Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "I want you to not treat women like punching bags, for starters."

  “What about when they’re asking for it?"

  I swallowed bile and took a deep breath. My mother, hell everyone's mother, said that two wrongs didn't make a right. I still felt I held the moral high ground. I was instilling a new value system in Newt Bellingham. Kicking the life out of him was what I wanted to do. I closed my eyes. It didn't help. I saw Jenny Bellingham’s battered face.

  I took another breath. "I'm about to cross a line here," I said to Sally.

  He nodded and put his hand on my shoulder. "Get him into a chair," he said.

  We lifted Newt into a dining chair and Sally duct taped his arms and legs to the chair. Then Sally directed me to drag him into the bathroom. It was a tight squeeze with Newt in the chair. Sally then told me to lean the chair back onto the side of the bathtub so Newt’s head hung back over the tub. Sally started the faucet in the sink and soaked a towel, which he placed loosely over Newt's face. There was a knock at the front door.

  "Food's here," said Sally. "Take care of that, will ya? Then wait out there. I'll be out shortly."

  I stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door. At the front door I found a young Asian guy in glasses. His hair contained so much gel the spikes in it looked dangerous. I took the food, paid cash and gave him a nice tip. Food delivery is a tough job. I took the bag to the kitchen and opened it. Three large containers of special fried rice and a half dozen egg rolls. I took a roll and sat on the sofa. I strained but couldn't hear a sound from the bathroom.

  I didn't feel good. About what I was doing, about involving Sally, about not leaving it to Danielle. I thought back to the call I’d made to Danielle, asking her to attend to Jenny Bellingham. She hadn't asked me why I wouldn't be there. Hadn't asked me where I was going or what I was doing. I ate the egg roll. It wasn't very good and I wished I hadn't.

  I waited. Looked around the room. I'd sat in this exact spot with Jenny. It looked the same. I wouldn't have expected Newt to get a maid service in, but he hadn’t picked up anything. The shelves around the television were still empty. The cracked picture of the younger Jenny and Newt still lay smashed at my feet. The packet of gauze I used to patch her up had been pressed down in between the cushions where Newt sat.

  I stared at the blank television just like Jenny Bellingham had done. Half an hour must have passed when Sally stepped out of the bathroom. He was rolling down his shirtsleeves.

  "He's with the program," said Sally. "But he's pretty tired, so he's gonna get some shut-eye."

  I nodded.

  Sally turned back to the bathroom. "Why don't you warm up the car? I'll be there in a minute." He went back in the bathroom but didn't shut the door.

  I got up and tossed the egg roll wrapper into the trash. I looked at the Chinese food and thought about taking it but decided I didn't need the starchy carbs and Newt might. I walked out of the mobile home and sat in the Mustang. I had the windows up to keep the bugs at bay, but left the air con off. Ten minutes later Sally shuffled out to the car. He tossed his tool bag in the back and got in the front.

  "How do you know he'll stick to the plan?" I said.

  "He'll stick."

  "How do you know?"

  "You doubt me?"

  "Not for a second. I just want to know."

  “No you don't. You want to sleep nights, as long as you can."

  "Tell me."

  He looked at me. He looked tired. "Learned behavior. Tonight he was introduced to a new way of thinking. He might not pick it up first time. So we reinforce the lesson. A note written on a beer mat when he comes back from the john at his favorite sports bar. A month from now, a chance meeting in a dark parking lot, a swift kick in the groin, and a whispered message. Six months from now he'll get a flat tire and go for the spare and find a rolled up phonebook, wrapped in duct tape. Learned behavior."

  I started the engine, punched the gear selector into drive, then looked at Sally. "Sorry I called you," I said.

  "I'm not. But I'd appreciate you getting me home before Leno comes on."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  DOING ANY KIND of stakeout in the ritzy part of Jupiter Island was hard. County Road 707 bisected the pencil-thin island surrounded on either side by ten-foot high hedgerows and security fences. In some places there was only room for one property on either side of the road. One side was beachfront, looking out onto the Atlantic, the other side banked onto the intracoastal.

