by Mike Faricy
“Get you some coffee?” I asked. I failed to mention our new mugs from The Spot.
“Is it fresh?”
“Just made, our secretary had to run…”
“Yeah, I’ll take some. Louie, come on let’s go, man. Time is money, you don’t know that yet? Come on, come on.”
Louie nodded at Cazzo then said into the dead phone, “I’ll review it and get back to you. I don’t want you moving on this until you get my okay. Clear? Alright, messenger the original documents over here, and I’ll have an answer for you later today. Yes, yes. I promise. I know, the Chinese. I’ll talk to you later, goodbye,” he said then hung up the dead phone.
Cazzo stared at him like he didn’t buy the act.
“I’ll tell you, it’s taken them two years to put this deal together and now it comes down to me, and of course they need the damn answer today. I don’t know,” Louie said, shaking his head. “How are you, Mister Cazzo? Sorry to keep you waiting, have a seat there,” Louie indicated my client chair with the strip of duct tape running across the seat cushion.
Cazzo stared for a moment like he was sizing Louie up, but he didn’t say anything.
“Please,” Louie said, indicating the chair with his hand.
“You get those motions and briefs filed?”
“Just like you said, Mister Cazzo, I met with …”
“You shouldn’t have to do a damn thing other than show up in court, keep quiet, and nod when they rule in our favor. Word is we’ve got this wired. Tommy will be hosting a victory party for Gino that night at the club. You’re both invited.”
I was leaning against the filing cabinet. Cazzo sat down then turned and directed his attention over to me. He wore a white golf shirt buttoned to the top beneath a creamy colored sport coat. The creases in his black trousers looked sharp enough to shave with. He had on a pair of woven leather loafers with no socks. The shoes had little brass buckles across the front, that look of handmade Italian leather, and probably a price tag that resembled my address. He brushed some imaginary dust from his trouser leg then said, “Be there early, Tommy wants you to meet your client before we start.”
“My client?” I asked.
“Swindle Lawless.”
“Swindle?”
“Lawless. She’s your new and most important client.” He tossed a file across the desk that landed in front of Louie. Four or five eight by ten color photos of a blonde woman partially fanned out of the file. She looked vaguely familiar from the little I could see.
“You’ll be investigating her agent, local dipshit named Dudley Rockett. I want you to get the goods on him. We’ll deal with it from there.”
“Get the goods on him, this guy, what did you say his name was again?”
“You listening?” he raised his voice. “First name Dudley, last name Rockett. He was her agent and…”
“Swindle?” I said.
“Yeah, that’s right. This douche was Swindle’s agent. We’re going to get her money back, the fees, well, and some interest of course.”
“So you’re going to file a lawsuit?” Louie asked, sounding like he was contemplating options. “Have you thought on what grounds? Misrepresentation? Unprofessional conduct? Sexual harassment or some sort of unethical…”
Cazzo stared at him for a long moment then interrupted.
“Hell no, we’re not going to file a lawsuit. Haskell,” he yelled, looking over at me. “You just get the info we need on Rockett, shouldn’t be too hard. It’s all there in that file. Questions?”
“Give me some time to review the file, and I’ll call you with any questions,” I said.
“I got a better idea, review the damn file then get the goods on this hose bag. I’ll expect to see you both at Gino’s victory celebration. He stood up from the chair then nodded at Louie. “I’ll see you in court.” Then he turned and exited without saying goodbye.
We watched as he crossed the street, climbed into his sports car, put a phone to his ear, and raced off.
“What a sweetheart,” I said.
“Yeah, and that was his good side. Look at it this way, like I told you, more business.” He picked up the file Cazzo had tossed on the desk and paged through the photos.
“Well, I’ll give her this much, she seems to have enough money to pay for a plastic surgeon,” he said, flipping through a stack of studio-shot prints. When he was finished he passed the file over to me.
