by Tom Fowler
I saw a few pictures of Rosenberg’s goons, including the two who drove past me outside Pauline’s. His stable was smaller than Tony’s, but they looked just as menacing as the Baltimore crew. I wondered what jobs they performed at Rosenberg’s restaurant supply business. Meet Brutus, the oven specialist. For all your cleaning needs, see Clubber in the back left of the store. He specializes in removing blood from tile floors.
Nothing else of note came up on my basic searches. I decided to put off a more advanced search for now. Those two clowns in the car concerned me. Rosenberg would acquaint himself with me sooner or later; I preferred later. How did he know about me already? Or were those two just sticking with Pauline to see what happened? What if they went back?
If they returned, I couldn’t do much about it now. I didn’t think they would, though. Rosenberg wanted his money, no doubt, but he worked a process for getting it back. Sending two goons to menace a widow right away didn’t seem like a play in his playbook. Rosenberg first sent a letter reading as nice on the surface. He would contact her again.
I spent the rest of the day getting ready for Rosenberg and his crew. I hit the dojo for a sparring session and then the shooting range, where I fired all my handguns. Practice is something I’m often lazy about. This case wouldn’t give me such a luxury. I needed to be prepared.
The next morning, I made a breakfast for one. Two eggs over hard, wheat toast with butter and jelly, and a cup of Greek yogurt. The kitchen still smelled like the pepper I heated in the pan before adding the eggs. Pauline called right when I was about to cut into the second delicious egg. They had to be the best I ever made. I hoped this one would still be good lukewarm. “Hello?”
“C.T., it’s Pauline.”
I loved it when people announce themselves on the phone. Like I haven’t had caller ID since it became a thing. “Hi, Pauline.”
“I got a phone call.” I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.
“So did I.”
“You did?”
“Yes, only a moment ago. A woman who hired me decided to call and have a cryptic conversation. It was very strange.”
She was silent for a second, then chuckled. “I guess I deserved that. I got a call from . . . him.”
“Rosenberg?” I said.
“Uh-huh. What do I do?”
“We’re going to meet with him.”
“You sure it’s a good idea?” Pauline said.
“It’s better than any of the alternatives.”
Pauline sighed. “All right.”
“Did he offer a time and place?”
“His restaurant supply business at one-thirty.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at one.”
“Thanks, C.T. I think this is more than you signed up for, but I’m glad you’re sticking with me.”
“I like to see things through.”
Now, I hoped the tendency didn’t get me killed.
Chapter 7
How does one dress when visiting a loan shark? Does it change the algorithm if the usurious moneylender is known to be ruthless? I didn’t want to announce to David Rosenberg and his crew I was a private investigator. In the past, when required to accompany clients and not wanting to appear in my official capacity, I’ve gone with a cover of Trent (my middle name), a dashing gentleman who works in finance. I took enough business classes in college to fake the basics, which is all I’ve ever needed.
I chose a nice blue pinstriped Armani suit, paired with a yellow Ralph Lauren shirt and a striped blue Armani tie. I skimped on the shoes: Nunn Bush. Trent the finance guy should look good, but not perfect. He skimps on his shoes because the market is uncertain and clients even moreso. I accessorized the suit with a .32 revolver holstered on my left side near my back. It was the smallest gun I owned, and while I didn’t trust its stopping power, I did trust it to fit under a suit jacket and buy us time to make an escape if we needed to.
About six months ago, I went off the grid for a challenging case and bought a late-1980s Caprice from an “automotive reconfiguration engineer,” as he liked to call himself. The Caprice was big, blue, and ugly, so I got it painted, souped up, and fortified against small arms fire. If we needed to make an escape, the Caprice was the best choice. I guess Trent skimped on his car, too. At least he wore a killer suit.
I picked Pauline up promptly at five after one. She looked at her watch after she got in the car. I didn’t say anything. “Where’s your other car?” she said.
