“Yeah, well, don’t misinterpret my status as a fugitive as some acceptance of guilt.”
“Touché,” he said. “How much info did you have on Limba Fitz?”
“He was a sociopath of the lowest order. He liked torturing people. Pretty indestructible, so far as monsters go. That’s all there is to know.”
“You got off light, if all you lost was a couple of digits.”
“That wasn’t Fitz.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s got a long record and no conscience. His MO is all over this thing.”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“He worked for a man in Atlanta. Seems weird that he’d target some in-the-bag, down-home bumpkin like yourself without cause.”
“Anybody tell you you’ve got a way with words like a sawblade?”
“Right,” he responded, and I could hear him smiling. “Fitz was a button man for his man in Atlanta for a few years before graduating to a higher level of sadistic crime.”
“So, he moved from murder to...”
“Murder and torture. He was, by all intents and purposes, a serial killer with a job title.” He said, “The fact that he’s not in a mental institution is a testament to our collective attitude toward utilitarianism in the last century.”
“Lots of maniacs walking around, free and clear. What makes Fitz special?”
“It’s a list as long as your arm. In high school, he put two kids in the burn unit by scalding them with water he used to boil their dog alive.”
“Good God.”
“They insulted him during a pickup game of soccer. So, he skipped school the next day, broke into their house after the parents left for work and lured Fido inside with tainted meat. Skinned the poor mutt alive and set his carcass to boil on the stovetop. When the kids came home, he’d been waiting there all day. Dowsed them with dog water. One of the brothers lost an eye. Burned it right out of the skull.”
“And they let this psychopath within one hundred yards of freedom after that?”
“System doesn’t always work. If we locked up every kid torturing animals, there’d probably be no serial killers out there. But Fitz had one thing going for him.”
“What was that?”
“He knew how to disappear completely.”
“Okay, I don’t know what you’re leaning on.”
“He spent some time in juvie for his little stunt, what we’d call in any other scenario attempted homicide. He managed to weasel his way into a sympathetic court and walked out on his own volition just after his eighteenth birthday.”
“Then what?”
“Then nobody knows. He was a shadow for years, and there are a few unconnected homicides — inhuman crimes — that this character Fitz most definitely participated in.”
Hunter cleared his throat. He said, “The next time the man we know — knew — as Limba Fitz reappeared in polite society, he was the bulldog for a Dominican drug kingpin named Francisco Javier De La Cruz. Fed dope of all stripes into the hoods in East Point and thereabouts, funneling it north whenever necessary. Through his association with that degenerate, Fitz put seven bodies that we know of on his sheet, and probably a dozen or so more that we can’t pin to him.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“You think you’re going to get railroaded by the system. It’s not a bad hypothesis, given the shit storm that has overtaken Savannah, but you’ve got the wrong idea. They’re not looking for somebody to pin this on. The narrative is that the killer died a violent death and was taken out to sea. They want answers, sure, but I can promise you that you won’t go up the river for what happened. He’s dead. Some feds will be happy to take a leak on his headstone, they get the chance.”
“Sounds like I’m getting a pretty sweet deal here. Maybe I should take this opportunity to join up with the federales and make killing legal.”
“Your sarcasm is not lost on me, but it’s the truth. You’ll be questioned, for sure, and the political fallout could be severe, if somebody up on Capitol Hill gets itchy on the law and order bit for his next term, but at least it won’t be Leland Brickmeyer.”
“Har har, detective,” I said.
“What I mean to get at is, you have an open opportunity here. An out, if you will. I can’t promise you won’t be touched, but the higher-ups want this case buttoned down. On the surface, it looks like a madman opened fire in a crowded room. America’s gotten sadly accustomed to seeing it on the news. People are past asking wh. The politicians have stopped pretending they give a monkey’s banana shit about gun violence, so we can move on to another case. They’ll not bring charges against you.”
“I’ll just keep my distance for the time being, if it’s all the same to you.”
“What if I say that it isn’t?”
“Don’t seem like you have a choice.”
“The accumulation of all the clusterfuckery you have unleashed on the state of Georgia within the last year has people in my line of work questioning whether or not you’re a criminal mastermind, or just the unluckiest son-of-a-bitch on the face of the planet.”
“Eventually, I know I’ll have to own up to what has happened around me, but I am in the midst of something important.”
“Keep talking.”
“It’s none of your concern, detective.”
“I have a feeling it will be.”
“This one is staying in the shadows.”
“I’ll just keep an eye on the news for where bodies are turning up.”
“You go and do that. I’ll be in touch.”
“Waiting on pins and needles, McKane.”
Rich D was eating fried shrimp on a plate of french fries when I sat down across from him. He had a dark circle under one eye, and his chin and cheeks were swollen. Other parts of his face were scuffed, too.
“You been using your face to open locked doors?” I asked.
He smiled wanly. “Dangerous business having you around. This is blowback from having rumors around that I helped you get into that celebration of flesh the other night.”
