A Mighty Fortress

by S. D. Thames

  I shook my head. “No questions. But I do have one comment.”

  His brow arched. “Do tell.”

  “I don’t like threats, Gus or Giuseppe or whatever the hell your name is.”

  I kept my eye on his gun as he stood. “You clearly don’t understand, then, Mr. Porter. I’m just sharing facts with you. Whatever you choose to do with those facts is your call.”

  As if on cue, my doorbell sang its sad, pitiful tune.

  “You really should get that fixed,” he said, and with that he slipped on his gloves and slid out the sliding glass door. The blinds clattered in his wake, and the doorbell chirped again.

  I made my way to the front door and opened it.

  Hector stood on the front step. He’d turned like he was about to give up and walk away. Still in work gear, he held a large pizza box.

  “I thought you might be hungry,” he said with a cautious grin as he turned back.

  “You thought well, my friend.” I welcomed the pizza. I could also use his help with a few things.

  I stood aside and let him into the foyer. He squinted, noticed my new appearance. “What happened to your face?”

  I was tired of hearing that already. “Can’t a guy shave?”

  He shook his head like he was trying to ward off some grave injustice. “No, Milo. You can’t. For those of us who are not allowed to grow facial hair, whether by decree of employer or genetics, you are not allowed to shave your beard. Besides, I thought you told yourself after you left the service that you’d never shave?”

  “Yep, and I didn’t. Someone else shaved it for me.”

  He was still holding the pizza box, studying my face. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about you love me anyway?” I was about to close the door when I noticed a taxi slowing in front of my house. It passed my mailbox. Then it stopped, reversed, and pulled into my driveway. The driver turned to the backseat.

  I wondered if Rico or Val were about to hop out and give me the third degree. I made a note to call them right away, but I forgot about that when I saw who was walking up my driveway. “What brings you out tonight, Judge?” I called.

  Pinkerton looked like he’d just woken up from his own afternoon nap. “You do, you sorry-ass tart. I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  Damn, I needed to check my phone. Pinkerton tiptoed into my foyer. He was still wearing half the suit he’d worn in court that morning. He’d lost the tie and the top button. He took in the scenery, namely Hector opening the pizza box on the stovetop.

  “You got paper plates?” Hector asked.

  “Above the stove.”

  Hector found the plates and pulled a slice from the box.

  I’d almost forgotten the introductions. “Hector Garcia, meet the honorable Frank Pinkerton.”

  Hector had his head in the fridge now, inspecting my beer collection. “Good to meet you, Judge. Can I get you a beer?”

  “Something cold,” the judge answered as he took a seat at the kitchen table.

  I told Hector if he didn’t find what he was looking for, to check in the garage fridge. He liked that idea and disappeared.

  The judge moaned and rubbed his eyes. “So, that your boyfriend?” Then he looked at me with fresh eyes.

  “My neighbor.”

  “Well, really I don’t care one way or the other. I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.” He looked at me anew, as if the air in front of him had just cleared. “I meant to ask you today why you got rid of the beard.”

  “Doctor’s orders.” I pointed to the bandage on my jaw, the bandage that needed changing.

  Hector returned with three bottles of my home brew, the pale ale.

  “Would you like some pizza?” I asked Pinkerton.

  “What’s on it?”

  “Pepperoni and mushroom,” Hector said.

  Pinkerton shook his head. “I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

  “No shit?” Hector’s voice echoed with disappointment.

  “Give me a break. So I can’t eat fungus.” Pinkerton rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Besides, I had a steak at Scores.”

  That grabbed Hector’s attention, too. “The place on Dale Mabry? They serve steaks?”

  Pinkerton nodded. “Not a bad one either.”

  Hector looked grossed out. “I couldn’t eat in a place like that.”

  Pinkerton raised his bony index finger. “That’s because you couldn’t gain admittance to a place like that.”

  I stood over Pinkerton. “There there now, Judge. I know it’s past your bedtime, but let’s not insult my guests. Can I get you some chips, a different beer, or something?”

  Pinkerton studied a bottle of the pale ale Hector brought in from the fridge. “How about a porter, Porter?” His throat couldn’t tolerate the deep guffaw that followed, and his voice whimpered with a rasp. “I’ve been wanting to say that.”

  I knew Hector didn’t like dark beers, and I knew just where to find what would make Pinkerton happy. I pulled a bottle from the inside fridge, set it down in front of Pinkerton. He read it aloud: “Smuttynose. Robust Porter.”

  “The best, in my opinion,” I said. “And quite appropriate for you, Smutty.”

  “That’s a Yankee beer,” Hector added.

  “It’ll do just fine.” Pinkerton popped the top off and drank it right from the bottle.

  “So tell me, Judge. What really brings you here?” I said.

  He glanced across the table at Hector, as if he was uncomfortable talking around him.

  “Don’t worry, Hector’s in on this too.” I looked at Hector, who looked confused by what I’d just said. “That reminds me, Hector. I need to ask you a favor. A big favor.”

  Chewing away, he shrugged.

  Pinkerton reclined in his chair and hit the bottle hard. “Something about today just didn’t sit right with me.”

