait out there,” Buford said to Sanford.

Sanford shrugged and headed for the door without objection.

“Wait in the little cubicle on the other side of that mirror,” I said. “That’s the only place they can eavesdrop. They won’t try it if you’re there.”

“How do you know I won’t listen?”

“You don’t know where the switch is.”

Sanford left.

When he was gone, I said, “He doesn’t look happy.”

“He never looks happy. Even when he’s happy.”

I waited until Sanford had time to be clear of the room and said, “Buford, did you shoot Vitole?”

“No.” He shook his head, and I believed him.

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“You know how bad it looks, don’t you? First you didn’t know who was shaking you down. Then you did. Then you go to see him. Then he gets whacked.”

“I know how bad it looks.”

I leaned forward on the table. He leaned back.

“Tell me everything that happened after I called you,” I said.

“That evening I checked my e-mail. There was a message saying I better put the twenty grand back or he’d call the newspapers.”

Man, that guy Vitole had balls. I as much as told him we’d come after the blackmailer if that happened.

“Shit,” I said. “I should have told him we knew it was him. I tried to dance around to let him get out of it gracefully. I guess I gave him credit for more smarts than he had. What did you do.”

Buford got up and walked over to the mirror. He looked at himself and then came back to the table and stood alongside it.

“The next morning I took a drive to his house. When he opened the door, I punched him square in the face.”

“I bet that got his attention.”

“It did. I told him that if I heard anything more from him about money, I’d ruin his life.”

“Which you are able to do.”

“I am. I had a print of one of the pictures you took of him kissing his neighbor’s wife. I tossed it at him and told him that if he made the slightest trouble, I’d send the picture to his old lady and the girl friend’s husband.”

“The blackmailee blackmailing the blackmailer. Nice twist.”

“I told him that if that didn’t work, I’d kill him. Then I went home. He was alive last I saw him. Had a sore beezer, but it was still breathing.”

“I wonder if his old lady found that picture,” I said.

He sat down again.

I continued. “Okay. Some things you should know. I had to tell the cops that the mob is looking for you.”

“Why?”

“To keep them from releasing your mug shot to the press.”

“Shit. I didn’t think of that.”

I always like it when I think of something that nobody else thinks of. Makes me look smart. I need all the help I can get.

“I don’t know whether the cops’ll hold your picture back, but I had to try. Also, the other bad news. I’m going to have to tell Penrod what I know about the case. Within limits. Otherwise he’ll charge me with obstruction. I have to give him enough to satisfy him.”

Buford nodded his approval. “I guess that’s okay. Got to keep you on the street.”

“Now. How do you want me to proceed?”

He leaned forward again and looked me squarely in the eye. “You were homicide,” he said. “You said you closed cases. Close this one. Find out who the fuck did it.”

Great. The meter would keep running.

“No matter who it is?” I asked.

“Why would I give a shit who it is?”

I’d save that one for later.

“Have they charged you?”

“They have.”

“Arraigned?”

“No. Later today.”

“Okay. The prosecution will ask for remand. Your lawyer will ask for recognizance. With luck it’ll be something in between.”

It was time to voice my concern about Sanford.

“I’ll leave the choice of lawyers up to you, Buford, but I think you need to get a better-looking lawyer. One that doesn’t look like a two-bit gangster in a zoot suit.”

“I’ll have to. Sanford is my chauffer, bodyguard, and right-hand man.”

“I can’t imagine you needing a bodyguard, and I can’t imagine him being one,” I said.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“Yours or his?”

“Both. Sanford was a lawyer for the mob, but got disbarred. Kind of short on ethics and it caught up with him.”

All of a sudden I liked Sanford a lot more. “I know how that goes.”

“He came with me when I left the family. Very loyal, very protective.”

Buford adjusted his huge frame in the small metal folding chair. “So anyway, how do I keep my mug out of the newsreels?”

“Avoid cameras. When word gets out you’re in here, the press’ll be all over this place like stretch marks on a ninth-street lap dancer. When the cops take you between the jail and the courthouse, cover your face with your coat. Defendants do that all the time. That might keep your pretty face off the six o’clock news.”

