Troubleshooter Page 8
“I know you got what I want,” Hannibal said.
“Which is?”
“A bloop tube.” Hannibal let his eyes wander. Frasier’s house always looked to him like a hunting lodge. He kept expecting to find something’s head hanging on the wall.
“Downstairs.” Frasier stood as if his chair had spikes in it, and pulled open the door leading to his basement. Hannibal and Ray quickly followed.
Below Frasier’s living room they entered a comfortable finished basement. Frasier leaned against the paneling on the back wall and cut his eyes toward Ray. Hannibal nodded. Frasier shrugged, put both hands against the wall behind him, and slid the panel aside. With his back against the steel door now revealed, he turned a combination dial, which his body hid. Hannibal listened to the ratcheting, then the click. When the door swung inward, Frasier backed inside and his guests followed him.
The hidden room, built into the hill behind the house, looked twice as big as Frasier’s living room. The walls were covered by brackets holding rifles, shotguns and a variety of edged and bludgeon weapons Hannibal recognized but figured Ray would not. No museum could match Ray’s collection of exotic weaponry. Steel filing cabinets lined one wall. Wooden bins and chests formed aisles in the room, giving it the appearance of a bizarre supermarket of mayhem. The air was unusually dry, and Hannibal could hear the soft hiss of ventilation. Across the room, Frasier lifted what looked like a single barreled shotgun down from brackets. With its wooden butt the weapon was not quite thirty inches long.
“Here you go, Hannibal. M79 grenade launcher. Forty millimeter.”
Hannibal broke open the shotgun-style weapon and looked down its aluminum barrel. “Very nice. Now, I don’t want to own this beauty, just rent her for about twenty-four hours. I’ll also need a half dozen smoke grenades.”
“Parachute type?” Frasier pulled open a drawer in a file cabinet.
“No, ground markers,” Hannibal said, “I need the ones that go off on impact.
“Roger.” Frasier handed Ray a cardboard box of grenades, which looked like aluminum shotgun shells. “That it?”
“Afraid so.” Hannibal clicked his weapon back together. “Got to run. I’m on the clock.”
“No problem, man. Pay me when you bring the stuff back. Hey, Gretch is going to be mad she missed you.”
“Give her my best,” Hannibal said as they left the hidden room. From outside Ray stared back into the weapons vault until the steel door swung completely shut.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Frasier smiled. “Hey, he can talk. I was beginning to think you were like Zorro’s sidekick in the old TV show. Well, what’s on your mind?”
“Where do you get all that stuff?”
Frasier’s conversational tone never varied. “Well I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Frasier chuckled to himself maniacally while showing his guests back up the stairs and to the door. There he hugged Hannibal tightly, slapping his back like a long lost brother. Ray shook Frasier’s hand with clear reluctance just before he and Hannibal finally left. Hannibal did not say anything when they got in the car. He could see Ray took Frasier far too seriously, and he had no intention of disillusioning him. They were back on the highway before Ray spoke again.
“So you got your plan and you got your toys, so what now?”
Hannibal leaned forward. “Now, Ray, I’ve got a favor to ask. We need to hit a few stores for me to pick up some necessities for tonight. But after I get that stuff jammed into the trunk…” he hesitated, rethought it, and went on. “After that, I’d like to take Cindy to a nice seafood place. Kind of…”
“Alone?” Ray asked. “No sweat, chico. I’ll just take a nap and you can pick me up after, to head out to the house.”
Hannibal leaned back smiling, and said “thanks” so low Ray barely heard it.
-17-
It wasn’t at all what Hannibal expected. When he told Cindy that he wanted to take her to her favorite place, he expected her to name an expensive seafood restaurant in the suburbs, or maybe on the Maryland coast where eateries competed for who could claim to have the best crab cakes. His first surprise arrived soon after he picked her up at her office. Their destination was only a few minutes away, just west of Dupont Circle. They got lucky and found parking on the street just a block away.
