Old Flame (3 page)

CHAPTER

5

M
ake things right.

How do you square things? The knee-jerk answer is
closure,
the magic word du jour that means different things to different people. Another notch on the DA’s belt, one less thing for the cops to deal with, the next new thing for the twenty-four-hour news cycle, and a cruel promise for the victim’s family.

I called Pete Toal from the road and asked if the ME’s report was in.

“No,” he said. “Busy day at the coroner. Stiffs have to take a number. But I don’t need the ME for a reading on this one.”

“How so?”

“Perp beat the shit out of him. Lot of emotion went into his work. Especially around the groin area. Nuts are the size of volleyballs. Look, I’d love to chat, but me and Swede are off on another adventure. I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

Crime of passion. And I’d neglected to ask Ginny where she was last night. It would keep.

My next call was to Allie. She penciled me in for a late lunch.

The drive back to the city took hours. Thousands of people made the trip every day. I wondered how they stayed sane.

We met at a little outdoor café near her office. Apparently the pitch had gone well, and six and a half hours on the red-eye hadn’t dampened the high.

With straight, nut-brown hair parted in the middle, and wearing black Nike sandals and a T-shirt bearing the rhinestone-studded inscription
SURROUNDED BY MORONS
tucked into her jeans, Allie looked more like a hippie graduate student who had just aced her orals than a high-powered advertising mover and shaker.

“We nailed it,” she said, picking at her Cobb salad. “When I hit them with the campaign, there was a room full of smiley faces.”

The restaurant had very tiny tables crowded next to each other, very large plates, very tiny portions stacked very high in the middle, and a fine sprinkling of soot for seasoning. Although it was an unusually warm day, the angle of the sunlight bore traces of winter.

A young couple sitting inches from us were having an animated and highly distracting discussion about a band performing at some club. She wanted to go, he didn’t. He thought they sucked. She, not so politely, said he did. It was boring. I wanted to hear about Allie’s triumph.

“About an hour into it,” she continued, “I thought we were dead. The account exec was doing his marketing mambo. A lot of talk about positioning and competitive thrusts, whatever the hell that means.”

“Sounds salacious.”

“Would that it were. At the very least, we would have had their attention.” She speared a piece of lettuce. “I swear I heard light snoring.”

“And then you took center stage.”

She smiled. “Yes I did.”

“And saved the day.”

She leaned over and planted a little peck on the tip of my nose. “That too, and not a moment too soon. Then it was the research folks’ turn, and once again ennui washed over the conference room like a red tide.”

“You’re quite the wordsmith.”

She impaled another lettuce leaf and dipped the tip in the dressing. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

“Did you reignite their interest by showing them your discreetly positioned butterfly tattoo? It certainly helped clinch the deal with me.”

“I would have if I thought it would help.”

“Hussy,” I said.

“No,
adwoman,
” she shot back. An eyebrow rose fetchingly, and just the shadow of a smile crossed her lips. “I might arrange a private showing later on this evening.”

“Have you no shame?”

“Nope.”

“Another reason why I’m attracted to you. But the problem is, I’m doing homework with DeeDee and, after that, meeting Luce and Cherise at Neon. It’s Cherise’s birthday. It could run late.”

Luce Guidry was my ex-partner, and Cherise Adams, also a cop, was her wife.

“Cherise’s birthday I could understand, but homework with DeeDee?” Allie said. “She’s enrolled at Stuyvesant, for Godsake. Tell me you’re kidding.”

DeeDee Santos was a latchkey kid who lived two flights down from me. Her father, fast of fist and slow of mind, boarded frequently at a variety of criminal holding facilities. Her mother, somewhere in the Dominican Republic, was no help. And DeeDee was left to navigate Hell’s Kitchen’s shoals alone. One day we connected, and we have been pals ever since. During one particularly rough spot in both our lives, she’d even temporarily moved in with me. Now she still lived with me whenever her father was incarcerated, and attended one of New York City’s premier public high schools. So far, things had worked out.

“I resent the disparaging tone of your question.”

“Do you! OK, what are you helping her with?”

I took a sudden interest in the haphazard way the French fries were piled on my plate and moved them around to more esthetically satisfying positions with my fork.

“She might have mentioned something about quadratic equations,” I said.

“If she needed help with thug-nabbing, that I could understand, but you wouldn’t know a quadratic equation from a newt.”

“
Au contraire!
A newt is a tiny lizard that eats bugs. A quadratic equation is simply a second order polynomial equation in a single variable
x.
”

She stared at me with one eyebrow arched. “You have no idea what that means, do you?”

I still hadn’t gotten the fries quite where I wanted them. “Not at all,” I admitted. “I looked it up on the Web.”

“God help her!”

