A Mighty Fortress (13 page)

Don shrugged. “I really never knew the specifics. This was like a side project. Vinnie gave Scalzo a lot of leeway in running it.”

“So what happens to Scalzo’s line now? You going to be running that?”

He shrugged again. “That remains to be seen.”

“And you weren’t involved in security and hiring for this line?”

“Security, some. Hiring, not so much. Unless it was cross-selling.”

“What’s that?”

“So we have a few lines of business. Scalzo’s experience turned pretty lucrative. It appealed to some of the stage girls. They’d want to give it a try. But they worked for me. Had to go through me.”

I nodded and waited. I didn’t want to rush this one. “You ever have a brunette work for you, went by the name Angie?”

“Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“She has a heart with the word ‘love’ tattooed on her hip.”

Something flashed in his eyes. “You mean Evie?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. When I met her at Scalzo’s, she said her name was Angie.”

He shook his head. “Her name, her stage name, was Eve, and we called her Evie.” The proud smile returned. “I found her a few years ago. She started dancing for me when she was eighteen. She’s a prime example of the cross-selling I mentioned. She got in good with Scalzo. Then she was too good for me.”

“So Scalzo stole her from you?”

He shrugged. “Something like that.”

“What about the brunette out there? You recruit her, too?”

He stood up to say my time was coming to an end. “Charlene? She’s a peach, eh? Yeah, you could say she’s risen through the ranks here.” He handed me his card. “Give me a call if you have any more questions.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s time to send that fax.” I stood and got a glance behind his desk. There was a Fed Ex box leaning against the wall; a gun barrel a dark shade of charcoal with what appeared to be a familiar black sheen protruded from the box. “That what I think it is?” I asked.

“Oh, check this out.” He bent over and picked up the Fed Ex box. He opened it and pulled out a black frame. “You know what this is?”

“Looks like a frame to a gun. A Fleming automatic, if I had to guess.”

“You’re good. Were you in the service?”

I nodded. “But we never used those. What about you?”

He shook his head. “I just collect these things. This here is a class three fully automatic.”

“Seems like an expensive hobby. What’s that gun worth, twenty grand?”

“Try at least thirty. I don’t see it as a hobby. I invest in these. I have no doubt I won’t be able to sell any of these by the time Obama leaves office, so I’m looking to unload some of my stock. I’ve got some beautiful handguns, too, if you know anyone in the market.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
 

He nodded and extended his hand across the desk. I returned an obligatory shake. “Good luck selling your guns.”

He nodded thanks. “Yeah, let me know if you know anyone in the market.”

I thought of the one person I knew who collected guns, and it made me think of one more question. “Actually, you wouldn’t happen to know a guy named Sal Barton would you?”
 

He shook his head with his best poker face. “Can’t say that I do. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Just curious.”

Back in the lobby, Charlene was trying to act busy on the computer but had her cell phone pressed against her ear. “Do you need anything before you go, Mr. Porter?”

Something about shaking Alexi’s hand made me reach for the squirt bottle of hand sanitizer on her desk. “Do you mind?” I asked as I reached for it.
 

She raised it for me and pumped it a few times. “I know the feeling,” she said.

I rubbed the gel across my hands. “There are a lot of jobs out there.”

“Not that pay like this. I’m just getting myself through school.”

I waited for the shame to pass from her face. “There was just one thing. Don said you could get me the contact information for an investigator he recommended I talk to. I think his name was Sal Barton. Do you know him?”

She smiled. “Of course, one minute.” She typed on the computer and nodded. “There it is. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

I glanced at the screen and made sure it was my Sal. Sure enough, right there in the company’s contacts. “No thanks. That’s all I need to know.”

She gave me a vague smile. “You must have a good memory.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

The rush hour traffic on I-275 North was trudging along like a colony of ants in a molasses jar. I wanted to give Mattie an update and follow up with Kara, but I wasn’t going to get far with this investigation without a new phone. I had about an hour to kill before I was supposed to be at Rico’s gym, so I got off on Dale Mabry and headed south a few blocks to the AT&T store. As I neared the parking lot, I feared that a new iPhone might have been released over the weekend, and the line to get in the place would be wrapped around the building. I was relieved to see there were a few open spaces in the parking lot.