I tapped on the mirror and signaled for Sanford to come in. He did and I explained that I would be investigating the murder and trying to clear his boss. Buford told him to give me whatever help I needed. Sanford grunted his assent.

I left the two of them there and went down to Bill Penrod’s desk in the squad room. The desk was pushed up against a column in the middle of the squad room. The desk was wider than the column, so things on the desk fell onto the floor on either side of the column. I could swear that there was stuff still on the floor from when I worked next to him years ago.

“Okay, Stan. Let’s have it.”

I told him the whole story, who Overbee was, why Vitole was blackmailing him, and that Vitole was banging Marsha Sproles.

“Bill, Overbee asked me to look into the murder and try to find out who did it.”

“We already have a perp, Stan. Overbee did it. One of his guns is a match for the slug the ME took out of Vitole’s brain.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Bill. Why would a major player like Overbee bump some guy then hang the piece back on the wall with his collection?”

“It wasn’t on the wall. It was somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“In the trunk of his car.”

That sounded downright stupid to me. Buford would not have hidden a gun in his car.

“Registered to Overbee?”

“No. All his guns are unregistered.”

“How do you know it was his?”

“Because of where we found it.”

My first thought was Sanford. I didn’t know how stupid he might be.

“Did you check out his chauffer?”

“You mean his lawyer?” Penrod laughed. “Yeah, we did. He has an alibi.”

“This has to be some kind of frame-up.”

“I know you want to believe that, Stan, but you know how it goes. We got this one practically closed. The guy is a former wise guy. Tough. With a lot to lose if his cover is exposed. And he was seen there the morning of the murder. Motive, means, opportunity.”

The holy trinity of a murder investigation. Find someone who has all three, and most times you’ve found your killer.

“Before you declare it closed, Bill, keep in mind the neighbor, Sproles. He had a motive. Vitole was doing his wife and got whacked in front of their house. And Vitole’s wife too. He was cheating on her. You got more than enough likely suspects.”

Bill wouldn’t budge.

“But then there’s the gun,” he said. “I can’t see any way to link it to anyone else. I’m going into the room now with this new piece of evidence and get my confession.

“Let me know if you get it. Otherwise, I have work to do.”

I hoped he didn’t get it. The meter would stop running.

“Just stay out of our way, Stan.”

“How can I be in your way if you closed the case? You won’t be out there investigating any more.”

“Good point. But I know you. Where there’s a way, you’ll be in it.”

Chapter 11  

I left the police station and drove to my office. I didn’t see the olive-drab Chevy anywhere on my route. Captain Jeremy was sure to want his payback for the ass-kicking I’d given him and his car. I wasn’t sure which I’d enjoyed more, hitting him with the baseball bat or that ostentatious Beamer.

I parked on a side street and walked into the alley to go in the back entrance to the building.

The next thing I knew, one of the two Army goons was walking toward me from the far end of the alley. I looked behind me for a place to run. The other one was coming from the other end. I almost shit my pants. Here I was, surrounded by muscle bearing down on me, and Roscoe was safely stored three stories up. Maybe it was for the best. I might have shot a couple soldiers. Paperwork.

I got to the doorway before they got to me and tried to open the door. Locked. I had a key, and I fumbled for it. Before I could get it out, they were on me.

One of them spun me around and pinned my arms behind me. The other one faced me. They were both bigger, stronger, and younger. Other than for that, I was okay.

“Stanley Bentworth, I presume,” he said. “Phony cop. Likes to beat up on our Captain.”

The other one said, “The Captain checked up on you, Stanley. Found out you aren’t a cop. Found out what you are, asshole. Now we’re going to show you what happens to someone who fucks with our people.”

“You guys got no beef with me,” I said. I struggled to get free. The last thing I wanted was to be kicked around by two healthy soldiers. “Your boss likes to beat up on women and kids. Guys like that give the Army a bad name.”

“Won’t work, pal.”

I kept struggling but it didn’t help. “Then tell the son-of-a-bitch this,” I said. “The next time I see him will be the worst day in his miserable fucking life.”

I didn’t think the bluff would deter them from their mission, but it was worth a try.

I could see it now, them saying, “You know, you’re right. We never thought of that. You’re free to go. Have a nice evening.”