“Enough of me. Let’s get back to you. When do you think you’ll hear?”

She went back to her salad. Allie had an odd way of eating. Each food species was consumed separately. First the tomatoes, then the lettuce, and so on down the veggie array until it was all gone.

“They haven’t made a decision yet. There are two more agencies scheduled to present. We’ll know in a month, I guess.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a pretty woman wearing a navy blue pin-striped suit and a white silk blouse holding a cell phone to her ear. An expensive-looking attaché case sat at her feet. Tears streaming down her cheeks left faint ruts in her makeup. I tried to look away, but it was impossible. Her eyes locked on mine for the briefest of moments, flaring with resentment at my intrusion. And then, hunching her shoulders forward, she abruptly half-turned. Another mystery in a city brimming with mysteries.

I turned my attention back to Allie and told her about my suddenly burgeoning private detective business.

Allie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your ex-wife?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Should there be?”

“Not that I can see,” I said.

She smoothed the front of her T-shirt and
SURROUNDED BY MORONS
glittered in the afternoon light.

CHAPTER

6

H
omework with DeeDee went as I had expected. It wasn’t about quadratic equations, thank God. She just wanted company
.
We shared a sausage pizza, caught up on things, and I left around ten.

When I arrived at Neon, a sweaty gay bar on Eleventh, the lights were low and throbbing to a techno beat, and the party in full swing. I spotted Luce and Cherise, and about six of their friends, sitting at a table the size of a serving platter just off the dance floor. A birthday cake sat on the table. I worked my way through the crowd.

Luce Guidry was my ex-partner and closest friend. Born and raised in Louisiana, Luce had skin the color of chickory coffee au lait, and tastes that ran to clunky jewelry, pastel fabrics, and Cherise Adams, a cop who worked out of Brooklyn.

“Jackson,” she said, with a glowing smile. “You made it.”

Luce was the only person who ever used my given name.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Cherise jumped up and threw her arms around me.

“You just made me ten dollars richer,” she said. “Luce didn’t expect you to show up until midnight, assuming you remembered. I had more faith and took the under.”

“Then drinks are on you.” I turned to Luce. “Happy birthday, kiddo.”

“You gonna help me blow out the candles?”

“I don’t know if I can handle it. So many candles, it’s going to look like a forest fire.”

She hauled off and landed a punch on my arm. It hit the bone and stung like hell. “Now, you be nice, Steeg,” she said, throwing me a mock glare.

Cherise made a group introduction; there were nods all around. I could barely hear the names over the music. Luce pulled a chair from the next table and set it beside hers.

“You set yourself right here, Jackson, while I get you something to drink.”

“Stay where you are, I’ll get it.”

I walked to the bar, wedged my body into a narrow gap, and tried to get the attention of the bartender, a pretty blonde with close-cropped hair and multiple lip and nose piercings, who had her hands full. Tats of graceful, twining wildflowers in soft pastels snaked around her hands and arms. Tattoos were something I never understood, but on her they seemed right.

There was a time when I would have leaped the bar to get to a drink, but now my beverage of choice was Diet Coke, and there was no urgency. Comforted by the thought, I waited.

After a few minutes, she appeared. A thin film of perspiration covered her upper lip.

She shrugged an apology. “It’s one of those nights. What can I get you?”

I told her.

There was a fleeting quizzical look, and then a smiling, “Sure. Be right back.”

I laid a five on the bar and turned to watch the dancers on the postage stamp–sized floor. Their moves were joyously balletic, and there wasn’t five percent of body fat among them.

In a blink, everything changed.

There was the barest ripple, something a school of reef fish must sense at a predator’s looming shadow. The dancers, sensing it too, slowed. The conversation at the bar dimmed, and all eyes moved to the entrance.

Three shirtless men with shaved heads, all decked out in leather vests, jeans, and thick-soled Grinders, moved to the bar. The crowd melted in their path.

This had all the makings of an interesting evening.

I glanced over at Luce’s table. She and Cherise were on their feet, their hands resting lightly on the butts of their service revolvers.

I held my hand up and gestured for them to wait. Maybe this would blow over before anyone got hurt.

Nah!

All the barstools had emptied, leaving the pretty young bartender to deal with the Three Amigos alone. From the look on her face she wasn’t having an easy time. I ambled over and planted myself on a stool right next to them. One of them, a huge, dull-witted-looking oaf, had a large shamrock tattooed on his scalp, the badge of Aryan Brother hood hard cases. The other two — shorter and thinner, but equally dumb-looking — were covered in swastikas, skulls, lightning bolts, and other Nazi bullshit. All three smelled like sewage.

“How come your name tag doesn’t say ‘Muff Diver’?” Shamrock said to the bartender. His buddies, gibbering like monkeys, thought it was the wittiest thing they had ever heard.

