Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  “Usually do.”

  “Heat’s off.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Now’s when all the pests come out of hibernation,” I said.

  Sally nodded. “Exterminators do good business down here. Like waste disposal in Jersey. Always a demand to supply.”

  “You use someone?”

  “I like to take care of such things myself. Every morning and every night.”

  I nodded. “Thought I saw a pest control truck outside.”

  “That right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m clean.”

  “You normally get an audience?”

  “Every now and then. Nothing to be concerned with.”

  I leaned on the counter. “You know anything about the Bartalotto family?”

  “Sure. Connected to an organization out of Brooklyn. By marriage. Reasonably big potatoes down here but small fry for New York.”

  “You know a club called Mango Martini?”

  “Yeah, I heard of it. Bartalotto owns it. I never been.” That didn’t surprise me. Mango Martini wasn’t Sally’s kind of place. A racetrack was more Sally’s kind of place.

  “I’m thinking there might be some link between my missing Heisman and Bartalotto.”

  Sally scrunched his face. “Possibly. He could be that kind of guy. Likes to have stuff other people don’t got.”

  “But you mentioned loose lips. Hard to hide a thing like a Heisman.”

  “And it is. But he’s not just a collector. He’s the kind of guy who might silence loose lips with a bullet. You see?”

  I nodded.

  I turned and looked at the rows of shelving. The flotsam and jetsam of other people's lives. "It was brought to my attention that I might not have actually transacted last time I visited."

  Well we can’t have folks thinking the wrong thing of you, can we?"

  Sally trudged around the counter and came out and pondered the rows. Then he selected one and walked down the aisle. I heard an “Aha” and he reappeared, carrying some kind of case. It was for a musical instrument. Could have been a pan flute or sousaphone. He lifted it onto the counter and it squeaked against the glass. The case was blue-gray plastic. Sally flipped two latches and opened it. The inside was plush red felt. In it was some kind of gold instrument, broken down into several pieces.

  "What is it?"

  Sally looked at me like I'd asked his help with the jumble, three letters, starts with D, ends with G, man's best friend.

  "It's a saxophone."

  I nodded.

  “It’s the hottest instrument I ever heard,” he said. "Guy like you could do well with a hot instrument like this."

  "But I don't play."

  Sally closed the case. "And once upon a star you didn't know how to throw a baseball, either."

  I nodded. Worst case, it would look great standing in the corner of my living room.

  "Everything's there. Mouthpiece, reeds, everything."

  “Didn’t get claimed?"

  "Got it from a guy from Minneapolis. Came to South Florida to play those open air dance halls, like Fred Astaire played."

  “They still have those?"

  "Not in decades. Guy used the cash to get a Greyhound back to the Twin Cities. Couldn't take the heat." Sally slapped my back and shuffled around the counter.

  “What do I owe you?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Sorry, my mistake. Listen, while I’ve got you. You have any thoughts on a guy using his wife for a spot of heavy bag practice?"

  "I do."

  “Sort of looking for a performance improvement plan."

  “Short of a good kicking?"

  “Let’s say that's behind the glass. To be broken in case of emergency."

  "I have had occasion to deal with similar matters. I find a good talking to can be effective if the right incentives are in place."

  I nodded. "I'll let you know."

  "Do."

  "Thanks for the sax."

  "See Buzz Weeks at the Funky Biscuit in Boca. He'll give you a few pointers."

  "Appreciate it. As always."

  "I appreciate the heads up."

  I drifted out through the door and slipped my shades on. I stood with the case in my hand until the boys in the Caprice got their shots, then I walked back to the Mustang and tossed the sax in the rear. I pulled out and headed back towards the coast. I resisted the temptation to wave at the Caprice as I drove by.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  SOME DAYS I wished I worked out of a PO Box. That way I could avoid walking in on people waiting for me. Lizzy hadn't yet come in. And an early night, no company and a clear head had me on the beach for a run with the sunrise, so I was in the office first. Well second, if you counted Detective Ronzoni, who lay on my sofa in his brown suit. I made a mental note to spend more time at Longboard Kelly's.

  "Practicing your B and E technique, Bucatini?"

  "It's Ronzoni. And the door was more or less open."

  "There are two doors."

  "They were both more or less open." He flipped his feet onto the floor and sat up.

  "You got yourself some water?" I asked as I moved around my desk.

  Ronzoni held up a half finished bottle from my bar fridge.

  I sat down. "What you doing here, Detective?”

  "Unlike some, I been working all night. And I got more to do today. So I says to myself, where can I catch a few zees? And then I remember I gotta talk to Miami Jones. So I figure two birds, one stone."

  "I'm glad we could oblige. Did you get your pillow mint?"

  "Nope. What I got is a complaint."

  "I'm not surprised, you breaking into people's offices like this."

  "Not against me, lugnut. Against you."

  "From whom?”

  Ronzoni sipped his water and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Newt Bellingham. Ring a bell?"

  "Yeah, he's a wife beater."

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “That’s what makes you such a good cop. Ignorance.”

  “He’s made a complaint against you, smart guy.”