“You could just point me to the address of the man who did that to you. He was about to close Victor’s file drawer, and I imagine this isn’t the end.”
“Sounds like you already know his digits.”
“He’s not stupid enough to hang out at home,” I said. “I need other locations where I might be able to find him.”
“Uh huh.”
“I might even be persuaded to leave you alone for the rest of my time here in Jacksonville, if you were so kind as to provide me a lead toward his current whereabouts.”
“Hector Dominguez.” He said it without looking up.
“Yup.”
D licked his fingers. Pulled each one from his mouth with a sickening pop. Finished all of them off before he answered.
“Your boy Dominguez is a sick puppy,” he said. “He’s made an empire out of shipping Asian and Mexican girls to different parts of the good ole US of A. But he don’t stop there.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got no scruples, even for a man of his…caliber. Some number of the girls on his books aren’t legal, and he’s shipping them all over. It’s a sight more fucked-up than the pimping game, I tell you what. He’s bound to get his testicles caught in a bear trap.”
“Because he’s under investigation.”
“FBI doesn’t like to hear of underage kids being forced into sexual slavery, no,” he said. “So, it’s bigger than a couple of bodies notched to his belt, up to and including your boy’s younger brother.”
“And you don’t know where else he runs his business out of.”
“It’s got to be several places. You want to find him, you’re going to have to run it up the flagpole.”
“Who?”
“That lesbo dealer you roughed up way back when. She’s filming porno movies, ain’t she?”
“Yes. We happened upon the ‘production’ one time.”
; “Who do you think the producer on those movies is?”
“Dufour?”
“Ding ding ding. He’s supplying the money. He’s supplying the girls, and guess what — half of them ain’t even legal. Ain’t even within a stone’s throw of eighteen.”
“How in the hell are they getting out there?”
“The internet is a wide ocean, with lots of secret inlets. Kinds of people who want to see underage girls pay for the privilege. Then, it gets disseminated through the internet at large. You get them close enough to eighteen, they can go on the more mainstream sites under the banner of ‘teen.’”
“And the mainstream sites—”
“Man, they got so much fucking flowing in, they don’t have the means to validate it all. Sure, it’s taken down once the sites find out, but there’s so much money involved, it’s worth it for shady practices to go on.”
“Why would Dominguez want Victor dead?”
“Victor? The, uh—”
“Strip club owner, yes.”
“You can’t ask him yourself? I heard y’all two was tight now.”
“He’s gone into hiding. Guess being beaten nearly to death is enough to scare away some people.”
He laughed. He winced. He continued eating.
“So, a connection between the two?” I asked.
He seemed to search himself. “Don’t know the answer to that. Maybe he doesn’t like the sight of a woman pretending to be a man.”
“You haven’t heard anything?”
“I mean, you have to know they’re business partners. Dominguez’s got a hand in every business that sells flesh, strip clubs included. Victor doesn’t like to admit it, but that’s probably what keeps that joint afloat.”
“You aren’t bankrolled by known human traffickers, are you?”
He ran a shrimp through some tartar sauce and brought it to his mouth. He wasn’t opposed to talking while chewing. “Man in my line of work gets caught in certain kinds of situations.”
“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”
“I’m a producer, man. You know how many young bitches want a record deal? They get a taste of the studio, and suddenly, they’re all over you.”
“And I bet you take them up on it.”
“I’m a man. I’ve got a weakness. You know, girls just out of high school. What happens then is not my fault. They cut a track, and I give ‘em the what’s what. If it’s not good, it’s not good. You can’t let them go on believing they’ll be the next Rihanna if they’re not.”
“But I bet you don’t tell them until after they’ve balled you.”
“I tell them straight out what to expect. I ain’t never had to lie to get what I want from a woman.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.”
“But then something happens. You know, they get the blues over the fact nobody wants to play their song. How many bad songs about being a strong woman can one person take? Every once in awhile, there’s someone worth sitting up and paying attention to, but for the most part, it’s, you know, little girls who spent all their time singing in their bedrooms. Got their parents telling them they can be stars. But they can’t. Just won’t happen.”
“You’re a real piece of shit, D.”
He shrugged. “I live by the Popeye philosophy.”
“I am what I am?”
“Nope. That green spinach keeps me popping everything in sight.”
“All right,” I said, getting up. “I think this conversation’s run its course.”
He laughed, open-mouthed, revealing exactly what he was eating. “Come on, son. Sit back down. I haven’t even begun to reveal anything to you.”
“If you don’t have something concrete, I’m gone.”
He motioned with one hand to my seat. “Sit back down. I like fucking with you, that’s all. I can give you what you want. A lead, at least. Go ahead. Taj Gaines. Get at me.”
I sat down, stared at him. He went back to picking at the seafood on his plate.
“Come on, man. Out with it.”
“What do you want from me?”
D feigned being hurt. “You think this is one of those deals?”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who willingly does what other people ask.”
He steepled his fingers above his plate and cleared his teeth. He ran his tongue between his lips. He said, “All right. I’m-a tell you straight: I need somebody to do something for me.”
