Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods

by Austin S. Camacho

  Unlike his idyllic backdrop, Hannibal felt unnatural in his costume. His double-breasted Italian suit was pure silk, in a color he wasn’t sure he could name. Creme, perhaps, or off tan with sort of a gold tone. Anyway, he knew Cindy liked it. His navy blue shirt came with a matching pocket square, so he wore both. He did like the tie, kind of a silvery charcoal with a subtle darker diagonal stripe.

  Hannibal flashed back an hour or so, to the moments before he left home. He was standing erect, trying to hold still while Sarge worked to tie Hannibal’s tie in an impressive Windsor knot, so much classier than the usual four-in-hand Hannibal whipped into his work ties every day. Sarge appeared to be enjoying Hannibal’s plight, perhaps sharing the experience in some vicarious way. Hannibal knew Sarge’s life had become a lonely one, for no reason Hannibal could identify. Why were so many good people alone? In any case, Hannibal took joy in his own amazing luck in having a wonderful woman after too many years of short lived relationships followed by long spaces of alone time. He was determined to make this one stick.

  Several guests had already boarded the Nina’s Dandy, the floating restaurant he had chosen for the special moment. Hannibal wondered if Cindy would arrive in time for them to eat. Then again, he wondered if he would be able to eat. The acid leaping inside his stomach seemed to be voting no.

  Only a few blocks separated Cindy’s townhouse from the pier in Old Town, Alexandria, but Hannibal was not surprised to see her pull up in a taxi. He suspected that this was not about inconveniencing him to pick her up, or even about not wanting to walk any farther than necessary in heels nearly three inches high, but really about making an entrance. And as far as he was concerned, it was well worth it.

  Cindy Santiago’s black evening outfit didn’t make her look tall and trim, that’s just the way her body was made. Her carefully trimmed deep brown hair, usually worn loose, was swept back this evening, just skimming her shoulders. Her face glowed the way children do in Christmas photographs, and her makeup was so perfect you had to look close to know it was there. High cheekbones and tawny skin betrayed her Latin heritage. Dark brown eyes were a little too big, and her smile a little too broad, but to Hannibal they fit together perfectly. Her black silk blouse bore an elegant drape that only served to showcase her abundant décolletage. It flowed down into black velvet pants that accented her high, narrow waist. Her silver chain belt was the perfect accent, and her heels were high enough to make the most of her legs.

  “Well, say something, man,” Cindy said.

  “What could I say that wouldn’t get me arrested? You’re a vision.”

  Cindy stepped forward to drop a quick kiss on his lips. “Yeah, well I’m a hungry vision and if we don’t get moving dinner’s going to float away.”

  * * * * *

  Aside from a gentle rocking, being seating at a table on Nina’s Dandy differed little from taking a seat in any upscale restaurant. A band of glass panels surrounded the vessel so that every seat offered an unobstructed view of the river and its thickly wooded coastline. Hannibal watched the oaks and maples slide past, with the occasional dogwood flashing its white or pink flowers that he thought outshone the more famous cherry blossoms. He bit into a piece of sharp, port-wine seasoned cheddar on an unfamiliar cracker and wondered why Cindy chose this particular evening to be so much more verbal than usual.

  “Oh, Hannibal this is perfect,” she said as the fresh fruit arrived. “I don’t know how you always know what I’ll want. This is a perfect celebration, maybe just a smidge early, for the Melville’s account.”

  At least she was so excited about work right now that she didn’t seem to notice Hannibal’s nervousness. “Is that the business with the IPO?”

  Cindy giggled at Hannibal’s ignorance. It seemed to him that she often did. “DPO, silly. IPO’s are a very different kind of offering. Say, isn’t that The Awakening? I love that piece.”

  The sculpture Cindy referred to was of a silver-skinned bearded giant, half-buried in the Maryland shoreline. One arm reached skyward while the other had barely broken through the ground. His open mouth was large enough for a small child to climb into. He seems to be struggling for freedom as Nina’s Dandy floats past, much as Hannibal was struggling with words at that moment.