“This one can take a bullet and keep going,” I said.
She blanched. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned this feature. “They’re going to shoot at us?”
“I doubt it,” I said, trying my best reassuring tone. “Rosenberg merely wants to talk. It always helps to be prepared, though.”
“I guess.”
I drove to Rosenberg’s Restaurant Supply. We pulled up at one-thirty-three, which was very prompt for me. I would blame it on traffic if asked. The business featured an adjacent lot off Reisterstown Road, so I parked the Caprice there. I checked the gun one more time as Pauline and I walked to the building. We went inside and to the reception desk to the left of the door. A pretty redhead behind the desk smiled at us. “Can I help you folks?” she said.
“We’re here for Mr. Rosenberg,” I said. “He should be expecting us.”
“Let me check for you.” She smiled again and worked the intercom. I looked around. Restaurant supply was boring. Salt shakers, mops, tablecloths, and silverware didn’t excite me. The shelves were well-stocked everywhere I looked. As far as I could tell, this was a legitimate business. “Mr. Rosenberg will see you,” the receptionist said. I wondered how much she knew.
“Thank you,” I said.
Pauline hadn’t said a word since we arrived. She did nothing but stare at the floor but finally lifted her head to look at me. Her expression was so morose I thought she entered a contest to find the most downtrodden woman in Maryland. I gave her a quick smile. “Let’s go.”
“All right,” she said with a nod.
A tall, medium-built man came up to meet us. He had about five inches on me, putting him at six-seven, but he looked athletic, not brawny. Rosenberg had different standards for his goons than Tony Rizzo. This fellow moved with the easy confidence, of one who knew how to take care of himself in a fight. Hair as dark and glittery as coal was pulled back into a ponytail. His gray eyes matched his shirt. If he were a woman, I might have said he looked exotic, like he showed some Asian ancestry. “Mr. Rosenberg will see you now,” he said. “Please follow me.”
We walked behind him to the back of the building where a large black door blocked access to something important. A standard ten-key keypad restricted access. Our guide’s tall frame blocked my view, so I couldn’t see the access code. I heard four beeps before the door opened. “This way,” he said, leading us down a hallway wide enough for one person at a time. The walls were plain, and the passage contained only a single door dead ahead.
The tall fellow knocked twice, then three more times. “Come in,” called a voice from the other side. Our escort entered and showed us inside with a sweep of his arm. I walked in first in case anyone tried to waylay us. It was the chivalrous thing to do, even if it clashed with my otherwise well-developed sense of self-preservation.
Rosenberg sat behind an uncluttered mahogany desk. It would have been too high for him if he hadn’t maxed out the upper adjustment on his chair. To his right, a man built more like a typical goon stared at us as we walked in. He didn’t look like either of the guys who snapped my picture; I was oh-for-two on finding them so far. Rosenberg’s guest chairs were borrowed from a cheap hotel. Pauline sat in the one on the left, and I took the other one. The tall fellow closed the door behind us, then leaned against the wall beside it.
“Who the fuck are you?” Rosenberg said, looking at me. Pauline inhaled sharply.
“He asked in a warm and friendly tone,” I said. Pauline was already frightened, so
I tried to keep the mood light so I didn’t get scared, too.
“A comedian,” Rosenberg said, shaking his head. “What’s your name, funny man?”
“Trent. I work in finance. I’m Mrs. Rodgers’ consultant.”
“She needs a financial consultant?”
“Everyone could use one. If you come by our office, I’m sure we could make your money work better for you, too.”
“You hear that, Jasper?” Rosenberg said to the tall man who guarded the door. “”They’ll make my money work better.” Rosenberg, Jasper, and the goon all enjoyed a good chuckle. “Let me tell you something, ace. I don’t need a fucking consultant. My money works damn well. Other people’s money works even better.”
“All right.”
“Pauline Rodgers.” Rosenberg turned to face her. She threatened to cry. “Nice to meet you.”