His voice had lowered a half-octave.
I leaned back, crossed my arms. “So that’s the price?”
“That’s the price.”
“Don’t you have lackeys?”
“They ain’t into fucking with this nigga. He’s a few penny nails short of a coffin.”
“So, you think I’m stupid enough to do it.”
He smirked in a way that made my stomach quiver. He picked through the leftovers of his meal with a patience that bordered on religious.
I said, “Okay. Give me the lowdown. I go talk to somebody about a debt you’re owed, and I get some crucial information.”
“Not a debt. Somebody owes me money, I see about it myself. This is” — a flick of the wrist — “some side business.”
I was unimpressed. “Uh-huh,” I said. “All right, out with it.”
He looked around conspiratorially. “There’s this small-time crook, name of Xavier. Deals skag, but he’s got dreams of doing what I do, so he’s got this girl I’ve had my eye on cornered.”
“I’m not playing pimp for your bait-and-switch games.”
“It’s not like that. She’s a rapper, got a hell of a demo, and Xavier snatched her out from under me. He’s got no business trying to play Yeezus. You seen my set-up, right? I’ve got a for-real studio, and this nigga, he’s got her spitting into a USB mic hooked up to a Macbook, like it’s some kind of goddamned radio show. He’s got no business trying to rep talent like that.”
I flicked a cig from my pack, sparked a flame to it. “What’s the end result?”
“He just needs to drop her and let me rep her. She was on the verge of signing with me, and Xavier tried to put himself in between us. Her name’s Lolita Monroe, and she’s got it, man. She’s got the goods. She can flow with the best of ‘em, and she can even sing. I can’t let that crumbsnatchin’ little muh’fucka take what’s mine.”
I puffed twice. “I’ll talk to him, but I’m not going to the wall for you. Dig?”
He smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “An uneasy partnership, I’m with you. You’ve got the element of surprise. I don’t think he’ll expect that. Plus, you’re crazy. The way you busted up in my crib and just started yanking everything apart, I didn’t anticipate that from a white boy like you.”
“Do you know how much you can help with this situation?” I asked.
“My question remains, young buck,” he said. “What comes to this side of the table? I help you out, I got a whole city of thugs on the lookout for me. These is pipe-hittin’ niggas. What can you do to keep me from ending up like your friend’s little brother, because I’ve got to tell you: I’m first and foremost a businessman.”
“I mean, yeah,” I said. “All the studios.”
His gaze turned snake-like.
“I come from the hood. I used to run with the types of niggas I produce. It’s a much safer proposition now.”
“I bet.”
“It is. And you know what? It works.”
He made a vague gesture with one of his hands. “There is a give-and-take relationship in business. I rent them the studio, provide them with the opportunity to get in touch with and produce their art, and then I get paid. I get the cred. I get respect on the streets, and that shit don’t come cheap.”
“You just have to sell your soul.”
He waved a hand at me. “Now, no. You can’t look at it like that, son. I am a facilitator of dreams. I used to be into drugs. Selling them. Taking them. All that shit. It was a dangerous game, and I was a good player. You know what
I’m saying? I knew one too many niggas got popped for slipping onto somebody’s turf.”
He leaned back, threw his hands up, palms toward me like he was surrendering. “I got out of that shit real quick. You go to music, and it still revolves around the game. But it’s that mind game, know what I’m saying? The boys I got laying tracks for me, they do the dirt. They live it, and then they come into the studio and work out their demons. They tell it real, like N.W.A. They live it. ‘Die by the sword’ kind of shit.”
“So,” I said, “you’re afraid they’ll see you as fake if you snitch on a murderer.”
“That’s the long and the short of it, McKane. I go and help y’all, then I don’t see nothing from it but hurt business, and seeing as how business is my business, man, I don’t foresee myself helping you. You dig?”
“You need something in it for you?”
“I do. I do. I can’t just step off a cliff unless the, well, shit, there ain’t no analogy for me to make there. I can’t do what you want unless there’s a counterweight to keep me from falling too hard. Get my drift?”
“Got it,” I said. “How’s about this: I know you’re involved in a prostitution ring made up of girls dragged out of their home countries like slaves and then sent to suck and fuck strangers all across this great land of ours.”
He grimaced. “Don’t confront me none.”
“I bet if an investigation went into you and your ‘business dealings,’ they’d find a hell of a lot more than rhymes paying for that equipment in those studios of yours.”
“Not happening,” he said. “I got my money tied up tighter’n a duck’s asshole.”
“Wouldn’t take finding any actual wrongdoing. You know just as well as I do that it’s the investigation that’ll kill you. They might not find anything, but they’ll bankrupt you doing it. I know a detective named Hunter who’s got a special kind of hard-on for this sort of thing. Real warrior, that one. You’d be hard-pressed to pay the bills while the IRS sorted through all of your purchases and receipts. Then the business falls off not because you’re fake but because you decided to die on the hill of your own pride.”
Dirt Merchant Page 43