  “He seems frozen in time,” Hannibal said. “And no man wants to be held static in time, you know. Time passes and life changes are called for, don’t you think? It’s amazing how much can happen in a few short months.”

  “You are so right,” Cindy said, pushing plates and glasses to make room for the spinach salad. “Melville’s has already raised nearly nine million dollars, and their stock is rising instead of falling. This is a good thing, since they gave me a bunch of stock options at the start of this enterprise.”

  A shadow passed over the table as the majestic vessel floated beneath the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Hannibal shoved a forkful of green into his mouth and wondered why anyone would think to put mandarin oranges into a green salad. The sweet citrus taste didn’t seem to fit.

  “Is that amount unusual for an IPO,” he asked. “I mean a DPO. What the hell’s the difference, anyway?”

  “Well, a direct public offering is just what the name says. The company can sell stock directly to the public, without a lot of the hateful registration and reporting requirements that IPOs go through. DPOs range in offerings from up to a million, all the way up to twenty five million, depending on the type of offering made. They all have different requirements and restrictions. This particular group is going for twenty-five million dollars, and there’s a bonus if we hit the total. There are only a few days left but I think it could happen.”

  “They must have made quite a commitment to this business,” Hannibal said. Then he moistened his dry mouth with a little wine before speaking again. “Sometimes, commitment is a difficult thing. There can be risks, but when you really want something, you have to take action.” His hand eased toward his left trouser pocket.

  “That’s the beauty of this approach for them,” Cindy said, moving her hands in a very animated fashion, her face glowing with the excitement Hannibal had seen on the faces of hunters getting close to a deer. “DPOs are designed so small businesses can raise capital in a relatively easy and low cost way. Venture capital and private investors aren’t always accessible to them. Then they face the scary task of trying to raise debt financing. DPOs let them raise equity financing instead, and at the same time they give investors a chance to get in early. Hey, here come our entrees. Hannibal, you are so sweet to think of this.”

  The soft, jazz flavored background music seemed to swell as Hannibal’s prime rib arrived. Cindy had chosen the shrimp stuffed with breaded crab. He loved the way her silver necklace glinted in the fading sunlight as she bent to her food with obvious delight. Watching her perfect white teeth tear at the jumbo shrimp, he reflected again on the phenomenon of a woman who could make eating a meal an act of sensuous abandon.

  Conversation stilled as they dined, and words seemed unnecessary toward the end of the meal. At some unspoken signal they reached for each other and held hands while they watched evening turn into night around them. They enjoyed the show as Downtown Washington lit up. Their view of the Lincoln Memorial was stunning, but not as moving as the perfect picture that shaped up in front of them as the Washington Monument and the lighted Capitol Dome slid into position to present a postcard come to life. The reflecting pool, stretched out between them and the monuments, appeared to have been placed there in anticipation that these two lovers would some day sit in this exact spot in the middle of the Potomac to see it.

  The Kennedy Center and the oddly curved Watergate Hotel complex moved past before the canned music was replaced by live tinkling from the piano at the center of the deck and the sharp but sweet aroma of cinnamon-heavy apple pie drew Hannibal’s senses back into the ship.

  “I hope that pie is as good as this cheesecake,” Cindy said. Her dark eyes told him that she had drunk just enough wine with dinner t
o loosen her up a notch. Maybe he would try one more time. He emptied his glass, and took Cindy’s other hand.

  “Cindy, I talked to a girl today who wants my help with a problem, but I think she found it difficult to talk to me. You know, sometimes it’s hard for people to discuss what’s really important with someone face to face. You know what I mean?”

  “Oh, yeah baby, it’s the same in my business,” she said. “That’s what makes the Internet so great. Like for this case I’m working right now. See, unlike an IPO certain DPOs let companies actively advertise and promote the sale of their stock. The SEC even allows the electronic transfer of the company’s prospectus to an investor. That way, the company execs don’t have to be salesmen and talk to people, you know? Hey, name that tune!”