  The properties were expansive. Many had two driveways. One for residents and guests, the other for the help. It was the latter driveway that Dennis Rivers would have used to enter the estate where Black Tie was catering a charity event. I didn't see him enter because I wasn't on Jupiter Island. The tight road gave no cover, as Ron and I had discovered when we assessed the spot earlier in the day. Best we could do was pull over on the roadside and pretend to have broken down. We tested it. It took six minutes for a very courteous security guard from the adjacent estate to come out and offer his assistance to get us up and running and the hell out of there.

  So when Rivers entered, Ron and I were sitting aboard a Boston Whaler on the intracoastal, motoring up and down just off the rear of the property. Through binoculars I saw the Black Tie van arrive at the side of the massive three-story house. A marquee had been erected in the immaculate garden. The lawn looked like a putting green. Rivers and his cohort set up. A flock of well-dressed, well-heeled women appeared for afternoon tea. The folks on Jupiter Island made BJ Baker look like the pool boy. BJ may have played NFL football and become a successful media personality, but that only got you waterfront in Palm Beach. The guys who owned the NFL team and the television station had property on Jupiter Island.

  We cruised in the boat that Ron had borrowed from a motor boat club he was a member of. We drank soda and ate corn chips and salsa. It was a pleasant way to follow someone. The water sparkled and boats of all sorts and sizes floated around the calm waters. I was surprised there were so many people out. Didn't anyone in America work anymore? We watched the flock eventually dissipate and Rivers pack his kit and get in his van. We sped the Whaler back to Jupiter inlet and left it at the dock. The Mustang sat dockside and we sped out and got on to A1A and pulled over just before the bridge into downtown Jupiter.

  There were two ways Rivers might get back to the Black Tie warehouse. A1A and the curiously named Alternative A1A. The former was faster and more direct. I picked the van up in my mirror a couple minutes later and pulled into traffic four cars behind. Rivers drove directly to the light industrial complex that housed Black Tie. The Camry was parked outside. Rivers and a girl with tied back hair carried trays from the van into the warehouse. Then the girl appeared. She got into a small Mazda and drove away. Rivers appeared and I started the engine. But he didn't get in the Camry. He carried something back to the van.

  "What's he doing," said Ron.

  "No idea."

  “Make a move?" said Ron.

  I hesitated. We'd agreed that confronting him in front of his employers again wouldn't work. We decided to tail him home, then pay him a visit. But now he was loading the van again.

  "Another gig?" I said.

  "Nothing on their books."

  I turned to Ron. "How do you know that, by the way?"

  "I'm dating their office manager."

  "Anything for the job, huh?"

  "I'd take a bullet." He smiled.

  Rivers brought more stainless steel containers out to the van. Then he slammed home the rear doors. The van bounced as he got in. He pulled out and drove towards us. I figured we were made. I reminded myself again that a red Mustang was not the best vehicle for a person in my line of work.

  But Rivers didn't see us. As he drove by his left hand was wrestling with the seat belt. His right hand held a phone to his ear. He must have been steering with his knees. He was way too preoccupied to notice where he was going let alone see me turn around and pull in behind him. Evidently he was
calling someone to say he was running late because he drove like a lunatic. We sped through the surface streets of West Palm and onto I-95. We followed him off the exit at Boca Raton and took a familiar route.

  "Hello, hello,” Ron said in an English accent as we pulled into the mall that housed Mango Martini.

  Rivers drove by the club and pulled around the building. Came to a stop at the rear of the club. I pulled into a parking spot to the side of the big pet store.

  "You think he nicked something from that house in Jupiter?" said Ron.

  "The thought had occurred."

  "And he's selling it to Bartalotto?"

  "Also occurred." We watched Rivers unload the van into the club.

  “What do we know about the Jupiter property? Who owns it?" I said.

  "Some European guy. He's into hotels and resorts."

  "So unlikely to have won a Heisman."

  "Unlikely," he said.

