Baby Brother Blues (Sammy Dick, PI Series: Book 1)

by Trudi Baldwin

  “That is a true statement, Mountain Man.” More true than you may ever know.

  “So to what may I attribute the pleasure of hearing your voice again?”

  Now I was starting to feel like a big time user, since he thought I was calling him back to hear his voice again and I was calling him back to, well, use him. I nimbly switched my approach, “I’m mainly calling you back to thank you for spending so much time with me this morning planning our sting.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t get me into some kind of situation that costs me my job, since I’ll be doing it during my off hours.”

  “I’m sure it won’t, and besides that, when the sting works, and we uncover Soul Patch’s illegal activities and the murder connection, you’ll be a hero.”

  “The main hero I want to be is yours, Sammy.” He said it lightly, but I could tell he meant it.

  “You’re already my hero, Montaigne.”

  “And you’re mine, Sammy.” His tone became business-like. “Well, I’m almost back to the station. Anything else I can do for you before I hang up?”

  “Let me think a second.” I pretended to be thinking. “Yes, Montaigne, actually there is one more thing.”

  There was a pause. “Why am I not surprised, Sammy?”

  “Very little surprises you, Mountain Man, because of your vast experience.”

  “My vast experience with you anyway. So what is it, Sammy? I’ve got to get back to the cases I’m working on.”

  One of these days, I’d have to just release myself to the Mountain Man and relieve all of this pent-up tension between the two of us. But today was not that day. I plunged onward. “Have you ever run across a man named Charles Tunis or Charles Tunisia, something like that? Probably related to drug crimes.”

  “You mean Charley the Tuna? Sure, most of us working drug crimes have run into Charley the Tuna at some point in our careers. If memory serves me correctly, I think he used to operate out of Europe somewhere, before dropping into Phoenix like a bad penny.”

  “He operated out of somewhere like Belgium, according to Geo’s findings, under the name Charles Tunisia,” I said.

  “So, what’s your interest in Charley the Tuna?” Suspicion rose in Montaigne’s voice. “Charley’s bad news, Sammy. Just can’t keep his nose away from sucking in the lines of coke, no matter what it costs him. Plus, he always smells awful, like rotting fish or something. I don’t know if that’s where he got his name, but you can identify him by the way he smells.”

  I avoided the What’s your interest? question and launched my own. “So where might I find this Tuna dude, anyway?”

  “Sammy, be careful, Charley’s kind of harmless, except for his overwhelming smell, but being in the drug world, he runs with some very bad dudes.”

  “I’m always careful, Mountain Man.”

  “Yeah, right, Sammy. I gotta go. The Tuna hangs out near Adams and 3rd Avenue I think. Somewhere in that area, downtown.”

  “Lots of genuine homeless people there, Montaigne. Maybe that’s why he smells.”

  “Lots of genuine drug dealin’ goin’ on there, too, Sammy. Take your weapon, but don’t quote me on that.”

  Chapter 32

  I didn’t have my gun, but I was not that far from Adams and 3rd, so I figured I’d just zoom on over and see if I could track down this Tuna dude and attempt to extract some information from him. Admittedly, that wasn’t much of a plan, but planning isn’t my forte. Action is my forte. In a pinch, you might as well do what you’re good at. I stuffed my bag in the side container of the Ninja. I’d kept the boots and pants on for my breakfast with Montaigne as he seemed to like me any way he found me. I swung my leg back up over my bike and spun gravel out of the parking lot.

  I turned right out onto Camelback Road, then swerved across lanes to the left-hand turn, only annoying a few other drivers as I went. Someone honked. The turn signal flashed green and I headed south on Central Avenue, zooming along, happy, alive and without a plan.

  The metallic façade of the downtown library rapidly loomed upwards on my left. The air smelled like a heady mix of fajitas and pollution. A fine city smell. No cops in sight so I gunned the Ninja across the I-10 overpass and started hitting the presidents’ streets at a fast clip: Roosevelt, Garfield, McKinley, Pierce, Fillmore, Polk, Van Buren, Monroe.

  Bingo! Adams. The streets of Phoenix might serve someone well in a game show, such as Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader? The answer: Yeah, when I’m riding my bike, I can name the U.S. presidents in order.

