“I told you I wouldn’t have it until morning. Maybe not all of it even then.”
Johnny’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark room. “Why you live like this?” He complained, “No lights?”
“There, that better?” Victor said, and reached behind for the switch. Wrap-around fluorescents bathed the room and Johnny could see that Victor looked scared and old under the harsh light. He won’t be getting any tonight, Johnny laughed to himself, not looking like that. Does this guy never manicure? Never pick that crap out of his face? The blackheads across Victor’s nose were emphasized under the glare, and Johnny was suddenly repulsed by the man.
“Why you got me down here in bumtown the middle of the night, hey Victor?”
“I don’t got you anyplace. You could’ve called me from Chicago and I would have made things right.”
“No, no, no, no, no. That ain’t the way business gets done. No calls to you. You could be wired, you could be tapped, who knows? My people, we like to do our business eyeball to eyeball. That way everything gets done nice and tidy. You ain’t wired, are you Victor?”
“No way! Look.” Without being asked, Victor pulled up his sweater and shirt. His belly protruded and his obese physique further sickened Johnny. It made him hate the man even more.
“Victor, how about I join you and the lady for a drink? We can talk and get some things settled. Who knows, I might even get lucky with her.”
“No, no, she’s not that kind of girl. She’s just a friend, a waitress who dropped in for one drink, then she’s gone.”
“A waitress. That’s even better. I’ll say when she’s gone, Vic. Capisce?”
“Capisce.”
“Now go get your bottle and bring it to me. I’m going to sweeten it up.”
“I don’t think so. I think you should leave now.”
In one sleight-of-hand move Johnny displayed the flashing switchblade and pressed the steel point directly under Victor’s chin. “We ain’t negotiatin’ friend. This ain’t no sit-down. You don’t have my money, you gotta pay. You gotta see how bad it is to screw your friends in Chicago.” The knife pressed in and pierced the skin. It touched the jaw bone and Victor’s head involuntarily snapped back. “Easy, Vic. You don’t want me to slip. Now get that bottle and get your fat ass back in here.”
Victor returned with an open champagne bottle in minutes. Johnny was ready with a capsule of dry power. Victor asked what the hell he thought he was doing. Johnny told him it’s a roofy, the date rape drug. Roofy is a benzo-something drug used in Mexico as an anesthetic, Johnny said while he powdered the bottle. It’s legal in Mexico. We get it FedEx from Sinaloa. Why anesthetic? Victor wanted to know. Then Victor was pleading. Don’t do this, he begged, don’t. Johnny smiled and shook a second capsule’s contents into the bottle.
“Now let’s go refresh your guest’s drink. She must be thirsty and feeling so lonely.”
Which is when Ermeline first laid eyes on Johnny Bladanni.
He strode into the room, flashed her the great smile nature gave him, and swiped her drink out of her hand. He said he would refresh it for her.
She started to object, started to say she’d had all she agreed to have, but Johnny brushed her aside. Just one more—with me, this time—he said. You’ll make me a happy man and then you can go. She thought he was attractive in a kind of city way, and maybe she even liked his dark quality, maybe even liked that he seemed a little bit dangerous around the edges. She’d been known to be attracted to certain types. She agreed. One more and then—gone.
She came to five hours later. Her chest—her breasts—were on fire and she struggled to understand where she was. Victor was nowhere to be seen and the other man was gone. She screamed.
5
Following Ermeline’s visit, Thaddeus met Killen Erwin at the Silver Dome. They entered on the restaurant side and took the last remaining booth, one nobody wanted, at the very rear of the restaurant where the bus boys crashed in and out of the kitchen with their tubs of dirty dishes.
It was loud back there and the heat from the kitchen made it very warm.
Cece Seymour commanded one of the bus boys to clear the table and she followed up with a quick wipe down, table top and booths.
Killen took the far side. “I like my back against the wall,” he was fond of saying, which left Thaddeus staring at a blank wall and a constant stream of bus boys and two waitresses miraculously missing each other and avoiding head-ons as they came and went through the double doors.