  "Think Bartalotto could be using Rivers for other jobs?"

  "Why use a guy who went inside for grand theft auto to do break and enters? Bartalotto isn’t short of help in that area."

  "My thoughts exactly," I said.

  I watched Rivers close the van and dash inside. I had no idea what was going on and it was making me itchy. It was the kind of feeling I used to get before I blew off the catcher’s call and threw my fast ball. At the batter's head.

  "We need to know what the hell is going on in there."

  We walked around the storefronts and in the main door of the club. It was a different place. There were people everywhere. The music was louder. The volume increase didn't improve it. The girl at the host desk was dressed in the standard lingerie. She looked about fourteen.

  "About thirty minute wait for the club, forty-five for the restaurant." She smiled. Her parents had sunk some serious cash into her impressive dental work.

  I looked around but couldn't see Rivers. "The bar," I said.

  “Thirty minutes."

  I thought about just heading in but figured that plan would work better once I knew where I wanted to go.

  "You are following me." It was Amber approaching from the bar. She smiled and I decided that great teeth were a job requirement at Mango Martini.

  "Whenever possible, Miss Amber,” I said.

  She faux pouted. "You call me Miss Amber I'm gonna think of you like my dad. And I really don't want to think of you that way." She raised an eyebrow.

  She was good. I was almost ready to cast myself adrift in her life raft. Almost. Another five years she'd have the look down pat and I’d be a goner.

  "There a back room here?"

  She smiled. "Easy, Tiger."

  “Is there?" I said it straight-faced and she dropped the smile a touch. Not all the way.

  "Yeah. The function room."

  "You do functions?"

  "Tons. But not in the function room. We just call it that. It's just a separate room. Functions happen in here." She waved her delicate hands to signal the club in general.

  "So you use caterers for functions?"

  "Ah, no. We're a restaurant, too. Mainly fried stuff, but that's what people like."

  “So what goes on in the function room?”

  "Generally nothing. Sometimes Mr. Bartalotto uses it. I think he's in there tonight." Amber looked at the girl at the host desk.

  “Yeah, he is," she said. "He's having a private party." She looked at me. "You want me to put you on the wait list?"

  I shook my head. She turned her attention to a young couple who came in looking like they had just arrived from a salsa dancing competition.

  "Sure you won't stay for a drink?" said Amber. She brushed her straight hair out of her face.

  "Maybe later. If you're around."

  "I'll be here." She flashed the pearly whites again and skipped away towards the neon bar.

  I turned to Ron. "What do you think?"

  "Private party?" he said. "And an outside caterer who isn't on official business?"

  “In a club that they own and has its own kitchen?"

  "It's a puzzle. And Rivers is the piece that doesn't fit."

  "I agree, and I'm sick of not knowing how the pieces fit together. Or even how many pieces there are."

  I wanted answers. I wanted to find BJ Baker's Heisman. I wanted a result for Jenny Bellingham and Orlando Washington, too. It was time to beat the bush and see what flew out.

  I took off across the room, weaving between tables. I didn't know if Ron was following. I assumed he would, but it didn't matter to me either way. I strode past the bar and saw Amber getting a tray of drinks setup. She saw me. She frowned. She didn't know what I was doing. I wasn't completely sure myself.

  I headed straight to the door next to the bar. The door I'd seen Dennis Rivers go through when we had followed him to the club before. I didn't stop. Flicked the handle and ignored the sign saying Private Employees Only. I barged through and found myself in a corridor. It was different from the main room. No attempt had been made to make this area look classy. No neon, no spotlighting. The walls were matte black and small halogen cans lit the space. There were two doors to the left, one straight at the end of the corridor, one to the right. The left doors both had glass portholes. One would be a storeroom for liquor. It had a key card lock on it. For inventory control. The second door was the kitchen. I saw stainless steel shelving and bright lighting through the porthole. The end door had a big bar across it. To push in case of emergency. It led outside. I turned right to a plain black door and pushed my way in. Then I stopped. I looked around the room and took it all in. Felt Ron arrive behind me, close enough so I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  The room was set up with two large round tables. Each seated about sixteen people. That made thirty-two pairs of eyes on me. Plus the two guys standing against the wall. They looked like linebackers in expensive suits. They both pushed off the wall towards me. The tables were filled with people who shared a strong genetic code. Thick black hair and strong noses dominated the room. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. There were little girls in frilly dresses and boys in those little suits that make them look both cute and yet a little odd. A generation on, their parents, and a generation beyond that at the next table. Roberto Bartalotto's generation.