“Fuck off!” she said, reddening.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I believe I ordered a Diet Coke. How’s about getting it for me?”

With a grateful look she retreated to the far end of the bar. I noticed that Luce and Cherise were standing there watching.

“Diet Coke?”
Shamrock said, moving onto the stool next to mine. “The fudgepacker’s drinkin’ a Diet fuckin’ Coke. You want a cherry with it?”

Suddenly, I felt that all-too-familiar out-of-control tingle when everything is on hair-trigger and giving a shit is off the table. A rush of superheated blood raced up from a magma chamber deep within my body. I wondered how long the cap rock would hold.

The snakes in my head grew giddy with anticipation.

“I understand you had to blow half the guys in the Brotherhood before they let you wear that shamrock.”

His face darkened.

“You’re talkin’ about my brothers, faggot,” he said.

I smiled sweetly. “Right, the guys who pimped you for cigarettes in the joint.”

He drew back a fist the size of a skillet.

That was all it took. The cap rock blew, taking all reason and sanity with it and leaving me an interested observer along for the ride.

As if of its own volition, my hand grabbed a mug and drove it upward into his face. I heard the crunch of his nose flattening against his skull. Saw the bewildered panic in his eyes just before his eyes went wobbly. Watched the skinhead nearest me double over from a dropkick to the nuts and flip over backward when I kneed him in the mouth. Saw the other guy take off.
Fucking tough guys!
I thought as my blood cooled.

It was a good night’s work.

Luce and Cherise ran up to me.

“Holy shit!” Luce said, surveying the wreckage. “I’d cuff them, but it appears they ain’t going anywhere.”

“You sure know how to party, Steeg,” Cherise said.

In the distance I heard the whine of sirens. Most everyone heard it too. There was a mad dash for the door.

“I have an aversion to assholes,” I said.

The pretty young bartender brought me a Diet Coke.

“Thanks,” she said. “And if I ever go back to the other side I’ll go looking for you.”

A couple of uniforms walked in. Luce and Cherise flashed their badges. One of them looked at the two bodies on the floor, and then at Luce and Cherise.

“Whoa!” he said. “You did this?”

Luce pointed at me. “No, he did.”

The uniform sized me up. “Nice,” he said. “But whoever did the guy out front finished the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s why we’re here. There’s a guy laying in the gutter. Someone went to work on the poor bastard with chains. Found them in an alley. And then they stomped the shit out of him. Guy has boot prints all over what’s left of his face. The security cameras should tell us more.”

As it turned out, the security cameras weren’t working, and there were no witnesses.

Sometimes you can’t catch a break.

CHAPTER

7

T
he next morning, Danny Reno was waiting for me at Feeney’s. Nick was right. He looked like crap.

Danny and I grew up together, and just about everyone marked him as someone special, someone destined to get out of Hell’s Kitchen in one piece. Unlike the rest of us, Danny was bright, polite, and could charm the nuns right out of their habits. Jack Armstrong, All-American Boy. But somewhere along the way, he went off the rails, always chasing the big score and always coming up empty.

For a while, counterfeits — pocketbooks, designer scarves, and baseball cards — were Danny’s thing, and he was lousy at it. His last brainstorm was selling cut-rate tropical houseplants from the back of a van. It turned out they were diseased and went fronds-up after a day or two. A couple of disgruntled customers put him in the hospital when he told them his company didn’t accept returns.

That was five years ago, and I hadn’t seen him since.

“Hey, Steeg,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

“Holding it together. And you?”

He shrugged, and flashed a sheepish grin. “You know,” he said.

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?”

His skin had a yellowish cast, and there were deep hollows under his eyes.

“I got a small problem.”

“Bailing you out of the crap you get into is getting old.”

“I know.”

“If it’s money, I don’t have much, but I’ll do what I can.”

“No, no. I mean, yeah, it’s money, but you can’t cover it. I appreciate the offer. It’s gonna take more than money to square things.”

“Square what, Danny?”

He cradled his head in his hands. “Oh man, I really got my dick in a crack this time. I am so fucked, Steeg.”

“You want a cup of coffee, something to eat?”

“Would you eat anything here?”

“Not if I could help it,” I said.

“Besides, I can’t keep anything down.” He spread his hands on the table. I noticed the remains of a manicure, but his fingernails were bitten almost to the cuticle.

“Maybe there’s something I can do. Tell me about it, and we’ll see where we go.”

Unbidden, Nick walked over with two mugs and a coffeepot and set them on the table. He gave Danny the once-over and muttered, “Hump!” then walked away. I wasn’t sure to whom the descriptive applied.

I filled Danny’s mug, but he pushed it away and looked down at his hands.

