Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “I know you don’t want to hear this but…”

  “We should get into smack,” Damone finished for him. “Let me think about it,” Damone said.

  “The money, the laundered money, it is going where it is supposed to go?” Damone asked.

  “With the exception of what our friends around Cedar/Riverside are helping themselves to, yes,” Donald answered.

  “And you’re pretty certain that we are short eight million so far this year?” Damone asked for the fourth time during this meeting.

  “At least.”

  “Very well,” Damone said wrapping up the meeting. “I have some things to think about. But, for now, at least, we will maintain the status quo. We may not be making as much with crack as we could with street-smack, but there is not nearly as much heat. The word ‘heroin’ scares everyone. It’s like the word ‘cancer’.”

  Damone went to his desk and retrieved a plain white envelope.

  “These are your copies,” Donald said while Damone went to his desk. Donald neatly stacked the financials for him and placed them in a large envelope. The date of the meeting was prominently displayed on it.

  “Here you are and thank you, my friend,” Damone said. He handed Donald the envelope with ten thousand dollars in it.

  He escorted the accountant out and found Lewis and Monroe waiting for him. The three of them took the back stairs behind Damone’s office up to the third-floor apartment. They found chairs in the living room after Damone had served coffee.

  “That problem has been taken care of?” Damone asked after taking his seat.

  “Yes, sir,” Lewis replied.

  Lewis and Monroe had spent the night in a motel in Superior, Wisconsin. Superior is a city across from the Lake Superior port in Duluth. The two of them had taken a speedboat roughly twenty miles into Lake Superior where they dumped their cargo; two twenty-year-old gang bangers who had tried to defy Damone. They were trying to set themselves up in the dope slinging business. They had received a warning from one of Monroe’s guys. Instead of heeding the message, Monroe’s man had been found in an alley with three in bullets in the head. The word went out through the black community, and by noon of the day he was found dead, yesterday, Monroe had them both.

  Lewis helped Monroe take them to a safe house and into the basement. Within minutes the weaker of the two was confessing and begging for forgiveness. He took the first bullet in the forehead. The second, more defiant one wet himself just before Monroe shot him as well.

  “Good. Now get the word out, quietly. It seems every so often an example needs to be made,” Damone said.

  “Our not-so-friendly Muslim brothers, the Imam especially, have been enriching themselves more than we knew,” Damone told his trusted lieutenants.

  “That’s not a surprise, boss,” Lewis said.

  “No, it’s not,” Damone agreed. He held up his cup for Monroe to fill it and thanked him.

  “The problem is, there isn’t much I can do about it right now,” Damone said.

  “I was thinking,” Lewis said. “Maybe we could quietly work with Saadaq to find out where the money is going. The old thief has to be putting it somewhere.”

  “He can’t spend it all on American whores,” Monroe added.

  Damone smiled at Monroe’s comment and said, “From what we hear, he’s trying.”

  Damone sat quietly for a moment sipping his coffee. He looked at Lewis and said, “Get together with Saadaq. See what he thinks. There are other more important interests at stake. But be discreet. Do it right away. Today. When I get back, I’ll want to know if it is feasible. Can we find out where the money is without him knowing about it?”

  “I don’t mean to question you, but I think both me and Monroe should go to Chicago with you,” Lewis said.

  “Thank you for your concern, my friend. I’ll be fine. I’ll be with Jeron. It’s only a couple of days. We’ll be back Thursday morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go see Jimmy Jones. I’ve decided to meet with the Italian. Thursday afternoon. Here, downstairs in the conference room. Maybe he can make up for some of the lost revenue.”

  Carvelli’s personal phone was ringing. He automatically reached inside his coat pocket before remembering where he had left it. He opened the console between the seats, took it out and looked at the caller ID.

  “Now what?” he muttered to himself then put the phone to his ear.

  “Yeah,” he answered it. “What’s up?”

  “It’s Jeff Johnson,” the FBI agent said. “We need to get together for an update.”

  “I just met with you yesterday. I don’t have time,” Carvelli said.

  “Today, now. I just got off the phone with Washington and they’re breathing down my neck. We can meet at your place. Give me fifteen minutes so I can get something for them to get them off my back.”

  “Okay,” Carvelli agreed. “I’m in my car. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Great. Thanks, Tony.”

  Carvelli cut off the call without a reply to Johnson’s last comment. Instead, he made a turn while dropping the phone back in the console.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “’Cause I’m not busy enough.”

  Still grumbling, he parked the Lincoln on the street in front of his house in South Minneapolis. Johnson and his partner, Tess Richards, were sitting in their car across the street. Before Carvelli had a chance to exit the Lincoln, his business phone rang.

  “Yeah,” Carvelli answered it.

  “Russo?” he heard Jimmy Jones ask.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Jimmy. What’s up?”

  By now both of the FBI agents were standing in the street next to Carvelli’s window. He looked at them and held up his index finger indicating he wanted them to wait.

  “You’re getting your wish, white guy,” Jimmy Jones said. “The man says he’ll meet you Thursday afternoon. One of his guys will get in touch to let you know where and when.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you…” Carvelli started to say then realized no one was on the other end.

