by Randy Rawls
Detective Greenlaw spoke up. “You could see their mouths moving. Have we tried a lip reader?”
“Yes. If anything, it makes them more ominous. They referred to one another by numbers—one, two, and three. One was the executioner.” He stopped and looked around the room. “Like I said, this is the third in our jurisdiction, all between eleven-thirty and one-thirty. We’re putting out the word to the uniforms to be especially vigilant between eleven and two. They’re to swing through every gas station on their beat. Hopefully, that might turn up something—especially if we’re lucky enough to catch them in the act.”
Again, he surveyed the faces. Satisfied that he had their undivided attention, he continued, “There is one difference in the three events. During the first robbery, four thieves entered the place. In numbers two and three, only three came in. I have no idea what that means. Could be anything from cold feet to a guy whose woman wouldn’t let him out to play.” He smiled, but it was obvious it was forced.
“Since I don’t believe in miracles, and computers aren’t helping, we’ll revert to good old-fashioned shoe leather. Get the word out to every snitch you know. We want these guys.”
Summers raised his hand. “Don’t we have anything more?”
The captain appeared to think. “Not really…not unless my next subject ties in. Remember the new gang I briefed you on, Thorns on Roses? Word in the gutter is they’re carving out turf. Keep your ear to the ground and see if anything about them shows up. Whether they’re involved or not, we want to know who they are and what they’re planning. Now, get to work.”
* * * *
Tom spent the next several days stalking Mary Lou’s killers. He knew he’d been lucky with Grayson, charging in like the proverbial bull in a china shop. As far as he knew, he’d gotten away with it, but anything could have tripped him up—from a curious bystander to a simple scream from Johnny while in the parking lot of Publix. If it had been a military drill, he not only would have been admonished in front of the class, but would have been doing push-ups for the rest of his career. And, if it had been a military operation behind enemy lines, he would most likely be dead. The enemy was not a forgiving sort. He vowed not to make that mistake again. Slow and steady won the day, and it was slow and steady that he began.
Using rental cars, he parked across from the lumberyard where Geda Luana worked. He watched the comings and goings of the employees, most of whom were young. It did not appear to be a place where careers matured. Minimum wage, or close to it. Judging from what he saw, the primary criteria for employment was to be warm and breathing. On the third day, he spotted his quarry through binoculars. The weather was hot, and the men shuffling lumber had their shirts off.
Tom saw tattoos of every description, but the one that stood out was a long stemmed red rose running along the upper arm over the shoulder. He memorized the features of Geda Luana, then watched his daily work regimen. Whenever possible, he grabbed the forklift. There were several heated exchanges between him and others on the lot—apparently about who got to ride, and who lifted and toted. A couple of times, a man Tom identified as a supervisor stepped in to prevent fisticuffs. It was apparent Geda did not relish the more physical aspects of his job. Tom took a few pictures, then filed away the information, noting that a forklift could be used to impale a person. Perhaps that would be suitable justice—running him through with the blade, then letting his life fluids drain as he dangled high in the air. The image brought a smile to Tom’s face.
When he wasn’t outside the lumberyard, he spent time watching for Isidro Walker at the auto salvage yard. Whereas the fence around the lumberyard was chain link with three strands of barbed wire topping it to keep the public out, the salvage yard used solid fencing. Sitting outside and watching garnered Tom nothing—unless he wanted to know what the customers looked like.
However, knowing that initiative and luck were the mother of success, Tom checked the area. Sure enough, he spotted a four-story apartment building with a flat roof less than a block away. If he could get on top, he could see into the yard. And, using his military spec binoculars, he could spot a patch of mange on the junkyard dog.
Arming himself with a set of municipal inspector credentials and dressed in faded coveralls, he entered the building ready to bluff himself past anyone who challenged him. No one did. The few tenants he saw refused to meet his eyes and shuffled away. Apparent retirees who’d already seen it all.