“It’s no big secret that I fucked my life up. But two years ago everything changed. I hit the mother lode. Some guys I know, techies, started an Internet business and hired me as the marketing guy.”

I was stunned into silence.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “What the fuck does Reno know from Internet marketing?”

“It was exactly what I was thinking.”

“See, I told you. Fact is, I know dick about it. But what I do know is selling.”

Given his history, the jury was still out on that one.

“And,” he continued, “I have connections. You know, where to find merchandise and shit like that.”

“Was it hot?”

“Some. But most of it came from the inventory the dollar stores couldn’t sell. The shit is warehoused and every month the distributor has to pay the storage fees. Money’s going out and nothing’s coming in. So, when I show up and make an offer, these guys are wetting themselves.”

“So you buy it from them?”

“On consignment. This way we don’t have to warehouse anything.”

“And the distributor goes for it?”

“Like a fat man at an Atlantic City buffet. But here’s the hook. At the site we put up, everything you buy is free.”

“Free?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And you make money from this?”

“Truckloads.”

Danny had my attention.

“You can’t imagine the shit people buy on the Web. Candles, stuffed animals that are supposed to be cuddly and cute but look like mongooses, gadgets that no one in his right mind would buy anywhere else. It’s unfuckingbelievable!”

“Let’s get back to the making money part.”

“Sure. It’s all about slippage.”

My head was starting to swim.

“Slippage?”

“Absolutely. Here’s how it works. You buy something for a buck and it comes with a fifty-cent rebate, which is the reason you bought it in the first place. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. To get the rebate you have to fill out a certificate and send in a proof of purchase. You put your name, address, and UPC code, and send it with the proof of purchase back to the manufacturer’s redemption center.”

“OK.”

“Now, how often do you fill out the fucker and send it back?”

“Never.”

“Bingo! You’re no different from anyone else. Depending on the price you paid and the value of the rebate, for everyone who sends the certificate in with the proofs of purchase, two, three, or even four people don’t. Some get hit by a bus. Some don’t fill the receipt out properly. Some lose the receipt, or the proofs. Some just forget about it. And if you get a couple a hundred thousand people visiting your website, and maybe ten percent buy stuff and you hold their money for a couple of months until you send it to them, it adds up pretty quick.”

“It sounds like it.”

“That’s normally how it’s done. But we added a new wrinkle.”

“I can hardly wait.”

He reached for the coffee, took a sip, and made a face. “This really is shit,” he said.

“What did I tell you?”

Behind the bar, Nick glowered.

“Like I was saying, instead of charging you a buck for, let’s say, a pen, we charged ten dollars.”

“Seems pretty steep.”

“Not when we promise to send you the ten bucks back in three months. Now you got your pen and your money back.”

It began to make sense.

“Slippage,” I said.

“Nail on the head!”

“It’s brilliant,” I said. “But it smells like a Ponzi scheme. You’re paying three-month-old debt with new money coming in.”

“Our lawyers said it was legit because we were solvent. We could have paid them anytime.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Everything was going fine when the goods cost a couple of bucks at retail. But then I overreached a bit.”

“You got greedy.”

“You might say. I got the company into high-price goods — TVs, sound systems— that I was getting from China, where they manufacture the stuff for pennies. When your minimum wage is a couple of bowls of rice a month, your margins kind of expand. At the end of the day, I’m taking a monster markup for product that I paid shit for. The problem was, instead of a buck or two a rebate, we had to pay out a couple of grand at a shot.”

“Which you didn’t have.”

“Oh no, we had it. But our burn rate would have eaten us up in three months. Tops.”

“So you do what every other business does. Go Chapter Eleven.”

“We did, but it wasn’t that simple,” Danny said. “Turns out there was a group of people who had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars a month on the high-priced spread, waited until they got their money back, and turn around and sell the merch into the Third World.”

“And this group is?”

Danny fiddled with a sugar packet.

“The Israeli mob.”

“And how did they get involved? Wait, don’t tell me. You dreamed up this little scheme and took it to them for a piece of the action.”

“Pretty much. These guys don’t fuck around, Steeg. They are truly the scariest people I’ve ever met. Make the Colombians look like fucking Good Samaritans. The guy who runs the operation — Zev Barak — gives me night sweats.”

It was no wonder. The Israeli mafia had been operating in the U.S. for years. They were into drugs, arms dealing, bootleg gasoline, and anything else that could turn a buck. Even the Russians and the Italians steered clear of them.

“And what do you want from me, Danny?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You want my opinion?”

“Sure.”

“Go to the feds, agree to testify, and get your ass into witness protection.”

“I tried that. But they won’t have me. I got nothing tangible on Barak. At least nothing they want. Is there anything you can do?”

“How about I make a novena for you?”