by Chris Bauer
Patrick crouched next to a duct embedded in the hardwood floor for the forced hot air system, the furnace in the basement. He removed the grate. He leaned closer to the opening.
“Smell this, sir.”
The air duct emitted a strong, breathtaking odor, from solvent or paint thinner or ammonia, or a cat’s litter box on steroids. After a swipe inside the duct with a collection paper, multiple drops of the chemical reagent, and the five-minute wait—
Royal blue. The deepest, royal-est blue of the bunch. “Meth lab downstairs, sir, in the basement.”
The apartment execution: there was nothing of value here; dingy walls with ripped 1970s wallpaper; second-hand furniture; not even a portable TV or stereo equipment. Why execute a Latino man living so dismal an existence, in a space that provided little more than shelter from the elements?
Noise, on the stairs. Footsteps, ascending them in a hurry, and far from quiet. Philo gestured at Patrick with a raised finger to his mouth. He tiptoed to the closed door, reached inside his Tyvek suit, and withdrew his Sig from a shoulder holster. The footsteps arrived on the top step.
The door handle jiggled, then the person spoke through the door. “Tío? Tío Diego?” He pushed through with no attempt at minimizing his entrance.
Philo slammed the intruder’s face against the wall, stuck the Sig in his ear then eased up. “Miñoso?”
“Si, Campeón, si! Owww—”
Miñoso unstuck his face from the wall, but Philo kept the rest of him pressed against it. “Why—?”
“Mi tío Diego—where is my uncle Diego?”
The prior tenant, Philo soon learned. Not the “crazy man who had gun” tenant, but rather the one whose blood and gray matter they had just scrubbed off the floor and flushed out of the puncture wound in the fridge door. Miñoso wept as he paced the empty apartment, inconsolable.
No, Uncle Diego never used meth, Miñoso said. Si, he was poor, in Philly only three months, in the US only six months in total, but his dishwasher’s wages gave him enough to rent his own place, dismal as it was. It was a roof over his head and little else.
“His family, my family, beggars…”
Families in poverty, eking out their existences in Mexico. His uncle was sending them money. “Yo también,” he said, meaning Miñoso had sent money also, when he could. He slid down the wall and sat, sobbing into his hands.
Just another meth operation and the fallout surrounding it, in yet another sorry-ass part of the city. Wrong place, wrong time for Miñoso’s uncle, apparently one tenant removed from the gunman’s real target, the “crazy man.” Miñoso wanted to see the body. Philo retrieved his wallet, fished out Detective Ibáñez’s card and called her.
“I’ll bring my friend in but he’s undocumented, Detective. I want you to guarantee his safety. No funny business.”
“You’re handing us a meth lab,” she said. “We like that. You have my word he’ll be fine.”
Philo gave up on having them do any work together at the grain elevator today. “We need to go now, Miñoso. The detective will get you into the morgue.”
Miñoso pondered his fingers, turned his palms up, pondered his hands.
“Miñoso. Dude. Let’s go. Detective Ibáñez will be waiting.”
But Miñoso wasn’t finished praying and pleading under his breath, questioning himself, “How do I get you home to Mexico, my dearest uncle,” all of it in Spanish. Ramblings, from the suddenly bereaved; Philo paid little attention. He ushered Patrick to the door, had to wait on Miñoso, still sitting on the floor. “Miñoso. Please.”
Miñoso stood, raised his chin like the strong man he’d need to be, continued talking to himself with a new resolve. “El cuerpo de Miñoso, la selección de Miñoso.”
Miñoso’s body, Miñoso’s choice.
“I will get you home, uncle.”
28
Miñoso, as next of kin, identified his uncle’s body. Detective Ibáñez made the morgue visit happen, then excused herself, Miñoso leaving with her, short-circuiting anything that could have remotely mimicked an ambush because of his non-citizenship. Philo’s next stop was downtown without Miñoso, to deliver Patrick to the Sixth District detectives, not as a suspect but as a bona fide witness offering information about what he saw during his Elfreth’s Alley crime scene trespass.
