The Blackmail Club (19 page)

“When Tittle got gunned,” Nora said, “the chief also lost his witness against Tyson.” She gently ran the tip of her tongue between her lips to capture a spot of coffee that lingered in the corner of her mouth. “It took the chief another two years to get enough on Tyson to coerce him into early retirement.”

“Yet the chief and Tyson continued, hell, right up until now to play poker together.”

“In McCall speak, yep.”

“So, all we’ve got is the chief’s hearsay retelling of Tino Sanchez’s description of the raid of Luke’s Place.”

“We got more. The chief let me read Sanchez’s handwritten notes from the raid. They contained nothing important the chief hadn’t already told me. He let me make copies.” Nora pulled a folder from her portfolio and pushed it into the center of the table.

Jack went over to the window and changed the angle of the blinds to soften the glare from the morning sun. “What do you remember from before the raid?”

“I wore a uniform in those days.” She shrugged. “The first thing I remember is the chief posting a general raid-mobilizing exercise for that night. This morning he told me only Sanchez knew of his plan to turn that exercise into a real raid on Luke’s Place.”

Jack tossed his pencil onto the table. “What did Sanchez’s file say about search warrants?”

“Warrants were issued for Tittle’s home, his vehicles, office, even his summer house on Chesapeake Bay. Nothing. To this day his records are a Jimmy Hoffa.” She pointed toward the file she had pushed to the middle of the table. “It’s all in there. Read it for yourself.”

Jack used his fingers to clothespin his nose. “The whole thing smells. Tittle’s records that disappeared would’ve shown payoffs to politicians and gambling IOUs from the rich and powerful. The federal fugitives were not blackmailed over gambling debts, and we’ve got nothing that suggests Chris Andujar had a gambling problem, but I’m betting there are folks out there who were, and, you know what, we may know one of them.”

Chapter 29

Max found the door to MI’s office unlocked; Mary Lou was gone from the reception desk. He called out. No one answered. Mary Lou hadn’t seemed the type who would just go to lunch and leave the door unlocked. He knocked on the closed door to MI’s private case room. No answer.

He locked the office door and walked down the hall toward the restrooms. After a few steps he heard the sound of a distant scuffle. Near the stairwell he heard a muffled cry. He flung open the door to see Mary Lou cowering in the far corner of the landing.

A bulky biker spun around, a wad of keys on a chain rattling against his hip. His head had been shaved, including his eyebrows, giving him the look of a bleached bowling ball. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket with the gang name Hellseekers monogrammed on the back.

“What the hell you want, old man?” the thug growled, raising the back of his hand.

“Whatever the doings between you and your wench here surely ain’t no concern of mine,” Max said. “I just like taking the stairs. I don’t trust them elevators. You ever walk for health? No, course you wouldn’t, you’re not an old man like me.” He leaned forward and rubbed his lower back. “I’ll just skedaddle on down to the street. I’ll try to hurry, but I don’t move so good no more, not since that gawl-danged arthritis got in me knees. You under—”

“Shut up you old fart, and get your ass back through the door you came in. Now!”

“Just hold your horses, Laddie,” Max replied, dripping the brogue. “I hope you ain’t one of them young ruffians who thinks being ugly and smelly makes it okay to be ill-mannered?”

A switchblade appeared in the biker’s hand; Max heard the click of the release that blossomed its blade.

“Fuck you old man. Now get your ass outta here. I won’t tell you again.”

Max leaned into the corner beside the door, crossing one leg over the other. “Does your dear sainted mother know she carries the shame of her son growing into the kind of slimeball who would beat this wee lass?” Max’s leather jacket creaked when he crossed his arms. “Tis a crying shame. Sure as I am that you’ll be prayin’ for her forgiveness this Sund’y morn.”

Mary Lou started to rise. Max motioned to her. “You stay where you are, Little Missy. The air don’t smell so rotten down low in a room, and the smell will be leaving soon.”

“I’m gonna cut you Old Man, and leave you here bleeding next to this bitch.”

“I wouldn’t be trying it, Mr. Smelly. You see, I know a lot about you, while you know nothing ‘bout me, other than I’m old and slow, and better smelling than you.”

The biker’s eyes gave the early warning Max had been angling for. The instant the biker lunged, Max’s front leg, on which he had no weight, whipped out to greet the hooligan’s groin. The biker doubled over.

