by L H Thomson
“So he’s not as hot as he looks? I mean, why didn’t they sign him then? Not good enough? What?”
“For his age? He’s better. But a great fifteen-year-old is still a risk; in football, kids sometimes peak before they’re old or mature enough to translate that into the professional game.”
“And that’s why they were stuck at a development club south of Philly.”
“Basically,” he said. “Look, is this going to help get me out of here…”
Something wasn’t right. “Is there anything either of you aren’t telling me?” I said. “I mean, that argument wasn’t much of a motive. Are you sure you didn’t see Junior during the period when the two of you should have been alone in the building, after Crck had left?”
Davidson was reflective, but shook his head once more. “No, like I said, I made a call and then went home.”
That was the second time that call had come up. “The kid mentioned that. He said you told him you just had to make one more call.”
Walter looked defensive. “Where are you going with this, Quinn?”
I held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry Walter. This is all off the record.”
“Oh, I worry. Never you mind, Quinn. I always worry.”
I turned my attention back to his client. “Well?”
He licked his lips pensively. “Ah… geez.”
“Davidson…”
“Okay, so it was a few calls. Five or six.”
He looked guiltier than a raccoon caught on top of a trash can at midnight. I gave him my best pointed stare.
“Okay, so maybe it was ten or twelve calls. I tried to cut a deal behind the kid’s back. I figured if I let one of the American clubs know that they could land him with enough of the deal upfront, I might salvage something larger and longer-term.”
Walter looked down at his shoes and sighed. “David, that’s a motive.”
“Eh? I don’t get it.”
I said, “The cops are going to argue that Junior overheard you betraying a client’s explicit instructions to cut a deal which was personally better for you.”
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“I put it like that because that’s what you did,” I said. “I still don’t think it’s enough to turn you into the kind of guy who can beat an ex-fighter to death with a hammer then lie coolly about it after.”
“Thus my desire to get the hell out of here,” he said, learning in towards the glass. “Seriously, Walter, whatever it takes. The people in here…,” he slowly turned his head to look at the man-mountain on the next stool, “…they scare me.”
The guard leaned over. “One minute, Mr. Beck.”
Walter nodded affirmation in his direction, and we got up to leave. “Don’t worry, David. We’ll have you home as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER 8
Danny Saint rang early the next morning, before I’d normally be up, just moments after sunrise.
“Yeah?” I was bleary, half out of it.
“Quinn, get your ass out of bed man, some of us are working already.”
His voice was heavy with nervous tension, and there was no point having words about the early hour. He’d slept overnight parked on the street, outside the chain link fence around the pay lot for the Baltimore docks, he said, after Francois parked his SUV a hundred feet away, inside the fence.
“Christ, I need a coffee,” he said. “Anyway, he must’ve not known when they were getting here, because it was about four or five hours before -- at about 5:45 this morning -- that he finally fires up the lights and drives over to the freight cargo gate.”
“So you followed him?”
“I didn’t have any way to get by the gate guard, so I got out of the car and hoofed it inside on foot once his head was turned. Francois parks near a series of containers. Ten minutes later, another car pulls up. Guy gets out, shakes hands with Francois and they walk over to the container.”
“What’s the cargo?”
“That’s the really weird bit, man. A bunch more guys show up, and within twenty minutes they’ve unloaded a dozen of them.”
“‘Them’?”
“Mercedes. Brand new sedans, cream and black.”
Car smuggling? And only a dozen cars? It hardly seemed worth the bother for a guy of Johnny T’s weight. Maybe Francois was in on this one solo.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. They each drove out of the lot and by the time I could get back to my car, everyone was long gone. I thought about tailing them, but which one? So I called you.”
A thought occurred to me. “Heh. The French Connection.”
“Huh?”
“The movie, the French Connection. How do you figure they just drove them off the docks? They must’ve imported the cars legally, had all their registrations ready, everything.”
“Okay. You’ve still lost me, Quinn.”
“Look, Johnny Terrasini’s not making his bones importing legal Mercedes. He’s not a car salesman. More likely, this is like the French Connection.”
“I never saw it.”
“You never saw it?”
“Never saw it,” said Danny. “What can I say? It’s probably old, and I ain’t old.”
“It’s from 1972, or something. Roy Scheider and Gene Hackman.”
“See: I wasn’t even born until ‘87.”
“But it’s a classic.”
“It’d have to be. That was nearly forty years ago.”
Danny was making me feel ancient before my time. “In the movie, the cars are used to smuggle in heroin. They stash it in the frame of the car, so even when the cops search, they can’t find anything.”
“So you figure Johnny T’s using this as a pipeline from .... where does heroin come from, anyway?”
I said, “Usually Afghanistan, by way of Marseille, in the south of France, which is where our boy Francois lived before moving here.”
“Convenient.”
“Too convenient to be a coincidence.”
“But then how did he get hooked up with the kid?”
He had me there. Maybe the mother? “He’s seeing his mom. That’s about as old a motive as you’ll find to get involved with someone’s kid. Plus, he probably found out pretty early that her boy is a long-term meal ticket.”