While Patrick did more fessing up, Philo hung outside the interrogation room. The TV in the squad room showed a news replay of the Philadelphia District Attorney’s grand jury announcement regarding organ trafficking suspects Dr. Andelmo and friends; Philo had missed it as live breaking news. ADA Lola Pfizer, Philo’s former main squeeze, stood behind the DA. Philo liked DA Herm Dennison, a holdover metrosexual, despite his affinity for expensive suits and his cozy relationship with Philadelphia’s garment industry. Lola on screen with him meant she was also on the team handling the case.
DA Dennison’s remarks, speaking into the camera: “We continue to pursue illegal organ trafficking allegations regarding Dr. Francisco Andelmo. Religious cults, lone attackers—they’re not in our sights at the moment. Depending on the grand jury’s findings and the police department’s continuing investigation, this could change. We want the truth, and we will follow all leads that will surface it. That’s all I’ve got. Thank you.”
“They’re after the airline lady with the suitcase, Philo, sir.”
“No surprise there, bud. She could be key.”
Patrick’s info dump to the cops was finished for the time being. He alternated between ringing his hands and rubbing the dent in his head while Philo drove him home. Today as a workday was a no-go for him, Philo decided; the kid was too nervous. But Philo’s plans for himself would take him into the late hours.
“Sir, you think I could have done any of this?”
“Done what?”
“You know, hurt anyone, sir? The police explained what was at the scene, and…”
Balls. Patrick was a person of interest, an informant of sorts, but no one could know how this info might ricochet around his impaired head and cause unintended outcomes, like misguided guilt. They’d decided no attorney was needed for the interview, but maybe a shrink should have been in there with him instead, or even now.
“No, Patrick, it wasn’t you.”
“But I sleepwalk—”
“You were there because someone tricked you into going there.”
“Yeah, sir, but maybe some other time…”
“Patrick, listen to me, it’s not you. It’s the work of more than one person. The other time you were on that street it was as a tourist, before you got mugged. You were set up because Andelmo knows your background, even has your phone number. Even the cops don’t think it was you.”
A block away from Patrick’s Germantown apartment. “Maybe they’re wrong, sir.”
“Enough, Patrick. My head hurts.”
“Mine too, sir.” More rubbing. “I don’t want to hurt no one else, sir.”
“Patrick, please. You haven’t hurt anyone. I’m more concerned someone might want to hurt you.”
Then Philo found himself thinking the unthinkable. Guns. Maybe Patrick should have one. But that would be crazy.
Philo’s last words to him, the Jeep in Patrick’s driveway now: “Get some rest. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
Philo phoned Lola. She picked up after one ring. “ADA Pfizer.”
The quick answer surprised him. Maybe she’d deleted his number from her address book and didn’t know it was him. Then again, maybe she had a slight case of buyer’s remorse or lover’s regret or whatever the hell it was called, and she just hadn’t been able to bring herself to let go. In the latter scenario, he surmised she was waiting eagerly for his call, and would act quickly to answer it, which she had.
“Lola. Hi, babe. How you—?”
“Go fuck yourself, Philo. Lose my number.” Click.
Scenario clarified.
After the call, the text he sent her wrote itself. When she read it, she would
explode. He now didn’t give a shit.
I’ll be visiting Andelmo to straighten his ass out about Patrick Stakes. My call to you was a courtesy. Have a nice day.
His phone rang.
“Hi, Lola. What a surprise.”
“Listen, Philo, stay the hell away from Andelmo. We’re building a case. Do NOT intimidate him—”
“Nice to hear your voice, counselor. Look, that prick’s attorney is trying to drag a certain someone into his little organ-munching circle-jerk, and soon he’ll have that very impressionable someone believing he’s responsible for all those organ harvesting murders. So, counselor, the answer is no, your request is denied.”
“Philo, I swear to God, if you screw up this case, I’ll personally sic a fucking badger on that limp dick of yours, you understand? You’ll be a sworn enemy of the DA’s office. Blessid Trauma will be fucking history. Philo, you listening? Philo?”
“Still denied. Great to hear from you, counselor.” Click.