  “Great timing,” Carvelli said as he shook hands with the agents. “Our pal, Jimmy. He says the man wants to meet Thursday afternoon.”

  Still standing in the street, Johnson asked, “You want backup?”

  “Maybe. No offense, but I know a couple of MPD undercover guys who could do it, probably better than two obvious Feebs.”

  “You know, I really don’t like being called that,” Johnson said.

  “Really?” Tess asked. “I think it’s kind of cute. Don’t take it so personally.”

  “Jeff!” Carvelli said with a hand over his heart feigning indignation. “Would I do anything to insult a fellow law enforcement officer from the federal government? It’s a term of endearment.”

  “You are so full of shit, Carvelli,” Johnson said, even though he could not suppress a grin.

  “I’ll get in touch as soon as I can after we meet.”

  “Suggest to him that you’re gonna need a laundry service. Washington is specifically looking for that. They are seeing money going out, but they don’t know from where or to where,” Johnson said.

  “Will do. Listen,” Carvelli continued. “I was on my way to do something. I gotta go.”

  “Where were you going to do what?” Tess asked.

  “Nothing to do with this. A favor for a friend.”

  “Be careful,” Johnson asked.

  While Carvelli was conversing in front of his house with the FBI, Maddy was meeting with retired detective Sherry Bowen. They were in the same Northside restaurant in the same horseshoe booth in the back. With them was Tonya Howard and her friend, Bethany Morris. In between them were three young girls. All three of them looked very nervous.

  Maddy sat down in the booth across from Sherry, next to Tonya. With seven people the booth was a lot more crowded than last time.

  “Hi, Tonya, Bethany,” Maddy said.

  “These are the three girls I told yo
u about. No names,” Sherry said.

  “That’s fine,” Maddy said. She looked at the nervous girls with a warm smile and said, “I will protect your privacy. Nothing that you tell me will go any farther than here. I promise you.”

  “I ain’t testifying,” the girl in the middle emphatically said.

  Maddy looked her directly in the eyes and said, “No, you won’t. Even if we wanted you to, the judge wouldn’t allow it. I’m not going to record anything. I won’t even take any notes. Okay?”

  The three girls shrugged and nodded.

  “Can you tell me what happened with Reverend Ferguson? What he did to you?”

  All three looked at Sherry and both Tonya and Bethany encouraged them to tell their story.

  One of them started, the one who had declared she would not testify. When she got going, the others seemed to relax and join in. Theirs was the same basic story. They became involved in the church. Came to believe that Ferguson was a good man, the father figure they lacked at home, and were eventually assaulted by him. One of them, the shyest of them, was raped. The other two came close before escaping and running away.

  “Did you tell anyone? Your mother or an adult friend?” Sherry asked when they had finished.

  “No, my momma would’ve blamed me for it,” one of them said while the others just shook their heads.

  “Can you get them some help?” Maddy asked.

  “Yes, we’re working on it.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” Maddy said to the girls. “Let Sherry help you deal with it.”

  Forty-Three

  Thursday afternoon and Carvelli parks the Lincoln in the driveway of Jake’s Limo Service. It had rained off and on all day, and as luck would have it, a minute ago the skies had opened and it was coming down hard. Carvelli stared out the driver’s side window for thirty seconds hoping for a letup. Giving up on it, he jumped out of the car, scrunched his shoulders together, turned up his collar, pulled his head in like a turtle and ran for the door.

  Once inside, he looked through the window into Jake’s office and saw Jake, Dan Sorenson and Franklin Washington watching him. All three were wearing big grins from seeing him trying to dodge the rain.

  Carvelli went into Jake’s office and said, “Very funny. What is it with cops? Every one of you has a sick sense of humor when it comes to someone else’s discomfort.”

  “Yeah, like you don’t,” Sorenson said.

  “Hey, they don’t call me Mr. Sensitivity for nothing,” Carvelli said. Carvelli looked outside through the window behind Jake’s desk. It had stopped raining completely.

  Carvelli pointed a hand at the window, shook his head and said, “Of course. I ran fifteen feet and got soaked, then a minute later it quits.”

  “You’re trying to cheer us up,” Jake said. “Thanks.”

  “Okay, let’s get going,” Carvelli said.

  “Have you been by the place where we’re going?” Sorenson asked.

  Franklin was listening with a scowl on his face. Sorenson saw it and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m a bit bummed about this,” Franklin, an African American, said. “I kind of admired this guy. I bought into it that he had turned his life around and was trying to do good things for the black community. Now I find out he’s a drug kingpin scammer.”

  “You want me to find someone else?” Carvelli asked.

  “No.” The big man shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you want to hang out here, I’ll take your place,” Jake said.

  “No, we’re just doing surveillance and watching Tony’s back. Besides, I’ll blend in better than some white, Polack ex-cop.”

  “There he goes with that ethnic insensitivity again,” Waschke said. “Excuse me while I find a puppy and a safe space.”

  “Have you been there?” Sorenson asked again.

  “Yeah, I know it,” Franklin said.

  “I drove by the place,” Carvelli said.