I was right. The bluff didn’t work.

The one in front hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over and almost puked. The one in back yanked me upright and held me in place for more punishment. The guy in front caught me with a haymaker across the cheekbone. Things began to go dim. He hit me in the face several more times, but it didn’t hurt anymore.

Three or four rib shots from the front, and the guy in back let go. I slumped to the ground. The parts of me that still had feeling hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. They kicked me in the ribs and head. Then several heavy hits in the arms and legs. There was pain at first with each blow, then numbness, then they walked away, their footsteps echoing down the alley.

“We’ll be back if you insist,” one of them called back to me. “You fuck with the Captain again, next time we finish it.”

I tried to yell back to remember to tell Jeremy what I said, but my speaking mechanism was out of order.

As was almost everything else. I could barely move. And I couldn’t see. My eyes were swelling shut, and blood flowed out from everywhere. I lay there in dirt and grease from the road mixed with my blood into a sickening paste, caked all over my face and in my hair.

And I had just had my trench coat cleaned.

I could lie there all night without being found. People rarely used this alley. Or worse, winos and junkies would find me and steal my wallet and trench coat. And maybe my shoes. They’d probably leave the Mickey Mouse watch.

I felt in my pocket for my cell phone. Just bending my shoulder and elbow shot an excruciating pain up my arm. I thought I would pass out. Maybe I did a couple times.

After a few tries I was able to get the phone out. I held it with one hand and speed dialed the office with my thumb. The other arm and hand wouldn’t move and had no feeling. I had to do it by feel. Both eyes were closed. Willa answered.

“Willa,” I squeaked. I could barely make a sound. “It’s Stan. I’m out here in the alley. Call nine-one-one.”

“Stan? In the alley? What happened?”

Then everything went dark.

Chapter 12  

When I woke up, I was on a hospital gurney somewhere in a hallway. People in hospital uniforms bustled up and down the hallway, ignoring me. I could feel the bandages on my face and around my torso. One of my arms was wrapped and suspended by a cable from an overhead steel frame. One leg was similarly elevated. One eye was closed, the other one barely open. It seemed like one of everything was broken. I hoped my balls had made it through the meltdown. At least one, anyway.

I ran my tongue around inside my mouth feeling for missing teeth. A couple of them were loose, but they were all there. At least the ones I had before the fight started.

An IV was dripping something into my arm through a tube. Everything hurt. I passed out again.

When I came to, I was in a hospital room. Willa was sitting in a chair at the end of my bed reading a book. Amanda was in another chair pulled up close to the bed. I scanned the room with my good eye, which could hardly see anything. A shadow of a man stood with his back to me looking out the window into what I assumed was a parking lot.

Amanda said, “He’s awake.”

I tried to speak, but my lips were swollen from the beating. I tried to say, “Who’s minding the store?” It came out like, “Whosh ninig da shore?”

Willa said, “Rodney’s manning the phone. Not much store to mind without you there.”

“Oh, great,” I mumbled. “Rodney.”

“Yeah, he’s taken over your office. Maybe he can book some more work for us.”

She laughed. I groaned. Then she said, “Your only client sent his man here.”

The shadow turned around. It was Sanford.

“What the fuck happened, Bentworth?” Sandford said.

“Don’t say ‘fuck’ in front of the ladies,” I said through the bandages in my new Rocky Balboa tenth round dialect.

“Mr. Overbee wants to know. Does this have anything to do with the case?”

“No. Family fight.”

“What were you doing working on something else? Mr. Overbee has you on full retainer.”

“Like I said. It was a family matter. Off the clock.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Mr. Overbee wants to help,” he said. “Who did it?”

“Two Army guys. Don’t know them. Amanda’s boyfriend set them on me.”

“Stanley,” Amanda said, “Captain Pugh is not my boyfriend.”

“He doesn’t know that. Anybody got a mirror?” I wanted to see how bad it was.

“No mirrors,” Willa said. “We can’t stand looking at you, so you sure couldn’t. No point in you being more miserable and depressed.”

“I look that bad?”

“No. It’s an improvement,” she said.

“What’s happening with Buford?” I asked Sanford.