A few moments later, Tom exited onto the roof through a trap door. Smiling, he leaned against the short wall encircling the area. He had a clear shot into the salvage yard, even into the junkyard dogs’ pen.
His first observation was that he did not want to enter during their closed hours. There were two dogs—a German shepherd and a Doberman. Tom rubbed the front of his neck. Either looked capable of ripping the throat out of an intruder. He wondered what it would take to get Izzy inside the yard when the dogs were loose. The picture of them leaving only a bloody blob was appealing. But first, he had to identify him.
The day after spotting Geda, he had Izzy. Again, the temperature helped. All but one of the workers had their shirts off by mid-morning. Tom watched, wondering why one of them kept his dingy T-shirt on, and after examining the torso of the others, thought he knew. Finally, during the lunch break on the fourth day, an argument ensued and someone grabbed a handful of Izzy’s shirt. It ripped down the front and the rose tattoo on his shallow chest showed clearly in Tom’s binoculars. The click of his camera went unnoticed because he had the roof to himself.
Tom stayed and watched operations in the yard. The car-crushing machine fascinated him. He kept picturing Izzy’s body in the back seat as the huge smashing machine reduced it to a hunk of scrap metal a few inches high. Satisfying.
Two down and two to go. Each day after that, he swung by the lumberyard and the auto parts salvage yard to make sure Geda and Izzy were still there. Then he began his pursuit of his next targets—Laurelle Laury Garcia and, finally, Raul Santiago, El General, the leader of the gang. Tom would save him for last.
At the recycling plant, he got lucky. They offered tours, so he joined a group of tourists and trudged along with the crowd. They started where the trucks dumped huge mounds of materials into bins. Front-end loaders scooped and dumped onto conveyer belts. Pickers sat on both sides of the belt. The tour guide provided names of each as he identified their function in the recycling process. A few interrupted their work long enough to look up—Laury was one of them.
Tom stared at him, committing his features to memory. From the end of the line, he snapped a picture of the workers. Laury’s grim look centered the frame.
The next stop brought a smile to Tom’s face. A machine created giant bales by mashing newspapers and other paper residue together. Tom pictured Laury’s limp body in the middle, his legs sticking out one side, and one hand out another. He covered his mouth to prevent others from wondering why he wore a huge grin.
El General proved to be the easiest, but most inconvenient to identify. Inconvenient because Tom had to get to the garbage truck dispatch area before daylight. Easy because Johnny’s description fit—shaved head, curly, black, bushy beard, and dark complexion. There was only one in the group that fit that mold. He had to be Raul Santiago who called himself El General.
Now that Tom knew what they looked like and their work environments, his next chore was to discover where and how they lived.
* * * *
While Tom’s days were spent in the often boring preliminary aspects of the hunt—identifying the enemy and his habits—the success of his endeavors at the end of the week made the long hours worthwhile.
But chasing the Thorns on Roses was not his only activity.
When he returned home the first night, there was a message from Charlie. The gist of it was Lonnie was home and her health was improving. She accepted the fact of Mary Lou’s death and necessary burial. The authorities had released Mary Lou’s body, and the funeral was set for Thurs
day afternoon—three days hence. Charlie asked if Tom would be a pallbearer.
After hearing the recording, Tom called Charlie. “Got your message. Of course, I’ll be there, and I’m honored you asked me to help.”
“Lonnie’s taking a nap so I can talk,” Charlie said. “There weren’t many adults that Mary Lou considered worth her while. You remember your teen years, don’t you? She was into full rebellion. But when Lonnie gave her your business cards with the message on the back, she responded.” He took a deep breath. “She respected you, Tom. I’m sure she’d be happy to know you’re a pallbearer.”
Tom didn’t tell him the message was on all his cards. It was enough that Charlie thought it personal. “My honor. Just tell me the whens and wheres, and I’ll be there.”
After getting the particulars, Tom hung up, glad he could make another small payment on the debt he owed his friend. The larger payments were yet to come.
