Troubleshooter Read online

  “So you came back.”

  “Yeah,” Hannibal said. “Great reception too.”

  “Tried to tell you,” Monty said with a shrug of his shoulders. “That dude is bad news. You ought to leave him the fuck alone.”

  Hannibal leaned his hands on his knees so he could stand eye to eye with Monty. “The problem around here,” he said, loud enough for a wider audience, “is that everybody leaves him alone. They leave him alone to import poison to this neighborhood. Now me, I’m too stupid to leave him alone. I keep coming back, like a bad cold, you know? Not enough to kill you, but if it keeps coming back, it’ll sure wear you down.”

  Heading back to his car, he made a point of not showing the pain in his hip where it had hit the edge of the trashcan. He could feel Monty’s eyes on him.

  -12-

  Hitting the heavy bag hurt Hannibal’s hands and feet, but not as much as hitting his two most recent opponents had. More importantly, the bag never hit him back. Wearing only the loose white pants of his karate gi he honed his punches and kicks, concentrating on speed and accuracy. He believed they were more important than power, even against men the size of those he had so recently faced. Glistening with sweat, he whirled, spinning into a devastating back kick.

  “Hey, I didn’t hire on to be a punching bag, man,” Ray snapped, startled by a heel coming too near his face while he held the bag.

  “I haven’t hit you yet, have I?” Hannibal asked, launching into a series of jabs and crosses.

  “No, but God, it’s almost an hour and a half now,” Ray whined. “Jump rope, shadow boxing, now this. You got to be getting tired, and that’s when people make mistakes. Besides, I hate gyms. I ain’t set foot in one in a long time, and I don’t miss it.”

  “It’s not a gym,” Hannibal said, slamming a side kick into the bag that knocked the breath out of Ray. “This is a martial arts academy.”

  “Yeah, well changing the name don’t fool me. It looks like a gym, it sounds like a gym, and worst of all, it smells like a gym. Besides, didn’t you get enough of a workout in front of that grocery store this morning?”

  “That story’s not over yet,” Hannibal rasped, slamming hooks and jabs in combinations into the canvas bag.

  “Uh huh. Well what can you do?”

  “Well, I could find this Sal guy again and whip his ass. Or, I can make it too expensive for him to continue in that location, or just too inconvenient.” Hannibal landed a roundhouse kick on each of his last three words. “Kick boxing isn’t the only approach to getting a job done. All I need right now is a little more intel.”

  “You’re dreaming, Chico.” Ray watched Hannibal’s eyes as his boss put boxing combinations into the bag. “Nobody in Southeast is going to talk to you about a pusher, man. Ain’t you noticed how people just disappear around there?”

  Hannibal stepped back from the heavy bag, his chest rising and falling like the drive arm on a locomotive’s wheels. His heavy breathing made a steam engine noise.

  “I think I might know how to cultivate a source.” Then, as if to purposely change the subject, he asked, “Do you think your daughter might be free for dinner?”

  “If I say yes, will you stop kicking me through this damned heavy bag?”

  When Hannibal stepped back two paces from the bag, Ray shoved him toward the locker room. Hannibal expected Ray to return to the observation area but instead found his new friend at his elbow when he opened his locker. Ray reached in quickly, yanked Hannibal’s phone out of his jacket pocket and thrust it into his face.

  “Call her.”

  “Maybe after a shower I’ll…”

  “Now, Paco.” Ray stared at him the way Hannibal remembered his father doing when he was little more than a baby. It was one of his few real memories of the man. Licking his lips, he punched in Cindy’s number and waited through six long rings. His eyebrows shrugged at Ray, working to convey helplessness rather than reluctance.

  “It’s barely six,” Ray said. “Try her office.”

  Hannibal dialed as instructed, reconciled now to taking action. Still, he was startled when he heard Cindy’s voice on the other end.

  “Er, hi. It’s Hannibal. I guess I expected a secretary or somebody to answer the office phone.” He sat on the bench and looked up to find Ray on his way out the locker room door. Then, despite the activity in the room and the odor of sweaty bodies around him, he mentally pulled himself into a private space to talk.

