Momma Lupe, Book 1 in the Ty Connell 'Novella Series. A Mystery/Suspense Thriller. Cooking or killing -- Momma Had Her Funny WAys

by Michael C. Hughes

  “First, I just wanted to see if you were still in town, still in business, and still interested in the occasional freelance assignment."

  "Well, you found my office," Geddes said. "And I'm still open for business."

  "Okay. I found you. Let me see where I can take it. I'll get back to you."

  Connell rose and Geddes made a little shooting motion with his finger and thumb as he left.

  Connell hooked up the next day with Morgan.

  "Okay, John. So, I ran down an old source," he said. "This is a guy who can find out whatever we need to know about Momma."

  "That's good, man. I also got a solid gold warrant for the tap on her window. We just be picking up public air waves, like a little old Momma Lupe radio station."

  Connell had to smile at the radio station imagery. "I also put in a req form with the Fink guys. My guy’s a known IC in my file already. It’s a formality. I just got to make a call to pick up payment."

  The Fink Fund was what working officers called the three-man internal division that handled pay-off monies, both from hotline tips from the public and CI and IC sources from guys like Connell. Officially it was called SIPCO. The Secure Informant Payment Clearing Office and the amounts doled out could range from fifty dollars for minor phone tips, up to many thousands for major intel on lengthy and successful investigations.

  “Okay, man,” Morgan said. “You want to make that call?”

  Connell made the call. “We’re good,” he said when he hung up.

  "Let's go find your dude."

  They swung by the Fink Fund offices in a downtown tower, double-parking out front while Connell ran in to sign for the cash. He brought back a small canvas banker’s cash bag stuffed with small bills.

  On the drive to Geddes's "office," Connell filled Morgan in on exactly who they were going to be facing.

  "John, I guarantee you're not going to like this cat. But just let me do the talking. Don't do or say anything. You’ll just spook him."

  "Okay, little brother. You in charge. I just wonder where you find the rocks to look under for some of these guys?"

  "Don't worry. The guy's good. Last time he cost us ten grand on that biker round-up, but it was well worth it."

  Morgan whistled lowly. "Man, that's a lot of bread for a lowlife."

  "Not to a lowlife on junk. Besides, the operation ran three months and we confiscated vehicles and property worth half a million at auction."

  They found Geddes at the same table at the donut shop.

  But this time Geddes was not the relaxed laid-back person he had been when Connell spoke with him just twenty-four hours before. And Connell knew why. When they’d last met, Geddes had been on the fix, and all was mellow in his world. This time he was on the hunt and wild-eyed. He probably hadn't had a hit that day.

  Connell introduced John but Geddes avoided looking at him. He avoided eye contact of any kind. And he was tense and edgy.

  "You taping this?" Geddes asked, his eyes darting around, glancing inside and outside the shop.

  Connell said, "Paul, you know I'm wearing a wire. If I'm going to advance you major bucks, I gotta have my back covered. We’ve been through this before. Just don’t mumble and speak clearly."

  John cast a nervous glance Connell’s way and Connell could see that the big guy was not sold on Geddes, or on the whole situation. But Connell knew how to manage guys like Geddes. He slipped the canvas bag out of his jacket and onto his lap, out of sight of other eyes in the shop. But Geddes's eyes widened and he got that dire craving look that junkies get and that Connell knew so well.

  "Hey, man," Geddes said, "Can you do me a little advance before we start?"

  That was why Connell had brought out the bag.

  "No problem, Paul, how much you need?"

  Geddes's eyes darted around the room again as he calculated how much he might be able to tap Connell for. He was in no position to be greedy, but he clearly needed a hit.

  "How about a hundred?" he asked, his eyes locked on Connell’s.

  Connell hesitated for a moment, to let the tension build a little, then he pulled out a hundred dollars in twenties. He held onto them for another moment, letting Geddes squirm a bit more, build up his motivation to cooperate, then handed them under the table. Geddes took the money and rose quickly.

  "I'll be back in five," he said.

  As Geddes was disappearing out the door, Morgan was shaking his head.

