Troubleshooter Page 4

  “I spent the afternoon filling up my credit cards replacing my wardrobe,” Hannibal said dryly. “You’re almost twenty minutes late.”

  “Secretaries get nine to five jobs.” Cindy eased out of her shoes. “I’m a professional, just like you. Oh, and you’re welcome for steering you to the job.”

  “You really want to help me out, find me an apartment while I’m working it.”

  “He looked at Mister Balor’s Southeast property today,” Ray said while steering the 850 GLT out of the parking garage and into rush hour traffic. Darkness hung at the edge of the city, held at bay by street lamps and headlights. “Hey, it’s got everything, you know? Crack. Heroin. Bums. Killer dogs. And, er…”

  “Yes?” Cindy pressed. “What else could there be?”

  Hannibal had no intention of bailing out his driver, but in the darkness Cindy’s sweet woman scent reached him, and he wanted to talk to her.

  “He means there was a woman. A woman of negotiable virtue.”

  “Negotiable? Oh. I see. A whore.”

  That brought a choking sound from Ray, and Hannibal’s first real smile in several hours. As the car crawled toward the Potomac, the headlights of oncoming vehicles illuminated the Volvo’s white interior. Cindy’s bright eyes and intriguing smile reminded Hannibal that the entire world had not in fact turned to garbage.

  “Actually, it was pretty bad,” he said, more politely. “It’s the local center for drugs, and houses a rather negative element. But I think I can convince them to go elsewhere if I talk to whoever’s bringing in the drugs. I always try to end a case the easiest way first. So much for me. How was your day?”

  Cindy pouted just enough. “Too long. Had to argue with the boss to take a case today. Guy got evicted from his little storefront. He and his family were also put out of the apartment they rented upstairs from the store, but he swears he paid the rent. Just didn’t get receipts every month. He might be a while raising the fee, but he wanted somebody who could habla Espanol, you know? Anyway, fighting to get the case took more out of me than preparing it. I’m tired, and hungry, and my feet hurt.”

  “Well, all problems easy to solve.” Hannibal stretched an arm along the back of the seat. “You have a place to sleep and you can get food. And I’ll bet just putting your feet up would solve your physical problem.”

  “Thanks.” She swung her stocking-wrapped calves onto his lap. Startled, he reflexively raised his hands. When they dropped, his left landed on her knees, just below her skirt’s hem. He snapped his hand up, but she did not seem to care, so he gently lowered it back into place.

  “So, do you want to take me somewhere for dinner?” Cindy asked. Hannibal thought her eyes were asking deeper questions, questions he had no answers for.

  “Sorry, really, but I’ve got a previous commitment.”

  “Really?” Cindy said after a moment’s silence. “Anybody I know?”

  “Doubtful. I’ll bet everybody you know has an address.”

  The Foggy Bottom Shelter, Northeast had spent most of its useful life as an A.M.E. Zion church. As the neighborhood became more and more rundown, its African Methodist Episcopal congregation had left for more God-fearing environs. After a few years as an empty vessel, the building became an easily invaded windbreak for transients. A coalition of charitable organizations and volunteers, short on funds but long on caring, turned it into a warm, dry place for those without homes. Now individual volunteers made it a house of love again.

  Hannibal suspended his train of thought to watch Cindy thumb a long piece of her hair out of her eyes while she ladled stew onto plates he held in front of her. Her eyes had momentarily lost focus. He had figured out that it happened when she was lost in thought.

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “Actually, I was mentally writing a promotion of this place,” she said through an embarrassed smile. “I’m thinking about making a presentation to the partners, to convince them to add this shelter to their list of donation recipients. Do you do this every week?”

  “Just about,” Hannibal said, “unless a case keeps me away.” He stood beside her, jacket off and white shirt’s sleeves rolled up. With a nod and a smile for each person shuffling past, he served them the food they needed with the respect they deserved. “Tuesday nights I serve the late dinner, and inventory donations.” He handed a plate over the stainless steel counter to an older woman.

