Good Girl

by Alan Lee

  “Off duty?” I asked.

  “No. Just easier this way,” he said. Polite but hard voice, as though he didn’t want to be friendly in case he had to cuff me later. “Not everyone likes the blue, especially now days.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It does suck.”

  We ordered sandwiches and chips and ice water. I wanted a beer but knew he wouldn’t.

  “You’re looking into the Steinbeck accident,” he said.

  “You remember it?”

  “No one forgets something like that. Wasn’t the last straw, but maybe second to last. Couldn’t handle accidents anymore.”

  “Ulysses was in bad shape.”

  “Blood everywhere. Glass sticking out of his skull. Like someone jabbed big shards of windshield into his brain. He’d been thrown, bouncing around the tree trunks.” Ingram shook his head, looking down. “Only so many memories like that I can handle.”

  “I worked homicide in Los Angeles, a while back.”

  “So you know,” said Ingram.

  “I know.”

  “Now you’re private? Helping Steinbeck?”

  “I am.”

  “Good for you."

  I said, “You know he has amnesia.”

  “I visited him. Didn’t remember me. What’d he hire you for?”

  Our food came. He surprised me by saying grace before we tucked in.

  A man of principle and faith and unafraid to express it. One day I’d be a fully functioning adult and might do the same.

  Halfway into our sandwiches I said, “Steinbeck hired me to find his dog. But also he hired me to find out what was going on during that period of his life. He can’t remember—he’d been acting out of character before the crash. The answers might bring some peace of mind.”

  And maybe two million dollars were at stake.

  He wiped his hands with his napkin and drank water. “You want to know about the two women.”

  “I want to know about the two women.”

  He chuckled, though he didn’t find it funny. “Regina and Lacey. I remember. Said they had no identification and I didn’t feel like searching them. It was a bad night. So I let it go. Unprofessional, I realize.”

  “Were they torn up?”

  “Yeah, beaten up bad but nothing broken. Not like Ulysses.”

  “Any guesses?” I said.

  “Yeah. I got a guess.”

  “Prostitutes?”

  “Don’t think so. Didn’t have the look. Again, just a guess. But I think one of the women was his daughter.”

  “Egads,” I said. I was shocked. Hadn’t expected that.

  “On the report I wrote down ‘woman.’ She said she was twenty. But she wasn’t,” said Ingram. He finished his sandwich and played with the chips.

  “Pretty girl? Blonde hair?”

  “You got it. I met his ex-wife too. Don’t remember her name, but they had a resemblance.”

  How about that. Alex Steinbeck had been in the car.

  Mackenzie August, flabbergasted. Flummoxed. Poleaxed.

  “Her name’s Alex,” I said. “Why would she lie about who she was?”

  Spread his hands, palms up. “Got me.”

  “What about the second woman? Same age? Alex’s friend?”

  “No, older. Don’t remember much about her appearance. Caucasian. Thin. Don’t even recall her hair color. Like I said, rough night. Maybe his sister?”

  “Doesn’t have one. Rumors are, he had taken a lover.”

  He grinned. “Taken a lover.”

  “It helps sometimes if I talk like Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Does it? Maybe I should try.”

  “How long did you stick around?”

  “At the hospital? Most of the night. Wrote up the report. Waited until the blood came back, for the BAC. Waited until his ex-wife arrived and I spoke with her.”

  “What happened to the two women? One of which presumably is Alex, his daughter.”

  He looked pained. Played with his chips some more. “Told you already, it was a rough night. And I wasn’t professional enough. The two women left right before the ex-wife arrived. Intentional, I think, looking back. And then somehow, standing in the hall outside the operating room, the ex-wife crying and asking me what happened…I couldn’t find the courage to tell her about two women being in the car with him.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “I do. My superiors found out, they would.”

  “No dog in the car, right? At the scene of the accident?”

  “No dog.”

  I sighed and rubbed at my forehead. “I need to talk to Alex again. About that night and the other woman and her involvement.”

