Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  Fair trade laws existed, but there were a lot of loopholes in both the civil and the criminal codes about unfair practice. “How much do you want to spend on an investigation?”

  “Yeah. That’s another reason I called your old man. Our pockets ain’t all that deep, that’s for sure. I mean, we don’t want no special favors, but I figured this time your old man would give me my money’s worth.” He added quickly, “Raiford and his associates, I mean.” The pale eyebrows pinched together. “What kind of expenses we talking here?”

  Julie told him the rates. The man’s frown deepened, and she added, “If we’re lucky, it might not add up to much. If we’re unlucky, it could cost a lot and uncover only a little.”

  “No guarantees, you’re saying.”

  It was Julie’s turn to shrug. “That’s what an investigation’s for: to find out what, if anything, is there. It might be better to spend your money on an attorney, Mr. Lidke. Have him bring the arena owners into court to say under oath why they won’t rent to you. If Chertok’s behind it, you might get a cease and desist order, perhaps even some damages.”

  “I don’t know … lawyers …” He shook his head doubtfully. “They’d have to investigate Chertok anyway, right?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So that way I not only add a two-hundred-dollar-an-hour middleman but it takes twice as long to get something done, right?” He started to say more when the doorway filled with a broad-brimmed hat and a body even wider than Lidke’s. This man had a full beard bleached almost white except for the roots. His similarly bleached hair was gathered into a ponytail that dangled down the back of his thick neck. Like Lidke, a pattern of purple nicks and scars ran above his eyebrows, and he moved in a manner that emphasized the bulk of his muscles. Julie stood to be introduced and had the sensation of watching a massive draft horse wearing a cowboy hat. Lidke waved him in. “My partner, Joe Palombino, the Palermo Palomino.”

  The Palermo Palomino touched his hat politely as his eyes traveled from Julie’s breasts down to her legs and back to her face. Heavy lips lifted to show stubby and wide-spaced teeth in what she thought was meant to be a beguiling smile. His thick fingers pressed with surprising gentleness on her hand. “Pleased, I’m sure, Miss Campbell. Really pleased.” His voice sounded like gravel rattling down a sheet of tin.

  Lidke explained why Julie was there.

  “You’re a detective?” He stared and wagged his head once.

  “She’s Jim Raiford’s daughter—the guy I told you about.”

  The gravel rattled again as the man settled on a complaining chair. “Oh. Well, Chertok’s a scumbag, for sure.” Julie wondered if the Palomino had suffered too many choke holds. “You don’t need no investigation to find out he’s a scumbag.”

  “Yeah, Joe. Everybody knows that. But that’s about all we do know. What I want to find out—what we want to find out—is what we can do about it fast. So Miss Campbell here’s telling me what we do and how much it’s going to cost.”

  “Oh, yeah.” His face settled into dull attention. “So tell.”

  Julie repeated the figures and the room was quiet for a few moments. From the ring came another thundering crash followed by a grunt and a gasp. “Jesus, Albert, you’re supposed to break my fall, not my goddamn back!” The pulsing wail of a siren streaked along the concrete sky above them.

  “What do you think, Joe?”

  Palombino looked at Lidke and frowned. “I guess we could quit, like Chertok wants us to. Or we could fight him. Every time I think of Rudy, I want to kill the sumbitch.” He dug his fingers into the black roots of his beard. “What do you think, Otto?”

  The cannonball nodded. “I figure we fight, Joe. But I want it OK with you. You heard what Miss Campbell here says: it might cost.”

  The Palomino snorted and Julie half expected to see him paw the floor with a foot. “Can’t cost me no more’n I got, and it’s all in this place anyway. You want to fight that scumbag, it’s all right with me, Otto. You know that.”

  Lidke turned to Julie. “OK—your old man’s in this, right? I mean you and him, you two’ll be doing this, right? And you’ll do it quick, right?”