  “Okay, as you’re facing the building on Plymouth. Looking north, to the left is a small parking lot and next to it is a ball court. The lot is between the building and the court,” Sorenson said. “I’ll park about a half a block east of the building. You,” he continued, looking at Franklin, “park across the street from the ball court.

  “They’re gonna check you for a wire,” Sorenson said to Carvelli.

  “I know,” Carvelli replied. “I’m not even going armed. Here,” he continued as he held out his personal phone to Sorenson, “hold this for me. I’ll take my burner phone in, but nothing else. I’ll get rid of it later because they will likely put a trace on it or wire it.”

  “Once you’re inside, you’re on your own,” Sorenson reminded him.

  “I’m not worried about it. He’s a businessman. If he wanted to get me for some reason, he wouldn’t do it there.”

  “Franklin, Jake, anything?” Sorenson asked.

  “No, I think you’re right. Nothing’s gonna happen inside that building. But if you see him escorted out and put in another car…” Jake said.

  “We follow, and I call in the cavalry,” Franklin replied.

  “Okay,” Carvelli said. “Let’s go.”

  Jake was staring at Carvelli and said, “Put those glasses on for a minute.”

  Carvelli complied and Jake remarked, “It’s amazing. Glasses, a different haircut and some putty and you look totally different.”

  “Not any better, just different,” Sorenson said.

  “Very funny,” Carvelli said. “That reminds me, tell Marge I can’t make it tonight.”

  “I could stay out late if you need me to,” Sorenson said.

  “I’ll tell her you offered,” Carvelli answered.

  Carvelli drove around a block twice when he was two blocks from his destination, delaying his arrival. After the second time, both Franklin and Sorenson had called to let him know they were ready. A minute later, Carvelli pulled into the parking area and parked facing the ball court.

  He checked his watch and saw he was six minutes early. As he was about to get out, he saw a familiar looking white man being escorted out of the door by Monroe to the parking lot. The man was carrying a small, black, nylon bag. While he watched, the two men walked toward a familiar windowless, brown, older E-Series Ford van.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting,” Carvelli quietly said to himself.

  Carvelli took out his burner phone and while continuing to watch, found Sorenson’s number and dialed it. After the second ring, Sorenson answered.

  “What’s up?” Sorenson asked.

  “There’s a brown Ford van about to pull out of the parking lot. I want you to follow him. Give Franklin a call and tell him what you’re up to. The driver is a little paranoid so don’t let him see you. Stay with him. I’m gonna want to talk to him when I’m done here,” Carvelli told him.

  “You got it. Call when you’re done.”

  Carvelli removed his burner phone from the inside pocket of his leather coat. He handed it to Lewis while Monroe used the electronic wand to wave for weapons and listening devices. They were on the second floor outside the door to what looked to be a conference room. Satisfied, Lewis handed the phone to Monroe then opened the door for Carvelli. Lewis pulled out the chair at the table to the right of where Damone would sit.

  “Please, take a seat,” Lewis said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  At that moment, the door behind Damone’s chair opened and Damone came in.

  “Ah, here he is,” Lewis said. “Tony Russo, Damone Watson,” he continued introducing them.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Carvelli said. “I’ve heard, well, a lot of things.”

  This elicited a hearty laugh from Damone as they sat down at the table. Carvelli did not sit in the seat suggested by Lewis. Instead, he took the one next to it. When he did this Carvelli noticed a very slight annoyed look on Damone’s face. Lewis went to the opposite end of the table as Monroe came in and sat down with Lewis.

&nbs
p; “I hope you don’t mind if I have my trusted friends sit in.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Watson,” Carvelli said.

  “Please, Damone. And you don’t mind if I call you Tony?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Carvelli answered.

  “Good. Well, now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, we can discuss a little business.

  “Lewis tells me you would like to move up to the wholesale distribution side of things. Is that right?”

  “Well, yes. I could make more. You could make more. More money is always good.”

  The two of them continued their business dance for almost an hour. They went back and forth negotiating supply amounts, costs, commissions and process. Within the first ten minutes, it was clear to Carvelli that what Damone really wanted was Carvelli’s contacts. Once he had those, Carvelli would have a shallow grave. He also knew Damone understood it would take months before he would have those connections. It was Carvelli’s plan that Damone Watson would have a permanent cell long before that.

  As Carvelli expected, there was no solid deal made at this first meeting. There was agreement on price, cost and Damone’s share should he decide to go forward. Supply was always the final question. Could Damone’s sources provide the quantities Carvelli said he wanted? It was an amount that would immediately increase Damone’s profits by one-third, all with minimal additional overhead or risk.

  Carvelli tried to casually get information about Damone’s money laundering arrangements with little success. Damone took this as a potential rival finding out his business to someday push him aside. Trust was not an asset in this room just yet.

  Damone walked Carvelli to the conference room door and opened it for him. Damone said, “The way I do business, from now on, unless a meeting with the two of us is specifically requested, you will work with Lewis. Unless I decide not to go forward and then you will continue to work for Jimmy Jones. For now,” Damone quickly added when Carvelli started to object.