“You . . . uh, you, too,” she said.
“Sorry to hear about Stanley’s death.”
“Th . . . thank you.”
“Let’s get down to brass tacks. Your husband owes me money. A good amount of money.”
“He . . . he was investing it.”
“I don’t give a shit. He borrowed money. He used said money. He did not repay it. He still owes it. He’s dead. Now you owe it.”
“How much are we talking about?” I said when Pauline went speechless.
“He borrowed seventy-six large.” Pauline gasped. I continued to look at Rosenberg. “There’s interest and other fees. With those, you owe me eighty-five.”
“Eighty-five thousand?” Pauline said. Only her liberally-applied blush kept her from looking as white as a sheet.
“Yeah, eighty-five thousand. I’d pay fast. Interest adds up quick.”
“Mrs. Rodgers intends to pay this debt,” I said. “Due to what happened to her husband, though, she can’t pay it off at once.”
“You want a payment plan?” Rosenberg said.
“Please,” Pauline said.
“She wants a payment plan,” he said to the goon sitting to his right. I guess Jasper got excluded from financial jokes. Maybe he failed Accounting 101. Then again, I doubted the guy sharing a chuckle with Rosenberg could spell “college” if I spotted him the first four letters.
“This ain’t a damn credit union.” Rosenberg looked at Pauline again. “You ain’t financing a car. You don’t get six years.”
“I need . . . some time,” Pauline said.
“I can give you six months,” Rosenberg said. “About a third up front. So thirty large ASAP. Then you get five payments. Twelve thousand each.”
“You’re asking for ninety thousand,” I said.
“You’re in the right field, ace,” Rosenberg said. “Five thousand is the inconvenience fee. I hate payment plans.”
“I . . . I don’t—” Pauline started talking, but I cut her off.
“Mrs. Rodgers will get you your first payment. She needs a few days to assemble the money.”
“Assemble the money? What is it, fucking Legos?” I almost laughed at his quip. Rosenberg was an asshole who cussed too much to sound intimidating, but I gave him credit for un bon mot. Instead of laughing, I flashed a winning smile.
“Considering the circumstances, Mrs. Rodgers just needs a little time.”
“She has forty-eight hours.” Pauline started to weep. “Tears ain’t changing it, lady. Forty-eight hours. You don’t wanna miss a payment.”
Pauline nodded but didn’t say anything. “Forty-eight hours it is,” I said.
“Good, it’s settled.” Rosenberg looked back at the paper on his desk. A few seconds later, he looked up at us again. “Why the hell you still here? Jasper, show them out.”
“I think we can manage on our own,” I said. I stood and helped a teary Pauline to her feet. She wobbled once she stood, but I steadied her with a hand on her forearm. “Let’s go, Pauline.”
“Forty-eight hours,” the goon sitting with Rosenberg said.
“Your echo is a little late,” I said.
“You a smartass?” Rosenberg said.
“Better than a dumbass. I don’t like limiting my career choices to retail and thuggery.”
The bodyguard stood and put on his best scowl. I wondered if I’d pushed things too far. I became aware of my heart beating in my chest and the weight of the gun near my back. “Jasper, get them out of here,” Rosenberg said. “Spare the jokes next time, ace.”
“They’re just one more free service I offer,” I said. Pauline and I walked out of the room, with Jasper close behind. He led us toward the front of the store without a word.
“Have a nice day,” he said when we got to the point where he met us before. “Please avoid collection procedures.” Jasper flashed a brief smile, then walked toward the back of the store. The receptionist smiled at us as we walked past, even though Pauline still cried. I grew tired of smiles. I felt weary of this case.
Pauline and I walked back to the Caprice. I pondered our next move, and none of the choices turning over in my head struck me as solid.