  "Man! You really think that smackhead's going to come back? After you just laid enough on him to get high all night?"

  "He'll be back,” Connell said. “I work with these guys all the time. And he'll be settled down when he does. I couldn’t work with him the way he was. He was too edgy. Eyes darting all over the place. It was going to fall apart. Believe me, he wants the other forty-nine hundred more than he wants to run with that C-note."

  Geddes did return. In less than fifteen minutes. And he was exactly as Connell had said he would be: settled, calm, focused, and ready to deal.

  "So, my man, what'd you want to know?" Geddes asked, the transformation quite remarkable.

  Connell knew that Geddes had gone around the corner to an even smaller, grittier, little all night eatery, made a buy, had gone into the filthy washroom there, took out the spoon he always carried, and warmed the powder to a golden fluid with his lighter. He then fixed himself up while seated on the toilet. Junk hits almost immediately —a warm all-enveloping body glow that addicts need to normalize. By the time Geddes got back to the table, all was right in his world again.

  "Momma Lupe," Connell said, simply, when the guy was seated.

  For a couple of long moments Geddes said nothing. He just stared at them both.

  Finally, he said, "You expect me to tell you anything about Momma? Man, that’s one place we never been before and I didn’t know that was on the table.”

  But Connell had thought it through. He knew that a guy like Geddes couldn't afford to rat out someone as highly placed as Momma. He’d rat out his mother or other family, but never someone like Momma. That is, not if he wanted to continue to live anywhere near Boston. Anywhere in the northeast, for that matter.

  Connell remained calm. He spoke in a reassuring tone.

  "No, Paul, I don't expect you to do that. This is going to be the easiest most risk-free five grand you'll ever make. And for it I want just two things. One, I want to know if she ordered the hit on Vinnie Momesso downtown. For that I don’t need details. Just get me an answer. Two, I want a name. One name. Of one girl who's inside Ma's setup. Or Was. Someone who knows the whole picture from the inside and is willing to talk. Someone with a grudge to settle with Ma."

  "Momma's a connected lady," Geddes says. "Not a lot of people speak out about her around here. It could be bad for your health, messing with her. She really is crazy, you know."

  "So I’ve heard," Connell said and tucked the envelope back into his pocket.

  Geddes watched closely as he did so.

  "What'd she ever do to you guys?" Geddes asked. “And why do you guys give a shit about Vinnie? Even the mob guys don’t care that he got it.”

  "Let's just say,” Connell said. “We've got a special incentive in this case."

  "A de-partmental Christmas bonus?" Geddes said and smiled a yellowish-brown smile.

  "Something like that."

  He could see Geddes thinking it over. Informing in any way on anything to do with Momma was risky. But, still, five grand—

  Connell leaned in close. "Paul, you don't even have to exert yourself for this one. Just come up with one name."

  Geddes thought about it for a moment.

  "There might be a few people she's fucked over, but I can't guarantee they'll talk to you. As for the hit on Vinnie, I might be able to find out about that."

  Connell suspected that Geddes already knew the truth about Vinnie, but he wasn’t the kind to give away information for free when he could collect on it.

  "Tell you what I'm gonna do,"
Connell said, and he slid out the canvas bag again. He pulled out another hundred dollars, which he shoved into Geddes's T-shirt pocket. "I'm gonna give you another hundred dollars down payment right now towards that five grand. You call me when you get an answer and a name, and we'll do more business."

  He stood to leave. John following suit.

  "All you want is a name?" Geddes asked.

  "A name that works. Somebody who will talk. Somebody who has something to say."

  "And my name doesn't come up anywhere?"

  "Paul, you're the invisible man."

  Geddes glanced around, to see who might be watching them, and he nodded, to himself, thoughtfully.

  "Okay, man. I'll get back to you," he said, echoing Connell’s words of the day before.

  Outside, in the car John said, "You really think that stoner dude's gonna come up with a name we can use?"

  Connell was glancing in the mirror as they pulled out of the lot. "He'll go through that second hundred tomorrow. By Thursday morning —unless he wins the lottery— he'll be on the phone to me."

