Dead Birmingham (5 page)

“I . . . I don't . . . no, wait. He used to call. He stopped doing that, a few months ago. But he did mention a couple of kids . . . Scott and Angel.”

“Last names?”

“Sorry. George never went into much detail. But I asked him once where he was staying, and he said he was staying with friends, Scott and Angel. ‘Mule,' they called him. He liked that. I heard another girl in the background, too. He never said her name. I just assumed it was someone he was seeing.”

“I want to thank you for your help, Mr. Mueller. I can't tell you how much I regret bringing you this news. If there's anything I can do, please let me know.”
 

“Detective Broom?” Mr. Mueller stood, and it was obvious from his face that he was steeling himself to ask a difficult question.
 

Broom stood silently while the man gathered his resolve. Anything he could say would only make it more difficult. Finally, Mueller spoke:

“It was something he'd done, wasn't it? His stealing got him into some kind of trouble.”

It was hard not to give him something. Mueller knew his son. He wasn't in denial about the types of things that young George III had been involved in.
 

Broom put his hand on the man's shoulder. “Mr. Mueller, your son may have been involved in a theft, and his murder may have been part of some kind of response, but we don't know anything concrete, right now. When I do know something, I promise you that you'll be the first to know.”

“I want to thank you for coming here, Detective Broom.”

Broom gave the man his card and some more kind words, told him to call him if he needed anything, and then bowed out. It was too late to help George Harmon Mueller III, but maybe he could still save his friends.

* * *

Broom got into his car, and pointed it toward the Zone. In Birmingham, there were street gangs, and drug gangs. And then there was the Mob, the most powerful faction of which is the Ganato crime family, headed by Don Armand Ganato, that operates from their own part of the North End, referred to by them as The Zone. In the old days, The Zone was once called The Mafia Zone, but the name had become truncated with the passage of time. No one believed in the Mafia anymore.

Don Ganato lived in The Zone, a part of the city in which there was virtually no law but his, and of which he was the absolute ruler. The Zone lay directly across the Cahaba River from the North Side, the home of the Ganato Family's enemies, the smaller, brasher O'Hearn mob, which some called the Irish Mob, but was in fact a loose coalition of Scotch-Irish, Welsh, and other mixed-pedigree hoods who longed for the criminal power of the Ganatos.

Broom rolled up to the front of the Manonera restaurant and got out. This was Ganato's restaurant and bar, and he could be found holding court there on any given day. Broom walked through the door, where a thick man stood. He was an old gunsel, and he and Broom knew each other on sight. The man merely raised his eyebrows and nodded at Broom, and looked toward the back of the restaurant, where sat Don Ganato and two other men who were obviously his bodyguards.

Broom walked up to Ganato's table without preamble. Ganato rose and extended his hand. Broom shook hands with the man perfunctorily.
 

“Detective Broom, whatever brings you to this part of town?” Ganato asked. “Please, please, where are my manners. Do sit down.”

Broom sat down and produced an envelope. “You know these guys?”

Ganato opened the envelope and looked at the pictures, suppressed a shudder, and slid the envelope back.

“Broom, really, what is this? I don't know those kids. You know what it looks like to me? Looks like they crossed somebody bad, someone dangerous.”

“Someone like you, maybe, big G?”

Ganato smiled. Much more a diplomat that gangsters of an earlier time, he was seldom ruffled, and he was, likewise, consummately polite. He was a thin and handsome man. The newspapers loved him, and all but celebrated whenever he beat the latest suite of charges leveled against him. Broom hated him, because a crook was a crook, and a cop was a cop, and one day the latter had to run the former to ground. But he could play nice, too.

“Sorry, Detective Broom, but this unpleasant business has nothing to do with me. What good does it do me to have two teenagers harmed? You're wasting your time if you're trying to pin this on me. Go over to the North Side and hassle the Crips. Or maybe our Scotch-Irish friend, across the river.”

Broom leaned forward. “It isn't like we'd be talking it over like old chums if you were behind all this, is it? But, to tell you the truth, I believe you. You see, I think this is outside work. Not Lonny O'Malley's boys, and definitely not the gangbangers, either. They'd both just shoot whoever pissed them off, and to hell with it. I came here because you are the guy in the know. Maybe I'm wondering if you've heard of any, let's say, strangers in town.”

Ganato gave Broom a flat stare. He was probably trying to figure out if this was some sort of sting operation, Broom figured. At last, he made some sort of determination that it was not, and said, cautiously, “I can assure you, I haven't heard anything, Detective Broom. Things are quiet around here lately. Too much police activity.” He smiled and the two gunsels laughed obediently.

Broom shrugged. “Somebody is out there, not playing by the rules. And theyh're playing on your turf, Ganato, here in the Zone. I thought maybe you'd want to know, seeing as how you run things in this part of town.”

Don Ganato offered up another wan smile. “The Zone. Quaint. I haven't heard my little neighborhood called that in a while. Like I say, though, things are very quiet as of late.”

“Maybe you're losing your touch, Ganato. Maybe some younger talent's got an eye on your corner booth here in the Manonera.”

“Perhaps. If someone does, he would not be the first. In any case, I am a cautious man. Maybe I need to talk to this person, let them know I conduct business here, and don't want any trouble.”

“About that. I also wanted you to know that if you did happen across this person, I'm looking for him, and want him in one piece. I'd hate if you and me came to cross purposes. Understand?”

“You have made yourself very clear. Sounds personal, Detective Broom.”