“I know this woman from somewhere,” I said, flipping through the photos. She was a bleached blonde sporting a surgically enhanced chest. I guessed a good deal of nose and chin work along with a lot of Botox in that face.
“She some stripper in one of those joints you go to?” Louie asked.
I shook my head.
“Escort?”
“No, she’d be out of my price range. Just kidding, no I’ve seen her recently.” I was thinking hard when it hit me. “The Tutti Frutti, that’s it. She was there that night Heidi and I were there, one of the women your pal Tommy D’Angelo had his arm around.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, she sort of gave me the look.”
“The look?”
“Yeah, but I was with Heidi, and I think this gal was pretty wasted. You know the look, that kind of an “Interested?” sort of smile and glance.”
“Actually, no, can’t say I’m familiar with it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Like I said, I was on Heidi duty that night. By the way, who names their baby girl Swindle?”
Chapter Sixteen
“You’re kidding, Dev, Swindle Lawless isn’t her real name. That’s her stage name or was, she legally changed it back in ninety two.” Aaron LaZelle spit some caramel roll crumbs in my direction as he talked. He and Detective Manning had loaded up on two rolls each along with giant Lattés to the tune of close to twenty bucks. They stuck me with the tab. I was indulging in serious chocolate overload from a large brownie. It was just after seven in the morning, and we were seated at a back corner table in Nina’s coffee shop.
“Stage name? What the hell does she need a stage name for if she’s a waitress,” I asked.
“And she’s your client?” Manning half laughed. “Maybe you should sit down with her and get some background information.” He handed my file with the studio shots of Swindle over to Aaron.
“Yeah that’s her,” Aaron said. He quickly fanned through the photos then passed the file back to Manning. He took a sheet of paper from his suit coat pocket and unfolded it. There was a black and white image of a woman vaguely resembling Swindle’s studio shots in the upper right corner, or maybe it was her mother. I guessed it was probably a booking photo, Swindle without makeup, looking hung over, burnt out, or both. Not a very pretty sight.
“Given name was Muriel Kedrowski, born in St. Paul fourteen September nineteen seventy four. Let’s see, she’s got two arrests for solicitation, one for shoplifting, another for indecent exposure. There was an assault charge back in two thousand five.” He looked up at me, smiled, and continued. “Two thousand six she was charged with passing bad checks. She was nailed for driving under the influence in two thousand seven. Possession of a controlled substance in two thousand eight, charges dropped apparently. Another solicitation charge in two thousand ten, charges dropped on that one, too.”
Manning snorted then tossed the file of photos on top of what was left of my chocolate brownie. He seemed to enjoy the fact that the sticky frosting smeared all over the back of the manila file.
Aaron gave him a glance, but didn’t say anything.
“So what you’re telling me is she’s pretty much straightened up her act, if she hasn’t been convicted since her DUI in two thousand seven.”
“Not exactly,” Aaron said, returning to his sheet of paper. “She changed her name back in ninety two. Up to that point Swindle Lawless had been her stage name and she just made it official.”
“Stage name? What was she doing?”
“She was a dancer. The indecent exposure charge
came when she was sixteen, performing under age at the old Buns and Roses. Sometime after that she did a two year stint in Vegas before she fled the scene to Hollywood and waited to be discovered.”
“Was she? Discovered I mean?”
“Yeah, I guess, if you call ten years of playing background roles in porn videos for fifty bucks a day being discovered. She stayed out there until she was replaced by the next generation of wanna-bes so she drifted back to St. Paul. Started working at the Tutti Frutti and got hooked up with Tommy D’Angelo or got hooked up with Tommy first and then started working there.”
I picked up the file and used my fork to scrape most of the chocolate off the back. I licked the fork and stared at Manning.
“Dev,” Aaron said.
“Swindle’s agent contract with Rockett was back in twenty ten. Is he on your radar?” I asked.