Max grabbed the man’s forearm and smashed it against the railing. The biker’s arm made a nasty cracking sound, followed by the clanging of his switchblade as it tumbled down the corrugated metal stairs toward the floor below. From in close Max used his elbow in a short, compact swing that found his attacker’s nose. The Hellseeker tumbled down the stairs to the next landing, his face slamming against the wall.

Mary Lou, who had a cut lip and a little puffiness under her right eye, was shivering from fear. He extended his hand. “C-mere, Darlin’.”

“Oh, Max. I was afraid for you.”

“Missy, do you have your office key with you?”

“Huh? What?”

He put his hands on her shoulders and spoke slowly. “Do you have your office key?”

“Yes.”

“Then you get on back. Wrap some ice in a towel and put it on your eye and lip. I need to stay here and chat with our friend. He should be waking in a moment or two.”

Mary Lou spoke around jerky gasps. “He demanded I give him Donny’s confession. I told him I don’t work the cases. That I didn’t know anything about any confession.” She touched her lip and winced.

“Go along now, Missy.” He put his hand under her elbow to move her toward the door. “I’ll be with ya in a jiff.”

Max went down to the landing on which the biker, dazed from slamming into the wall, was just coming around. Max lifted the edge of the biker’s denim jacket and removed a gun. Then took a seat two steps up from the landing. A moment later the hooligan moaned and rolled partway over. His face had been lying in a pool of blood from his broken nose.

Max stretched out his leg and placed the crepe sole of his Chukka boot on the biker’s neck.

“Now let’s drop the cute talk, you sonofabitch. Keep your hands behind you and turn over the rest of the way. Nice and slow. Now.” The biker turned. “Open your mouth,” Max said. “And don’t you be getting no blood on my new Chukkas.”

Turning without the use of his hands, the biker smeared the shoulder of his sleeveless jacket through the blood, but he didn’t open his mouth.

Max held the stair rail for support and leaned closer. “It’s always nice to use someone else’s gun, that way it traces back to the victim, not the shooter.” He slid the barrel back and forth along one side of the biker’s nose while he counted: one, two.

“Don’t shoot you crazy old man. It’s open. It’s open.”

“Shame on ya, Mr. Smelly. Had ya been that cooperative before, this calamity never woulda befallen ya. Here I go forgettin’ I was gonna drop the brogue.” Max slid the barrel into the man’s mouth. “Now I want ya to be reaching around to unfasten the chain that’s attached to your wallet.”

“That’s ullshit, old man,” the biker said, unable to pronounce the “b” with his lips around the muzzle.

“No problem. I’ll just jerk until your belt loop tears. But then don’t you be blaming me none if this here gun of yours goes off.”

The biker reached around with his left hand and unhooked the chain.

“Turn back and put your nose against the wall.”

“But I’m bleeding.”

“Yes, you are. The real question being, are you going to be bleeding more?”

The biker obeyed while Max sat on the stair and looked through his wallet. It was stuffed with cash.

“Your license shows your real handle is George Rockton. Why’d you tell me your name was Mr. Smelly?”

From against the wall the biker’s voice sounded tinny and distant. “I didn’t. You used that name.”

“You should be thanking me then, Mr. Rockton. I’ve made you aware of a failin’ in your social graces. If you let your eyebrows grow and bathe more often, I be thinking you’d find more favor from the lasses, and without having to abuse them. There I go again, slipping in and out of me brogue. My shrink tells me stress is the cause of me doing that. Now I want you to roll back over so you can see my eyes, the windows into my black Irish soul.”

Rockton rolled.

Max tapped his barrel on the biker’s chin. He opened his mouth again, beads of sweat dotting his forehead.

“Most of the men I’ve kilt were finer men than you’ll ever be, men guilty of nothing mor’n being loyal soldiers for the British occupying army. Their deaths helped only Irish folk. Killing the likes of you would help the whole world. Did you know there were Irishmen fighting with General Custer at the Little Big Horn? Aye. There ain’t never been an army worth its salt that didn’t count at least one Irishman in its ranks.”

Max withdrew his gun barrel just far enough to let the biker use his tongue when he spoke, his lips kissing the end of the barrel with each word.

