Small Bytes

by Robert Germaux

The next morning, when I came back from my run, I picked up a tail. In my line of work, you learn pretty quickly to spot a person who’s following you, or at least you do if you don’t want to go back into teaching. Also, I’ve done a fair amount of tailing of other people over the years, so I know most of the tricks involved in the procedure. The guy who was following me didn’t seem to know any of them. In fact, he was so bad that at first, I thought he was just what he seemed to be: a guy on the street. When I returned from my run, I saw him as I was walking down the sidewalk, cooling off. He was leaning against a tree across the street from my place, wearing brown slacks, a purple shirt, tan work boots and a yellow windbreaker. First Rule of Tailing: be inconspicuous in one’s appearance. Then I noticed that he wasn’t doing anything else, like reading a paper, or looking around and glancing at his watch, as though someone was late meeting him, or even watching other people going by. He was just over there, leaning against the tree. I filed the information away before I went in and showered and changed.

  He was still there when I came back out forty-five minutes later, so I decided to find out for sure. I began walking towards the business district, and, sure enough, he chose that instant to break off his relationship with the tree and start heading in the same direction that I was going. I thought about walking a few more blocks to confirm what I already knew, but then I saw that I was at Gennaro Plaza, a three-story office building with, as luck would have it, an elevator. If this bozo intended to brace me at some point during the day, I might as well hasten the moment. Feeling the comfortable heft of the .38 that was holstered on my right hip, I opened the glass doors that led to the building’s lobby and walked over to the elevator. I actually waited a few seconds before pushing the Up button, allowing my secret friend sufficient time to enter the lobby himself. He came over and stood next to me without speaking. He was about my height, maybe a little taller, and probably twenty or thirty pounds heavier, none of it muscle. His windbreaker was open, and I didn’t see a gun anywhere. Also, I doubted he was wearing an ankle holster, given the work boots. When the elevator arrived, it was empty. I got on, he got on, the doors closed, I pushed the number 3, and we started our ascent. Between the first and second floors, he pushed the Hold button, bringing the elevator to a halt. Then he stared at me with a smirk on his face.

  “If you’re selling magazines,” I told him, “you’re too late. I just renewed my subscriptions to Boy’s Life and Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  “You gonna get a beatin’,” he said.

  “Well, geez, fella,” I said, “if it means that much to you, then I’ll buy a subscription. You got any Weekly Readers left?”

  Ignoring me, he said, “I ain’t never lost no fight.”

  Judging from the amount of scar tissue around his nose, either he was lying or it had been a particularly difficult birth.

  “Your mother must be proud of you,” I said.

  He frowned and said, “Hey, you rippin’ on my mother?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I just meant that, since you sprang forth from her loins and all, she must be thrilled with what you’ve done with your life.”

  His brow furrowed, and I could see that he was trying to think.

  “Don’t,” I said. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “Time for your beatin’, asshole,” he said, and then he threw a looping right hook that was so slow it should have been sponsored by Western Union. At the last second, I moved my head back just a fraction, and his hand swung lazily by.

  He frowned and said, “Hey!”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I told him. “It was my fault. I didn’t play fair. I should have warned you that I was going to move. Tell you what, try it again. Throw another punch, and this time I won’t move my head. Promise.”

  As I said this, I put my hands together in front of my waist and applied isometric pressure. He tried a left jab, which, in terms of speed, was the brother to his right hook. I kept my head perfectly still while suddenly releasing the grip my left hand had on my right, allowing my right arm to snap upward and block his punch. He didn’t seem too happy about that.

  “Okay,” I said, “I know what you’re thinking. I played a little dirty with you there. But you have to admit, I didn’t say that I wouldn’t move any other parts of my body, just my head.”

  You’d think that, presented with such perfect logic, my bozo buddy would have admitted that, yes, indeed, I’d put one over on him, and then offered to buy me a drink somewhere where we could rehash old times together. Instead, he roared, lowered his head and rushed at me. Even in the relatively small confines of the elevator, it took him a while to complete the journey, but eventually he did, and when he got close enough, I stepped aside, placed one hand on his shoulder and the other at the back of his pants, and helped him on his way into the wall behind me. He hit it with considerable force and slumped to the floor.

  “That had to hurt,” I told him.

  I’ll give him this. He may have been slow, but he was stupid, because after a minute, he got up and made another run at me. This time, he tried a roundhouse right, which I intercepted with my left arm and twisted his right arm back behind him and applied a little upward pressure. He grunted and tried to break free, but that wasn’t going to happen. I was stronger and better-looking, always a deadly combination. I hate losing to ugly people.

  “Assuming you didn’t attack me because you were jealous of how good I looked in my cut-off Eddie Bauer sweatshirt this morning,” I told him, “I’m going to guess that someone hired you. Who?”

  He didn’t say anything, so I increased the pressure on his arm a little. He groaned a bit but remained silent.

  My problem here was that he might be lousy at tailing and fighting, but perhaps good at keeping his mouth shut, at least under minor pain. And I wasn’t willing to jack up the pain-o-meter just to get a name out of him, especially a name I was pretty sure I already knew. Plus, you had to feel sorry for someone who was as career-challenged as this poor slob. So I decided to work the stupid angle again.