  “What?” Hannibal had to think a minute. She had switched gears twice, and landed on a very old jazz tune coming from the piano.

  “Isn’t that Deep Purple?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I want to dance. Don’t you want to dance?” They rose together without their hands parting. As they arrived at their spot a few feet from the other two dancing couples, Cindy asked, “So what about that case? Are you going to take it?”

  Hannibal clamped his eyes shut and stifled a sigh, accepting that this evening would simply not go in the direction he expected it to. Their night had become her night, and he would simply have to devise another opportunity to pop the question.

  “Well, it looks like I’ll have time for a case in the next few days. I guess I’ll take it after all.”

  -5-

  THURSDAY

  For Hannibal it was the start of a typical workday, if there was such a thing. There was a limit to the kinds of trouble people got into, so there were only so many ways for Hannibal to earn his living. Some days, he provided physical protection for someone. Like his last case, that was mostly waiting for something to happen. Some days he delivered messages his client could not deliver themselves, usually backing the message up with violence. That kind of trouble most often ended quickly. Hannibal’s time in the secret service had prepared him well for those assignments.

  The rest of his workdays were what he called legwork days. That meant doing the drudgework he hated, pursuing leads to find something or someone. His days with the New York police department had prepared him for those days.

  After a good long run to clear his head and a frozen waffle breakfast, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee and worked the telephone for a couple of hours. He didn’t tell Anita, but she had actually given him a pretty good lead on Rod. The car he drove was a very special customization. Whoever did that work would remember it. And people who do that kind of thing know each other. One call to an auto customizer led to another, on a telephone trail that seemed to move farther and farther west, until he got the comment he was waiting for.

  “Mister, only one man on the east coast could have pulled off a chop job like that one.”

  Hannibal stepped out of his building just before eleven o’clock, pushing his sunglasses into place. A shout from up the block got his attention as he reached for his car door handle. Monte Washington was marching toward him. As always, Hannibal stifled his reaction to middle school fashion. Hannibal was sure Monte’s jeans were below his narrow butt, and he wondered what kept them from falling off.

  “Dude! I been wanting to talk to you,” Monte said. His hair was in tight cornrow braids these days, and his chocolate complexion darkened by the summer sun. “You gotta tell me what it was like, hanging with Huge Wilson. Did you meet Missy and Timberland? And I know he got all the fly honeys, but did he share?”

  “I was working, Monte. I wasn’t focused on the honeys,” Hannibal said. Was Timberland a person? Hannibal thought it was a brand of boots. “And I’ve been wanting to talk to you too, after the last time I spoke with your grandmother.” Monte was the first person in the neighborhood to speak to Hannibal when he first arrived. Much of his drive to keep drug dealers out of the area stemmed from his concern for this one young man and the grandmother who was raising him. For Hannibal, Monte symbolized the promise of the future.

  “What’s Grandma been telling you now?” Monte asked, sliding his portable CD player’s headphones on.

  “She told me about your final report card this year,” Hannibal said. “I’m not happy. We had a deal.”

  “It wasn’t all that bad, bro.”

  “You can do better,” Hannibal said. “And I wonder if you’ve been reading this summer like you said you would.”

  “You want me to waste my time with my head in a book?” Monte asked with a grin. “Maybe we need to hook up a new deal.”

  Hannibal turned to lean back against his car. He had the feeling he had stepped into a well concealed bear trap. “What do you have in mind, you little hustler?”

  “I know you didn’t realize what a great opportunity you just passed up,” Monte said, padding around in what Hannibal thought were Timberlands. “But since you made the connection, well, you could introduce me to Huge.”

  “I could.” Hannibal looked around his block, smelling the eternal heat of the city and feeling the summer slipping away like Monte’s chances at success. Did he realize that he was in a race, and that some of his peers were already running? “But that’s a tall order. I think a meeting like that, under positive circumstances, would be worth, let’s say a book every two weeks, through the summer, and maybe the same deal after school starts.”

