by Robert Greer
“Don't stop yakkin’ ’cause of me,” she said, acknowledging Mar-shad with a nod and giving Rosie a hug. “If you're talkin’ business I can go watch Reggie wash my car ’til you're done.”
“No business goin’ on here. Just talkin’ about the Shandell Bird murder,” said Rosie.
“We're done here anyway,” said Marshad, his tone acquiescent. “You and Rosie need to talk, go at it.”
Flora Jean eyed Marshad, trying her best not to stare at what was left of his pinched-off, scarred right nostril. The wound had been his reward for once welshing on a bet with the wrong person—a male scrub nurse, and courtesy of a surgical scalpel, no less. “Done? Well, you coulda surprised the East St. Louis shit out of me. For somebody who was doin’ their best tomahawk chop when I walked up, I woulda thought you had a lot left to say about Blackbird's murder.”
“Well, we weren't totally done,” said Rosie. “Marshad was tryin’ to convince me that Shandell might've been selling drugs to kids down here on the Points and that it was his drug pushin’ that got him killed. And I was tellin’ him he's crazy.”
Flora Jean frowned and shook her head. “The kinds of stories they conjure up about you when you're dead. Ain't it terrible? Seems I've heard just about everything you could make up about poor Blackbird today. From folks sayin’ he was a doper to others claimin’ he was shavin’ points durin’ games.” She took a step toward Marshad. “I know drugs aren't part of your line of work, Marshad, but point-shavin’ and gamblin’—now, those things, sugar, would be a whole different story.”
“Wouldn't know anything about Blackbird being involved with either one of ’em.”
“Come off it, Marshad. You're among friends. Besides, I know you had a long talk with Theo Wilhite this morning before he went fishin’.”
Marshad's eyes widened as, taken by surprise, he squeaked, “So?”
“So what did you and Theo talk about? Whether he expected to catch more rainbows or browns up at Lake Granby?”
“You talked to Theo?”
“Like I said, I've talked to lots of people.”
“So I talked to Theo this morning. He's still boiling over losing his money last March.”
“Upset enough to kill Shandell?”
“No way.”
“Then why'd he take off for the mountains right on the heels of Shandell gettin’ killed?”
“Yeah, why?” Rosie asked in a booming voice that seemed to unsettle the small-time, turban-wearing bookie.
When Marshad still didn't answer, Flora Jean said, “You know, Marshad, we can always call the cops.”
Rosie shook his head in protest. “Ahhh … let's not do that. Least not while we're standin’ here in the doorway of my establishment, Flora Jean.”
“Sorry.” Flora Jean locked eyes with Marshad. “You still haven't answered my question, and remember, we're talkin’ about murder here, Marshad.”
“I'd answer her if I was you,” said Rosie. “The prison time they dole out for gamblin’ and book-makin’ ain't nothin’ but a little chump change compared with the time you'd get for murder. Especially if all you and Wilhite were doin’ was gettin’ Shandell to shave a few points in a basketball game.”
“Wait a minute! We weren't gettin’ Shandell to do nothin’. All I did was take Theo's ten grand to somebody who could deal with that kind of money. It was too big a chunka change for me to handle.”
“Wanta give me a name?” asked Flora Jean.
“Nope.”
“Come on now, Marshad. You can't really think I'm blind to the world you work in, sugar. Wilhite bets ten thousand bucks on a game that's too big for you to handle, and suddenly you find yourself with a whole lot more ducats than you're used to. Ain't but a few places you coulda funneled that kinda cash around here in Denver, and you can bet your headdress that when I call Mario Satoni and ask him to find out who was handlin’ the serious NCAA tournament money locally last spring, I'll come up with a name. So you can give the info up now or give it up later, ’cause any way you slice it, when whoever was handlin’ the serious action shows up with their nose bent outta joint over me outin’ ’em, you can be sure I'll tell ’em my source was you.” Flora Jean flashed Marshad a sly smile.
“Bitch!”
“Now, now, now, no need for any ugliness here.” Flora Jean nodded for Rosie, who'd taken a protective step toward Marshad, to stay put.
“He'll kill me,” Marshad protested.
“That's your problem, sugar. Time's a-wastin’. And remember, it won't matter in the end whether you tell me or not. I'll swear on the Good Book that you did.”