“Watching your stepkid play soccer sure beats working for a living. Or smuggling dope for Johnny T,” he proposed.
“So maybe Junior overheard Francois at some point, Francois waited outside in the parking lot until everyone had left, then went inside and popped Junior with the hammer.”
“Man…that’s some brutal way to go there, Quinn. I hope it was quick.”
“Would’ve had to have been. If he didn’t put him away with the first shot, Junior would’ve torn him apart.”
As soon as I got off the phone with Danny, Vin the Shin called in. “I just figured youse’d want to know you won’t be getting no more problems from my nephew.”
“Mr. Terrasini?”
“Don’t ask,” he said. “You know, none of this would have happened in the first place if you weren’t sticking your nose where it don’t belong. I don’t mind when it’s something like the case with my painting, where you’re making yourself useful. But cleaning this up is going to cause all sorts of problems with various family and associates, and it’s going to hurt me deeply on a personal level, too.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Terrasini,” I said quickly.
“You fucking should be. You owe me a real solid from this one, you dumb Mick.”
I didn’t like where the conversation was headed. But I figured I’d push my luck anyhow. “I’m sure you know he’s been working the Baltimore docks pretty hard, and that...”
“Eh? Like I said, Quinn, keep your nose out of it from here in on in. I don’t want to know from you interfering in any more of our shit, so whatever he’s up to there... shit. Like I said, I don’t want to know. Goddamn it, now I got to ask him about that, too. You’re really pissin
g me off kid, you know that?”
“Again, I can’t say how sorry I am Mr. Terrasini. You know I’ve never shown you no disrespect.”
Vin the Shin is an interesting guy; he’s friendly, funny, charming. But if he thinks you’ve shown him up? Well, he didn’t get his nickname because of his prowess at bone medicine.
“Ahhh... hell with it, kid. What’s done is done. You know, you do piss me off Quinn, but you’re still the only guy in this town what been honest wit’ me in the last two years. Well, you and Paulie.”
Paul was his consigliore, his right-hand man. It was quite a compliment, at least from the Shin’s worldview.
“Thank you, Mr. Terrasini. That’s real nice of you to say. I try to...”
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t need chapter and verse, kid, I ain’t got no fan club. Just do me a favor and stay away from my business, okay? Next relative of mine you piss off might be less fuckin’ nuts than my nephew, and then I’m going to have to deal with you. So be a good kid and tone it the fuck down, okay?”
He made it sound like a suggestion, which I guess was another compliment.
“Who was that?”
I’d just gotten off the phone with Vin the Shin and hadn’t noticed Ramon sidle up next to me at their marble kitchen island.
“Nothing important,” I said.
“No one important?”
“No.”
Ramon was fidgety, and he cleared his throat several times. “Quinn, you know you’re a hell of an investigator and I think you’re a good kid and all....”
“Thanks.”
“But I’ve got to tell you, I kind of worry about some of the people you’re getting mixed up with again.”
I held up both palms. “Whoa! Let’s not call it what it isn’t, okay boss? I made bad choices and paid my time. But the Terrasinis, that was collateral from working the straight-and-narrow.”
He didn’t look convinced. “So why are you still mixed up with them? I mean, I know it ain’t deliberate or nothing, Quinn, I ain’t stupid.”
“You know. Circumstances…”
“You spend a lot of time with Nora and I’ve always been okay with that, even after you got pinched. But I love my daughter…”
“Look, Ramon, it’s just collateral to business, to investigating. You know the drill.”
“But wasn’t that how the whole forgery thing started? You got some business partners, got mixed up accidentally and before you know it you’re spending your time with the wrong people twenty-four-seven, with bars on the windows.”
It didn’t seem the same at all to me, but I could understand why he felt that way. Ramon sipped his coffee thoughtfully and waited for me to respond, but I wasn’t sure what to say that would make him feel better.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I said. “As soon as they nab Junior’s killer, I never have to deal with them again.”
Ramon was quiet again for a moment, and the tension built as the two of us sat silently next to each other in the opulent kitchen.
Finally he turned towards me. “Nora’s kind of upset with you as well.”
That got my attention. “Why?”
“She got a call here yesterday from a young man, said his name was David, and that you’d remember him from last year.”
My blood ran cold but I didn’t show it. I didn’t want to spook him any more than was already the case. “David Mince?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, they talked for a couple of minutes and she was pretty angry, but she didn’t want to reveal what they’d discussed.”
“She seemed upset?”
“Yeah, I’d say.”
“How so?”
“You know… just a look, sort of tense. She made an excuse to leave for the night.”
I had no doubt Mince was a psychopath and he still had a grudge over how we’d come to meet. Now he was working for Johnny T, and the mobster hated my guts.
“She didn’t call me about it today,” I said, maybe a little too hopefully.
“Nora’s like her mother, Liam. That just means she’s too angry to talk to you right now.”
“Ah.”
“Do me a favor, kid: Whatever happens, make sure Nora isn’t dragged into it.”