He pocketed his phone, did a quick neck and shoulder stretch to loosen himself up from his seat in the waiting room at Dr. Andelmo’s practice, then he stood. Calling her from the doctor’s office gave Lola no time to send any police to intercept him. She’d call the doctor’s defense attorney about Philo’s threat, then maybe she’d send a few of Philly’s finest to the office ASAP to protect him. Regardless, either response would be too late.
Fuck waiting in this waiting room; fuck all of it. A phone call could alert the bastard. Time to move.
Philo bypassed the admitting desk, ignored two protesting records clerks, and pushed through a door into a hallway. At the end of the hall he found a room with the doctor’s name on the door and a sliding sign that said Consultation in progress. He opened the door unannounced and closed it behind him.
Seated across from Dr. Andelmo at a resplendent mahogany desk was a stylish, fiftyish-year-old Latino woman with bold red hair and too much makeup.
“Ma’am, sorry to impose, but would you give the doctor and I a moment please?”
“Doctor! Who is theese, theese…” Her displeasure at the interruption dissipated, her head back, her eyes running up and down Philo, rugged and tall in his tight jeans. “…Theese handsome chico, who is being so rude—”
The doctor was quick on the uptake. “I’m sorry, señora. It appears I need to provide an emergency consultation.” He rose, pushed himself away from his desk. “A nurse practitioner will make you comfortable in another room. Gracias.”
Andelmo escorted her to the door. When the door closed, Philo instantly eliminated the distance between them.
“You conniving little prick. You set Patrick Stakes up.”
Andelmo said nothing, remained calm, unblinking. Too calm. Something pushed up into Philo’s groin, under his balls, and he half expected he’d be asked to cough.
“It is a stun gun, Mr. Trout, and my hand is on the button. Back away, or you will find yourself on the floor pissing and shitting your pants. Security will be here any minute.”
Philo saw no security presence on his way in and considered the threat bullshit, and as of yet, no high voltage had arced into his scrotum. Andelmo was bluffing. Philo had time to react.
“And pointed at your dick, Doctor, is a nine-millimeter with a hair trigger. Hand over whatever it is you’re pressing against my balls, or that loosened bowel movement you’re about to have and the colon that delivers it will be embedded in the wall studs behind you.”
Philo’s eyes got a little bigger when he accepted the doc’s weapon and held it up for observation. No shit, a real stun gun. He pressed the button and watched the electricity arc. ZZZap.
“Jeez, Doc, this looks like it would have really hurt,” he said. He tossed in onto a loveseat, re-holstered his Sig, then pressed a finger into Andelmo’s chest for emphasis.
“This is a warning about the bullshit your attorney is feeding the media on roving cannibals. If any of it causes Patrick Stakes any trouble whatsoever, either with the police, or the media, or if Patrick has so much as one fucking nightmare about your wild-ass allegations, you better hope for a conviction and jail time, otherwise it’ll be worse when I catch up with you. Comprende?”
A buff, capped-teeth, smiling Andelmo stood his ground. “Back off, Mr. Trout. Patrick Stakes made statements about his odd tendencies; they are a part of his medical records, and nurses will attest to them. I’m sure he will attest to them also. All my attorney would have to do is prove to a jury that someone—one person—might have acted in a cannibalistic way at that site, and there would be reasonable doubt regarding the charges. As there should be, because it is innocent—I’m innocent—until proven guilty.”
Footsteps, more like heavy strides, pounded down the hallway, advancing toward the office. They emboldened the doctor. “My guess is the police also know Patrick was there, at that crime scene. He is a menace who is one bad memory away from a suicide. He was quite capable of that gruesome murder.”
Philo ripped Andelmo out of the chair with a hand to his throat and shoved him back against the wall. “You put him there. Your phone call sent him to that house on Elfreth’s Alley.”
The door flew open. Philo was oh for two, having guessed wrong about both Andelmo’s stun gun and security personnel. Within seconds, multiple hands dropped onto all parts of his body, with four burly dudes and one stun gun turning him into electrified modeling clay. They zip-tied cuffs on him, relieved him of his Sig, emptied its clip of bullets, and deposited him on the street outside the office like the glorified bar bouncers they probably were. But then, to his surprise, they cut off the plastic zip-tie cuffs.
