3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (34 page)

Tiffany screams, “Ahh, I can’t breathe … I can’t breathe.” She kicks and twists her body, trying to get free. “And I hate pain.”

I stagger, get to my feet, and straighten up as best as I can. “Let her go, Guido.”

I see him go crazy-eyed. He’s sweating and shaking. Ears turning red. His muscles tighten and his veins bulge. If I were to Google
Roid Rage
right now, I’d see a similar picture, but I don’t know how to Google on my new phone.

Tiffany continues screaming. “Help me, Mr. Sherlock … I’m too … beautiful … to die.”

“I’ll bash her face in if you don’t let me go,” Guido says between froths from his mouth.

“Not … my face,” Tiffany screams. “Anyplace … but … my … face.”

“Shut up, bitch!” Guido swings the Waterford upward; it’s now poised to strike Tiffany right in the kisser.

Tiffany’s eyes go wide as Frisbees. “Ahhhh.” And she faints dead away.

If you have ever had to pick someone up who is fast asleep or maybe even dead, you know it’s a very difficult thing to do; hence the term:
dead weight
. Lifting a body with no muscle tone whatsoever is like trying to handle a large, weirdly shaped, unwieldy bag of sand. It’s next to impossible. Yet another reason why murderers roll bodies up in carpets before they carry them away.

Tiffany is no exception. She slumps in Guido’s arms like a worn-out Gumby doll—a very well-coiffed, well-manicured, well-dressed Gumby doll. The instant Guido tries to secure his grip on her I make my move and throw my entire body on the arm that holds the Waterford. I twist the pitcher out of his hand and it falls on the carpet, thankfully unbroken. Waterford is really expensive.

Now we’re a human Hoagie sandwich with me and Guido two halves of the roll and Tiffany as a very limp piece of luncheon meat. Guido pulls one way, I push the other. Neither of us can shake the other off. Others are trying to grab us, but Guido throws his body to the left. I go with him and we crash into the sheet of plywood like a bowling ball scoring a strike. We go down hard and flop around on the floor, half-way in and half-way out of the room, dangling above the packed dance floor below us while some rapper wails out “Slap that Bitch” over and over again on the sound system.

Guido’s squirming, I’m holding on, and Tiffany does nothing. We’re a very mismatched three-some, heading for a very hard landing. I look down. My entire upper torso hangs out of the room. But so do my companions’. Did I mention that I hate heights? I hold onto Tiffany, whose lithe, slender body is like jelly in my hands.

Guido’s got a hold of her too, but his arms are slipping as he screams, “Get away or I’ll take her down with me.”

I won’t let go of Tiffany. Guido is starting to fall. Tiffany and I are going along with him. I’m holding on to a piece of wood frame for dear life. The three of us inch closer and closer to an inevitable quick trip down to the floor below. The dancers below are oblivious to our plight. I wonder if they can break our fall.

And a shot rings out.

This changes everything. Alix screams. Bodies dive for cover. Furniture is going every-which-way. I’m holding onto Tiffany, while my back is going into torturous agony beyond my wildest estimations and capabilities for dealing with pain.

I feel two strong hands latch on to the back of my jacket. They jerk me upward. I clutch Tiffany, struggling to pull her with me. Guido also hangs on tight … and I see a fist smash into Guido’s privates like a sledgehammer. Guido’s grip is broken. Tiffany comes with me. Now, with nothing to have and to hold, Guido goes past the plywood, past the floor’s edge, and into downward flight to the dance floor below.

Splat
.

There are a few screams from the patrons below, but mostly what is heard is the revelry of kids heralding a new exciting dance move.

I’m on the floor, away from the open window, next to the comatose Tiffany. There’s noise and commotion all around, but all I can feel is the pain in my back. I twist to my left, “Tiffany, Tiffany, are you okay?” I hold her in my arms and cradle her head. “Get me some water,” I yell at the top of my lungs.

The chaos continues. Alix’s screaming is joined by Monroe’s, who’s not too happy to be there himself. Walter Bartlett lies on the floor with his head in his arms. Some of the partiers are scurrying out. “No-No” is rubbing her now-sore hand after throwing the final punch in Guido’s life.

“Freeze!” Jack Wayt lets loose at the top of his lungs.

All activity in the room stops, except for Gibby Fearn coming to my side with water. “Hold her head up.”

“That you who fired?” I hear Jack ask “No-No.”