I signed in and waited. I kept going back to my conversation with Don Alexi. He was the kind of character you couldn’t truly appreciate until you’ve had a while to reflect on him. I wondered why he’d lied about Sal Barton. It could be that he lied simply because he’s a liar. Liars sometimes do that because it’s in their nature; they don’t need any particular motive other than fear of knowing why the person they’re lying to wants to know the truth. I’d like to hear what Mattie had to say about Alexi, too. Ditto for Kara. I had so many questions for her that I hoped I’d work on them in my dreams that night.
 

It took about five minutes before a sweetheart named Nikki was shaking my hand and showing me the latest model. I usually don’t go for the latest release; I’m more of a last-year’s model kind of guy. Still, I couldn’t pass on the iPhone 6, especially since Mattie was paying for the deductible. I welcomed its size, because I have hands like a lumberjack’s. I did pass on the 6 plus, as I had no interest in holding a mini tablet to my ear. I liked the 6 enough to agree to the increase in my bill. Nikki confirmed that I had insurance on my last phone, but I still had to pay a hundred-dollar deductible.

Hector would have liked Nikki, because she showed me the same hard case he was always pushing on me. I declined. I figure if I’m going to pay insurance, then what do I care if the phone gets shattered again?
 

It was almost 6:30 by the time my new phone was activated and I was heading north on Dale Mabry again. I made a pit stop to pick up a pita wrap with grilled chicken, hummus, feta, and rice. Then I called Mattie once I was back in the car.

“I met your boy Don Alexi today.”

“Why’d you go by there, anyway?” Mattie sounded tired.

“What can I say? I like spontaneity. Besides, it was very informative.”

“How so?”

“Did you know Alexi’s an arms dealer?”

“I did not. Did he confess to shooting Scalzo?”

“Hardly, though he didn’t hide his disdain for the guy.”

I heard Mattie cover the phone and scream for Kara. Then back to me: “Doesn’t sound like he has anything to hide, then.”

Other than that he knows Sal Barton,
I thought, but saw no reason to mention that to Mattie just yet. “I guess not.”

“Great,” Mattie said. “Oh, hey, I’m getting another call.”

“I’ll let you go.”

“No, I need to talk to you about something else. Just hold on.”

Mattie put me on hold. The traffic was finally moving again, and it wouldn’t be long before I reached the exit for Hillsborough Avenue that would take me to Rico’s.
 

I was about to hang up when the line clicked.
 

“Porter? You’re not going to believe this.” Mattie sounded like a different person now, his voice thin and hoarse.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“Connie Barton. Sal’s wife.”

“What’d she want?”

He took a deferential pause—too deferential for the likes of Mattie Wilcox. “It’s Sal.”

I gripped the steering wheel tight enough to bend it. “What about him?”

Then he laid the bomb on me. “Sal’s dead.”

“What do you mean, Sal’s dead?” I realized that I’d come to a full stop on the interstate.

“That’s what she said,” Mattie said dully. He sounded more exhausted than indifferent.

“How? When did this happen?”

“I don’t know, Porter, she was hysterical. She said something about him hanging himself.”

“What?” Horns from passing cars blared around me. I flipped on the hazard flashers and pulled onto the shoulder.
 

“Listen, man, that’s all I know,” Mattie replied.

I could imagine Sal Barton doing a lot of things, but hanging himself wasn’t one of them. I couldn’t even imagine a rope strong enough to do the job. “Do you know where she called you from?”

“Milo, I told you all I know.”

“You know, I just asked Don Alexi if he knew Sal.”

That put some heat back into Mattie’s voice. “Why the hell’d you do
that
?”

“I wanted to know about Sal’s conflict of interest. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Are you serious? His conflict of interest was that he was scared of Scalzo!”

“I don’t think so. Sal wasn’t scared of anyone, much less that little punk.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

I sighed.
 