That kind of hurt. But again, I understood. What good father wouldn’t look out for his daughter? “Don’t worry, boss,” I said. “I’d never let anyone hurt Nora.”
I made the mistake of stopping by my old place that evening to see if they’d done any work on the gaping hole in the front of the building. Naturally, they hadn’t even pulled out the burned brick yet, let alone patched anything.
The mistake wasn’t visiting; the mistake was visiting during the day, when Johnny T’s guys might be looking out for me. Or, in this case, Francois Mpenge’s guys.
I was halfway across the street heading back to the Firebird when the black SUV screeched up to the curb. The back passenger window powered down slowly and an arm popped out, holding a nine millimeter.
These guys never seem to find me when I’m at my car door, and can maybe get a reasonable shot at losing them. It’s like I’m cursed or something.
“Get in,” said the gunman.
It’s a little-known fact that most triggers have more pressure behind them than people expect, not less. The days of the hair trigger -- unless it’s deliberate or a gunsmith is grossly incompetent -- are long gone.
In fact, if someone jams a gun in your face, you could probably grab it and wrestle for it well before the holder managed to depress the high-pressure, spring-loaded trigger.
Not that I’d suggest trying it, mind you, unless absolutely necessary.
But knowing I had that split second made my decision easier this time: I ignored him and sprinted like hell towards the adjacent alley.
I was down towards the far end, darting by dumpsters and garbage bags, by the time they got out and managed to give chase. A bullet ricocheted off the wall near my head, blowing out chips of stone, and I rounded a pair of corners, first a quick right, then a left ... before realizing the alley was closed off at the end by the brick backside of a three-story building.
They had me cornered. I could have told them the last guy you want to corner is a former fighter, as we’re trained to do all sorts of damage in confined spaces -- but they had the gun, so they weren’t too worried.
Bad mistake. “Let’s go,” the first man said in heavily accented English, waving the gun back in the direction which we’d all come. “The man want to talk to you.”
I filed forward and they stepped in behind, one to either side of me, which was what I’d expected. We strode for about ten yards towards the street, the pistol occasionally jutting into my ribs.
I needed to separate them from the gun, and figured a little misdirection couldn’t hurt. I began to sprint forward, but after two strides dropped to my knees. Surprised by the initial movement, they ran two steps by me, which was just enough space to reach up and crack their heads together.
I’ve used this maneuver before with success. This time, it just stunned them both and dropped them for a moment. But the gunman also dropped his piece, which I kicked as far away, as quickly as I could.
That gave them time to recover. “I ‘ear you a real tough guy, eh?” said the thug who’d been holding the gun. “Maybe you not so tough in another moment, eh?”
His friend had squared up to me, and the precision of the stance, the half-shuffle in his step? Both suggested he was a boxer. That was a new one. I like my thugs untalented.
“I ‘ear you a fighter, eh?” the first man said again, taking charge. “My friend ‘ere, ‘e was the light heavyweight champion in Sierra Leone. I think you in trouble, eh?”
I put my guard up and we circled slowly, both measuring each other out, trying to figure out the best approach for our individual reaches. He snapped a jab so fast I couldn’t see it, catching me flush in the nose and making my eyes water.
I took a half-step back and wiped the tear away with one wrist
. But he stepped forward as I retreated, striding into a body shot that left me gasping for air. I covered up as he threw a couple more, letting them bounce painfully off my forearms.
The guy was good, really fast. The kind of guy I might have ended up fighting it I’d stayed in boxing, the way everyone else wanted. I flicked a couple of jabs, but he parried them easily with his guard. His shoulder dropped and I moved sideways, instinctively expecting the body shot. But it was a feint, and he threw a roundhouse that I stepped right into, his knuckles cracking as his balled fist slammed into the side of my head.
I stumbled sideways then tried to shake it off as we kept circling, my bell rung by the powerful blow. “You should ‘ave come quietly,” his friend said. “Now Pierre is going to have to beat you down.”
I tried a feint of my own, dropping my left toward him as if turning into a body shot, then instead flicking out two quick straight right hands. The big man was surprised I’d managed to tag him, and he wiped away some blood from his nose, then smiled at me and said something in French.
His friend translated. “Pierre say ‘e is ‘appy you decide to fight instead of come quiet. No one ‘as managed to ‘it ‘im in years.”
“Not even that guy?” I said, gesturing behind him with a nod. The fighter began instinctually to turn his head and I flicked out another jab.
This time, the French was angry, fast. “Now ‘e say you’re making ‘im angry.”
If you’ve never competed with a pro-level athlete before, I’m here to tell you it can be a humbling experience. Even as my left hand went up to guard the first shot, I realized he was throwing a specific multi-punch combination.
Not one I recognized, mind you.
CRR-ACK! He caught me on the chin and my head swam. I stumbled backwards and lost my footing, tumbling into the garbage at the end of the alley; my feet slid out from under me as if I’d stepped on a thin layer of muddy ice. For a split second, all I could think about was that the last guy who’d managed to catch me like that was Junior, sparring at his gym back in the high school days.