  “You mean the shooting, and Wilcox disappearing the night before trial?”

  He nodded. “But more than that. Did you see the way that McSwain fella acted when the trial was continued?”

  “Yeah, I saw that,” I said. “So what? Of course they were happy.”

  Pinkerton frowned. “There’s no decency among us.”

  “Well, the cops think they have their guy, but I’m not so sure. So I’m going to talk to him tonight.”

  “Who?” Pinkerton asked. “The suspect?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No offense, but why are you even here, Judge?”

  Hector looked up from his pizza and nodded as if to say good question.

  Pinkerton wrenched his hands together. “I told you, I miss being in the game. I need some action.”

  I studied him for a moment, as he nodded, as if to show his sincerity. “So what’d Sanders have to say today?” I asked.

  “Don’t even get me started on that pompous prick. He wanted to know what I was doing there. Then he essentially insulted me for moonlighting as a trial consultant, especially for the likes of you ass-hats.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I nearly told him to suck it. The nerve of him. I taught him everything he knows about being a judge. Made sure he replaced me when I retired. And he’s going to ridicule me like that? I’ll show that fancy fuck not to mess with Francis Lloyd Pinkerton.”

  “Francis?” Hector asked.

  “That’s right, and don’t forget it.” Pinkerton raised a mean fist. “I told him I don’t like retirement. I got emotional, opened up to what I thought was an old friend. You know what he did? He laughed. Said I must owe Jenny too much money.”

  “Jenny?” Hector was still asking the questions.

  “My last ex-wife. I don’t owe her a dime, and he should know that. I’m content to spend the rest of my days just as I am. In places like Scores, staring at the women.”

  Initially, imagining Pinkerton doing that turned my stomach, but then I realized
that a man of his proclivities might just have been of assistance to my investigation. “I need you to keep doing that,” I said. “I need you to help me find a girl.”

  “Fat chance on that, Porter. You can find your own girl, you kinky bastard.”

  “Not for me—for the case. There’s a girl who’s missing.” I told them about Angie, and gave a little background on why I needed to find her, but without disclosing the details of my conversation with Giuseppe.

  Pinkerton leaned forward in his chair. “So let me get this straight. You want me to visit all the strip clubs in town, and try to get more information on a girl named Angie?”

  “That’s her nickname. She might also go by Eve or Evie. Or even Angel.”

  “Are you kidding, Porter? Angel is the stage name of every other girl in town.”

  I shrugged. “So go with Evie. And we’re not talking strip clubs. I want you to go to another kind of establishment.”

  Pinkerton leaned forward. “What would that be?”

  I explained to the judge what a lingerie shop was.

  His face lit up. “How come I didn’t know about these places?”

  “Can I come?” Hector asked.

  “Sorry, friend. I have another assignment for you.”

  Pinkerton glanced at his beer bottle, and then he alternated an awkward series of stares between me and Hector. Finally, his face twisted with a smirk, and a bout of his signature raspy laughter followed. “Good God, Porter, this is some brain trust you’ve assembled here.”

  I sighed. Truer words were never spoken. At least at my kitchen table.

  I left the dynamic duo and returned to my bedroom. My phone was fully charged now, and waiting to boot. I turned it on and saw that I had about ten messages. I knew who they were from.

  I thought about calling Val, but called her brother first.

  “Fortress, where the hell you been?” he barked into the phone.

  “Sleeping. I need to see both of you.”

  “I’d bring her over there, but I’m afraid she’d kill you.”

  “Not here, Rico. I don’t want her anywhere near me. I want you to pack her suitcase and get her as far away from here as possible.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Where are you two, Rico?”

  He covered the phone up and mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “You’re with her?” I said. “Let me talk to her.”

  “Not a good time,” he said, his voice low.

  I checked the alarm clock on my dresser. The evening was going to get away from me. “Okay, then, listen. I need to run a few errands. I’ll call you when I’m done so we can meet, but not here. Let’s meet tonight at your place.”

  “No promises.”

  “Thanks.” I was willing to take whatever I could get. I knew it was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Under the Cover of Night

  Hector and I waited in the driveway for Judge Pinkerton, who’d said he needed to relieve himself. Five minutes later, I wondered if he might have fallen in. Hector finally broke the silence. “What are we going back to SkyGate for?”

  “I’ll explain when we get there.”

  “I don’t want to risk it again, Milo.”

  “I know, and I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t really need it. We’re just going to scope something out.”

  He nodded as Pinkerton reappeared. “You okay, Judge?” I asked.

  “Wipe that smirk off your face, Porter. You’ll remember this if you live to be my age.”

  “Remember what?”

  “The day you made fun of my prostate health. Now let’s get this on.”

  Hector rolled his eyes and wished me luck.

  I told him we’d need it.

  “I’m not going to come across as a stalker,” the judge assured me as we drove across town. “Besides, if you’re so worried about that, why aren’t you doing it yourself?”

  “Let’s just say I think you’ll fit in a little better, and won’t raise as many eyebrows.” I didn’t know that I necessarily believed that.