  “You’re just a compulsive helper-outer, aren’t you?” Cindy asked, wiping perspiration away from her throat with a paper towel. The stainless steel serving area was scrubbed spotless, and light flashed from every surface. Their customers, however, were not so pristine. Hands and faces had been washed in every case, but some of their clothing bore the stains and smells of street living. Hannibal doubted that Cindy was this close to the homeless very often.

  “You didn’t have to do this you know.”

  “Are you kidding?” Cindy said. “I had to see you being humble. I wasn’t sure it was possible. Besides, during the day you don’t let anyone see those gorgeous eyes.”

  “Well, some of my customers in here find the shades a little intimidating,” he said. Besides, he was enjoying his clear view of her in form fitting black jeans, fashion boots, and a denim shirt that, with its two top buttons open, buoyed the spirits of every man in the chow line.

  Three men in a row said hello to him by name as they accepted their food, and asked how he was doing. Cindy waited until they had passed, then asked, “Lot of familiar faces?”

  “Yeah, sorry to say. Sometimes it comes as a big shock, suddenly being homeless. Some guys have a hard time recovering. You’d be surprised, Cindy. Upstairs where the cots are, people mostly sleep. Down here, after chow, you can get a hell of a good chess game, or advice on the stock market, or a history lesson. Nowhere to go don’t necessarily make a guy a bum.”

  “I know.” Cindy carried her empty pot to the back. “That what you usually do after your work here? Play chess?”

  “Sometimes, but I won’t be today.” He was gathering dirty cookware to put in the sink when their eyes met. Hers wrote an entirely different ending to the day than the one he had pictured. He was not sure if she stopped breathing or if it was just him. Clearing his throat got things working again.

  “After I drop you off, I’ll be back at my motel room early tonight. Your dad and I will be on an early stakeout in the morning. There’s a man I need to meet.”

  -10-

  A few blocks west of Cindy’s office, a black Lincoln Continental rolled slowly down a ramp into a parking garage. Only a handful of cars remained in the huge cavern hidden beneath its midtown office building. The engine’s roar echoed off the cement walls and floor to fill the hollow area with sound.

  The car stopped near the center of the parking garage, a dozen feet from four men standing in line on a large painted arrow pointing the way out. Two of them looked like twins in expensive blue suits. Between them stood a short black man in khakis and sneakers. A taller man whose left arm hung in a sling stood on their right, eyeing the black man suspiciously. Widely spaced bare bulbs threw their long black shadows across the floor.

  The engine died, suddenly filling the garage with silence. Both the limousine’s back doors opened, and two men got out. One had the size and carriage of a heavyweight contender. The other was his boss.

  The two newcomers walked toward the four waiting men, their clacking footsteps bouncing back at them from the walls. The older man’s breathing was rapid. The air in the garage smelled musty to him, as if the cement walls had absorbed the exhaust fumes puffed out into the space every day. He got within inches of one of the well-dressed men before he spoke.

  “Keep it brief. I got things to do,” Anthony Ronzini said. He was used to getting answers quickly.

  “This one works for you running numbers,” one well-dressed man answered. “He got into a conflict with another of your workers in a game of dice. There was violence.”

  “He pulle
d a gun on me,” said the man in the sling. “He shoots me over a dice game. And it ain’t the first time he’s caused trouble. This boy’s out of control. He’s a dangerous lunatic.”

  “And you a cheat,” spat the black man, in a strong Jamaican accent.

  Ronzini spun on the black man, stepping close enough to smell the grease on him. Despite his pasty face and gray rimmed hair, Ronzini seemed as full of energy as a man half his age.

  “Your name?”

  “Timothy.” The black man, Jamaican from his accent, pronounced his name as if there were no “H” in it. Ronzini stared into his face for a moment, then turned to cock an eye at the well-dressed spokesman. He in turn tipped his head toward the man wearing the sling.

  “Sir, we’ve used Randall here in a number of positions for several years. He’s no cheat.”

  Ronzini turned back to the black man. Although Ronzini’s face was in shadows, his eyes shone through. He still possessed the eyes of a calculating fox.

  “I see why I was called.” His voice was softly menacing. “You see Timothy, I can’t allow infighting between my employees. On the other hand, I retain the right to decide on retribution. Now, did you shoot Mister Randall here?”