Broom rose, and picked up the envelope. “Somebody is out there killing kids in my city.” His eyes met Ganato's, and after a moment, the mobster blinked and looked away.

“Yeah, you could call it that. Personal.”

 

Chapter 9

 

Broom found McMahon hunched over a table, poring over a stack of computer printouts.

“Doing your homework, Mack?”

“You bet. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Broom. I have three months of police reports logged here. What exactly am I supposed to be looking for, the Brinks job?”

“Like I said, something small that smacks of the pro. A group of kids who got away with something. One of them needs to fit Mueller's description. These kids are small time as far as the dollar value of their heists, but they will probably seem practiced. This Mueller kid had quite a rap sheet. The fact that none of his arrests were recent seem to suggest he's gotten better, maybe fallen in with some other young thieves who know the ropes. They'll have priors, too. With any luck, they might have gotten popped as a group before. I'm thinking this time they might have gotten away with something . . . worthwhile.”

“Ah. Do we know what this ‘something' is?”

Broom shrugged. “We do not. My hunch is, it must be something pretty valuable, though.”

“Well, so far the closest I've come to that is a bunch of junior-high kids who pilfered the produce section of a supermarket over on Liberty Parkway.”

“Nah. We're talking at least four kids, maybe more, maybe college-age kids. And nothing that looks like an impulse grab. Whatever else these kids are, they aren't first-timers. They're living a sketchy life, but they know what they're doing. They've picked up stuff they can move. Something that pays. I'm thinking that the owner would have made a stink about it.”

“So what if he didn't?”

“We're looking for patterns, Mack. Mueller had priors on his own. I think he must have fallen in with a pack of ‘experts'—or like-minded kids, anyway. They will have histories of their own, some of them at least, and therefore they will also have priors. I'll bet we'll find a report, or reports, from one precinct in this batch of stuff, which may indicate to us what area of the city they operate in the most often. When we find it, it's going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

Broom picked up some of the printouts and started browsing. There were about fifty entries per page. Birmingham was a big town, with many outlying communities adding to its sprawl. Fairfield. Ensley. Bessemer, Leeds . . . and others besides; a lot of things got stolen every day. He looked at the stack in front of him. It was as thick as a small town phone book.
 

“You were right, Mack. This is going to take a while.”

“Imagine the poor guys that have to wade through this stuff on a regular basis,” Mack said.

Broom smiled. “I hear they've got a guy over in the basement of the East Precinct who does nothing but that.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down. He set his jaw in grim determination.
 

It's in there, somewhere. It has to be.

 

Chapter 10

 

Excerpt from Scott Anthony LaRue's unpublished manuscript,
Shoplifting in the 21st Century: Boosting for Fun and Profit:

The easiest score is the big store. That is, it is simple to lift small items and get away with it in a crowded, busy mall, or department store. But it is extremely difficult to lift anything major. It is a rule that the smaller the store, the larger and more valuable items you can get away with. This rule makes the medium-sized store the most profitable for the professional Booster. The drug store is the favorite of these, because the items stolen there are easily pocketed, and also easy to get rid of. Second is the electronics store, for these same reasons.

* * *

Broom and Mack were still squatting over the stacks of printouts an hour later, periodically rubbing their eyes and stretching and massaging their necks, when I called in.
 

Broom picked the phone up on the first ring.

“Broom.”

“Hi Broom, what's shaking.” I tried to sound rosy; I don't think I pulled it off.

“Roland Longville. I'll be damned. How's it hanging there, buddy?”

I had been Broom's partner until I left the force, after I encountered some trouble with the bottle. He had stood by me through those troubles, and many more that had come afterward. We had remained friends with the iron bond that only dealing with death and mayhem on a daily basis can forge between two people.

“How busy are you?” I said.

“Working on a case, and it's a strange one, too. Sort of reminds me of some of the cases we used to get when you still carried a badge. Mack and me are giving it the old college try, but we're kind of stalled on it right now.”

“Well, then, Les, I'll get right to the point, so as not to keep you. I hate to ask, but I might need a little favor.”

“How little?”

“I just need you to tell me what you can about a petty theft report.”

“Theft?” Broom must have smiled at the printout in his hand. “Sure. What kind?”

“Shoplifting.”

There was a long pause.

“Broom? You still there?”

“Did you say shoplifting?”

“Yes. I know it's small time, but I need to try to get a fix on a group of young kids who might have stolen something really valuable.”

Again, there was a long pause.

“Les? You still there?” I asked the silent line.

“I'm still here, Roland. Now tell me about this group of kids you're looking for. And please, go very, very slowly.”

 

Chapter 11

 

Excerpt from Scott Anthony LaRue's unpublished manuscript,
Shoplifting in the 21st Century: Boosting for Fun and Profit:

We are young, and this world belongs to us. You past generations had your chance with it. It is obvious to all what a mess you made of it. Yes, the world is full of great buildings, but look at all the homeless that cower beneath them. There are great highways, great cities, marvels of engineering and planning. But is the plight of the little man any better than it was ages ago? The older generations will tell you they have given him freedom, but I say to you that the poor have the illusion of freedom, that the powerless are held down by far stronger chains than slavery. The few have it all, the many, nothing. The poor owe it to themselves to get back as much as they can, any way that they can.

* * *

Angel had met Scott in college, and immediately fallen under his spell. They were different, but the kind of different that compliments. They had never had an argument. They were one of those rare couples that intuit each other's thinking, each other's motivations, and each other's pain. When she met him, she felt as though she'd known him her entire life; he felt the same toward her.