  “Your lucky day, my friend,” I said. “I know it was Manny.”

  “Huh? I didn’t say nothin’ about Manny,” he said.

  Some days it’s too easy.

  “Okay,” I said, “here’s how we’re going to work it. I’m going to let go of you, and then we’ll both ride down to the first floor and leave like the perfect strangers we are. That work for you?”

  He didn’t reply, which I assumed meant he agreed with my plan. But when I let go of his arm, he immediately turned and tried to hit me. Again. I decided it was time to once and for always show him the error of his ways, so after blocking yet another of his free-form punches, I put two fast rights into his stomach. He went “Oof!” and sank to the floor and stayed there, his arms wrapped around his midsection. I released the Hold button, and we continued on our way to the building’s third level. When the elevator’s doors opened, I stepped out. Before heading for the stairs to go back down to the lobby, though, I held the doors open for a minute.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell Mom.”

  Chapter 31

  Since I was only a few blocks away, when I left Gennaro Plaza, I walked over to Starbucks and had a latte and an orange scone, justifying the scone by telling myself that I needed to replenish the carbs I’d expended in my recent elevator encounter.

  So Manny Posten had sicced Bozo on me. Why? And why now? Was Manny somehow involved in Terry Pendleton’s death? Or was my investigation getting too close to whatever business it was that Manny wanted to keep private? I wasn’t coming up with any answers, so I decided to have another scone, this time a cinnamon one. Variety. Spice of life. Plus, of course, the carbs thing.

  When Irv brought the scone, he said, “Anything exciting going on, JB?”

  “Guy tried to roust me in the elevator at Gennaro’s a little while ago.”

  “No shit?” he said. “All’s I ever get in the way of excitement around here is some guy bitch
in’ at me about not enough steamed milk in his café au lait. You private eye types lead the life, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I agreed. “Definitely the life.”

  He had to leave then to attend to an elderly couple who’d just come in, and as he walked away, I used my cell phone to call Denny. Of course, he wasn’t in his office, so I left a message on his machine telling him that if he’d buy me lunch, I’d give him the evidence he needed to finally crack the Capone case. Five minutes later, my phone rang.

  “The Capone case? That was weak, man, very weak.”

  “Cut me some slack here, Denny. I was attacked earlier this morning, and I’m still recuperating, you know?”

  “You get smacked upside your brain?” he asked.

  “Un-uh,” I said.

  “Still weak.” Then, after a pause, “Manny?”

  “Indirectly. He sent one of his thugs, didn’t get the name.”

  “Can’t do lunch,” he said. “Gotta be in court in a little while. Where are you?”

  “The Starbucks near my place.”

  “I’m in the area. Order me a double espresso. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes later, after I’d introduced Irv and Denny, Irv went back behind the counter, and Denny leaned back in his chair, being careful not to muss the crease in his fawn-colored linen slacks, which went well with the white shirt and yellow tie he was wearing. He’d left his sports coat in the police department Taurus outside, but the jacket would, of course, go beautifully with the rest of the outfit. I studied him for a minute.

  “Did you know,” I said, “that there are any number of reputable clothing establishments in this city where one can purchase a decent-looking ensemble for something less than the startup cost of a small business?”

  Dennis grinned and said, “Women like a well-dressed man.”

  “Personally,” I said, “I prefer to rely on my natural charm.”

  “That’s why you’re so knowledgeable about those Saturday night TV shows.”

  “Hey,” I said, “it so happens that I have a date this Saturday.”

  He nodded and said, “Laura?”

  Have to admit that he got me there.

  “How do you know about Laura Fleming?”

  “Played racquetball with Simon last night. He told me Angie set you up.”

  “I assume you are referring to the fact that Ms. Ventura introduced me to one of her colleagues.”

  “’Zactly,” said Dennis. “A setup. I was afraid it was another Cecelia Johnson situation, but Simon assured me that wasn’t the case.”

  “Definitely,” I said, “not a Cecelia Johnson situation.”

  “You still seeing that lawyer babe you told me about, too?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “the lawyer babe invited me over last night for, as she put it, dessert.”

  “After your dinner with Laura?”

  “How’d you . . . oh . . . Laura told Angie, Angie told Simon, you saw Simon last night. Right.”

  “’Zactly. So, a two-fer, huh?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Dating two women at the same time may be all in a night’s work for you, my boy, but some of us aren’t quite that daring.”

  “Or as studly,” Denny said, grinning again. After another pause, he added, “So you like this Laura, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  “Good. Now, let’s talk about your morning adventure. Looks as though you managed to escape unscathed.”

  “The guy wasn’t very good. In fact, he was pitiful. If it weren’t for his ineptitude, he’d have no ‘tude at all.”

  “You know,” said Denny, “Manny and I have never actually met. Might be it’s time for me to introduce myself.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Denny, but not yet, okay? The goofus this morning wasn’t even armed. It was obvious that he was supposed to just shake me up a little, not kill me. As long as Manny’s sending messengers like that around, I can handle them. If you talk to him, he’ll get the idea that perhaps I’m shifting my focus a little, taking a harder look at him. Then maybe he takes a harder interest in me.”