“Please don’t take my cash. It’s all I got.”

“Please, you be saying. Now the man says please. Don’t you be worrying none about your cash. If’n you flunk my quiz, well, they don’t take cash where you’ll be headin’. My blasted arthritis is kicking up, so I can’t be staying in this position long. I need some information you have, and if I don’t get it you’re right soon be a Hellseeker, like it says across your back.”

“What do you want to know?” Rockton said, his words sputtering a bit in the nose blood flowing across the corner of his mouth.

“What do your friends call ya?”

“Rock.”

“Well I ain’t your friend, Rock, so I’ll still be calling you Smelly.” Max moved his gun to under the biker’s chin. “When did Donny Andujar order you to come get his confession?”

“Donny didn’t send me.” A run of sweat cut a trail through the red smeared along the side of his face.

“No good, Mr. Smelly. How else would you be knowing about his confession? No more lies. Me arthritis is paining something awful, and I ain’t never been no patient man.”

“Donny told us, but he didn’t tell me to come after it.” His whisker stubble darkened the cleft in his chin. “Wait a minute, how do you know about Donny Andujar?”

Max thrust the gun barrel hard into the biker’s soft neck wattle. “I’ll be asking the questions. Why do you care that McCall has Donny’s confession?”

“Donny told me and his bodyguard, I don’t know his name, and some guy we all call Blink that McCall made Donny identify us as the ones who beat him up. I didn’t want the confession out there with my name on it.”

“Okay. Your idea and Donny approved it.”

“No! Donny told us not to do it; that’s why I came alone. I quit Donny and I’m heading outta town. That’s why all my cash is in my wallet. Let me go and you’ll never see me again.” His eyes pleaded along with his voice. “I promise.”

“Mr. Smelly, if I ever lay me eyes on ya agin or hear tell of you makin’ contact, even bein’ within view of that little lassie, your nose will be covered with falling dirt.”

“My stuff’s on my hog. I’ll be outta DC before the sun goes down.”

“You be on your way, then. I’ll be covering you when you pass your shank on the below landin’. Leave it there. I’ll be holding onto it and this here gun to plant at the scene of a crime in the event you ever bother that lass agin.”

Max slid his hand along the railing as he backed up four stairs to clear more space between them. The dazed biker stood and used the back of his hand to wipe the wet blood from his lips, then licked his hand as though he couldn’t afford to give up the protein. He looked at Max with a confused expression of curiosity and fear, cradled his right forearm in his left hand, and staggered down the stairs. Max could tell the arm wasn’t broken, likely just torn up inside.

Chapter 30

George Rockton lifted the ringing cell phone from the pouch on his Harley. “Rock here. Who are you?”

“You know who this is. I need a job done.”

“No way. I’m splitting town right now.”

“Then you could use some traveling money. I’ll double the fee I paid you last time.”

Rockton slowed his motorcycle and moved into the right lane. “Haviland was twenty-five large, you offering fifty?”

“Yes, fifty, but you’ll have to work fast. I’ll leave the money for you in the same place as last time. You can pick it up four hours after it’s done.”

“This being my last job for you, how do I know I’ll get paid? We’ll need to meet for this payment.”

“No. I keep my word, Mr. Rockton. This job is about my eliminating an enemy, not about making a new one.”

Rockton angled his front tire toward the next off ramp. “If the cops catch you, they’ll send you to jail. If you try to stiff me, I’ll find you and send you to hell.”

“You’ll be paid,” the caller said.

“Fuck it. Why not. I was just thinking about stopping to see a skirt before I split. You got a deal. Who’s the target?”

“Don’t get your love life in the way of my business.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Who is it?”

“Jack McCall. You know the name?”

“Sure. I’ll take care of my business tonight and McCall tomorrow, then I’m gone. Agreed?”

“No later than tomorrow.”

“It could be tonight if I can find him after I make my stop. Then I’m moving on.”

“I’ll pay an extra ten if it’s done tonight.”

Jack and Nora entered the National Portrait Gallery of the Smithsonian for their appointment with the Gallery’s Assistant Director and Head Portrait Curator, Randolph Harkin II.

The gallery, located in the old Patent Office Building at Eighth and F Streets NW, had many of its pieces out on a tour and most of the gallery closed for a major renovation.