“Here’s your gun, Trout,” the guy who emptied the clip said, tossing the Sig against Philo’s chest. “Let me make something clear. You need to stay away from the doctor, no matter how pleasing it might be for you to do otherwise. He’s ours to worry about. Ours. Stay. Away.”
Eskimos, Philo decided. No, Aleuts. No, no, not Aleuts, Hawaiians. Which meant they were probably mob guys, not glorified bouncers. They had let the stun gun do its job but hadn’t also tried to tune him up, with no punches thrown before, during, or after they cuffed him. His only bruising came from the stun gun. And they returned his weapon.
Unsteady, his brain still fuzzy, he mulled their words.
“He’s ours to worry about…”
These guys, they were Andelmo’s bodyguards, but they were doing more than protecting him. They were watching him.
29
Philo’s Jeep bounced and dipped across the rutted serpentine trail that led to the grain elevator. Tonight Philo was solo, his team busy, Hank with Grace, Patrick at another concert, Miñoso in mourning. He would concentrate on the first-floor space, where the fight would be held.
He arrived on site, hopped out, and uncovered one of the gas-powered generators. A few pulls of the cord and the unit sputtered to life, coughing itself into a low, throbbing purr. The hanging jobsite lighting on the ground floor flickered on, slits and rips and a few poked holes in the tarp making the lighting visible from the outside, but only barely. He found the separation in the tarp and inside it the separation in the chain-link fencing. The entrance would need to be taller and wider, room enough for maybe three or more people abreast to exit quickly if necessary, without lowering their heads. An easy fix with bolt cutters, something he’d get to later. He slipped inside.
A rat scurried from behind a column and disappeared into a four-by-four foot hole in the floor, one of a few such holes encircled by traffic cones and yellow caution tape. Grain dust and the other slop they pressure-washed from the building’s six stories had settled into the subterranean space, would continue to settle there as they finished cleaning all the floors, to eventually dry out before the building’s scheduled implosion. After they finished the power-wash above ground, they’d drop a ladder down there. Patrick and Miñoso would spray and shop-vac the basement space, staying away from the wood-inlaid ceiling.
The weather had changed, from win
ter’s brutal cold to a spring chill. The hanging tarps would lessen the wind and whatever cold was left, and keep some of the audience’s body heat inside. It would also minimize the beacon effect of the building’s jobsite lighting.
For fight night there’d be standing room only outside the sticky-tape square he planned to lay down as a fight space outline, a bit larger than a boxing ring. Inside the square would be room enough for him and his opponent to maneuver, to play their chess game of parry and retreat.
Philo removed his heavy coat, then his shirts. Stripped to the waist, his holstered gun was exposed, sitting just above his ass. He blew into his hands then took his solid two hundred ten pounds for a spin, working up a sweat, the floor dusty but uncluttered, pedaling backward and forward, sticking and jabbing, his shadow-boxing giving him a feel for what the fight space would be, and the epitome of every out-of-the-way venue he’d ever boxed in. Raw, unadorned, barbaric. Never comfortable, never pampering, never welcoming, and yet he’d felt at home in all of these spaces just like he did now in this one, because he was doing what he loved. Twenty minutes later, out of breath and sweat dripping, he toweled off, covered up, and returned to the business of scrubbing the walls of the accumulated grain dust, to ready it for a Wally Lanakai walk-through.
30
The limo driver buzzed her apartment from the first-floor lobby at eight-fifteen p.m. The car was punctual, ready to take Kaipo to the Borgata in Atlantic City, Mr. Lanakai’s treat, with him planning to meet her there. It would be a treat for him only; for her, an awkward evening awaited.
She grabbed her wrap, threw it around herself and her tasteful evening dress—classy, not sexy—grabbed her coat and her overnight bag. The casino had a room reserved for her, in her name only, a single, as in for one occupant, not two, just like Mr. Lanakai had promised her.