Killen brought Thaddeus up on the day’s events. He smoked Marlboros endlessly and put them out on his saucer. He loved to expound on the law. His family owned the Orbit Motel on the west end of town, and, a mile beyond, was Killen’s eighty acre spread complete with horse barns and training rings. His family was horsey and Killen had inherited the equine disease from his dad, Ed Erwin, who everyone assumed was associated with the mob because he kept slot machines all over southern Illinois in bars and clubs and the police left him alone even though gambling was illegal. The natural conclusion reached by all was that Ed Erwin was paying everybody off in order to keep his slots running, which was, in fact, true. So heads were turned and the one-arm bandits continued to spin out their profits and Ed bought a big spread on the edge of town and raised Quarter Horses just for the hell of it.
Killen had inherited his father’s competitive streak and just about every weekend in the summer he would load up a trailer of a half dozen horses, hitch up to his one-ton Ford, and head off across the state to a show or a county fair, where his animals would race. Sometimes Thaddeus went along on these ventures but usually not, as the breeders and trainers were a hard drinking lot and Thaddeus thought himself much too busy for that kind of stuff.
“Coffee and a cheese Danish,” Killen told Cece. “Half and half, not that plastic creamer.”
“Okay,” said Cece. “Thaddeus?”
“I’m hungry. How about two scrambled and three links. Coffee and OJ. And water.”
“You’re thirsty,” said Killen after Cece had turned away with their order. “Get drunk last night or something?”
“No, I didn’t get drunk last night. You know I rarely touch the crap.”
“One of your key failings,” said Killen. “Drink and come to know your fellow man’s inner thoughts.”
“You mean everyone spills their guts when loaded.”
“Exactly.”
“Listen, thanks for sending over Ermeline.”
“Has she got the tits or what?”
“She’s hurt, Killen, really messed up. Dr. Ahmad already told her it’s going to be very difficult to get the ink out of her skin.”
“You think Victor Harrow lettered her tits like that?”
“Who else would have done it?”
“She said there was another guy there. Some greaseball.”
“Problem is, guys usually don’t carve other guy’s names in girls’ breasts. Just doesn’t figure.”
“True. Ouch, that must’ve hurt like hell!”
“She was drugged. I’ve got her going by the hospital for a blood draw. I want to know what kind of drug Vic slipped her.”
“So you’re thinking it all comes down to Victor Harrow?”
“You know what, it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is whether she has enough facts to sue Victor Harrow. I believe she does.”
“Probably right. What will be the grounds of the lawsuit?”
Just then their orders arrived. Cece slung the plates and cups on the table and raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen?”
“We’re good,” Killen smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“I’ll check back with coffee in ten.”
“What’s the grounds?” Killen asked again.
“I’m still thinking about that. Assault, for one.”
“No good. Don’t sue him for assault.” He pushed the heavy glasses back up on his nose.
“Really? Why not?” Thaddeus was all ears. His fork was forgotten on t
he plate.
“Because his insurance won’t pay. His insurance will pay up only if it’s an unintentional act, negligence. If you sue him for assault there’s no insurance money to grab, because assault is an intentional act and insurance doesn’t cover it.”
“So like I was saying, I’ve ruled out assault.”
“Atta boy. How about negligent supervision of his workplace?”
“How’s that work?”
“Here’s what you do. You find out who the greaseball was. Then you sue Victor for failing to maintain a safe workplace for a business invitee. Or even just a social invitee. Let’s say Ermeline was there just for a drink, nothing else. She wasn’t looking for a job; she wasn’t there for any business purpose. Which makes her a pure social invitee. Victor owed her a legal duty of supervision of the premises he had invited her to. Meaning he owed her the duty of a safe place. Letting some Chicago greaseball into the bus is what led to the assault. I’m thinking it wasn’t Victor at all. I’m thinking it was the greaseball.”