  “She lied to me about something, could be obstruction.”

  “If she did, I’m not telling you. She’s gonna hate me enough as it is.”

  “Why’s that matter?” he asked. “She hates you or not?”

  “I’m not sure. But it does. She’s famous on Instagram.”

  “So?”

  “Yeah I don’t understand it either.”

  19

  Tom Garrett didn’t look like a mobster. He looked like he sold insurance. Thin guy, thick head of hair gone white and combed to the side. Maybe fifty-five, easy smile. Dressed in a suit and tie, big gold Auburn University ring. Gold tie clip, gold cufflinks. His loafers had tassels.

  Ronnie, Marcus, and I met him in Staunton, an hour north of Roanoke and two hours south of Alexandria, where he lived. He reserved the entirety of a restaurant called The Shack. It was small, it was red, and it looked like a shack. Built on sloping South Coalter, not far from downtown.

  Marcus brought Fat Susie and Tom brought his own body guard. They stayed at the cars talking about things enormous and muscular men talk about. Me, probably.

  He shook my hand in a friendly manner and said, “I’m trying to be professional tonight, Mr. August, but it’ll be a challenge. I’m a big fan.”

  “Call me Mackenzie. And why’s that?”

  “I watch the Gabbia Cremisi every year. A pack of us stream it live in my basement and place bets online. You had us glued. We screamed and shouted when the cot’damn lights went like you wouldn’t believe. Lights come back on and pow, there was the Prince, lying on the ground like he was dead. You won me seventy-five grand.”

  Marcus Morgan made a grunting noise. “That’s it? I got more.”

  Tom Garrett laughed, his face turning a little red and his eyes crinkling. “Thank God for the announcer, declaring you the winner, even as you fought in the crowd. Just a madhouse, am I right?”

  “Provision from above,” I said.

  He didn’t seem to hear. “I am absolutely attending the fights next year. The wife won’t go and I let that stop me in the past, but to hell with that, right? Was it fun? It looked fun, I bet it was a blast, right?”

  I debated kicking Tom between the legs.

  Marcus said, “Would be fun ‘sept we trying to save Mackenzie’s ass.”

  “Oh he didn’t need any saving. What’d they call you, the Yankee, right? The Yankee had it the whole way. You still got the tattoo?”

  Ronnie smiled. “He does and I adore the name.”

  He laughed and winked. “I bet you do! Why wouldn’t you?”

  “What kinda business are you in, Tom?” I asked.

  “Bank fraud! And boy is the business booming. I know I don’t look like most of the other guys but I do my part. Well, I’ll stop acting like a fan now. Or I’ll try. C’mon on in—it doesn’t look much but it’s the finest dining this side of Richmond. Worth the trip.”

  I grabbed the door. Marcus went first.

  Tom kissed Ronnie on the cheek and said, “Miss Summers, always a treat,” and he followed Marcus.

  Ronnie whispered to me, “I never slept with him. He’s a family man. So cool it.”

  “Cool it?”

  “Your hackles rose when he kissed me.” She smiled. “I liked it.”

  “Liked the jealousy or
the kiss?”

  “I like you, now cool it,” she said and we went in.

  The restaurant had rustic charm, decorated as though one ate inside a remarkably clean barn. We sat in the middle of the empty room and two servers brought us pimento cheese with crackers and smoked whitefish dip. Tom and Marcus ordered an Old Fashioned, Ronnie a white wine, and me a beer.

  “I took the liberty of ordering everything on the menu, I hope that’s okay,” said Tom. He had taken off his jacket and he rolled up his sleeves. He was so frangible he’d break if I slapped him like I’d slapped Gordon. “Mackenzie, one more question and then I’ll relent, I promise—I gotta know, what happened in the dark with the Prince at the end?”

  Ronnie placed her hand on my arm and squeezed. “In the dark, Mackenzie beat him senseless and stabbed him with the knife.”

  It was a lie. But she knew I didn’t love the conversation and would soon beat Tom with his chair.

  “Have you been paid yet?” he asked.