“Rockett? Only as a bit player. He’s handled a couple of bands, a singer or two, couple of strippers with higher aspirations. Usually handles desperate folks sort of on their last chance. Probably his biggest claim to fame was back in the late eighties. Manuel Pastori.”
“Never heard of him,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I’d guess Rockett saw an easy mark or maybe a desperate one with your girlfriend Swindle. Another burned-out party girl past her prime, looked ten years older than her age, hanging by her fingernails. His mistake was he didn’t count on her being tied into Tommy D’Angelo,” Manning said.
“So if D’Angelo is that scary, why not just give them her money back?”
“I’m guessing they want more than her money, probably a lot more. It’s been rumored Rockett owed some sort of debt to the D’Angelos, but we could never seem to quite figure it out.”
“What are we talking a grand, ten grand?”
“No, it would be more vicious than that, probably his house, car, business, all of the above.”
“Everything?”
“That sounds about right,” Manning nodded. “Hey, they’re your clients.”
“Just she is, Swindle, and I’m not even sure about her.”
Aaron shook his head and handed me the sheet with Swindle’s arrest record. “Keep us posted, Dev, let me know how it works out.”
Manning crammed the last bit of a caramel roll into his mouth. “Be careful, Haskell,” he mumbled and they left.
Chapter Seventeen
Mercifully there was only one Dudley Rockett in the white pages reverse directory. I was ringing the doorbell and knocking on his front door around eight thirty in the morning. If Dudley was home he didn’t bother to answer.
The house, a pinkish sort of late fifties rambler with an attached single car garage, had a faded and unkempt look about it. Unkempt if you discounted the high tech security cameras mounted on either end of the house and over the front door. Yellowed shades were pulled down over every window. Peeling paint, untrimmed grass, weedy looking front shrubs or maybe they were just weeds, I couldn’t tell.
A mail box stuffed with grocery store circulars hung crookedly next to the front door. Candy wrappers and a couple of plastic bags had blown up against the front of the house and looked to have been there for a while.
Through the small rectangular window in the front door I could see what looked like a television screen flickering back in a darkened kitchen. I couldn’t detect any other movement. I took out my cell and dialed the phone number I’d gotten online. It rang but no one answered and I never got a message option.
I was sitting in my car trying to come up with some other idea when a kid about fifteen strolled down the street. He wandered up to the keypad on Rockett’s garage door and entered a code. As the door rose up I could see a nondescript black Toyota sitting in the garage. The kid carefully reversed the car into the driveway, climbed out, and began to walk away.
“Hey, excuse me, son, hold up there,” I called from my car. He didn’t seem to hear me and I called again. “Excuse me, young man, hey.” This time he stopped and stared as I hurried across the street toward him. We were standing in front of the house next door to Rockett’s. I could see a rough looking woman in a ratty bathrobe studying us through her front window as she sipped her coffee.
“Do you live there?” I asked, pointing back toward Rockett’s house.
“No.”
“Do you know Dudley Rockett?”
He gave a slight nod, “Sort of.”
“Do you know if he’s home? I tried knocking on the door but no one answered.”
“Yeah, he usually doesn’t. I back the car out for him every day. Don’t know if he’s home, I never see the guy.”
“You get paid for that?”
“Yeah, he sends me fifty bucks every month.”
“Seems a little extravagant.”
“Whatever. You a cop?”
“No, I’m with the Minnesota State Lottery. Mister Rockett is registered as the holder of a winning ticket and we wanted to contact him.”
“Cool.”
I heard a car door slam. By the time I turned around the Toyota was backing out of the driveway. Whoever it was didn’t waste any time.
“Mister Rockett, Mister Rockett, Dudley,” I called.
The Toyota quickly backed into the street and drove off.
“That him, Rockett?” I called back to the kid as I ran to my car.
“I think so, I’m not really sure. I only saw him once, but that’s his car.”