Marshad flashed Flora Jean an angry stare before almost whispering, “Garrett Asalon took the bet. Nobody else around here on the Points had that kinda backup money.”
Rosie responded before Flora Jean could answer. “Sorta figured that's the name you'd cough up, especially since nobody in the know around here would screw around with that kinda money from the likes of a bigmouth like Theo Wilhite. Now, Asalon—he'd just be cocky enough to cover that kinda lay-down.”
Unlike Rosie, Flora Jean knew Garrett Asalon by reputation only—a reputation that had long established him as the closest thing the Rocky Mountain region had to a real live Las Vegas–type gambling magnate and fixer. What she did know was that Asalon had an MBA from a high-profile Ivy League school back East and that although he was mob-connected, he preferred playing the role of a loner. She had heard that on occasion he'd had the balls to stiff the boys in Vegas and a few well-heeled clients—and although no one could prove it, he'd also supposedly had people killed.
“Looks like you chose yourself a real cobra to sleep with, Mar-shad,” Flora Jean said, shaking her head.
When Marshad didn't answer, Rosie asked, “So did Asalon fix that NCAA championship game?”
“I don't know. All I know is that Theo lost the ten grand I funneled to him.”
Rosie looked unfazed. “Losin’ ten thousand dollars of Theo's? Shit, that's piss-in-the-wind kinda cash for Asalon. I'm bettin’ he was sittin’ on fifty times that. Theo was just on the wrong side of the action. And if he's complained to Asalon, I'm surprised he's still breathin’.”
“That's not the issue here, Rosie,” Flora Jean said, looking puzzled as she tried to regain control of the conversation. “Shandell is. The question is, why would Asalon come back five months later and kill his point-shaver?”
“You blind, girl?” Marshad asked. “Or maybe you missed hearing about that newspaper reporter who was also killed. I'm guessing Shan-dell was about to talk.”
“Nope, I'm not.” Flora Jean grabbed Marshad beneath the armpits and lifted him onto his tiptoes until their eyes met. “And if you call me ‘girl’ or ‘bitch’ ever again, whatever beef Asalon might have with you won't matter.” She shoved the much smaller, startled 155-pound street hustler toward Rosie, who grabbed him and kept him from falling. Turning to Rosie, she asked, “Whatta you think, Rosie? You're in the gamin’ business.”
“I'm not sure. All I know is that when they played that championship game, nobody came to me clamorin’ to put no money on UCLA. Everything I handled, small as it was, went down on CSU.”
“That's what I figured, and that's what's got me puzzled. Wouldn't you'a thought, no matter how small the piece of the pie mighta been for you here at the den, that since Shandell grew up right here on the Points and at some time probably rubbed shoulders with mosta the people who woulda been layin’ down their hard-earned money, somebody would've sniffed out a rat? Maybe even picked up on the fact that Shandell was either gonna shave a few points off the game or flat-out throw it, and put their money on UCLA?”
“Could be,” said Rosie. “But like I said, I didn't get much of a sniff. So what's your point, Flora Jean?”
“Just this. Maybe there was some point-shavin’ goin’ on, and maybe that's why Theo and who knows how many other folks lost their money, but who's to say that Shandell was the one shavin’ the points.”
“Ye
ah,” Marshad chimed in. “Somebody else could've been the one shaving points. Maybe Shandell was about to roll on them and tell his story to that dead reporter.”
“I'm thinkin’ that's a real possibility,” said Flora Jean.
“So how do we find out the truth?” asked Rosie.
Flora Jean flashed Rosie the sly grin of someone with inside knowledge. “Why, Mr. Weeks, how can you possibly ask that? We have an inside straight, in case you've forgotten. We've got Damion.”
“Think Damion would really know if a teammate of his was shavin’ points?”
“He might if he sits down, dissects all the pieces, and faces the possibility that his best friend in life, and maybe even a few other teammates, mighta been into somethin’ he never woulda expected.”
Marshad took a step back from Flora Jean, expecting that what he was about to say might cost him a second clean and jerk off his feet. “And what if the Madrid kid was in on it? Could be he was the one doing the point-shaving.”
“Are you crazy?” Rosie looked at Flora Jean for a response before realizing as their eyes met that, as far-fetched as it might sound, Mar-shad had a point.
“Well? You gonna talk to Madrid?” Marshad demanded.