  I was now back in familiar haunts. The Swann job seemed to keep me downtown a lot. I decided to park my Ninja back in the same lot I’d parked it in that morning. I’d concocted a feeble plan while I was hurtling happily through the presidents’ streets. If I could find this Tuna dude, I was going to pose as a coke-addicted rich girl, slightly off-balance emotionally, desperate for a fix, but also hinting that I had plenty of money for a big coke party. Somewhere in this conversation, I was going to magically uncover Tuna’s connection to Liang or Zaiid. That way I’d have something to write in my report for Sylvester on Friday and take home the 9K check, just like I’d done last week. Sounded like a decent plan. At least at the time.

  I locked my helmet in the side-container, yanked out my shoulder bag, and kept my boots on in case I had to run. I rummaged around in my bag, double-checking for my gun. No such luck. But I did have a pair of handcuffs in there that I’d had to use on occasion. I unlocked these and slipped them into an easy-to-reach inner pocket of my bag. Next I walked over to the little drop-in pay box and forced three folded-over bucks through the ridiculously small slot marked Motorcycle B. That should cover me for an hour or two. Hopefully, I’d be out of there soon and back on my bike with the intel.

  I crossed the street and walked under the faded, but once grand, entrance of the Orpheus Theater. In just a few short blocks, downtown Phoenix turns from rags to riches. I was walking in the opposite direction, entering the rag section. The buildings were becoming bleaker and bleaker. The day grew hotter and hotter. I started sweating. Trash began appearing on the sidewalk. A homeless man leaned against a lamp post, rustling around in a paper bag. He had a ragged plaid coat of some kind pulled up over his head to make a little tent of shade. A skinny dog, maybe a beagle mix, was tied with a clothesline rope to the lamp. The dog had stretched the rope as far away from the man as possible, so he could rest his scrawny butt on a small patch of dirt off the burning sidewalk. The dog looked at me and cocked his head to the side as I approached.

  “Nice dog you got there.”

  Rustle, rustle. The man kept foraging around in the bag and didn’t even look up.

  “Do you live around here?” I thought I’d give it one more try. He might be hard of hearing.

  No response.

  “Do you know anyone named Charles? Charles Tunis? Maybe Charley Tuna?”

  “Rrrrrgh!” The man shot his head out at me faster than a snake, his broken and brown mottled teeth bared, growling fiercely. Some of his teeth formed sharp points. I jumped back to avoid being bitten, thankful for the knee-high boots. The dog whined, worried, and pulled harder at the rope around his neck, trying to distance himself from the man even more.

  I was disheartened by the dog’s situation, but didn’t know what I could do about it. I strode quickly past them, making my way further west on Adams. No one was around. Most of the homeless people exited Phoenix in the summer months, because it became too hot to exist outside. I came across an empty lot full of dust, patches of flattened grass, and a few tumble weeds surrounded by a loosely hung, trampled chain link fence. I wasn’t making much headway and this area was making me sad. Sad was one of my least favorite emotions. Time to move on.

  I noticed an old church across the street made of brick. Small but elegantly designed with a bell tower steeple, out of place among the rundown and neglected buildings. The church had the appearance of being constructed in an earlier time, perhaps when people were more hopeful and
the gap between those who had the riches and those who wore the rags was not so big. I decided to jaywalk over to the church.

  I trotted up some brick steps to the massive double doors, gingerly touching the long, wrought-iron door handle. Not too hot, so I grasped the black, swirling metal of the ornate handle and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Cool air greeted me as I stepped into the interior. I could hear an intermittent thump, thump, thump coming from somewhere inside. I blinked, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light and glanced around to see that a kind of makeshift office had been set up in the vestibule of the church.

  I cautiously treaded deeper into the interior of the church. Beyond, where the pews would normally have been, I came across the source of the thumping. A basketball court now graced the inside of the church. Some middle-aged men who only looked semi-ragged were wearing secondhand basketball outfits. They were sweating and shifting around each other on the court playing basketball. Five men wore green outfits and five wore gold. Still a few more men, similarly suited, sat on white plastic chairs on the sidelines waiting their turn. The church was too small to fit bleachers.