* * * *
The second night, the blinking of his phone attracted him again. This time, the message brought a smile, then a chuckle.
Okay, so my mother’s approach didn’t work. The waffles didn’t do it. However, I still think she knew the secret. So I’m willing to try again to reach you through your stomach. I made reservations at Hank’s Sports Bar and Grill for seven tomorrow night. Hank says he’ll put extra grease in the burgers just for you. If you hear this before the wee hours, give me a call. I’ll tell you what Hank says about you. Otherwise, I’ll give you the professorial ten minutes late, then I’ll come looking for you.
Mom had one more secret that she shared with me. We’ll see if it works.
Oh, in case you have so many women on the hook you don’t recognize my voice, it’s Abby. If you’re not there, you’ll never get to see my slut outfit.
Tom put the phone down, stymied as to what Abby’s objective was. His activities—or him? Well, it might be worth the ride. She was some woman, unique, one of a kind. Maybe he should stoke the fire.
He dialed and when Abby answered, said, “Hank doesn’t reserve tables. It’s first come, first served, and those tough enough to hold them.”
“Depends on how you ask him,” Abby said. “He can be quite cooperative if you know how to approach him.”
Tom laughed. Couldn’t help himself. “Poor Hank. Hope he doesn’t leave his wife for you. See you tomorrow night. I’m so intrigued at your prowess, I’ll probably be early.”
EIGHTEEN
Tom walked through the door of Hank’s Sports Bar and Grill at 6:50, paused, and looked around. Same crowd, same TVs blaring, a different game on every set. Even the dust motes floating under the fluorescent lights appeared the same. Then his eyes lit on the back corner, and he did a double-take. A white tablecloth stood out among the booths, and from where he stood, he saw no stains.
“Ah, Jeffries. Good to see you.”
Tom turned to see Hank headed his way.
“Your table is ready. Have a seat, and I’ll bring you a beer. Ms. Archer said I should make you comfortable if you arrived early.”
“Hank, is that really you? Has someone taken over your body and crawled inside your head? There’s a tablecloth back there.” Tom looked again. “And candles—new candles. What’s going on here?”
“What?” Hank said. “You think I don’t know how to set a table? I was once maître d’ at one of New York’s finest restaurants. I told Ms. Archer you had no romance in your soul, but she insisted.” He laughed. “Relax, my friend. She is one charming lady and is apparently interested in you. Why? I can’t imagine. How many days have you worn that shirt? Now, follow me and mind your manners.”
“It was clean on Tuesday—or maybe it was Monday. Days run together for me.” Tom smiled and followed Hank.
When they reached the rear corner of the room, Hank turned off the TV. “You don’t need that in your ears tonight.” He picked up the reserved sign.
Tom shook his head. “Just bring a beer and some menus. It has to be a dream, but I’ll let it play out.”
“Menus are not necessary. Ms. Archer has already placed the order—special burgers with extra grease and American fries covered in melted cheese. She called it her heart attack special, just perfect for your palate.” Hank grinned, then headed toward the bar.
A moment later, he was back with two beers and two frosted mugs. “Ms. Archer should be here any moment. She said seven—”
A sudden silence filled the room. Not a whisper except from the TVs, and even they seemed muted. Every head in the place, including Hank’s and Tom’s swiveled toward the front door.
It closed behind Abby. She wore tight, black leather pants, a clinging black, knit top with a plunging neckline showing lots of skin…and black patent leather, three-inch, shin-high boots. A matching purse dangled from her shoulder. Her red hair had the air-blown look most often seen in glamour shots. She carried a black windbreaker across her shoulder—Sinatra style.
The sound of a simultaneous exhale filled the room as the barflies who had been holding their breaths let it out. Abby winked toward them, and sauntered toward Tom and Hank with an exaggerated sway of her hips, the leather creaking with each step.
Reaching the table, she said in a deep, sexy voice, “Hello, big boys. Do you come here often?”
Tom threw his head back and laughed while Hank stared.