“Sure am,” said Flora Jean. “In less than half an hour.”
“Well, when you do, let Mr. All-American Everything know that maybe he's the one got his best friend in life killed.”
“Get outta here, Marshad,” said Flora Jean. “Leave. Before I get back to thinkin’ about your name-callin’. There's no way Damion woulda gotten himself involved in a mess like that.”
“No way, my ass. You can bet that your Mr. Goody Two-shoes likes money just as much as any of the rest of us.” Smiling until the tension on his scarred nose made him look grotesque, Marshad turned to leave. He was halfway to the open garage door when Rosie said to Flora Jean, “Think he'll tell Theo Wilhite about our little chat?”
“Absolutely,” she said with a wink.
“What about Asalon? Think he'll tell him?”
“I'm countin’ on it,” Flora Jean said with the wryest of smiles.
Rosie frowned. “You know Asalon has killed people, don't you?”
“So I've heard. But remember, I've got a few friends who kill people too.”
The high-gloss shine on Garrett Asalon's $900 imported Italian loafers had him beaming from ear to ear. That morning he'd flown to Dallas to pick up the shoes. Six and a half hours later, he was back. Perched in a shoeshine booth alcove above the rush of humanity scurrying down Concourse B of Denver International Airport, he tried to make out his reflection in each shoe. Unable to do so but nonetheless pleased, the husky fifty-four-year-old former college lacrosse star with perfectly coiffed blond hair sprang from his seat to the floor. His leap startled the woman who'd shined his shoes while he'd talked casually on his cell phone. She dropped her shoeshine brush when he hit the floor.
“How much?” asked Asalon, eyeing the woman apologetically.
The woman took a step back. “Five dollars.”
Asalon reached for his wallet, but instead of slipping it out of his back pocket, he glanced at the man who'd stood and watched with genuine interest while his shoes had been shined. “Craigy, please give the lady a twenty.”
Used to following orders, Lemar Craig Theisman, known in the circles he and Asalon ran in simply as “Craigy,” fished into a pants pocket, extracted a money clip, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to the woman. “See you again soon,” Asalon said politely as he and Theisman headed for escalators that would take them down to the train and baggage claim.
“Who were you on the phone with?” Theisman asked as he stepped onto the escalator ahead of Asalon. “You looked a little caught off guard.”
“Astute, Craigy. Real astute,” Asalon said, careful not to scuff his new shoes. “I was a little blindsided. But Marshad has a tendency to do that—tweak your nervous system when you least expect it.”
Theisman frowned. “That fuckin’ dumbass nigger. What the hell did he want?”
Asalon looked down toward Theisman and flashed the bushyeyebrowed, slack-jowled Irishman who'd been his bodyguard for the past ten years a disappointed frown. “You know how much I dislike the use of racial slurs, Craigy. It's the mark of a poor upbringing and all too often the sign of marginal intelligence. Save your slurs for when I'm not around.” Asalon's no-nonsense expression told the beer-bellied man from the bowels of South Boston that he meant it.
Looking like a dog who'd been cuffed as they headed across a marble-tiled staging area to board the train for baggage claim, Theisman said, “So what's Marshad's problem?”
“Seems he had a visit today from someone who's looking into the Shandell Bird killing, and he's feeling pressured. A woman, no less.”
“I thought you covered all your bases first thing this morning when you talked to Marshad and Jackie Woodson.”
“I thought I did too,” Asalon said disappointedly.
“Well, did Marshad feed that nosy woman the party line? Stick with the script you told him and Jackie to follow about the doping angle?”
“No, I'm afraid he didn't. On the contrary, he told her to come have a chat with me.”
“That dumb nig—” Theisman caught himself midsentence.
“Very good, Craigy. After all these years, you're learning.”
“So who's the woman who's doing the sniffing?” Theisman asked, upset at having had to bite his tongue.
“Her name's Flora Jean Benson, and believe it or not, she's a bail bondsman—or should I say, bondswoman. According to Marshad, she's a longtime friend of Shandell Bird and his family.”
“Think she'll spell trouble?”
“No more than usual. But she also knows Theo Wilhite, and the old man's loquaciousness could present us with a problem.”
“Should I have him tended to?”