  A referee who looked more like a volunteer than a homeless person had just blown his whistle and assembled the teams for a jump ball. He tossed the ball into the air and the two men in the jump-off batted at it. The green team won the jump-off and the ball flew in their direction. Nine men charged after it with one man holding back to guard his team’s basket.

  No one seemed to be occupying the front desk, so I walked right on through the entry area and into the lighter section or what was once the nave of the church. As I stepped into the high-ceilinged chamber, an array of light and color flooded my vision. I looked up to see stained-glass windows encircling the basketball court, shining on the men who sweated and shifted to gain advantage of the court.

  What a relief after my encounter with the poor soul and desperate little dog out on the street! Some empty chairs were placed a short ways away from the bench warmers awaiting their turn to play. I assumed this was the Visitor’s Section, so I headed over and sat down to watch. I was hoping this big crowd of people might have some word of Charles Tunis’s whereabouts.

  As I strode in my tight jeans and knee-high cycle boots toward the visitors’ chairs, all the male eyes in the room, which consisted of everyone, turned to watch me. The man dribbling the ball lost his concentration and slammed into the ref, knocking him on the floor. The ref skidded backwards on the slick floor several yards before he slammed into another player’s feet, who tumbled on top of the ref. The ball bounced wildly out of bounds. The ref lay on the wood floor, trying to shove the guy off of him while blowing his whistle to halt the play.

  Ooops! I seemed to have attracted more attention than I’d intended. Maybe the heat from my unconsummated lunch with Mountain Man was still wafting off of me. “Hi fellas,” I sang out tentatively, as all eyes remained on me, except for the ref who was now pushing himself up off the floor.

  When he’d finally righted himself and was able to stand, he gave another short tweet on the whistle and shouted, “Short break!”

  A few guys headed off toward the north wall of the church where the door presumably led to a restroom. The rest of the men, including the ref, looked at me expectantly as I strode purposefully toward them. “I’m wondering if you fellas could give me some help?” I asked.

  Most of them seemed poised to say, “Sure! Whatever!” But the ref, who seemed to have some position of informal power, was more cautious. He spoke before the others could chime in.

  “That depends on what kind of help.”

  Well, that response kind of irked me, so I said, “You only give certain kinds of help and not others?”

  The ref, who was Anglo, in his late 40s, about 5’9” with a fit body, salt and pepper hair and strong, wise eyes, positioned himself in front of me. “I guess you could say that. This is a safe house for people in healthy recovery. We are trying to help get people off the streets. Help that leads in that direction, we give. Help that leads away from that direction, we do not extend.” He stressed the word not with special emphasis, as if it were directed at me and only me. Several of the men nodded vigorously as the ref spoke. A few looked uneasy. Probably those who were faltering, I decided.

  After witnessing the guy and the dog on the street in the blazing sun, I too, was all for supporting the entire world in a healthy direction, as it were, so I had to hand it to this guy, but he was forcing me to change my plans on the fly. Not that I wasn’t good at that. Very good.

  “Let’s start over then.” I extended my hand, smiling. “My name is Sammy, Sammy Dick, and I’m a private investigator.” I delved quickly into my bag, groped in a zippered pocket and managed to drag out my investigator’s license. I held it toward him in the multicolored sunlight from the stained-glass windows, hoping I somehow hadn’t allowed my license to expire.

  “My name’s Jeff,” he said, taking the license from my hand and examining it closely.

  Jeff the Ref. That would be easy for me to remember.

  He handed the license back to me, apparently satisfied. “This seems legit, Sammy. What can I do for you?”

  I noticed the faltering players had quickly scooted off toward the restroom door. A cop-like person is here. Gotta pee! The others, about seven of them, remained, standing staunchly beside their leader, Jeff the Ref.

  “Well, I’m not sure if this is what you call a healthy direction or not, but I’m trying to help someone with a drug and gambling addiction. We have reason to believe he’s somehow linked to a man named Charles Tunis. This Charles person of interest may also be known by other names, perhaps Charles Tunisia or Charley the Tuna.”

  Everyone looked blank until I said Charley the Tuna. Then several faces lit up in recognition. She shoots. She scores!