  “JB, remember what you told me about your first get-together with Manny? How he went crazy and stuck a gun in your face?”

  “Yeah, but I provoked him. I know better now. Look, Denny, let’s wait on this awhile, okay? Maybe by the time Manny decides whether I’m a threat, I’ll either have solved the case or given up.”

  “Don’t see you giving up,” said Dennis. “You think you’re close to figuring out why Pendleton was killed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Thought so,” he said. “Okay, JB, against my better judgement, I’ll leave Manny alone for the time being. Meanwhile, keep watching your back. And let me know if you need any help, official or otherwise.”

  “I will.”

  “We still on for hoops tomorrow night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. I gotta get to court. See you tomorrow.”

  After Denny left, I hung around awhile longer, trying to sort things out, but a few minutes later, when I said good-bye to Irv and started walking back home, the pieces of the puzzle were still pretty jumbled.

  Chapter 32

  I didn’t run the next morning, since I knew I’d be playing basketball with Denny that night. No sense in getting too buffed, is what I always say. But I did want to know if I could expect any more traveling companions, so at ten o’clock, I went out and walked around my neighborhood for half an hour and saw no one who shouldn’t have been there. Then I went back home and spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon making phone calls to people I know, doing some more checking on Terry Pendleton. Some of what I was doing had already been done by the police, but that meant Detective Wykcoff, whose diligence and professionalism I had strong reason to doubt. Most of the people I called were legitimate contacts, folks I’d met over the years while investigating a variety of cases. These were people who worked in a number of governmental offices, on levels from local to state and, in one case, federal. No private investigator can do his or her job without these folks. Once in a while, the information they supply is something that, in all likelihood, I’d have trouble getting on my own, but more often than not, what they do for me is simply speed up the process, thereby saving me much time and effort. In return, I make myself available to assist them in any way that I can, whether it be doing a little free investigating or helping with a problem involving a spouse who won’t obey a restraining order or, sometimes, just remembering them at holidays with a small gift.

  A few people I called did not exactly come under the legitimate contacts heading. You spend enough time in some of the places I do, and you’re bound to make the acquaintance of individuals whom most law-abiding citizens would classify as being, at best, somewhat unsavory. You don’t necessarily invite these characters over for Christmas dinner, but you do keep the lines of communication open with them, because they can sometimes tell you things about people and situations that no one else can. You learn never to inquire about the origin of any information you acquire from any of these people. You simply accept it for what it is, and on pretty much the same terms as with your more traditional sources.

  By late afternoon, I had satisfied myself that there was nothing in Terry Pendleton’s personal life that would appear to account for his death. His finances were in order, he had no sizable or overdue debts, he didn’t gamble, he didn’t consort with prostitutes, he didn’t have a drinking problem, he didn’t get into brawls at bars, his library books were always in on time, and there was no evidence of his having had an affair with anyone other than Dee-Dee. Perhaps she was his first. Or perhaps he’d been unusually discreet about any other assignations he’d had. At any rate, I didn’t see Dee-Dee being involved in his murder. She didn’t seem to have anything to gain there. The more I thought about it, the more I kept coming back to Terry’s professional life. I had a gut feeling that his death was connected in some
way to his job. That was an area I intended to look into more closely.

  Meanwhile, it was getting close to four o’clock, so I took a chance on Laura Fleming being home, and tried her number. Luck was with me. She answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Fleming,” I said. “This is Jeremy Barnes calling to offer you your choice of not one, but two options for our date this Saturday night.”

  “Hmm,” she said, “that sounds interesting.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Option number one. Would you like to go downtown to the Arena for the big wrasslin’ meet? I hear they’re gonna have a steel cage death match.”

  “Oh, my,” she said. “As tempted as I am to simply grab that opportunity right away, I think I’ll wait until I’ve at least heard the alternative.”

  “Good,” I said. “I like an intelligent consumer, so let’s take a peek behind door number two. Would you care to accompany me to the Frick Art Museum to peruse the international tour of Impressionist paintings? Wine and cheese reception to follow.”

  There was a pause.

  “Angie told me you’d be a constant source of surprise.”

  “Is that a positive response?” I asked.

  “Yes, it most certainly is,” she said. “Incidentally, I’ve read about this exhibit. Isn’t Saturday’s show and the reception limited to members of the Frick Art Society?”

  “Probably. I won the invitation in a card game the other night, so we don’t have to worry about being tossed out or anything.”

  “This is amazing,” Laura said. “You’re actually a member of the Frick Art Society?”

  “Okay,” I said, “you got me. I am a member, and let me tell you, it wasn’t easy getting in. I had to take the test three times before they agreed to accept my check.”

  She laughed at that, a sound I could have listened to the rest of the day, but she had work to do. We agreed that I’d pick her up at six-thirty Saturday night, and then we said good-bye.

  * * *

  Basketball at the Y that night went well. Simon was there, having been invited by Denny when they’d played racquetball the night before, and after two hours of almost nonstop playing, the three of us showered and headed for a little diner across the street for a sandwich. After we’d settled into a booth and placed our orders, I turned to Simon.