  “Listen, Cindy, I was thinking.”

  “That’s often a good sign,” she said, sounding distracted. “What about exactly?”

  “Well, I thought we should get a little better acquainted. I’m done working for the day so, maybe we could meet someplace. To talk. Over dinner or something.” God, that sounded lame, even to him.

  “Sorry, Hannibal, I’ve got a lot to get done tonight. I’m working on a new DPO. A direct public offering from one of our clients.”

  “DPO? Is that like an IPO?” Hannibal asked.

  “Yeah, except the shares are sold direct to the public, without a lot of the registration and reporting requirements that IPOs go through. DPOs are a good way for small businesses to raise capital. But you don’t want to hear about that stuff.”

  “No, it’s interesting,” Hannibal said.

  “Anyhow, I’ll be here for hours putting this thing together. Sorry, but I have to decline.”

  “Okay. I understand.” Hannibal squeezed his eyes shut and when he opened them the walls of his private space had crumbled. A fellow three lockers down was looking at him, his face beaming the sympathy that comes from shared experience. Hannibal nodded and was about to say goodbye when Cindy said something he almost missed.

  “Rain check?”

  “Sure, sure,” Hannibal said. “Maybe you can explain all that DPO stuff to me tomorrow night.”

  “If we both have time.” Hannibal heard papers shuffling. He could feel her attention pulling away from him, back to the job at hand. Almost absently she said, “So how’s the case going? Any progress?”

  “I need to find out more about what’s going on down there,” Hannibal said. The reminder of work made him suddenly aware of his fatigue. “Shouldn’t be a problem though. I met somebody today who sees it all. Maybe he’ll give me what I need.”

  -13-

  THURSDAY

  “Hey, yo, Monty,” Hannibal called through his rolled down window. The boy spun on his skateboard, identified the source of the call and rolled to the car.

  “Back for another beating? You must like getting hit.”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Hannibal said from inside the car. “What you up to?”

  “What’s it to you?” Monty looked into the front seat, as if making sure Ray was the only other occupant.

  “Well, if you’re not too busy I thought I’d buy you lunch.”

  “Where?” Monty asked. Hannibal found it interesting that the first question was not “why.”

  “Your lunch. You call it.”

  Monty stared around, as if surrounded by options. Finally, while facing the front of the Volvo, he said “There’s a Micky D’s four, five blocks up that way.”

  “Fine. Climb in.”

  “Nuh-uh.” Monty stepped back, eyeing the white car’s sleek lines, clutching his board tighter. “I don’t get in nobody’s car I don’t know. Besides…” The boy glanced up and down his home street as if it were suddenly foreign.

  “Besides,” Hannibal said, almost to himself, “it kind of looks like a pimp’s car. Okay. Ray, meet you there.”

  Hannibal slid out onto the street. Today he wore black jeans and a short sleeved knit shirt, his shades in place. He looked up at Monty’s house, badly needing paint, but its yard clean. He glanced back at a group of older boys hanging by the phones in front of the store, then across at number twenty-three thirteen, fully occupied yet abandoned. He remembered reading in one of his psychology classes how people, like animals, are shaped as much by their surroundings as by g
enetics. If that was true, how could this bright young man survive in such an environment? How had he?

  “Yeah, so what you looking at?”

  “Your Skinner box, Monty,” Hannibal replied. “So let’s walk.”

  Hannibal’s car pulled away, giving him time to examine his companion. Monty wore a new looking ball cap, its bill pointed over his left shoulder, but his Redskins tee shirt and blue jeans had been washed too many times, their colors dull and faded. On these streets, against these buildings, dull and faded might be the best camouflage. As they walked, he felt Monty checking him out as well. Had he guessed Hannibal’s reason for being here? No, Hannibal saw only curiosity in the boy’s eyes.

  When they opened the door, Hannibal’s stomach lurched at the smell of grease, but he noticed Monty’s first genuine smile. Young people in here laughed and ate quickly to the sound from boom boxes parked on their tables. Old men, curled into a few booths, stared at the wall, ignoring and ignored by everyone else. Loud talkers, loud rappers, and cooking noise almost blotted out any real conversations, except in the far corners. Although not overcrowded, the place still made Hannibal slightly claustrophobic, as if too many were trying to do too much living in too small a space.