They were not in the suburbs or on the shore, and as they stepped through the door Hannibal realized this was not to be an expensive meal. The restaurant was little more than a café, really, snuggled down in the basement of a townhouse. The decor was modern and stylish in an unpretentious way. As fancy as they were, the chairs were still folding chairs. The lighting was dim, but the colors surrounding them were so bright that the walls and decorations seemed to shed their own light.
As they settled in at their laminated table, he also realized that she had not steered them here to order a lobster or fresh caught crabs or even that local favorite, a salt baked rockfish. Salsa Thai was not a seafood restaurant, but he had guessed that by the name.
“First time here?” Cindy asked, picking up a menu.
“I’m pretty much a steak and potatoes kind of guy myself.”
“We’ll fix that,” she said through a smile. In the soft light, Hannibal saw Cindy’s face as if for the first time. He had never noticed that she wore makeup and now he realized that what she did wear was very subtle. Her lipstick was nearly worn off by this time of the day and for some reason he found it amusing that she had not bothered to freshen it before her meal. Her hair was down and its ends looked tired, drooping from a long workday. Yet her eyes belied the other signs. They were full of life, wide awake and ready for more. And as he picked up his menu he noticed that she was watching him as closely as he had observed her.
“Something?”
Cindy nodded. “That’s a nasty scrape on your cheek. It didn’t look that bad this morning.”
“Occupational hazard,” Hannibal said. “I don’t think it will be a scar, though.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed by that news. But she seemed to be smiling as she looked over her menu. “Did you have a doctor take a look at it?”
“It wasn’t bad enough for that,” Hannibal said. “I’m kind of used to taking care of the small injuries myself. I put some NuSkin on it. You’ll hardly notice it tomorrow.” He looked down at his own menu in some confusion. He recognized a lot of the words, but not many of the actual foods listed. It wasn’t just his first visit to this Thai restaurant, but rather his first time in any Thai restaurant.
“Since, this is your favorite place, why don’t you order for us?”
“It’s my favorite mostly because it’s close,” Cindy said, signaling a waiter. “And the food is really good, if you like hot stuff. Do you like hot stuff, Mister Jones?”
He smiled broadly. “Are you always so full of innuendo, Ms. Santiago?”
“Is that what I’m full of?” she said in response. Then, to the waiter she said “Bring us some of those Pinkies in a Blanket for starters, and a couple of Chang beers. Then the wild pork for me, and for the newbie here, hmm, I think beef with basil leaves and chili. And make everything Bangkok hot.”
Their beers arrived first, and Hannibal smiled at the two elephants apparently butting heads on the label before tipping the bottle’s contents into his glass. It produced a bubbly head, but the head shrank rapidly, which Hannibal did not take as a good sign. Cindy surprised him by taking a substantial swallow from hers.
“Authentic Thai beer,” Cindy said. “Brewed in Thailand but imported by a D.C. company.”
“And you obviously like it a lot,” Hannibal grinned.
“Hey, in my business you have to be able to drink.”
“The practice of law requires a good alcohol tolerance?” Hannibal asked, taking a tentative sip from his glass. The beer was thin, and bitter enough to make his head shake. Maybe he didn’t have what it took to be a lawyer.
Hannibal took another sip. Despite an aftertaste he would find hard to describe, it really wasn’t too bad. It seemed light of body to him, but that could just be in comparison to the German beers he had drunk so much of.
“Yes, you did say something about working with businesses,” he said, watching her drain her glass to one-third its original contents. “Is that what you did at the last place too?”
“Oh there was no last place. I joined Nieswand and Balor as an associate right out of law school. But enough about me. I want to know why nobody has heard about a hero like you. Don’t you have a publicist?”
The girl made him laugh, and he was doing so, quietly, as their appetizers arrived. At first glance they looked like nothing more than egg rolls. Hannibal picked one up as he spoke.