  At Thursday noon, Paul Geddes put the call in to Connell: he wanted to meet.

  "And bring the rest of the dough," Geddes said.

  Geddes was at the donut shop once again. Standing outside this time, waiting when they pulled into the lot. Connell motioned him into the back seat of the unmarked. Geddes hopped in and they exited the lot, to talk with a little more privacy. Morgan was at the wheel.

  Geddes said, "You get my dough?"

  Already it was "his" dough. That told Connell that the hook was well set and that this fish was ready for the reeling.

  He held the canvas cash bag into view and said, "So, what’s the deal with Vinnie?"

  "It was Ma’s job,” Geddes said. “Big Paulie gave it the okay, but Vinnie stiffed Ma direct. Taking some dope, batting some girl around. I dunno. But Vinnie was Ma’s all the way and no one in the outfit’s going after her for it. Besides, it was done by outside guys. No one knows from where. It was Ma’s to do how she wanted."

  Connell and Morgan exchanged glances. Good to get confirmation. Now they just had to figure out how to build a case they could take into a court, and it sure wasn’t going to be by putting Paul Geddes before a judge or jury, or even his statement. Connell’d given him immunity anyway. At least it was a start.

  Connell glanced at Geddes in the rearview. “And number two?”

  “Yeah. As for a name, let me get this clear,” Geddes said, and Connell almost had to smile. When Geddes was on the junk and was totally leveled-out and lucid —like he was at that moment— the guy was sharp as a lawyer. What a transformation from the vibrating, inchoate, addict-in-need he sometimes was. “I give up one name and I got no other involvement, right? No court. No line-ups. No grill sessions."

  Connell turned in his seat to face Geddes. "Not quite, Paul. I don't just want a name. I want the right name. Somebody who’ll work with us."

  "So, you'll give me the five grand today?"

  "Noooo," Connell said. "Today I'll give you another two hundred advance. That'll buy you a few days, and it'll buy me a few days. We'll track down the name you give us, we'll go interview them, and see if it's a go."

  "And if it ain't a go?"

  "Then I'll need another name, won't I?"

  Geddes agonized for a bit. He wanted the whole payment then. But he finally gave up a name.

  "Emily Dumont."

  Connell didn’t respond right away, glancing again at Geddes in the mirror, deciding if the name was any good.

  Geddes also paused, thinking it over a bit more, that he had to do a bit more sell. He added, "She’s what you want. Cute kid. Straight out of the Quebec woods and right off the pumpkin wagon. She hit town without too many mental issues but they got the needle into her and wired her up pretty quick and, from then on, they owned her butt. And I mean owned. They had her processing johns like high-production time at the sausage factory. They hit her up with smack to zone her out and then with meth shots to rev her up. She was like this combination of real live wind-up Barbie doll and zombie. Total mind control. She also got worked over pretty good by those two sons of Ma’s. They took runs at her whenever they wanted. So she's bitter. Bitter bitter. And she knows stuff. About Momma. About other girls. Knows it all. Probably even where a body or two is buried.”

  “And she'll talk?" Connell asked.

  “Yeah. She’ll talk. Just ask about her sister.”

  "Where does she work at?"

  "The Crazy Horse, usually. I heard she had some sort of breakdown and they sent her home. Maybe gave up on her. Never good news when they do that. I’d hurry and get there if I was you.”

  The last comment sent a jolt of concern through Connell.

  The Crazy Horse was a sleazy backstreet knock-off of the famous Paris stripclub/whorehouse. It was located less than a mile away. No doubt one of Paul’s haunts when he had cash to spare.

  Connell peeled off two hundred dollars and said, "Paul, we'll talk again in two days."

  And they dropped Geddes off back at the donut shop.

  As they drove away Morgan said, "You think that dude’s smoking us about this gal maybe knowing where a body or two is buried."

  "Not at all. He knows that's what we want. My bet is he's right on the money. Paul's a first-rate source. Gets it all right from key players. Not many out there like him."

  Connell was just worried about what might happen to the girl if that strip club—or Momma— considered her a burnout no longer of use to them. A burnout with too much insider knowledge.