“Damn, miss,” Hank said. “Can I hire you to walk in here every night? My business would triple in a week.”
Abby smiled at him, then said in the same voice, “Sorry, Hank, but this is for my man only.” She pursed her lips and blew Tom a kiss. “Good, you brought the beers. Hope they’re cold enough for my man.”
“You gonna drink that standing up?” Tom said. “No way you can sit in that getup. Those pants are so tight, they’ll never flex enough.” He paused. “Might give you an interesting wedgie though.”
Abby glanced downward. “Could happen. I’m sure you’ll let me know. As for sitting, no problem. All I have to do is release the top snap, or maybe a couple of them.”
Tom leaned back against the cushion. “Hank, you have a wife to go home to. Maybe you’d better get our dinner started while Abby demonstrates her slut-sit.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.” Hank took off toward the kitchen.
Abby watched him, a smile playing on her lips. Then she turned her attention back to Tom. “Here goes.” She slid into the booth. “Spandex in the waistband. Miracle stuff.” She poured her beer, then raised the mug in a toast. “Here’s to the evening.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He sipped. “Now, you want to tell me what the show is all about?”
“You don’t think I’m trying to seduce you? Most men would.”
“I’m not most men. But I am curious as to what it would take to get you out of those pants. I mean physically. They fit like a second skin. Looks like you don’t pull them down, you peel them.”
“You won’t find out—not tonight anyway. But to answer your question, there are several hidden zippers.”
“Oh. I love a good game of hide and seek. When do I start?”
Abby played the tip of her tongue over her lips and leaned forward. “Drink your beer, and let’s see what Mother Nature has in store for us.”
Tom sighed. “Yes, ma’am. You have excellent points…I mean, make an excellent point.”
She sat up straight as she drank from her mug, a coquettish expression playing around her eyes. “Maybe we’d both better have another cold beer. Seems warm in here tonight.”
Hank showed up with a platter of burgers, fries, and two more beers. “Here, kids. Eat. And try not to get grease on the tablecloth.”
Abby slipped into the windbreaker and zipped it to cover most of her cleavage. She winked at Hank. “Don’t want to give Tom indigestion.”
As they ate, she told Tom about her return to work and the cases she’d selected—two doctor malpractice suits. She figured a jury would come up with a large award on each of them.
“Why?” Tom a
sked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you an ambulance chaser? I hear the chatter around the office, how talented you are, how good your courtroom manner is. You could be a positive influence in our system, and we darn sure need that. The word attorney generates such a negative image.”
“You don’t approve of plaintiff attorneys?”
“Only those whose cases are not contrived. I’m not saying there are no situations where the defendant deserves to pay like a rich guy caught with his pants around his knees. But in today’s world, it seems there is a plaintiff attorney on every corner waiting for an accident, in every hospital lobby waiting for a patient, and especially in the outer office of every obstetrician—just waiting. It seems the words negligence and carelessness have lost their meaning. Even the most honest mistakes must be punished.” He shrugged. “Sorry. I just don’t buy into it. Perhaps it’s my military background.”
Abby stared at him, then zipped her jacket higher. “So you think I’m an ambulance chaser. I’ve heard worse, but never when dressed like this. Especially from the man I hoped would enjoy it.” She paused. “If there were no plaintiff attorneys, there’d be no one to stick up for the little person. They’d get ground underfoot by those with influence. I happen to think I perform an important function in society.”
Tom held up his hands. “Hey, sorry. But even in the twenty-first century, I’m entitled to my opinion. And my opinion is, most plaintiff attorneys are in it to get fat off the system.”
Abby’s eyes flared and it was evident she fought for control. “I’ve walked out on better men for saying less. And I don’t know why the front door isn’t hitting me in the ass right now. But Bert asked me to keep you out of trouble. He never said you were nice. That was the assumption I jumped to.” She hesitated, her fingers fluttering. “Obviously, we disagree. I’m willing to leave it that way except to say, the people I represent deserve every penny I can get them.”