“One problem with that.”
“Okay?”
“I don’t know who the greaseball is. Ermeline doesn’t remember his name. Johnny Something—Baloney or some such”
“That’s no problem at all. File suit against Victor and allege negligence based on the wrongful acts of a John Doe. Then during discovery you take Victor’s deposition and get the guy’s name. You then go back and amend your complaint by adding John Doe’s correct name. George Greaseball—or whatever.”
“This is beautiful. Beautiful. Thanks, Killen.”
“No need to thank me. I just wish I could prosecute the guy.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Simple. Each guy is going to point the finger at the other guy. I can’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt which one did the cut-and-ink job. Your civil case is a much better case. That’s why I sent it over to you.”
“Thanks again. Tell the truth, I’m pretty revved up about it.”
“You should be, she’s been intolerably damaged, all kidding aside. Ermeline is a good kid and a damn hard worker. She waits on me every night. She’s got that hard-times loser ex-husband creeping around sometimes, but she pays her bills, does a good job with Jaime, and provides her kid with a pretty good standard of living. No thanks to Craphead. She came to see me two years ago. Ex won’t pay child support.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her it would take the FBI to keep up with the guy. He moves every Saturday morning, new town, new job. A wage levy would be impossible to get.”
“Course you could just lock his ass up.”
“Yes, and I might do that, next time he shows his face in Hickam County. I just might, wouldn’t surprise me.”
Thaddeus forked up egg and sausage. He crammed a huge bite in his mouth and sat chewing, making his mental notes. This was only going to get better and better, he was thinking. We’ll file suit ASAP.
They both sat quietly. Killen broke the silence, asking, “Hey, you want to go to Springfield with me this weekend?”
“Might. What’s up?”
“Sangamon County Fair, Dude. Just the biggest horse show of the year. Outside of the Arlington season, of course.”
“Yes, I think I can do that. Maybe we can talk some more about the case on the ride over.”
“Definitely. So here’s the plan. Be at my place at seven. We’ll clean out the trailer, stock it up, and hit the road no later than nine. Also got a couple of stalls to clean, but you’re great at that.”
Thaddeus laughed. “It’s the least I can do. You’re keeping me in clients with all your great referrals. I’d be up the creek without them.”
“No, you’d be out in the bars at night passing out business cards, like Franey.”
“Fletcher Franey? I thought he had a pretty good practice built up by now.”
“Hell no, he loses everything he takes on. No repeat business there. So he’s out hustling DWIs and divorces all over the county. Every night. He must pass out twenty cards a night—let’s see, which would be 100 cards per week. Bring in two or three suckers, that’s pretty good advertising. Good ROI, as they say at Wharton.”
“Damn good. Maybe I should give that a try.”
“Hell no. Drunks can’t pay. No money, they drink it all up. Franey’s always suing some client or other for non-payment. Stay away from that kind of bullcrap.”
“So who will Vic hire when I sue him?”
“Nobody. His insurance company will do the hiring. They’ll probably retain Bill Johannson III over in Polk. They fall all over themselves over Dick.”
“He’s really a great lawyer.”
“He’s all right. But don’t worry about it. You’ve got the facts on your side. The facts always make the case, not the lawyer. Don’t get me wrong, a guy like Franey can screw up even a good fact presentation, but you’re not Franey, Thad. You’re like a racehorse: you’re going to be fast, Dude. Even D.B. says so. Which is something.”
“Don’t embarrass me. I still can’t find my butt with both hands, most of the time. Most of the time I’m clueless. Like today. I would have sued Vic for assault if you hadn’t wised me up.”
“You’re welcome. Gotta get back.”
“Let’s do it,” Thaddeus said. Killen went on ahead, Thaddeus finished up his eggs and sausage, paid the check and headed back to the office.
* * *
Victor awoke that morning at half past seven, with absolutely no recall of the night before. Roofies were good at that, erasing the victim’s memory of the night before.