“Cindy, low profile is the very essence of the Secret Service. Especially in the protective service, which is where I was. People see you a dozen times on television or at a speech, but they still shouldn’t recognize you.” He stopped to take a bite, and smiled as the flavor spread through his mouth.
“That’s a Pinky in the Blanket,” Cindy said, selecting one for herself. “Really, just shrimp fried in an egg roll wrapper, but boy are they good. Dip it in that stuff. And tell me why you left the service.”
Hannibal swirled his bit of food in the dark red sauce Cindy indicated. “I had a disagreement with my boss,” he said. “I don’t want to get into specifics, but it had to do with whether I had a duty to protect the principle’s reputation as well as his life. This all came up after a particular incident. I didn’t think my duty included covering up stupid actions. My supervisor did. The friction between us just grew and grew.” He paused to take a bite.
“So what happened?” Cindy asked. “Did you get into an argument?”
“I slugged him. Hey, that’s really good. And hot. I mean really hot, not like the stuff they usually call spicy in a restaurant.”
“Wait a minute,” Cindy said. “You hit your boss?”
“Well, yeah. Knocked him down, actually.” Hannibal dipped another appetizer, bit it in half, and followed it with a swallow of beer. Now it tasted pretty good.
Cindy was smiling fully now, her head tipped to the side just so in a way that seemed awfully charming to Hannibal. “I take it they frown on that kind of thing in government service.”
“Actually, the guy was known to be a bit of an asshole so they were pretty easy on me,” Hannibal said. “They allowed me to resign, and helped me get my private investigator’s license. All of a sudden, I was self-employed. That was only a few months ago. Say, don’t we need a couple more beers?”
Before Cindy could respond, their entrees arrived. Aside from delivering their main plates, the waiter spread small containers all over the table including plenty of steamed rice. Hannibal knew the rice would come in handy to absorb the spice if all the food was as hot as his first sample.
“Man, everything looks good,” Hannibal said. “I guess it was dumb for me to expect you to want the standard stuff. I even considered trying to find a Cuban restaurant but I see you’ve moved well past that stuff.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Cindy said, choosing a fork to attack her wild pork. “Despite what my father might think, I haven’t turned my back on my heritage. In fact, nobody can do the Cuban cooking thing as well as I can in my own kitchen. Maybe some time soon I’ll let you sample my own paella.”
“Now that’s an invitation I couldn’t say no to,” Hannibal said. “If I ever eat again, that is. If we finish all this stuff they’ll have to roll us home when we’re done.”
“Or at least back to the office, for me,” Cindy said,
Hannibal’s eyes lowered to his own plate. “Your office? You’re going back to work after dinner?”
“I have things that just need to be finished,” Cindy said. In the dim indoor twilight the restaurant maintained her eyes sparkled alluringly. There was enough room noise to make Hannibal lean forward when her voice lowered. “You know, I could possibly change my plans. That is, if you’re free for the rest of the evening.”
“No,” Hannibal said, almost in a sigh. “I’m afraid I’m working tonight too. You’re not the only one with unfinished business to pursue.”
-18-
Nine o’clock seemed late to be knocking on Mother Washington’s door. Hannibal fidgeted on the porch and unthinkingly straightened up when he heard her coming.
“Who is it?” the woman called in a strong voice.
“It’s Hannibal Jones, Mother Washington,” he called through the door. “I was here last night.”
A chain rattled and three locks clicked before the door opened. Monty stood behind his grandmother, a dubious backstop in case all was not as it should be. She wore a pleasant face, but mumbled something about bothering old people at this time of night. Hannibal smiled and stepped in, to be greeted by the warm aroma of chocolate chip cookies. When he stopped in front of the sofa the room became suddenly quiet, as if Monty and his grandmother were waiting for him to make the first move.
“It’s actually Monty I came to see. I need a favor.”
“What you need, child?” Mrs. Washington instantly became interested when it sounded like someone might need help.