“No,” she answers. “I thought it was you.”

“You?” Jack asks a body close to him.

“Dun’t know,” the Behemoth answers.

A minute or two elapses. We all need a break.

Gibby tries to pour water past Tiffany’s lips, but that doesn’t work. He takes a little and splashes it on her face.”

I hear Alix say, “She’s going to be pissed if you ruin her make-up.”

Tiffany starts to stir.

“Oh … Mr. Sherlock,” she says softly.

“Relax, Tiffany. Don’t talk.”

“It happened again.”

Nobody listens to me.

I can’t, but everyone else in the room rises to their feet. This is due to Detective Neula “No-No” Noonan removing her gun from her purse and pointing it at the assembled. “No, no,” she says, “nobody move.”

Everyone’s hands rise to her direction except D’Wayne DeWitt. He remains quietly seated in his desk chair. His head tilted back, resting on the cushion, a blank expression on his face. There is a small quarter-inch hole in the middle of his forehead. Not much blood leaks out of this wound, but a steady stream is pouring out the back of his head, in the spot the police refer to as the
exit wound
. Due to the amount pooling on the seat, I’m afraid the resale value of this fancy, ergonomic, desk chair is going to be nil.

“Everybody keep their hands up, until I say so,” “No-No” orders the partygoers.

As Jack pats each down searching for a firearm, Tiffany flops around in a half-in, half-out, physical and mental state—a different half-in, half-out state than she’s usually in. We stay on the floor together for I’m not sure how long until a bunch of Chicago cops run into the room and handcuff everybody except Lloyd Holler.

“If you don’t want to be audited for the rest of your life, you get those shackles away from me,” he threatens.

“Don’t you know who I am?” Alix tells the cop who cuffs her. “Just wait ‘til my daddy hears how you manhandled me. He’ll have your badge, your ugly uniform, and your flat feet in the cafeteria line serving up mac and cheese.”

“Yeah, yeah. We hear that everyday, lady,” the cop says.

Two paramedics slap an oxygen mask on Tiffany, and go to work reviving her. Two more run right past me to Mr. DeWitt. What am I chopped liver?

Jack helps separate the good eggs from the bad, lining up two different sets of partiers.

The paramedics continue to work on Tiffany. I insist she be taken into the ER for observation. “She’s got great insurance.” I assure them.

After Tiffany is on the gurney, one EMT questions me on what I want. I contemplate asking for a ride to the Barnes & Noble to finish the
Oh,
My Aching Back
book.

With Tiffany in an ambulance, one group escorted to a waiting paddy wagon, and Gibby, Alix, and the barback released, Jack and “No-No” come over and sit with me.

“Guido dead?” I ask.

“No-No” says, “Let’s just say his music’s stopped.”

“Sorry about your coat,” Jack tells me.

“What’s the matter with my coat?” I ask.

“No-No” helps me get it off and I can see the entire back panel is ripped beyond repair.

“It gave way when I grabbed you,” Jack says.

“Damn. I really liked this jacket,” I tell them.

“Why?” “No-No” asks.

“It was the only club that let me be a member,” I confess.

We take a few minutes and just sit.

“You have it all figured out before you got here tonight?” Jack asks.

“Every last word of it.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yeah, I am,” I admit. “You think I would let Tiffany sit next to a murderer? Her father would have me killed if I did that.”

“Tell Tiffany,” “No-No” says. “I got a picture of Alix in handcuffs. She can post on the Internet if Alix tries anything funny.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.” I pause. “You get all the right people in the right paddy wagons?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “But most of them will be lawyered up and back out on the street before this place closes tonight.”

“What about Mr. DeWitt?”

“Whoever shot him was a great shot,” Jack says.

“The good news is we got plenty to keep Lloyd Holler busy until he retires,” “No-No” says.

“I’ll bet he’s happier than the Village People during a sold out reunion concert.”

Jack gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, Sherlock. You did a good job.”

“I had a good teacher.”

Jack and “No-No” help me to my feet and I start to walk, although not very well. “You two back to being an item?” I have to ask.

“I’m going to quit eating,” “No-No” says. “And Jack’s going to learn how to commit.”

I bet that’s going to work out real well
, I think, but don’t say.

“I’ll have a squad car take you home,” Jack says. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I have to be. We have our last basketball game tomorrow.”

“And you’re playing?” “No-No” asks the crumbled me.

“No, I’m the coach.”