  Despite his surface bluster, Timothy almost cringed. Just like thirty years ago, Ronzini’s enemies were still more intimidated by his arrogant confidence than anything else. Timothy stayed silent.

  “I see,” Ronzini said after a moment. “You needn’t answer, the truth is right there in your eyes. I think Vic here got it right. You’re too dangerous to remain in my organization. I’m a businessman and I can’t tolerate this kind of thing. Not here, with no real structure outside my own small organization.” He nodded to the well-dressed men. Each gripped one of Timothy’s arms. “You’re fired,” Ronzini said quietly. Then he turned back toward his car.

  As he reached his driving companion he called back over his shoulder. “Freddy here was a golden gloves champion in his younger days. Freddy, hurt him. Don’t break anything, and try not to let it show too much, but hurt him.”

  Ronzini was in the car by the time Freddy reached Timothy. Timothy looked at the men holding him, their faces bland masks. His arms were pinned solidly. There was no escape. Ronzini hoped in a way that Timothy was smarter than he looked. Then he would know that if he relaxed and let it happen it might not go too badly.

  With Freddy standing in front of him, Timothy lashed out with his right foot, missing Freddy’s groin but smashing into the inside of his thigh. Oh well, Ronzini thought. Some people just have to learn the hard way.

  Freddy didn’t even acknowledge being attacked. He just drove his right fist deep into Timothy’s stomach. The well-dressed men pulled him upright and Freddy’s left launched into the same target.

  Doubled over and pulled back up. Ronzini watched the pattern repeated, knowing that for Timothy, this would be his whole life for the next ten minutes.

  -11-

  WEDNESDAY

  “She really likes you, you know.”

  With his head against the driver’s door armrest, Ray could lie with his feet against the opposite door. Being a bit taller, Hannibal found the back seat somewhat less comfortable. He turned his knees to the side and replied toward the ceiling.

  “She’s a beautiful girl, Ray, and sweet too,” Hannibal said, “but she probably doesn’t want to get involved with me. I’m just not good with relationships. My work, you know?”

  “Same with her,” Ray said. “Her job is her life, and that makes me sad. She needs someone to pull her out of herself.”

  “Besides,” Hannibal quickly added, “when I’m on a case, it ain’t easy to wine and dine a girl right. I tend to put in a lot of hours.”

  “You’re telling me.” Ray sipped from his coffee cup and returned it to its resting place on his rounded stomach. “God don’t get up as early as you.”

  Hannibal smiled at that. At six o’clock, when he had pulled up in front of Cindy’s apartment, he had already run five miles, showered, and changed into business clothes. Ray had staggered down the stairs, grunting a good morning as he got into the car. Hannibal reminded him then that his three hundred dollars a week was not a handout, and he would make sure Ray earned it. Ray had bristled, but controlled it.

  They parked across the street from Balor’s apartment building again, this time in the next block. Single family houses, most in need of repair, lined this side of the street. A small grocery store stood at the corner, with twin pay telephones outside which Hannibal thought ideal for making drug deals. He would simply watch and wait.

  All the trees stood on the other side of the street. It was cool for August, and they were almost bare, lending a ghost town atmosphere to the block. Men in knit caps moved up and down as if they had nowhere to go. The women seemed mostly overweight, except for obvious working girls looking for their next John. He knew he was an intruder here, a threat to even the good people because he was about to upset the delicate ecological balance.

  Soon after they were parked, the smell of fried eggs and bacon crept into the car. They waited only two hours, during which Ray fidgeted and they both ate fruit and chips. Once, Ray went up to the store, to ask to use the bathroom. He returned with a couple of sodas. Hannibal found the street surprisingly quiet.

  He did not react when a Continental pulled up outside the store. It was the man getting out, though, who caught his attention. Man? He was a stove with legs, as big around as he was tall, but squared off and solid. A taller version came out next, black this time, and moved to the edge of the corner. Very alert, this one. Finally, an Italian about Hannibal’s height and weight who looked to be in his early twenties.

  The Italian wore a thousand-dollar suit and his hair was obviously styled rather than cut by a barber. The Man, for sure. The black man, evidently a bodyguard, preceded the smaller man into the store. Less than two minutes later, Wild Eyes came out of Balor’s building. He walked swiftly to the store, glancing around occasionally. Hannibal sat up, sweaty from too much time on the leather seats.