  “It will be priority, and he and I will handle it.” Julie gave both men tips on basic security techniques—don’t open suspicious packages, vary routes and routines, be alert for anyone hanging around home or office. Call immediately if anything suspicious happens. Then she opened her briefcase and took out a standard contract, filling in the blanks while Lidke watched. Palombino scratched somewhere under an arm. In the hot room, their breaths made long, faint whistles through mashed noses.

  “Do you want your names on the contract, or is your corporation the responsible party?”

  “Rocky Ringside Wrestling, Incorporated,” said Lidke.

  “The name was my idea.” The Palomino grinned with pride. “You know, the three R’s.”

  2

  When she reached the office, Julie telephoned Bernie Riester. An ex–newspaper reporter, since the Rocky Mountain News folded, Bernie was one of the best paper hunters in the business. She knew which databases contained what facts, what records the various government functions held or hid, and, most important, who to ask for what in little-known offices that fed information to regulatory and tax agencies. “A little schmoozing, a good bottle of scotch at Christmas, and don’t ask anything that seems too important or calls for any risk.” She also had a rare feel for the connections between libraries, archives, and computer sources, which—she once told Julie—came from years of tracking down her ex-husbands and their hidden incomes to squeeze child support out of the deadbeats. She was so good at it that, more and more, her time was taken up with national speaking tours to newsgathering groups and public and private intelligence organizations. Julie felt lucky to find her in the office.

  “Anything specific we’re looking for?” The soft click of a computer keyboard came over the telephone’s remote as Bernie took notes on the Federated Wrestling Organization, Chertok, and Mammoth Productions, his business.

  “No. Just a general profile: corporate officers, major shareholders, profit-loss statements, liens—the usual. But if anything suspicious turns up about Mammoth’s business practices, be sure to put it in.” Julie added, “And of course we’ll need it as soon as possible.”

  “Of course. If it’s a public corporation, I can get back to you first thing in the morning. If it’s private, it might take a couple of days—and cost accordingly.”

  “Do what you have to, Bernie. Thanks.” Julie hoped her father would not scream at that “cost accordingly.” But she was following office protocol, even if it hadn’t been cleared by him.

  Raiford came into his daughter’s office as she finished transcribing her notes on Lidke from her voice recorder. Overhead, a series of pock, pock, pock sounds marked the path of high heels across the ceiling. Glancing up, Raiford shook his head. “I wonder how much force it takes to pound concrete that hard?” He set his catalog case on the floor and helped himself to coffee from the freshly brewed pot on the corner of Julie’s desk. Then he perched on the edge of the chair beside her desk with a small, satisfied smile.

  Julie eyed him. “Well?”

  His finger tapped the catalog case. “Contract. Lansdown wants us to screen Technitron’s plant security.”

  “Wonderful! I thought that might be why he called you. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up!” A large part of Technitron’s business was for the Feds, and their policy required periodic security reviews by outside agencies to maintain the company’s clearance rating. Her father had submitted their bid almost two weeks ago and they had been waiting to hear something. “Did he quibble over the price?”

  “Nope, seemed to think it was fair. Wanted to know if I could do it tomorrow.”

  “Wow—need help?”

  Raiford shook his head. “Not for the inspecti
on. It should just be a routine walk-through. The plant’s been gone over several times already.”

  “No new construction since the last time?”

  “Nothing structural was mentioned in the job description. Quit salivating, Julie; it makes your chin wet.”

  “And you’re dribbling coffee on your tie, Dad.”

  He looked down to study his tie.

  “Their security’s in-house?”

  “No—out-house, I guess you’d call it. The Wampler Agency.” He frowned. “I still don’t see anything.”

  “Which is why you wear god-awful paisley.” Wampler, founded by a team of FBI and Treasury Department retirees, was now national in scale, but had not yet competed with Raiford and Julie for a job. Mainly because Touchstone was too small. “I thought Wampler was primarily a personnel provider?”