  I pulled the car into the parking lot of a strip mall off Armenia. “Well, I don’t think this will help, but if it comes down to it, she used to work here but dabbles in porn now.”

  He pulled out a wad of bills. “I’m going to get reimbursed, right?”

  I shook my head. “Most likely not.”

  “Who the hell are we working for now, Pilka?”

  “Not exactly.” He didn’t move. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I guess you could say Scalzo’s family has commissioned our endeavors tonight, and will be keeping close tabs on our findings.”

  He sighed. “Oh well, you only live once.”

  “If you finish up, feel free to take a taxi to any of these places.” I handed him another sheet of paper with addresses to all the local shops in which I was sure Pilka had a hand. “I’ll check in when I’m done. Call me when you’ve had enough.”

  “Insatiable, Porter. That’s one word to describe me.” He hopped out, kept his face covered, and made a beeline for the entrance.

  “Insatiable, all right,” I muttered, and put the car in reverse. It was time to pay my friends at SkyGate another visit.

  On the drive downtown, something odd happened: I grew a conscience. At least for my eager-to-help neighbor. He’d already put his ass on the line once for this investigation. I wasn’t going to ask him to do it again unless I really needed him, so I told him to wait on standby. First, I was going to try to pay Don Alexi a visit the good old-fashioned way.

  I checked in with Stewart at the reception desk. “You recognize me, Stewart?”

  He studied me for a moment before his eyes swelled. “You lost the beard.” His voice grew weak. “You know, I told the cops about you. How you were looking for him the morning he died.”

  “That’s fine, Stewart. I’ve talked to the cops. Had nothing to do with it.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to see a resident who’s expecting me.”

  He wetted his thin pink lips. “Who would that be?”

  “Don Alexi.”

  He was still studying me.

  “I can tell you know the name, Stewart. I’m going to get on that elevator and pay him a visit.”

  “What’s holding you up, then?”

  “If you could just remind me of his apartment number.”

  He shook his head. “No freaking way.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell Mr. Alexi.”

  “Why don’t you call him if you know him so well?”

  “Because I don’t know his home number. I only talk to him when he’s in the office.”

  I really didn’t want him to call Don, but I could see where this was going. “One minute.” He picked up the phone.

  “Why don’t you just tell me the apartment number?”

  He grinned, and then his face turned serious when someone answered. “Yes, this is Stewart downstairs. There’s a Mr. Porter here to see you.” A frown sprouted on his mug. “Yes, that Porter.”

  “Milo Porter,” I reminded him.

  He repeated my name. “Very well, sir. I’ll let him know.” He hung up and grunted under his breath. “Mr. Alexi will be right down.”

  I turned, not gloating over my small victory, and waited by the elevator. The lobby was bustling; it seemed there was a lot going on for a Wednesday night. Most everyone here was late twenties, early thirties. Alexi was like an old pervert in this crowd.

  He finally emerged from the elevator. He was dressed casual: sandals and khakis and a T-shirt that probably looked dirty right after a wash. “My wife’s not in a good mood,” he said with a jittery demeanor, his eyes red and his speech slurred. But it was his gait that answered the question that had brought me there.

  “I suppose that’s understandable.”

  “And I need a drink.”

  I followed him outside to the cor
ner bar, Taps. We grabbed the last open table, and he waved the waitress down and ordered an IPA. I said that sounded fine and ordered one, too. “Pretty convenient having a bar in your building,” I said to Alexi.

  “Cut the shit, Porter. What are you doing here?”

  I cleared my throat. “They were pushing me hard to identify you today.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I just confirmed my suspicions in your lobby. Your right leg is a little longer than your left, and it shows. That, and your build. And like I said, they were pushing.”

  “Yeah, my attorney told me. Says it’s nothing to worry about. They’re just fucking with me.”

  “Maybe not. I think I’d know if you tried to kill me last night.”

  He shrugged. “Not sure what that means.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you lived in Scalzo’s building?”

  “I told you, you never asked where I lived.”

  “You know Wilcox hired me to find Scalzo’s killer. You didn’t think the fact that you lived in his building, the same building where he was killed, would be important?”

  I could see in his eyes that he got the point. I could also see that being honest didn’t come easy to him. He didn’t say anything; he just nodded, seemingly in disgust with himself.

  So I had another question for him. “And why’d you lie about Sal Barton?”

  “Who?”

  “Sal Barton. The private investigator I asked you about Monday afternoon.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. Wilcox was going to hire him to serve Scalzo, but he had some kind of conflict of interest. You said you didn’t know him, but sure enough, he was right there in your company’s contacts.”

  “Give me a break, Porter, I’m sure there are a lot of names in there I don’t know. Maybe Pilka hired him for something in the past. Hell, maybe it was Scalzo.”

  Alexi took a long drink of the beer. He had a newfound confidence that made me think maybe he was telling the truth about Sal Barton. I asked him, “You heard from Wilcox?”

  He shook his head. “That fucking bitch. I’ve tried calling his cell all day. It goes straight to voice mail.” He looked at me, and I could tell he had a question for me now. “So now that Wilcox is gone, what do you care about all this? Don’t tell me—Pilka hired you?”