  “His wife looks like she’s gone a round with Ali.”

  “She’s got a beef, she should file a complaint.”

  “Like her pussy boy husband?”

  “Man says he’s being harassed.”

  “If he gets harassed by me, he’ll never walk again,” I said.

  “So I’m trying to decide how formal to make the complaint.”

  “That so?”

  “Yo.” He sipped his water. He was a camel. “On the other hand, I’m wondering what you’ve got on the Baker case.”

  “Because you’ve got jack.”

  “I’m not looking for an information exchange, smart guy. More a download of your data.”

  “I know what you know. Two burglaries. Not much else.”

  “I know the guy was trying to sell the wife’s Heisman. He told me.”

  “He told you that, did he? So?”

  “So, you’re trying to find the buyer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And when you find him, you’re gonna call me.”

  “So you can be BJ’s big hero and bring back his treasure.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Complaints stack up against a guy. Might end up losing his license.”

  “The Bellingham’s are in West Palm. You’re a little out of your jurisdiction aren’t you, Lasagna?”

  “Ronzoni. And just because you’re screwing the sheriff don’t mean squat.”

  “The sheriff is a fifty-year-old man with a paunch. Not my type.”

  “I’m talking about the hobby horse deputy.”

  “Alright, Rigatoni. I’ll play your game.”

  Ronzoni stood, finished the water and tossed the bottle in my blue recycling bin. “Smart move,” he said.

  I got up and walked him to the door. He opened it and stepped h
alfway out. I grabbed his shoulder and pressed him hard into the jamb.

  “But I ever hear you speak like that about Deputy Castle again, you and I will be taking a visit to the unincorporated county and only one of us will be walking back.”

  I glared at him and didn’t let it go for longer than was necessary. Then I stepped back. Ronzoni straightened his lapels and walked down the corridor, out into the fresh new day.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I WAS EATING a Reuben and drinking an iced tea in the courtyard at Longboard Kelly’s with Ron. We were treading water, waiting for something to break. The email provider or the guy from the Heisman Trust, or Dennis Rivers. Anything could set us off. Lizzy was making calls for Mrs. Ferguson, and from the frowns and grunts, not getting too far in finding him. Sometimes people don't want to be found. Sometimes when you do, you wished you hadn’t. All in all we were facing a no hitter of a day, when even an infield error onto first base would’ve picked things up. But then the day picked itself up and Danielle Castle walked in. She was in uniform and walked with purpose. Marched, might be the word.

  "Good sandwich?" she asked.

  “It’s no Katz’s deli, but it'll do."

  She took the dill pickle off my plate and bit into it. She smiled out of the corner of her mouth. Her I-know-something-you-don't-know smile.

  "So tell me," I said, biting into my sandwich. The toasted rye bread crunched loudly.

  “There’s been another burglary."

  "A Heisman?” said Ron.

  I didn't speak. I had a mouthful of corned beef.

  “A Heisman."

  Ron and I looked at each other. Just when you can't tread water anymore, the current picks up on you. I chewed furiously. Ron did the talking. We were like a ventriloquist act.

  “Where’d it happen?"

  "Tampa."

  "Tampa?" said Ron.

  I swallowed. "Our guy’s branching out."

  "He is."

  "What do you know?"

  "Not a lot yet. Tampa PD got the call. Apparently in an aged care facility."

  "The guy broke into an old folks' home?"

  "It seems. So they did what they do and someone had heard on the vine about BJ Baker, so they looked it up on NCIC and called me."

  "Same guy then?"

  "Same trophy." She finished my pickle.

  "You going over?"

  She shook her head. “No, can't justify it. Not for a patrol investigation."

  "I thought the sheriff was in Baker's pocket?"

  “No. He might be in his debt, but that's not the same thing. He's already put a lot of resources into this and his budget can only stand so much. He says the Tampa PD knows what they're doing."

  "I'm sure they do. But they don't know what we know. They’re not on the hunt like we are.”

  She looked at each of us eating our sandwiches. "On the hunt."

  I nodded and wiped my mouth with my napkin. "I'm going over there.”

  "I was hoping you'd say that. I’m coming.”

  “What about your budgets?"

  “Not our budget. I’ll clock off now and take tomorrow off. Your car and gas. It’s on BJ Baker's budget."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  THE DRIVE FROM West Palm Beach to Tampa was one of the most tedious drives in Florida. And there were a lot of tedious drives in Florida. I drove up the Turnpike to Fort Pierce, then east across the flat state. Most of Florida was swamp, so there was not a lot of elevation. I'd discovered that elevation is what makes inland driving interesting. We passed a couple of mounds, landfill covered with turf, and birds in the hundreds, along with a stench that we blew through at eighty miles an hour. I'd grabbed a gym bag and tossed a few things in it. Danielle changed out of her uniform, choosing a white blouse and turquoise skirt. It made it hard to focus on the open expanse of road.

  "You not getting too far with the case?" she said as we hit the Turnpike.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "You and Ron didn't look overwhelmed by anything but cholesterol back there.”

  "We can have lunch, can't we?"

  She shrugged. We didn't speak for a couple of miles.