  “I thought so, too. But Lansdown said they installed his updated security devices three weeks ago, and that’s why we have this job: Fed regs call for an inspection by an independent agent within thirty days.” He added, “They might have subcontracted that installation. But if they did, I don’t think it was with anyone local.”

  If the Florida firm was expanding into surveillance equipment and industrial counterespionage, it would mean major competition for local firms such as Touchstone. It crossed Julie’s mind that she could readily understand Mr. Lidke’s anger at being stepped on by a bigger outfit. “Suppose you do find a problem, will we compete with Wampler to rectify it?”

  Raiford once more scanned his tie and then gave up. “That I don’t know.” Still talking, he rinsed his cup in the small sink before rustling around in the equipment closet. “My guess is that if a problem does turn up, Wampler has a guarantee on its work and will make the correction at no cost.” He sorted electronic sensors, scanners, transmitters for tomorrow’s job. Coming out of the locker with a handful of wires and charger units, he added, “But let’s cross that bridge when we have to. And speaking of jobs, what was that message about Otto Lidke?”

  Julie told him.

  “Sounds just like Otto—bumping his head against the biggest thing he can find.” Raiford gazed out the window past the new construction and toward the distant wall of mountains whose faces always grew darker as the sun moved west. “But I’m surprised he would call me for anything.”

  “Why?”

  After a silence, Raiford shrugged. “His was the contract I screwed up—the reason why I left the practice.”

  Julie studied her father’s frown. “But that wasn’t really your fault!”

  “Yeah. It was. It was my fault for taking a job when I shouldn’t have.”

  “You were under a lot of stress, Dad. We both were.”

  “But I shouldn’t have taken that job. No fault but mine.”

  It had been at the time of her mother’s death, Julie knew, but she didn’t understand all the details—just that her father had been too distraught to scrutinize the contract. Lidke, cut from the team and his severance package negated by an unnoticed clause, hired a new lawyer to sue her father’s firm for malfeasance. The partners paid Lidke off to avoid bad publicity and then offered her father the choice between a public disbarment hearing and a quiet retirement from the practice of law.

  “Why was Lidke cut from the team?”

  “He was pretty good at blocking for the run; he just couldn’t handle a pass rush. Too short. Linebackers used his face mask for a ladder. Besides, he had foot problems.”

  “Bone damage?”

  “Tangle foot. When he pulled on a sweep, he’d trip over his own feet. Or the quarterback’s. A lot of times, it was the chalk line.”

  “Then he can’t blame you for getting cut.”

  “He didn’t. He blamed me for screwing up the severance clause in his contract. And he was right.”

  “I wondered why he said you would give him his money’s worth this time.”

  “He said that?”

  Julie nodded.

  Raiford sighed. “Yeah. Your mother would think that I owe him, and I guess I do, too.”

  “How did he get into professional wrestling?”

  “College—he was good at wrestling, had a college scholarship in California, I think. I heard he went on the pro circuit sometime after his football career ended. Being a college boy and a pro football player, he started off as a good guy, but he was too ugly to be a hero. So they made him a bad guy. I think his ring name was the Bulgarian Bruiser.”

  “His partner’s the Palermo Palomino. He thinks he’s a stud.”

  Raiford glanced up from the wiring. “The stud give you a chance to try out your karate?”

  “No way.” Julie pushed her notes across her desk toward him. “But Lidke wasn’t happy to see me instead of you. I promised him we’d both work on his case.”

  He studied the notes and shook his head slowly. “I owe the man, Julie. But I don’t like the way he seems to be playing on my guilt.”

  “I already gave him a contract.”

  He stared at her with that almost emotionless gaze she remembered from childhood when she had done something wrong: it was a look that stifled affection and replaced it with judgment. “You gave him a contract?”

  “It was that or lose out. He wanted help now.”

  “You gave him a contract without checking with me?”

  “We’re partners, aren’t we? If one partner brings in business, it helps the other one, right? It’s about time I brought in some business.”