  “What?” Monte back-pedaled. “You don’t want me to have no life at all?”

  “Well, if it’s not worth it to you,” Hannibal turned and pulled the handle of his car door.

  “Okay, okay, but for that deal, I got to have five minutes alone with the brother, so I can get him to listen to some of my rhyming,” Monte said. “I could be his next big thing, you know?”

  “Sure, Monte. Now listen, I got work to do. And you better get to the library and find something good because I’ll hook you up with Huge before the end of next week.”

  * * * * *

  Before his conversation with Monte faded from his mind, Hannibal was cruising down I-295, watching for the exit to the Beltway that would point him toward Maryland. The nearest mechanic who would admit to being able to perform the kind of automotive surgery needed to create Rod’s car lived across the Potomac in the Southern Maryland county of St. Mary’s. It was the same man who had been identified by his peers during Hannibal’s telephone investigation.

  Hannibal still marveled at how abruptly his urban environment faded to a rural setting. The city feeling dropped away within twenty minutes of driving, when he turned onto Maryland’s Route 5 and headed south toward Mechanicsville. He spent a lot of time alone with the Tornado, and he knew just where on the RPM scale she would settle into a smooth and steady cruise. This was the speed at which his Volvo was happiest, and once he hit it he liked to settle back and enjoy the scenery moving past him. At these times he enjoyed his favorite guilty pleasure, the classic rock music that always made him feel so good. None of his friends could really appreciate the Lynrd Skynrd album thumping in his CD player right then, but he was sure the people who lived on either side of the road he was cruising down would love it.

  His head was still bobbing when he turned off the highway, and again onto an even smaller road. He slowed to a crawl to drive over the ruts and potholes, eventually moving onto a road barely wide enough to accommodate two cars passing. Willows lined the road, leaning far enough over to occasionally brush the Tornado’s white roof. Just as he was beginning to doubt the accuracy of his directions, Hannibal saw four single-story buildings. One looked as if it might hold an office, while the others were clearly garages and work areas.

  The pit bull snarling at him at the end of a short chain marked this as rural white territory. Sarge called these people SMIBs, an unflattering acronym for Southern Maryland In-Breds. Of course, Hannibal had been in Black-owned junkyards with a very similar look except that for some reason, the brothers always had rottweille
rs or Doberman pinschers chained to their gates.

  Hannibal sat for a moment, parked in front of a row of vintage cars, and partial cars. He allowed himself those few seconds to decide on the best approach to get the information he needed. Despite the barking dog, no one came outside to meet him, so in his own time he opened his door and stepped out. The car’s air-conditioned atmosphere puffed out with him and evaporated, allowing the heat of the day to wrap around him like a soft blanket. The humidity fogged his Oakley’s for a second. The smell of oil or transmission fluid was tainted with the odor that rises when someone who chews tobacco has spit in the same place too many times. He looked down to see dust rise from the hard packed dirt surface and settle on his previously glistening shoes. On an impulse, he pulled his gloves off, dropped them on the seat, shut the door and headed inside.

  Ten steps later Hannibal opened the door of the first cinder block building. He knew right away why no one had stepped out. A loud compressor was keeping that room ice cold. He saw everything he expected to see there: a parts manual open on a wooden counter, vinyl chairs on the customer side, a Coke machine in the corner, barely clad models on the calendar on the opposite wall, and a hard-skinned, smiling white man standing behind the counter.

  “Morning,” the man said. “What can I do you for today? You looking for a car, or you want some work done on that 850 GLT outside?”

  Hannibal held his hand out for a shake, and got it. “I’m Hannibal Jones, and I’m betting you’re Clarence Nash.” Nash was in his early fifties, with silver hair and a beard that had simply grown as far as it wanted to and stopped. He wore overalls, but his hands were clean and his shake was firm. Hannibal’s research told him that this man was a mechanic, an artist and a salesman. He figured he could probably get away with a direct approach with the man, if he sprinkled it with a bit of flattery.