When I got home, I discovered one thing went well: Stanley’s hard drive finished decrypting. At the moment, it was the entirety of the list of things right with the world—this and the fact I wore a damn sharp suit. I changed out of said sharp suit into more comfortable clothes, then grabbed an IPA from the fridge. After the meeting with Rosenberg and his crew, I needed it.
As soon as I looked at Stanley’s data, I wished I paid more attention in accounting class. I only took it because it was required and only showed up often enough to get a B-plus, but it was basic accounting and what downloaded was way beyond that. Stanley’s day-trading plan involved a lot of option exchanges and short sales on volatile stocks. It looked like his plan—if it could be called one—was to catch them on an upward trend. I would have to break into his brokerage account to see the fruits of those efforts.
I didn’t find much else of use on Stanley’s hard drive. He composed few love letters, presumably to Pauline, and I read about a third of the first one before my arteries clogged with saccharine. Stanley was better off sticking to stocks, and I didn’t even think he ran a solid scheme there. He rode a good wave for a while—a lot of investment types did—but based on what I could see of his financial acumen, he wasn’t going to recapture the magic anytime soon.
In my final sweep of Stanley’s hard drive, I found a spreadsheet buried in a random folder. It showed an initial balance of seventy-five thousand. Rosenberg said Stanley borrowed seventy-six. A single grand of the sum would have paid for his hotel suite for a few nights. The original seventy-five had been whittled well below its original value. Based on Stanley’s hourly returns—to use a technical Wall Street term—he’d lost his ass. His initial funds sat at thirteen thousand, based on the last figure he entered. If he did so poorly in such a brief time, I wondered how much of the remaining balance was eaten away without him there to cash it out.
Pauline could use the money. I went back through Stanley’s documents and found information about his brokerage account. I tried to log into it with his user ID, entered one of my email addresses in lieu of his, and clicked on the link for a forgotten password. A minute later, I obtained a temporary password and logged in. This process was easier than setting a password cracker loose. A brute force attack would probably lock his account. I might have made some reasonable guesses as to the password, but doing so also ran the risk of locking everything. This way was more low-tech, but it got me in without any complications.
I went to the balance sheet and cringed. Stanley’s remaining thirteen large had been eaten away to just over nine. I chose the cash-out option and selected the existing account he linked. It wouldn’t even cover the down payment to Rosenberg, but it helped. I could brainstorm some ways to raise the rest and buy us time to take on the loan shark and his organization.
Nothing else on Stanley’s computer proved useful. I’d already struck gold, so to speak, and I couldn’t complain. Pauline could, but the only perso
n who could really listen would be lowered into the ground tomorrow. I informed her I would be skipping the funeral. Slogging through the viewing proved enough. I was about to get another beer when Gloria called. “Hey, what are you up to?”
“I finished doing something for the case,” I said. “Right now, I’m staring into an empty beer bottle.”
“Don’t stare too hard. You might go cross-eyed.” I heard her giggle.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Do you want to go out later?” she said “There’s a new restaurant I want to try.”
If Gloria discovered a new restaurant, it would be expensive and would struggle to live up to whatever hype her socialite friends bestowed upon it. The last one boasted of small plates, which people like for some reason, but also took pride in prices inversely proportional to the plate size. One of these nights, I would make Gloria pick up the check. As often as I paid, we might as well be dating. “Sure, sounds good,” I said.
“Great,” said Gloria. “We have a seven-thirty reservation. I’ll come by around six.”
I smiled. “Sounds good.”
Gloria and I freshened up before our dinner reservation. I could probably call it a date, and maybe Gloria even thought of it as one. Someday, we would sit down and have a conversation. It wouldn’t be today. I put on a black blazer over a black T-shirt and a nice pair of blue jeans. Gloria, who usually wrinkled her nose if I put on jeans, didn’t say anything. She busied herself with making sure her ensemble fit well. Like all her dresses, this one clung to her curves in exactly the right places. For someone who said she didn’t spend a lot of time shopping, Gloria always wore fashionable clothes that walked the line between appropriate and scandalous.