I pulled away from the curb as Rockett’s black Toyota screeched around the corner at the far end of the block. I raced round the corner, heard some stuff roll across my back seat and then onto the floor as I accelerated. The Toyota was a block and a half ahead of me, the tail lights flashed as it approached a stop sign, but never really slowed and blasted through the intersection.
I approached the sign a moment later then had to slow and finally stop while a school bus lumbered across my path. Once the bus passed, I couldn’t see the Toyota. He must have turned onto a side street. I accelerated across the intersection, slowed for half a second at the cross street, looked left and right but didn’t see the Toyota. I gambled and raced ahead but couldn’t see Rockett’s car. I suddenly caught the thing in my rearview mirror as it raced around the corner behind me and took off in the opposite direction.
I made a U-turn, tearing across some poor guy’s front lawn in the process. I sped up to try and catch Rockett. He was maybe two blocks ahead of me. I accelerated and blasted through an intersection my horn blaring, my engine roaring. I was gaining on him, I’d cut the distance almost in half. I could hear the sand and gravel pinging off the undercarriage of my Fleetwood. We raced along a winding residential street as I continued to gain on him. We were little more than a block apart when I first heard the siren and saw the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I raced down the street for maybe another half block before I realized my situation could only get worse so I pulled over.
I turned off my engine and watched in the rear view mirror. The squad car stopped, the driver’s door opened, and a uniformed officer knelt down behind the open door.
“Step out of your vehicle. Place your hands on top of your head,” a voice blared out over a loud speaker.
This wasn’t going my way. I did as directed and waited there, standing in the middle of the street.
“Kneel down. Keep your hands on your head.”
As I knelt, I could feel the pea gravel, that the city uses for resurfacing grinding into my knees. The street had recently been tarred, oiled, and then dusted with a coating of the gravel. The fresh oil worked its way into the knees of my jeans. They were ruined in short order, but at least I didn’t have to lie down in the stuff.
“Lay face down on the street, keep your hands on your head and spread your legs.”
I thought about that for a long moment.
“Face down on the street, place your hands on your head, and spread your legs. Do it now!”
I saw another squad car with flashing lights racing toward
us. From somewhere behind me I heard a car door slam. Not that it made any difference, but I guessed there were possibly four to six officers on the scene. I lay down in the freshly tarred street and ruined my shirt.
Chapter Eighteen
“I trust you found the accommodations to your liking,” Manning looked across the table at me. We were seated in one of the department’s interrogation rooms, nice place if you were into brown cigarette burns worming their way across Formica, dull gray walls, and Manning’s ever-present bottle of Maalox. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and his eyes literally sparkled.
“To be honest, no, I didn’t like the accommodations. I would have been better off sleeping in my car.”
“Except that we had to impound it. Towing fee, yesterday and now today in the impound lot. Gee, it starts to add up. Funny you didn’t contact your legal representation, Mister Laufen. I suppose…”
“Come on, Manning, quit yanking my chain. You know I called him last night. He was unable at the time to come down here, so I…”
“I believe the technical term is shit-faced.”
“If you say so. Look can I go? You know I didn’t do anything.”
“Speeds of up to seventy-five miles per hour on a residential street in the city of St. Paul, that’s pretty serious. School kids present, that’s going to cost a little additional. Four nine-one-one calls from tax paying citizens. Resisting arrest, not the best…”
“Resisting arrest? Come on, I didn’t resist arrest. I pulled over, laid down on a freshly tarred street. I mean look at me, my clothes are ruined. When did I resist anything?”
“Just reading the arrest report. Obviously I wasn’t present to witness this latest incident.” He leaned back and smiled, attacked his gum a half dozen times causing it to audibly snap, then reached for his bottle of Maalox and took a gulp.
“I admit I was speeding, foolishly. But I didn’t resist arrest, Manning, you know that.”
He shrugged, “Mister Rockett has filed a restraining order against you. Would you care to explain?”
“A restraining order? We already talked about this. My client…”