“At home. Ankle bracelet. House arrest.”

“You still his lawyer?”

“No. Just his driver. He said you told him he needed a better-looking lawyer.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. He needs a better-looking detective now.”

Turnabout is fair play.

“Tell Buford I’ll see him when I’m discharged. How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” Willa said. “The doctor said once you woke up you’d be able to go home soon if there’s somebody there to look after you for a while.”

“My house,” Amanda said. “I’ll look after him.”

Oh great, I thought.

“And when you’re at work,” Willa said to Amanda, “I can move the office into your house if that’s okay.”

Just then the doctor came in. He brought my chart with him and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Mr. Bentworth, I’m Dr. Goldenberg. You came through this pretty good.” He looked at the chart. “A dislocated shoulder, which we reset. A thin fracture in your shin. Another on your arm. You’ll need casts for a few weeks.”

He pulled my nightgown up and pressed on my belly.

“No internal injuries, although I don’t know how. A couple of fractured ribs and some facial bone fractures, all of which should heal up okay. Watch those loose teeth. They should set themselves. You might have a bit of a bent nose too.”

“Might help with my undercover Mafia work.” Now for the part that had me worried. “How about my eyes?”

“They should be okay. We’ll know better when we take the bandages off, probably tomorrow. You’ll have a couple of shiners.”

“Will I be able to play the violin again?”

The Doctor shook his head. “You know how many times I’ve heard that joke?”

“Yeah, but I never had the opportunity to tell it before.”

“What did you do to piss those guys off, Mr. Bentworth? Tell them a joke?”

Now that made me laugh. It hurt so much that I stopped.

“When you go home,” the Doc said, “You’re going to need some equipment and physical therapy. Are you up for that?”

He stood up and looked down at me.

“Can’t afford it,” I said. “Hell, I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this.”

“No insurance?”

“None.”

“Well, at least get some crutches and maybe a wheel chair.”

Amanda spoke up. “Stanley, I’ve still got Daddy’s crutches from when he fell off the stoop. They’re old, but they might still work.”

Our father had been accident-prone. Particularly when he was drunk, which was most of the time. They say I’m a chip off the old block.

I said, “You got to get me out of here, Doc. Have you seen what a hospital costs these days? Almost as expensive as gas and cigarettes. And lap dances.”

Speaking of which—expenses, not lap dances—as the doc left, the lady from administration was there with forms about how I could pay for everything.

“Send the bill to the Army,” I said.

That afternoon, after all my company had left, Bill Penrod came to see me.

“Willa called. What the hell happened to you?” he said.

“You ought to see the other guy.”

He pulled up a chair.

“Does this have something to do with the Overbee case?”

“No. This is a different fight.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

I explained the circumstances about Captain Jeremy Pugh and the Bobbsey twins. He sat without comment until I finished the story.

“Get a good look at them?” he asked.

“Good enough. They were just messengers, though.”

“If you can identify them and testify, I’ll have them picked up on assault and battery.”

He started to light a cigarette and then caught himself and put it back in the pack.

“They’ve probably disappeared into some deep, dark military intelligence safe house,” I said. “Besides, they were just following orders. The Nuremburg syndrome. Captain Pugh is running the show.”

“Anything I can do about him?”

“Other than lean on him, I don’t think there’s much you can do. Nothing concrete to tie him to the two goons other than my word against his.”

I rolled on my side just to change where the pressure was. It didn’t help.

“Sounds like you want to handle this yourself.”

“I want to keep the guy away from my sister. Whether I exact revenge for this beat-down will depend on circumstances. I’m not equipped to take on Army Intelligence.”

Bill grinned and looked away.

“Maybe we could write him a citation for a busted headlight.”

“Yeah, right, Bill. That’d sure even things out.”

“Seriously, Stan, our black and whites can harass the shit out of this moke. And make sure he knows why. We’ve done it before.”

He was right. Bill and I had done it more than once back in the day.

“God, that seems like such a long time ago,” I said.

“And only yesterday too. You want me to do it?”

“Not yet. I’ll let you know.” I was thinking about how Buford had disapproved when I said I let the cops clean up my messes. I’d handle this mess myself.