CHAPTER 22

I had a horrible night’s sleep; not only was my back killing me, but my head joined in on the fun. My brain is being flogged worse than a galley slave who refuses to row, row, row the boat.

I get myself out of bed, grip my head between my hands, and stumble into my front room.
The Original Carlo
stares down at me like God stared down at Adam finishing his apple.

Something is wrong. It doesn’t fit. I missed something. But what?

I retrace every card, every line, every suspect, every scenario, and the only result is that my headache aches even worse. Walter Bartlett selling his house three months before my visit is the monkey wrench thrown into the teeth of my perfectly oiled machine. I’m sure he’s the one who finagled the Zanadu money into CEI, but if he wasn’t the buddy of Mr. Rogers, who was? Or did Mr. Rogers even have a buddy? And who is Mr. Rogers? I realize now, I never really bothered to find out, amazing how money can cloud your thinking.

I take a shower. I load up with ibuprofen and try to do some
Oh,
My Aching
Back
exercises, but can’t perform a single one. I’m not in as much back pain as I was last night, but I’m still hunched over like an AARP member, ambling along without his walker.

I leave my apartment, giving myself an extra half-hour to pick up my girls and get to the game. I’m glad I did, because it takes me almost ten minutes to navigate the three flights of stairs from my door to the street. When I finally get to my Toyota, which is parked a block away; I’m met with a very big surprise—the Thug. He leans against his limo sporting a brand-new grey fedora with a red feather on the left side of the headband.

“No. You can’t kidnap me today. I’m the basketball coach and the game starts in an hour.”

The Thug adjusts the gun behind his back. It looks like I’m going for another ride.

The driver’s door opens and guess who gets out—the Behemoth.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask the Thug.

“Twin brudda.”

“You two are twins?”

“I’m older,” the Thug says proudly.

“Fraternal twins?” I ask.

“We din’t go to college,” the Thug replies.

The Behemoth faces me. I ask him, “How’d you get out of jail so quickly?”

“Dun’t know.”

These two must have had hundreds of fascinating conversations from the womb all the way to today.

“Forget it, guys. I’m not going anywhere with you.” I move towards my car, but the bruddas block me like an offensive NFL offensive line. “I’m not kidding. I have to be at this game. It’s our last game of the year. I can’t miss it. If I’m not there Mrs. Whiner will coach and she could leave permanent psychological scars on the players.”

“Dis way,” the Thug says pushing me back towards their limo.

“No, I can’t.”

He opens the back door, as if he’s going to unceremoniously shove me in the back seat, but instead he reaches inside and pulls out a white envelope. “Dis is fer you,” he says handing it to me.

My name is on the front. The envelope is sealed. “What’s this?”

“Dun’t know,” the Behemoth says.

I tear it open and peek inside. It’s all green. I thumb through the contents. All the denominations have three numbers.

“Yer services is no longer needed,” the Thug tells me as he walks to the front of the car.

“Wait.” My headache vanishes. The rainclouds part, the sun shines, music plays, and all is right with the day.

“What fer?”

“I’m having an epiphany,” I tell him.

“What’s dat?” the Thug asks.

“Dun’t know,” his brother answers.

“You killed him.”

“What?”

“You killed him,” I repeat.

“Who?”

“Mr. DeWitt.”

“Da dead guy at da Zanadu?”

“How do you know I’m talking about a guy at the Zanadu?” I ask the Thug.

“I din’t.”

It all makes sense. A day short and a few dollars long, but it all makes sense.

I think out loud, more for my sake than the sake of the brother combo before me. “This wasn’t about the Zanadu, or laundering money, or hiding cash from the IRS. It was business. One drug kingpin moves in on the territory of another and the other guy doesn’t like it. A war starts. The street soldiers go at it, but this is a game neither can win. So, the big boys get involved.” I take a second, and then say, “I’m not even sure your boss Mr. Rogers even has anything to do with the Zanadu.”

A slight smile breaks out on the Thug’s face.

“Rogers’ problem is he’s not sure exactly what is going down, all he knows is a competitor is moving in on his action. He suspects it’s DeWitt, who maybe even once worked for him. Rogers needs information, and knowing I’m already close, he contacts me. Our first meeting is interrupted by some dumb street shooter, probably sent by DeWitt, who’s not smart enough to consider you in a Kevlar vest. You catch up to him, shoot him, and the kid ends up dying in the ER later that night.”