  The man himself sat with an open mouth and a scowl furthest from the door. He was a heavy man, a solid ring of fat below his jaw. He looked uncomfortable in a tie. Next to him was the oldest generation. A snow-haired woman with large round spectacles and a print dress that looked like an exploded vat of Concord grape jelly. It was a regular minor league mob get-together. Except for one thing. The tables were filled with rounds of sandwiches. Little triangles of sandwiches on three tiered trays. I spotted petite white doilies under the sandwiches. And everyone except the kids had china cups in front of them. Dainty things with roses and such on them. If I didn't know better I’d say the cups held tea. There wasn't a strand of pasta or a drop of red wine in the room. I fleetingly resolved to revisit my stereotypes of mafia families.

  The two big guys were a step away. Then from a door on the other side of the room came Dennis Rivers. He was dressed in his white shirt and black trousers. He had his clip-on bowtie in place and carried a tray of sandwiches. His eyes connected with mine and the color washed from his face.

  "Dennis?" I said. It was meant to be a thought, but the whole room heard it.

  Bartalotto turned to Rivers. “You know these men?"

  Rivers looked at Bartalotto then back at me.

  "Dennis?" demanded Bartalotto.

  Rivers creased his forehead and looked back at the mobster. “They’re with me," he said.

  "With you?" Bartalotto turned his scowl on me and looked me up and down. He didn't appear convinced.

  "Yes, sir," said Rivers. He looked back at me. “They’re my help."

  He gave me that same face he'd shown at the yacht club. Devoid of emotion. He could've been holding a royal flush or spit in a bucket. I'd
never have been able to tell.

  "Get in the kitchen now," he said.

  I moved. There didn't appear to be much mileage in staying in the room. Two big guys who would clearly be packing heat, and me none the wiser about what the hell was going on. Bartalotto tracked me as I moved around the room. I got to the door next to Rivers and pushed it open.

  "They use the back door in future, Dennis," said Bartalotto.

  I didn't hear the response.

  Ron and I stepped into a small anteroom. Rivers was using it as a butler's pantry. We pushed through another door into a room that was part storeroom, part kitchen. The tables and counters were topped in stainless steel. Cardboard produce boxes were stacked against two walls. There was a large fridge and a small oven. Trays of food lay on the counters. Most of it looked like finger food, but not anything I'd seen before. I didn't have much time to take it all in.

  Rivers flew through the door and drove his palms into my chest, knocking me into the door of the refrigerator. "What the hell are you doing here?" he said.

  Emotion had returned to his face. He wanted to kill me. I was pretty good at picking up on that sort of thing.

  "I could ask you the same question, Dennis." I smoothed my shirt with my palms.

  "Me? I'm working." He was screaming quietly and the effort of keeping the volume down was making the veins in his neck pop out.

  "And what sort of work would you be doing for the mob?"

  He glanced at the door. "Keep your voice down."

  “Why? You think they don’t know they're the mob?"

  "You guys want me to get canned, don't you?" He glared at me then Ron.

  "It's a fair question," said Ron. "You, an ex-con, working for a bunch of gangsters."

  Rivers expelled a rush of air. "You guys are still on about that robbery. The Baker job."

  “It was a burglary and yes, we’re still on it. We can be dogged like that," I said.

  He shook his head and laughed to himself. “Jesus, man. I've told you. I don't got nothing to do with that."

  "So says you."

  "Yeah says me."

  “Where have you been these past few days, Dennis?" said Ron. "Tampa, maybe?"