  Hannibal ate more slowly, but Monty had much more food, so they finished at about the same time. The boy did a good job on a double quarter pounder with cheese, large fries, a large drink, some chicken nuggets and an apple pie. During lunch Hannibal found out he lived with his widowed grandmother. He did not know what he wanted to be, and found the phrase “when you grow up” offensive. As he swallowed his last few fries, Monty pulled a deck of cards from his hip pocket.

  “Okay, so what’s the scam?” Monty asked, idly shuffling the cards.

  “Scam?”

  “Well, shit, nobody buys for nothing.” Monty absently cut the deck and started dealing blackjack. “Or is this National Buy-A-Poor-Kid-A-Burger day?”

  “If I wanted something, it wouldn’t be too bright to give you the lunch first, now would it?” Hannibal was more than a little amused. This kid could ride a long way on ego.

  “Yeah, well you don’t look too bright. You need a bag man? A mule? Maybe a lookout? I’m a damned good lookout.”

  Now Hannibal knew how he would play this. Monty saw himself as a streetwise player. To an extent it was probably true. In any case, he would have to treat Monty like the adults he had dealt with in this same situation. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, which immediately got Monty’s attention.

  “Okay, you’ve got me pegged,” Hannibal said. “What I want, pal, is a little chat with you about what goes on in your block.”

  Monty suddenly began looking around their unpadded orange and yellow booth as if it had abruptly moved to the truck lane on I-95 and he expected seventy-mile an hour company.

  “I figured you’d know what was going on,” Hannibal rushed on. “You’re an alert fellow.”

  “Word,” Monty replied, slouching just a bit. “I know all the shit goes down.”

  On an impulse, Hannibal peeled a bill off his roll of fives. He laid the bill down in front of Monty, but did not take his hand away. “This one says, no more profanity when you’re talking to me.”

  Monty said, “Shit,” and Hannibal pulled his hand back, with its prize. “Okay, okay, the golden rule, man.” Monty snatched the bill, shoving it into his pocket.

  “Golden rule?”

  “The man with the gold makes the rules, man,” Monty said. “You got the gold. Now, what you want?”

  When it came out, Monty’s smile was infectious. Hannibal caught it. “You a trip, Monty. Your grandmother call you Lamont?”

  “What? No man, she calls me Gabriel. That’s what my folks did to me before they split.”

  “Gabriel?” Hannibal asked. “How do you get Monty from that?”

  “They call me Monty because of this.” He showed Hannibal the top card on his deck, the ace of clubs, then laid the top three down, left to right. “Three card monte is how I get my chump change.” Monty quickly slid the three cards around, changing their order.

  Stifling a laugh, Hannibal laid down another bill. Again, his fingers held it in place. “Okay, you little hustler, how long has our friend Sal been around? He just don’t fit in, in the hood.” As if for emphasis, he tapped the card on the left.

  Monty picked up Hannibal’s card, a red queen, then showed him the ace in the center and picked up the bill. “Sal only moved in about three months ago. He’s The Man, and nobody f…messes with him.” Monty dropped three more cards and Hannibal dropped another bill.

  “His people loyal to him, or his money? Or his drugs?” Hannibal tapped the center card.

  Monty showed the center card, a loser, then the flashed card, on the right. “Ain’t no loyalty for junkies and crack heads, brother.” Monty said it as if quoting an obvious axiom. “It’s just everybody’s scared of him.”

  “He didn’t look all that bad to me.” Hannibal wondered if he would get anything for free.

  Monty flashed his top card again, a red deuce, and dropped the top three cards, more slowly this time. “Oh, he’s a bad dude, but he ain’t scary bad. So you can figure it ain’t him. It’s whoever’s behind him.”

  “Thanks,” Hannibal said, impressed by he boy’s insight. “So, does he do the deal same time, same place, every day? What I saw yesterday seemed kind of obvious.” Another bill, and another wrong card chosen. Monty pocketed five more dollars.