  When Wild Eyes came outside again, he looked paler than ever. He looked at the muscle man at the corner, and very quickly carried his two small packages back to his present home. Hannibal considered a moment, then slid his pistol out of its holster and held it over the front seat. Ray nearly jumped, but before he could speak, Hannibal dropped the gun onto Ray’s belly.

  “Now, no matter what happens, you stay right here. Capice?”

  “Yo comprendo,” Ray almost whispered.

  As if he had an appointment, Hannibal wandered over to stand beside the outside guard. They looked each other over once, and went back to patiently waiting. Hannibal had brought his empty soda can out. He shoved it into the trashcan beside the steps leading into the store. A piece of wide yellow tape hung out of the can, the kind marked “Police Line Do Not Cross.” The message was not lost on him.

  The black guard came out followed by his principle. Hannibal waited until they both reached the sidewalk before he spoke.

  “Can I have a moment?” Hannibal asked with excessive politeness in his voice. When the smaller man turned, Hannibal briefly wondered how a fellow so young could be the power in even a small area of this city. Hannibal also thought he saw a flash of fear on the man’s face, but that expression was quickly replaced by a smirk.

  “Are you trouble?” the man asked in a voice cultivated for toughness.

  “Not today.” Hannibal smiled as widely as he could and slowly lifted his jacket open. The other three men on the corner understood the significance of an empty holster. Everyone else nearby quietly moved indoors.

  “Cop?” the other man asked. Both guards moved smoothly to bracket Hannibal.

  “No kind of cop or G-man,” Hannibal assured him. “I’m an independent and I just want to talk for a minute. Hannibal Jones is my name. And I call you..?”

  “Sal. What’s the pitch?”

  “Real simple,” Hannibal said. “It’s that building down th
ere, number twenty-three thirteen. Believe it not, that place belongs to somebody. The guy who paid for it wants it back. Luckily, we both know there’s lots of other locations for you to do your business from, right?”

  “So?”

  “So, you name a price, I give you money, then you tell me your new location and I help your pals move. No police, no hassle. Cool?”

  Sal turned his head long enough to light a cigarette. When he turned back, he was chuckling silently.

  “You tell your boss, Hannibal,” Sal filled his lungs with smoke, “tell him I like things right where they’re at. He can’t do dick, the cops won’t do dick, and you sure as hell ain’t going to do dick, so why should I change anything? Now, you a do-gooder, huh? Or a hero?” As Sal stepped closer, his two guards closed in. Hannibal did not react.

  “I’m a businessman. Making you a business proposition. Wars are expensive and messy and they draw attention. I figured we could avoid all that.”

  Sal stopped within an inch of touching noses with Hannibal. “War? You talking war? Screw you. Ox, Petey, chew him up a little.”

  Sal turned away toward his car, but as he reached for his door the sounds of battle apparently stopped him. Maybe it was the familiar voice behind the grunts. He turned in time to see Hannibal bobbing and weaving around the black guard’s massive fists. Then a left hook shook the guard’s entire frame. The other man’s arms wrapped around Hannibal but that didn’t stop a front kick that flipped his partner’s head up and landed him on his back.

  Hannibal expanded his chest as if trying to break free of the guard’s massive arms, which looked impossible. Then, suddenly, he exhaled, leaving the grip loose. His right foot slammed back into the guard’s knee, and then stamped down hard on his instep. Hannibal seemed to slide out of the grip he could not break, turning to deliver three snapping jabs, a right cross, and a side kick that staggered his opponent.

  A karate shout accompanied Sal’s heel unexpectedly stamping into Hannibal’s back. Off balance, Hannibal hit and toppled over the trashcan. He wrestled with empty potato chip bags and drink cans to regain his feet while Sal and his followers got into their car. He was still brushing cigarette butts and other debris from his clothes when the Lincoln pulled away from the curb. Hannibal’s lips formed a tight line and his stomach clenched in rage. He had lost his Oakley’s in the fall and bent to retrieve them. When he looked up, he found Monty standing on the store steps.