“I’m fine, Mother Washington, really,” he assured her, not sitting. “I really need Monty to just do something for me. I’m going in number twenty-three thirteen.”
“Oh, wow!” Monty said, but Hannibal’s statement put a look of horror on Mother Washington’s face.
“I’m going in there in a few minutes,” Hannibal continued, “And when I do I’d like to have lots of company, and I think I know how to arrange it. Can Monty make a phone call for me?”
Hannibal had left Ray parked around the corner. Now he stood in the backyard of Balor’s contested building, looking up at long unused clotheslines that still hung slack from three of the open kitchen windows out to the row of tall trees behind him. A rusted fire escape, little more than an iron ladder, snaked down the wall beside those windows.
Glowing ghostly under a full moon, the yard was a field of knee high weeds, as wide as the house but not very deep. The little yard was alive with a chorus of crickets. It smelled of decay and rust, and long ago visits from untrained dogs. Neighboring yards looked little different. What was it like there, he wondered, before the despair that comes with unemployment stripped away all pride of ownership?
Almost tripping over a rusted tricycle, he set down his shopping bag. Then his black form sank into the weeds, all but disappearing. He knew what he planned to do would draw attention, but he wanted people in the house behind him to be able to say they could not see him.
Next he pulled the M79 from the bag, breaking open its black anodized barrel and shoving a cartridge inside. He clicked his weapon together, flipped up the leaf sight and got comfortable with the stock against his left shoulder. He used the skeletal tricycle to support his grenade launcher. A quick look at his watch told him that if Monty was sticking to the schedule he had just dialed his grandmother’s telephone. Hannibal had no doubt that Monty would sound suitably hysterical to the people at the other end.
Sylvia was so nervous she spilled a drop of the precious fluid from her spoon. Sitting in that first floor kitchen, her eyes flashed from left to right.
“What’s the matter, baby?” her partner asked, staring not at her but at the trembling spoon full of melted junk.
“It’s that man,” Sylvia moaned. “That man that crashed in here, waving a gun in my face. He did this to me.”
“Relax babe. You’re all right now.”
All right? Was she? Resting the needle against her arm Sylvia noticed, as if for the first time, how thin she was. Just bones wrapped in dark brown skin. It was only one sign of her
spiraling dive toward hell. Her hair was falling out. Her teeth were bad. And the pain came around on schedule every night about this time.
Despite all that, she had never considered going to the hospital for help until that man had pointed a pistol at her head. Now, thanks to him, she was terrified.
Sitting there, just about to shoot up, she suddenly felt as if somebody was watching her. Impulsively, she dropped her needle and spun toward the windows. Deep blackness hung against them, yet the feeling remained.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, girl?” her partner asked.
Was it just the paranoia again, she wondered. She wrapped her bony fingers around the edge of the sink and stared wide-eyed into the darkness behind the house. Her own reflection stared back from inches beyond the window. Fear twisted her face into a ghoulish mask, but she was not sure what she was afraid of. If one more thing happened, she silently swore, she would run to that hospital and beg for help.
Surrounded by tall grass and weeds, Hannibal raised his barrel, lining up the left top window in his sights. When he squeezed the M79’s trigger, it rewarded him with its signature thumping sound which, although impossible to describe, had earned the weapon its nickname.
By the time the first grenade landed in one apartment’s kitchen, he had reloaded. On his second try he aimed a little high, breaking a raised window. Just before his third shot, a light came on behind him. Some neighbor he assumed, trying to figure out what was making that weird noise.
Thick smoke billowed out from the top left window before he sent a grenade into window number four. He heard a high female voice behind him say “What the hell is that?” but he was sure no one could see him. He had the final window lined up, but froze because he saw a face behind it. It looked like the skinny female junkie he met there.
When she turned away from the window, he pumped his last shell into it. Voices were rising in the building now, a general panic evident from inarticulate screams. A small smile curled the edge of his mouth. Moving in a crouch, he turned and quietly left the backyard.