  “It ain’t that easy. Never the same time and place twice.” Then Monty dealt again, flipping the cards very slowly this time, as if to prove that no one could get confused about the whereabouts of the black king he had shown Hannibal before he started. Then he looked up, waiting.

  Hannibal looked around quickly. People here seemed very good at minding their own business. And this kid was playing him like a pro. There must be more. He peeled off another bill and laid it on the table. This time he moved his hand, and tapped the right side card.

  Monty slowly lifted the right card, a red trey. “Different every day, but if a guy pays attention he’ll see there’s a pattern. Sal, he ain’t too bright.” Now, slowly, Monty eased a finger under the center card and flipped it up, revealing the wandering black king. “Tonight, for example, he ought to be parked a block west around ten-thirty. If you want to know.” Monty waited for a slight nod from Hannibal before he picked up the bill on the table.

  “I think that’s all I need,” Hannibal said, pocketing his money roll. “You ready to go?”

  Monty looked over his shoulder dramatically. “Maybe we better not leave together.”

  Hannibal wondered if playing spy was a universal obsession among boys. He remembered getting so wrapped up in the game in his own youth that he lost track of reality. In his case, it happened at the center of the James Bond world of spies, the Berlin Wall.

  As a child, he got lost in passing imaginary top secret notes to deep cover agents crossing the border between East and West. With no father and few friends, he had gratefully slipped into a world where nothing was as it seemed. A world where his father might not be dead, but a prisoner, part of some monstrous conspiracy. Or better still, maybe his dad was the heroic spy, undercover so deep he could not even contact his own son.

  Hannibal had lived within walking distance of the Brandenberg Gate. Almost every weekend he would go to the plaza and watch the armed guards on the other side. Books, movies and the oppressive atmosphere in his hometown had made Hannibal suspicious of every Slavic looking face he passed. Reality had merged with his view of the world.

  But that was all half a lifetime away. In the present day case, Hannibal was not sure how closely Monty’s reactions matched up with his reality.

  “Well, Ray’s right outside now,” Hannibal said. “Why don’t we just follow you back in the car? Just in case somebody saw all that green you just stashed in your slide.”

  Ray had never seen an indoor firing range before and he was none too comforta
ble. The drive to Virginia and out I-66 had brought them to a huge blue and white building. Ray followed Hannibal inside, very aware that every face he had seen since they arrived was white. The place was clean and comfortably air conditioned, but Ray still felt himself on the edge of sweating. Walking deeper into the building, down carpeted halls full of NRA members, was enough to make him nervous. But as they approached a shooting station he could see that Hannibal had other things on his mind: his gun, and his recent encounter with the boy he called Monty.

  “I’m telling you, he’s a grown man in a kid’s body.” Hannibal said, carefully pushed twelve bullets into a magazine.

  “Maybe he’s a midget,” Ray said. “I think you just got hustled, Chico.” He twisted his neck to read the box Hannibal was pulling shells from. Winchester, it said. Forty caliber, one hundred eighty grain Black Talon SXT hollowpoint ammunition. To a man who had never even held a firearm, they sounded big, nasty and powerful.

  “He’s a hustler, but I don’t think he’s hustling me.” Hannibal said. He traded his sunglasses for amber safety lenses and pulled on headphone type hearing protection. “This kid’s ego is tied in to knowing what’s going on in his hood. He knows he can’t be a player, but he sure as hell can watch the game. I’ll bet he knows every deal that goes down in Southeast D.C.” Hannibal slapped the magazine into his automatic and stepped to his firing station.

  Ray stepped backwards as far as he could to distance himself from the action. Standing against the back wall, he looked past Hannibal at a man-shaped paper target twenty-five yards farther on. Even with earplugs in, he was buffeted by the pistol’s blasting report. Hannibal seemed even more relaxed than the other shooters, firing neither hurriedly nor very slowly. Ray was surprised at the amount of smoke filling the target area. It was ducted away, but he didn’t know pistols created so much smoke to begin with. After twelve shots, Hannibal pushed a button, summoning his target to him.