  The room was with me, but I still had a ways to go with Jeff the Ref, who also displayed a quick spark of recognition, then extinguished it, only to replace it with a look of suspicion. I was way too close to back off now. I plunged onward. This time I handed a business card to Jeff the Ref. “I’m working for a firm that wishes to quietly help a member of their team, a gambling and drug addict, enter into rehabilitation.”

  “Is he tall?” one of the guys asked eagerly. “We need a taller Center.”

  The vision of the languid, loaded Liang playing the Center for this rag tag team of courageous souls was so incongruous I almost laughed out loud. Then I saddened some, realizing the complexities of the gaps between the two worlds. The rich versus the poor. The brave versus the fallen and falling. These men, grouped around their leader, fit somewhere in the poor and the brave categories. Liang resided among the rich and falling. No one here fit Liang’s description. I didn’t dwell on these thoughts long, though, as I was on a mission. Besides, sad is not my cup of tea.

  “I don’t think he’s the basketball type,” I offered, “but he does need help. To be truthful, I’m trying to cut off some of his source supplies by working through this Tuna fellow.”

  Jeff the Ref observed me intently as I spoke to the remaining members of his team. Then I waited in silence. Finally, Jeff seemed to turn a corner. He slid my business card back into the pocket of his ref pants and said, “Charley the Tuna, as he’s known on the streets, has been in here a few times, but he’s no longer welcome.”

  “Yeah, he stinks too much,” one of the guys in green quipped.

  Jeff the Ref didn’t smile. Not even a little bit. A serious fellow. The quipper shut up. Jeff added, “Almost all street people smell, but those who truly search for personal redemption are always welcome here. Charley is not welcome at this time. In fact, when he does show up here, his intentions are the lowest of the low.”

  The quipper decided to try and redeem himself. “I meant that Charley does stink a lot, but he’s always trying to hook us back on crack again. That’s why he really stinks. ‘Course, none uh us can afford coke, but he deals that too.” The other six players nodded vigor
ously. Several of them had that gaunt, sunken-in look around their cheeks and eyes of habitual crack users. Ex-tweekers.

  Getting Charley off the streets might help these men in their brave missions to stay clean and sober. That revelation began dawning in the eyes of Jeff the Ref. Jeff turned to look at the men grouped around us and asked, “Okay, so who knows where Sammy here might find Charley the Tuna?”

  “Just follow your nose and you can’t miss him,” one of the shorter players giggled. “No seriously, try the lime-colored house at 4th Street and Van Buren. That’s his stash, crash, and sales location.”

  Bingo! Had him. All it took were some skin tight pants, thigh-high boots and a background in psychology to get on Jeff the Ref’s good side. Jeff might even prove useful in the future, since so much of my work led me to the dark side where he spent his time volunteering or whatever he was doing. I made a quick mental note, then waved to the crowd. “Bye, everyone. Good luck in the game. Today and always.” And I meant it. I twirled back toward the door and made sure to swing my hips from side to side as I went, since I figured a lot of eyes would be watching my sway, like observing a good ping-pong game.

  Chapter 33

  I left the coolness of the “safe house for people in healthy recovery” as Jeff the Ref had dubbed it, clambering down the brick steps back into the torturous heat. Now it was mid-afternoon; the temperature had to be in the 110’s. Heading north along 3rd Street toward Van Buren, I felt sweat break out under my arms and start to drip down my sides. Good lord, I hoped to find this Tuna dude soon.

  The minute I turned on Van Buren, I could see the lime-green house, the supposed residence of Charles Tunis. Every single window was covered with bars, including the front door. I hastened my steps, anxious now to get this job over with and out of the hot sun.

  Van Buren has been called the street of whores for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, my dad used to call it by that name, and mistakenly I thought he meant “the street of horrors,” as in a Halloween funhouse. Only years later did I unravel the true meaning of the name. Actually, as I made my way along, both names seemed to fit. I passed a middle-aged woman, obese and desperately displaying her wares in some very tight denim short-shorts. Her dirty white spandex top revealed a good nine inches of stretch-marked cleavage. A blister oozed from the side of her mouth. I reached in my bag, grabbed a twenty dollar bill and handed it to her.