  "We were waiting on some things to break," I said.

  "Like?"

  "Like the emails from the buyer. And the Heisman Trust."

  "What about the Heisman Trust?"

  "I haven't seen you for a few days, have I? Ron got the idea that if our guy took two Heismans, he might take a third."

  "Nostradamus Ron."

  “Yeah. So we figured we should try to find out if there were any other Heisman trophies currently in Florida."

  “Good thinking. What did you do?”

  “We talked to a source. They suggested that they would call the Heisman Trust if they wanted such information."

  "A source? That sounds very mysterious."

  I shrugged. Danielle turned in her seat and looked at me. She smiled and frowned at the same time.

  "So who's your source? Or can't you tell me?"

  I breathed in deeply and let it out slow. This was going to go one of two ways. One way was she would see that I was questioning an asset who had inside knowledge of the environment of the case, and could therefore help, regardless of any previous relationships I may have had with the asset. The other way was the other way.

  "It was Beccy Williams."

  Danielle nodded and turned back to look at the road. “Huh.”

  I decided not to speak.

  After another mile, she did. "This is Beccy Williams, the sideline chick on the football."

  "The sports journalist, yes."

  "The blond one. Looks like a runway model."

  "She could do with a feed, to be honest."

  “The one you used to sleep with."

  "Used to.” Another mile passed. It got hot as we headed inland.

  "So you thought she could help. With the case?"

  "She's very connected in the football scene."

  "I'll bet. So you called her.”

  "More or less."

  “More or less?"

  "We met for a drink."

  "How nice. Longboard Kelly’s?”

  “No. She's based in Hollywood."

  "Hollywood? Nice beach."

  "She has a good view, yes."

  "So you had a drink at her place?"

  "One or two."

  "One or two. How nice." She kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the dashboard. Wrapped her arms around herself.

  "I would have preferred to move things along another way, but it was Ron’s idea, and…"

  "Ron's idea."

  “Yeah. Look, she's past history. That's it. She had some information that I hope will prove useful. That's all. It wasn't easy, you know."

  “Why, you still have feelings?"

  “No. I ended it with her. It just wasn't exactly where I wanted to be."

  “I’m sure spending the night with a gorgeous TV bimbo is a real hardship for you."

  I was going to defend the bimbo comment but thought better of it. "I didn't spend the night. I got what I needed and I came home."

  She shook her head.

  “That didn't come out right. I mean, nothing happened."

  “You don't need to explain yourself to me." She slumped in the seat and said nothing more.

  I couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't going to contribute to the hole I was digging for myself. It was going to go one of two ways. It went the other way. It usually did.

  We were passing south of Lake Kissimmee before I thought of anything to say. For once, the silence was uncomfortable.

  "Mrs. Ferguson came to see."

  “Aha.”

  "I've taken her on. Lizzy’s looking around for me."

  "Aha."

  "She couldn't afford to pay but that's okay. I'm happy to help."

  “Aha.”

  We drove on in silence. I wished I had saved Mrs. Ferguson's story for another occasion when it might have
garnered me some brownie points. We drove the last ninety minutes into Tampa listening to the hum of tires on blacktop.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  THE SUN WAS low and into my face as we reached Tampa. The traffic was bad. Lots of people headed for Tampa International or St Pete across the bridge. We got off the freeway and took surface streets the last bit near the airport. The Tampa PD Patrol District 1 offices were in a large complex opposite Raymond James stadium. I'd been to the stadium before to see the Bucs play the Pats. I didn't know about the police complex. There was a lot of vacant space in the parking lot due to our late arrival.

  Danielle had called ahead. That was one thing about cops, even the ones I didn’t like, and who don't think I’m as swell as a day out at Coney Island. If they say they'll wait, they’ll wait. A civilian receptionist called up and a detective came down to us. He was a large, stern man. Broad in the neck but not in the waist. He had a serious handshake but a generous face. He introduced himself as Frank Templeton. We introduced ourselves and each handed him one of our cards. He looked at mine longer. Detective Templeton led us through a warren of offices and cubicles, not a million miles different from the sheriff’s office in West Palm. He offered us coffee. We took water and sat at his desk. It was cleaner than I expected it to be.

  "So, Detective, you want me to go first or you?" said Danielle.

  "It's Frank. And let me tell you the little I know. Then you can tell me how much of a head start you're gonna give me." He smiled and I noted his desk nameplate said his name was Francis.

  “We got a B and E call last night. Assisted-living facility in Westchase. The assailant broke into the townhouse of a resident. Not normally my domain, but the resident is a bit of a celebrity in this neck of the woods. Orlando Washington."

  "Wow," I said.

  "You know him?" said Frank.

  “No. But that's a helluva name.”

  "That it is. So I get called in because of it being him and because of the nature of the stolen item."

  "A Heisman trophy," said Danielle.

  "Right on."

  "So what happened?" I said.

  "Apparently the guy breaks in at night, but old Orlando is not a heavy sleeper. He gets up and disturbs the guy. Guy pulls a gun."

  "A gun?" I said. "He's sure?"