  “In fact I have not. I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t—we destroyed the hotel.”

  Tom frowned and shook his head. “That doesn’t factor. No sir, that doesn’t factor a lick. I’ll look into it. I’ll take care of it immediately, Mackenzie, trust me.”

  “Well thanks, Tom. But don’t get yourself into a shouting match with the evil men of the world. I met them and they’re unpleasant. It’s only money.”

  He laughed and slapped the table. “It’s only money! Listen to you, still got your sense of humor, I’ll be doggone.”

  Marcus, reading my thoughts, grinned. “Tom here, he’s about the money. Good ol’ boy from the south, brings in cash. He’s a big swinging dick with the Kings; not cause he’s a tough guy but because he’s smart.”

  “What kind of bank fraud do you handle?” I asked.

  He looked pleased at the question. “I only fish the deep end of the pond, right? I go after the credit and identities of billionaires and siphon it away, little by little. Some are so rich they never suspect a thing, the fat bastards. But listen, Mack, if those Camorrista pricks want to keep doing business with the Kings, they’ll pay the Gabbia Cremisi champion what he earned. I’ll look into it, leave that to me.”

  Perhaps I’d judged Tom too hastily. Struck me as a real sweetheart.

  We ate and more food came—salads and plates of short rib tartare and pork loins and pasta and guinea hen.

  Tom ate his fill and brought out some papers. He passed them around for us to look at.

  “I’ll try to keep this simple, I know I can be a bore with financial details. The property and assets of Veronica Summers are hard to quantify, but I did my best. Look at the itemized list and alert me if anything is missing. I estimated her expenses from the last three years and came up with an average of $563,500.”

  Ronnie’s fork paused on her plate. “You’re kidding.”

  “That’s enterprise wide, including things you never see, like…” He tapped his paper, indicating a column of numbers. “For example, fertilizer and taxes and interest and salaries and bribes and…you get the idea. This is based off paperwork submitted by Rueben Collier and Mr. Stokes and various bank records and receipts. Also I estimated revenue from the last three years and averaged it out to $2,480,100. Or at least, the expected revenue.”

  Ronnie’s fork remained frozen. “Per year?”

  “Yes. Two point four eight a year. Approximately.”

  “Where is all of it?”

  “The business is a mess, right? Some of it’s in a bank account. One in particular has four hundred thousand collecting dust and interest; Ruben makes deposits and withdrawals but you don’t, probably because you don’t know about it. Your late father was not an organized man, I believe, no offense and may he rest in peace. Some of it was poorly managed, some of it went to the Kings. As I said, that was the expected revenue, but the realized is less.” Tom leaned back in his chair and finished his cocktail. Another was brought. “I was against this sale to begin with. Why mess with a good thing? But after examining the fiscal details the past two days, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To be frank, the business isn’t run well. Too many players skimming, too much money unaccounted for, not efficient enough, you get the idea. All the parts are there to be a well-oiled machine, right? But the parts don’t connect effectively.”

  “All the more reason I should sell,” said Veronica.

  “I concur but it’s tricky,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s you,” I said.

  Tom nodded politely. “Because it’s her. And because it’s you, Mackenzie. Just about every sum’bitch I work with loves her. And just about all of them know about you. Hell, I’ll say it—you won the tournament and you keep killing our guys. You’re infamous. Kinda scary. I asked around before coming down. Even the Kings who like you, Mackenzie, think they’re better off with you dead.”

  I said, “They’re nervous about us getting out of the business entirely. Because once we’re free, they’ll have less control over things.”

  Tom nodded. “You hit the nail on the head. You’re hotter than a Laramie parking lot.”

  “We’re a loose end. I’m a loose end who is threatening to kill Darren Robbins and Ronnie’s got incriminating evidence on half of them.”

  “You can see why the Kings prefer to be in business with you, rather than against you.”

  I said, “What if I back down on my promise to kill Darren? Would that ease everyone’s mind?”

  “It would help,” he said.