“No. It's much too early in the game for that. Besides, I think I might enjoy meeting Ms. Benson. Marshad claims she's a showstopper. I might even learn a thing or two of importance from her.”
“Like what?” asked Craigy, watching a train pull into the station.
“Like just how much Jackie Woodson might have been mouthing off, and whether I've been missing out on a component of sexual fulfillment all these years by not seeking out the favors of an African American.”
“So you're just gonna wait for her to come to you?” asked Theisman, flashing Asalon a look of surprise as they boarded the train.
Asalon smiled. “Sure am. I'm going to wait for her to come running into the station just like this train. You never know; she just might take me for an informative and very satisfying multicultural ride.”
Chapter 12
Damion didn't know how long he could stonewall. In truth, he didn't fully understand why for the past half hour he'd been holding back on telling Flora Jean exactly what he'd learned on his trip to CSU. Perhaps his reluctance was related to the fact that after learning things he'd never known about his best friend, he felt guilty for not recognizing the jam Shandell had gotten himself into and failing to help him. Or his reticence, he told himself as he watched Flora Jean jot notes on a legal pad at her desk, could simply be attributed to his desire to play Superman, track down Shandell's killer on his own, and be a campus hero once again.
When CJ Floyd's voice suddenly echoed in his head with a resounding Boy, have you gone crazy? You'd better own up to what you know, it was all he could do to keep from spilling his guts to Flora Jean right then. CJ had always been his sounding board when he found himself in untenable situations, like the fiasco he'd stumbled into the previous summer. He'd almost been killed by a mafia hit man only to have his bacon saved at CJ's behest by Pinkie Niedemeyer, Mario Satoni's one-time personal hit man.
Watching Flora Jean scrutinize her notes, he realized he couldn't evade her questions forever. Sooner or later he'd have to come clean about Shandell's connection to Leotis Hawkins.
“So here's what we've got,” Flor
a Jean said, looking like someone who was struggling to get all the pieces of a puzzle to fit. “First off, we've got ourselves that ex-teammate of yours, Jackie Woodson, claimin’ Shandell was sellin’ drugs.”
“Performance-enhancing drugs,” Damion said defensively.
“Don't matter. They're still drugs, sugar. And they're illegal. Now, you gonna hear me out or play at bein’ a defense attorney?”
“I'm listening.”
“Good. So we've got Shandell dealin’ drugs—and as it turns out, on the word of two people. Your boy Woodson and that trainer you told me about, the blond boy with the crew cut …”
“Rodney Sands.”
“You sure that's everything you could dig up?”
“That's it,” said Damion, hoping the look on his face didn't telegraph the fact that he was lying.
“Okay,” said Flora Jean, concerned that although she couldn't quite put her finger on the why of it, she had the feeling that the kid she'd babysat all those years ago wasn't exactly being straight with her. “So what about your coach? Think he could've been involved in either the drug angle in all this or Theo Wilhite's point-shavin’ claim?”
“No way. Coach Horse was the closest thing Shandell had to a father. No way on earth he would've been involved in either of those things.”
“Just covering all the bases, sugar.”
“Well, if that's what we're doing, how about taking a look at Shan-dell's real father, Leon? See what he was up to when Shandell was killed? I told you earlier that he rubbed me the wrong way the instant I met him. Popping up out of the blue and sitting in Shandell's house all comfy with Mrs. B the instant Shandell's gone. Seems premeditated, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I'll check on him, sweetie. Don't worry.”
“And you'll follow up on that mobster, Asalon?”
“I told you I would a few minutes ago, didn't I? Something the matter you ain't tellin’ me, Damion?”
“No,” Damion said sheepishly.
Flora Jean knew the headstrong young man believed deep down that no matter what the circumstances, things would always eventually go his way, but it suddenly occurred to her that he might be in over his head this time. “We're not dealin’ with controllin’ the outcome of a basketball game here, Damion, or about studyin’ your ass off and makin’ straight As in order to get into medical school. In case you've missed it, we're investigatin’ a murder here, sugar. And no matter how hard you might wanta control the end game, or keep from dredgin’ up things you don't like, sooner or later the truth's gonna come out. And on top of all that, in case you're somehow thinkin’ otherwise, you best remember that the cops don't take kindly to folks like us stickin’ our noses into their business, and for that matter, neither does the mob. You ready if either one of ’em starts pullin’ on our coattails?”