  Her father’s mouth grew tight with a familiar—and irritating—flash of quick anger. “Next time, ask me first. ”

  Julie tried not to bristle like a reprimanded child. She busied herself with straightening something on her blotter and reached to turn off the desk lamp for the night. “The man asked for help. It was my judgment that I could give it. And I didn’t know about your history with him.”

  Her father recognized the tautness of his daughter’s lips and stifled his retort. Julie was right: she did not know the story and she was a partner. A junior partner, maybe, but partner nonetheless. And she had been the agent on scene. And he did owe Lidke.

  He sensed the occurrence of one of those key moments between child and parent, but he wasn’t quite clear on its dimensions or ramifications. That knowledge, he knew, would come in time; but for better or worse, some step of separation had happened, and he did not fully understand it. He turned abruptly and went to his adjoining office, pretending to give it a once-through before leaving. Locking the door, he met her in the hallway. In silence they headed for the building’s underground garage and the after-work sparring session.

  As he steered through the homeward-bound city traffic, Raiford finally broke the silence. “Otto acts like a dumb jock, but he’s not. I think he behaves the way people think a guy who looks like that should behave.”

  And Julie accepted her father’s oblique attempt to regain neutral ground. “Do you know much about pro wrestling?”

  “Just what I’ve read here and there.”

  Which meant a surprising amount, Julie knew.

  “Do you have anything on this Sid Chertok yet?” he asked.

  “I gave his name to Bernie. She said she’d call with what she can find.”

  Raiford held himself back from commenting on Bernie’s rates and stifled asking how much Julie got from Lidke as a retainer. She had, after all, done what he would have. And since it was her case, it was her responsibility. He pulled into the parking lot and they took their gym bags out of the rear. “Well, I’ll be back from Technitron tomorrow afternoon. Then we can team up on it.”

  Julie wagged her rolled-up karate suit at him. “I’ll flip you for his office.”

  “Oh, no—I get the office on this one!” Raiford shook his head. “We flipped for residence the last time, remember? You almost broke my collarbone!”

  3<
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  But Otto’s case did not wait until morning. Julie’s hand, awake in the dark while her brain still slept, groped for the cell phone beside her bed and she half heard her own voice mumble hello.

  The other voice was a rasp. “Miss Julie Campbell? You told me to call this number right away if anything suspicious happened.”

  “Yes—of course. What’s up, Mr. Lidke?”

  “Somebody torched my car. That suspicious enough?”

  “… What’s your address? I’ll be right over.”

  Lidke told her. It was on the southeast side of the city, across the Denver line in neighboring Aurora. “Have you called the police?”

  “Didn’t have to. They came when the fire trucks did.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  As she tugged on her clothes and tried to brush sleep out of her hair before quickly plaiting it into a braid, Julie thought about calling her father, but there was no sense interrupting his rest; he had Technitron early in the morning, and dealing with Lidke was her responsibility. Her case, her responsibility—that’s what would be in his mind.

  Speeding through the silent streets, she avoided the stretches of late-night construction work. In what was once a rural suburb of modest split-level homes, a tangle of curving, ill-lit lanes led to Lidke’s street. But even in the dark, the address was easy to find. It was, in fact, hard to miss. A chartreuse pumper truck was angled halfway across the lane. Its frantic and erratic flashes of red and white glare carved out an urgent and crowded hollow in the night. In the flickering glow, Julie could see a pair of police cars, their bubble lights dark. The noses of the vehicles pointed at a frame of heat-twisted metal. There, bulky shapes of firemen poked with hooked poles to drag wads of seat cushion through puddles of water. The shapeless lumps steamed and hissed faintly as they were dipped and swabbed by the iron hooks. Up and down the block, glowing windows showed silhouetted heads. A small cluster of bathrobe-clad figures huddled on the sidewalk. They stared as Julie walked toward Lidke’s house. An occasional voice from the fire truck’s radio sounded sharp and metallic against the steady roar of its powerful, idling engine.