  “Would if I killed him tomorrow and then we have this conversation again? Would that ease everyone’s mind?”

  Tom looked pained.

  “Are you really going to murder Darren?” Ronnie didn’t just look at me, she turned her whole body my direction. “That strikes me as wildly out of character.”

  “Unless someone convinces me otherwise. One of us will kill the other soon and I prefer to kick off rather than receive.”

  “But you’re no hitman. Nor a common thug.”

  “Neither is the man threatening me.”

  “Darren cancelled the hit,” said Tom.

  “Darren’s a prick and a coward and he can’t exist for long with me roaming around. Could you? If I threatened you?”

  “To be frank, Mackenzie, I’d have you aced, as they say. Even though I’m a big big fan.”

  “Exactly. And that’s what Darren will do.”

  Tom looked even more pained.

  Ronnie said, “None of this changes the fact that I want to sell the marijuana operation.”

  “Like I said, I’m in favor of the sale now,” said Tom. “But it’s tricky. On your end. Once you’re out, there’s less reason to let you live. That’s the thinking of some of my business associates.”

  “The associates on whom she has no dirt,” I said. “Those who are under her threat feel differently, I imagine.”

  Ronnie leaned forward. A candle on the table illuminated the underside of her jaw and neck, like a reverse shadow. “I’m done with it. Okay, Tom? I’m out. Let’s do the sale and you can tell those fat old men not to worry. I don’t want to blackmail, I don’t want to leverage my way into more power, I’m through.”

  “I’ll pass the message to my cohorts but you know what they’ll say, Miss Summers.”

  “They’ll grab their crotches and burp something about, ‘She’s out when we say she’s out.’”

  “Ah, well, yes. That’s it.”

  She smiled the way lions smile at mice. “It’s a fucking boys club. I know. And I was forced to play their game. But now I’ve got them by the balls. I have pictures and videos and audio and transcripts that’ll get half of them killed or locked away. I’m not here to play, I’m here to take my stuff and go home. They’ve got a week to promise we’re through or I release the incriminating evidence on Jerry Francis.”

  Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Jerry Francis? You’ve got�
�? The Jerry? Wow. I didn’t, I didn’t know.”

  Ronnie nodded. Only a little. Although the candle on the table remained static, the fire burning in her eyes took on greater heat. “Jerry the Tranny Francis. Tell him I called him that. My video will ruin him. In one week. And then every month after that, I release another. If I die, they all get released at once to the Washington police, to the FBI, and to the media. Tell them that, Tom.”

  I leaned back in my chair and drank beer. Smugly.

  Tom stood. Smoothed his tie and cleared his throat. He began sweating, tiny beads along the hairline. “One moment please. If you don’t mind.”

  He went to the restroom.

  I said, “He calling a cohort?”

  Marcus nodded. Finished his Old Fashioned and beckoned for another. “Mmhm. Maybe two. Give them his impression of Summers’s threat.”

  “He’s a weak man.” Ronnie’s spine was straight, her shoulders thrown back. “Can’t think for himself.”

  Marcus nodded a little. “Tom don’t handle the violence. Just numbers. But he likes associating with those who do. A wimp? Yeah. Weak? Maybe not. More than he looks.”

  Tom returned sixteen minutes later. Sat down and scooted his chair forward. “I think the Kings will respect your wishes, Miss Summers, on reflection. Darren Robbins is a bridge we’ll cross another day, am I right?”

  “Yeah he is,” I said. “Looking forward to that bridge. It’s gonna be the best bridge.”

  “I suggest we continue with transactional details concerning Miss Summers’s operation.” He cleared his throat again and shuffled papers, bringing his mind back to task. “Should we?”

  Ronnie and Marcus both assented

  “As I said, your operation should be bringing in 2.4 million. It isn’t, but it should. Having Marcus in charge should shore up the leaks. He’s excellent at this, after all. One reason I’m in favor of the sale? Our cut will enlarge.”

  Without changing expression, Marcus toasted him with his new cocktail.