He had spent the night in his clothes, on the queen size at the rear of the bus. Luckily Betty Anne Harrow was out of town and hadn’t gone ape over him missing.
Victor found himself with muddled thinking and increasing panic as he realized his memory had been wiped. Parts of it slowly came back to him as he showered. He began to remember Johnny Bladanni coming to the back door and coming inside. Anything beyond that, however, was wiped out of his memory banks. And oh yes, Ermeline was here for a drink, he remembered—and his panic shot up. Where did she go? Was she all right? Earlier parts of the day before were firmly attached in memory. Brody Mathewson at First National had to be contacted as soon as they opened at nine. He needed to have the payoff money ready for the gangster from Chicago before they cut his throat—or worse.
He went into the bedroom and selected a pair of yellow Sans-A-Belt slacks to accommodate his large abdominal overhang, and a plain white shirt, button-down, XL. He slipped on Roper boots, ran a brush through his hair, and studied himself in the tiny bathroom mirror. There was a deep puncture wound under his chin. It was caked in blood. “What the hell?” he muttered. He unwrapped a Band-Aid and covered the spot. Then he smiled at himself in the small glass. All in all, none the worse for wear. He hoped the same was true for Ermeline. He pointed at himself in the mirror. “You’re way out of your league.”
Victor drove west on Washington, beyond the town square, until he came to an office in the middle of a block that was once occupied by a motel, now defunct. The sign said it was the First National Bank, though it still had more a motel feel to it. Victor parked and went inside.
Brody Mathewson was back by the third teller, refilling his coffee cup, when he spotted Victor. He immediately came out from behind the teller cages and walked Victor over to his desk. On his desk was a simple gold—plastic—sign that said, “Brody Mathewson, New Accounts.” He asked Victor to please sit, and he would get his paperwork on screen. Several minutes passed and finally Brody broke the silence.
“I’ve spoken to Mister Edwards. He feels—I feel too—that if we were loaning on tangible assets we could go the full one hundred. But we’re not. We’re loaning open-ended and we have no security. Mister Edwards has authorized a credit line of twenty-five thousand, but that’s the best he’ll do right now, Victor.”
“But I—“
“I know what you’re gonna say. You need the full one hundred, and I get
that. But with the recession still hanging around and given how you’re mortgaged to the hilt on all the machines and equipment and trucks, we’re stuck on twenty-five. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sure?”
Brody waved a hand expansively. “We’ve all decided. Now. Do you want me to open this as a credit line or do you want it as a check guarantee up to the full twenty-five—you tell me.”
Victor was at a loss for words. He had no idea what he was going to tell Johnny Bladanni. And there was no way he could tell First National about his jam or about the fact he’d been paying off Chicago. He knew they would call every note he had with them if he told them the truth. So would the other two banks he had accounts with. It wouldn’t be pretty.
“Neither. I need it as cash.”
“Come again?”
“That’s it,” Victor said, and smoothed his sleeve as if he was slightly indifferent to the whole issue. “I need cash. Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“I don’t know that we even have that in the bank. Be right back.”
Brody jumped up and strode back to the vault, where he inserted a key in the skeleton door and ducked inside. Within minutes he returned. “Yes,” he said, “the Fed was here late last night. We can cover you. You’re sure you want cash? That’s not safe, you know, Victor.”
“I have a gun in the truck.”
“Well, sure you do. But still—“
“Look, don’t make me wait. Just give it to me. Please.”
“Sure enough, Victor. We will prepare it and give it to you in a check box. Okay? Do you want to count it?”
“No. I trust you.”
“Thank you. But you should at least count it.”
“I trust you.”
* * *
“So how much can you get for this bus?” Johnny Bladanni said, waving his hand at the wall of Victor’s office. They were in the rear office of the bus; the office manager and gum smacker were up front, managing the constant flow of paperwork of Victor’s three State construction jobs.
The Defendants: Crime Fiction & Legal Thriller (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 1) Page 5