  Back at the stationhouse, Connell ran the girl's name through the system and it popped up with a few minor charges in recent years. Possession, prostitution, drunk and disorderly, the usual hooker activities. And there was a driver's license from the Canadian province of Quebec with a fairly recent photo.

  There was also a Boston address, current as of three months ago. Some further checking uncovered an old un-served Province of Quebec bench warrant from her days in Quebec. A minor traffic offence she’d skipped out on. Most New England states had traffic reciprocity relationships with most of the eastern Canadian provinces and would serve each others warrants. They just wouldn’t prosecute them. But the girl wouldn’t know that Massachusetts wouldn’t prosecute and Quebec warrant. It gave Connell a solid negotiating tool.

  Connell contacted the local QPP station, the Quebec Provincial Police, in a little town called Saint-Malo, the town where Dumont had lived and grown up, and the station that had issued the original ticket. He asked them to fax through a copy of the ticket and the warrant.

  The next day he and John met up at the station.

  "How's the tap going?" Connell asked.

  "Like a charm, far as sound and clarity goes," Morgan said, "Only one small hitch."

  "What's that?"

  "Momma and her crew never talk shop in the kitchen. They play cards all night and never so much as mention work. But Momma keeps leaving the room with certain guests. They seem to head to a small room at the back of the place, and they come back a few minutes later. All we hear is poker talk and cussin’. Any time they might be starting to talk about something good, they leave."

  Connell shook his head slowly.

  "Son of a bitch. Man, she is one wily old sow. You think she knows you're there?"

  John shook his head 'no'. "I think it's just the way the crazy old bat does her business. Probably got a house rule about no shop talk in the kitchen, like the rest of them rules she has."

  Connell could only shake his head in begrudged respect. This one wasn’t going to be easy.

  "You going to keep the tap going?" he asked.

  "No. We gotta pull it. The crew's booked across town starting tomorrow. We could sit there forever, but I don't think she's gonna say nothing in that kitchen of hers."

  "Too bad. It could have been good. Well, anyway, I got the Dumont girl's address. Let’s go see what she's got to say."

  They found the
apartment in West Roxbury, a rickety third floor walkup in a neighborhood of low rent high turnover tenements. Connell knocked at the door. It was almost noon, but they had to knock several times before the girl opened the door half-dressed and half-asleep.

  "Emily Dumont?" Connell asked.

  "'oo the 'ell are you?" she said, in a cute French accent, scratching her still-sleepy head.

  She was a slim girl, almost to an unhealthy degree —maybe anorexic, Connell guessed. Junk’ll do that to you. She had delicate, porcelain-like features, and a shock of reddish-blonde hair.

  "I'm Det. Connell, and this is Det. John Henry Morgan," Connell said, and he flashed his badge.

  She said, "Yeah, an' I'm Lady Madonna. Listen, it's kind of early. Youse guys'll have to catch me down at the club some time."

  And she slammed the door.

  Connell was relieved. At least she still had some spirit. Hadn’t been completely crushed yet. He knocked again.

  They could hear her shuffling back to the door, which she yanked open in anger this time. "Listen, I tol' you guys to beat it. Scram. I'm tired. It's too early. Get out of here. G'wan. G'bye. Adios ..."

  And she went to slam the door shut again, but Connell put his foot in.

  "Uh, Miss Dumont," he said, leaning in. "We really are police officers. And we really do need to speak with you. Now."

  "What for? I ain't done nothing wrong."

  Connell held up the old warrant.

  She squinted at it and her shoulders sagged.

  "Oh, that."

  "Can we come in for a minute?"

  "Yeah, Sure, Why not? I'm awake now anyway," and she waved them in and pulled her housecoat around her body which was slim in the waist, arms and legs but remarkably well-developed up top. It was almost incongruous. A waist so slim and breasts so overly-developed. Connell had to wonder if it was all original equipment or after market. Her thin little housecoat wasn’t easily containing her ample amplitude and they kept threatening to spill out. Obviously one of the reasons she came in for so much special attention in Ma’s world.