“I guess so.”

“By the way, you can find Pilka at the club tomorrow morning.”

“The club?”

“Palma Ceia. He sees a personal trainer there, and gets a massage every Tuesday morning.”
 

I checked the rearview and waited for an opening to get back on the interstate. “I’ll call you after we talk, then.”

“And let me know what you find out about Sal.”

“Will do,” I mumbled.

 
“And Porter—Kara needs you to call her. Something about the file. What’s that about?”

“You’d have to ask her, Mattie. I’ll give her a call.”
 

I hung up and closed the foil around the wrap I’d bought for dinner. I’d suddenly lost my appetite. Again.

I’d been coaching the deadlift at Rico’s House of Pain ever since I visited the gym in 2012 to serve Rico with a collection complaint. It was one of my first jobs for Sal Barton. I found the building exactly as Sal had described it: housed in an old gas station and garage that went out of business in the eighties. Concrete slabs still marked where the gas pumps used to stand in the parking lot. Rico had set up a sloppy office and daycare center in the office space of the station. The iron clanged in the old mechanic’s shop, the space of about a three-car garage. Four power racks, a squat mono-lift, three competition grade-benches, and about 10,000 pounds of barbell plates. Membership, I’d read online, was by invitation only.

During my first visit, I walked in while Rico was coaching a 14-year-old to deadlift. He kept telling the kid that he had his ass too high. I objected and explained that the kid had, in fact, been in the right starting position for his build. Rico then proceeded to load up the bar and tell me to show him how it was done. So I pulled the 405 pounds, with no warm up, for twelve reps. Rico was impressed enough with my form that he offered me a job on the spot. I accepted and, in turn, threw away the summons and complaint I’d come there to serve.
 

Rico doesn’t pay me—he can’t afford to—but he lets me train at the gym for free. In fact, Rico doesn’t charge anyone to train there. If you’re good enough to compete on his team, you’re welcome in his gym anytime. He’d coached a lot of troubled teens over the years who had one thing in common: they could lift a lot of weight and were willing to work hard to stay out of trouble. Overall, we’d had a good working relationship, complicated only by my relationship with his sister, Valencia, our differences on religion, and my disapproval of his business management tactics.

I found him in his office that Monday afternoon munching on a steak rice bowl from Chipotle. I dropped an envelope containing most of the money I’d received from Mattie Wilcox on his desk.
 

He looked up from his dinner. “What’s that?”

I fell onto the couch along his far wall and sighed. “You remember Sal Barton?”

He was still staring at the envelope. “The name rings a bell.”

“I think he’s dead.”

That was enough for Rico to look up from the envelope. “No kidding?”

“That’s what I just heard.”

Rico leaned back in his chair and struggled to cross his arms across his bulky frame. “You never know, do you?”

I nodded at the envelope. “Open it.”

He did. “What is this?”

“I don’t want you to ask any questions. I want you to use that to get caught up, and don’t let it happen again.”

He closed the envelope and slid it across his desk. “I don’t want your money.”

“I know you don’t. But—”

“Besides, it’s too late.”
 

“What do you mean?”

He slid another envelope across his desk. “I owe the whole kit-and-caboodle now.”

I skimmed the latest notice he’d received from the bank: an acceleration notice that said he now had to pay the entire loan to cure his default. “Two-hundred eight-thousand dollars? You owe that much on this dump? Good God, is the property even worth that?”

Rico grunted. The worn plastic office chair beneath him squeaked as though it was suffocating. “I took out another line of credit last year.”

“What on Earth for, man? And how did you expect to pay it back? You don’t make any money off this place. You don’t charge memberships. Hell, half the people who work out here don’t even have jobs.”

“I know, Milo. It’s good for the community. It gives the kids something to do.”

“What good are you going to do for them if the place goes in foreclosure?”

He studied me for a moment. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Is that right?”

He looked away, as though he were about to say something offensive.

“Let me guess—the Lord will provide?” I took a deep breath and started counting. “You’re right, Rico. I wouldn’t get it.”