Blackbird, Farewell

by Robert Greer

  Except for the ticking grandfather clock, the room again fell silent. “You aren't going to leave this alone, are you, Damion?” Niki asked, breaking the silence.

  “No.” Damion's response was quick and absolute.

  Sensing that Damion's mind was made up and that no matter how hard she tried, there was no way she was going to get him to change it, Niki asked, “Have you talked to Connie Eastland?”

  “Not since last night.”

  “If anybody would've known about Shandell being involved with selling drugs, it would've been her. And maybe Dr. Phillips.”

  Damion looked surprised, unable to fathom how either woman could possibly have known something about Shandell that he hadn't. Dr. Alicia Phillips, who'd built a reputation as tutor-queen to the CSU jocks, was nothing less than a gem in his eyes, but he couldn't imagine why Shandell would have gone to her with his problems. “Why would Shandell have talked to Dr. Phillips? I always helped him with the classes he was having trouble in.”

  “You helped him with the academic things, Damion. Not the psychological side of his problems. For most of our senior year, Shan-dell went to Dr. Phillips for help a lot. Even I knew it.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I'm not sure. You'll have to ask Connie. All I know is that she hinted to me while she was here last night that when Shandell was down in the dumps, he usually went to see Dr. Phillips.”

  Damion shook his head. Once again, he'd been out of the loop. Out of the loop when it came to Shandell's involvement with selling illicit drugs, out of the loop when it came to Shandell's father, Leon, and now out of the loop when it came to helping his lifelong friend when he'd apparently been despondent. Suddenly he found himself thinking that he hadn't been much of a friend. He looked down at his arm, eyed the splotches of dried blood on his shirt, and wondered if they weren't merely the physical evidence that served to prove his point. Something tangible that could scream, I wasn't there when you needed me, Blackbird, but see, I'm here for you now.

  Sensing from the look on Damion's face that he was trying to quell the deeply hurtful feelings swirling inside him, Niki asked, “What's wrong, Damion?”

  “Nothing,” he said stoically. “Just wondering about friendship.”

  Niki eyed Pinkie, who seemed equally puzzled. “Think I'll brew some coffee,” she said as the wily hit man offered an affirmative nod. “I've got your favorite. Up for some Kona brew, Damion?” When Damion, looking lost in a fog, didn't answer, she rose from her seat and headed for the kitchen to make coffee and call Flora Jean.

  As Damion watched her head from the room, he found himself thinking not about his arm or Shandell's involvement with illicit drugs or point-shaving, or Leotis Hawkins, or even Garrett Asalon, Leon Bird, Jackie Woodson, or Theo Wilhite. What he found himself thinking about was what he was going to say to Connie Eastland when he talked to her the next morning at Shandell's funeral and what he would ask Dr. Phillips about why she had become the sounding board for Shandell's troubles.

  Chapter 15

  Pinkie Niedemeyer and Garrett Asalon had history. The kind of piss-in-your-face, country-cousin-versus-city-cousin history that had made for deep-seated distrust and long-standing acrimony. They were in effect members of the same club, but Asalon had always been quick to ignore the fact that he was no more than a highly educated criminal, describing himself instead as a successful businessman. The two men had once been close friends, but that friendship, reduced now to a festering wound, had ended years earlier.

  A woman had been at the heart of their differences. She had chosen a skinny, fearless high school dropout of a hit man with a wry sense of humor and loyalty to a fault over an educated, unprincipled, underworld mover and shaker with a Princeton MBA. That woman, who'd succumbed at the age of thirty-five to a heart attack precipitated by smoking, alcohol abuse, and a long family history of heart disease, had been Mario Satoni's niece, and although her autopsy report had stated unequivocally that she'd died from coronary artery occlusion and a myocardial infarction, Pinkie and Mario still clung to the belief that Janet Stevens's life had ended all too early because of the scorned Asalon's relentless stalking and unending threats.

  It had taken Pinkie the better part of thirty minutes to convince a skeptical, concerned, and clearly disappointed Flora Jean, who'd arrived at Niki's duplex a little before midnight following Niki's frantic call to her, that although she might be fully capable of going after Asalon, her investigation and Pinkie's psyche would be better served if he was the one who made the trip to Louisville, a onetime mining town twenty miles northwest of Denver where Asalon housed and operated his businesses.

  Flora Jean had been reluctant to buy in, but after sharing his story about Janet, leaving Niki misty-eyed and Flora Jean speechless, Pinkie received Flora Jean's blessing and a three-point assignment. He was to find out whether Shandell and possibly Jackie Woodson had shaved points at Asalon's behest, ferret out anything Asalon might know about Shandell's involvement in the sale and distribution of performance-enhancing drugs, and most importantly determine whether Asalon or one of his associates might have killed Shandell.

  Pinkie had left Denver for his meeting with Asalon with an additional agenda item on his mind, one that wouldn't help him find Shandell's killer but, no matter what else he might find out, would make his unannounced 1a.m. visit to Asalon's office an unmitigated success. He planned to make the egotistical mobster squirm, reminding him, as he did whenever their paths crossed, that when it came to the one thing in life that had mattered to him as much as power and money, Asalon had come in second best.

  The air was heavy with mist when Pinkie reached the southern edge of Louisville. As he cruised past the weather sign on the First-Bank building, he was surprised to see that the temperature had dipped to a chilly 51 degrees. Aware that Asalon was a highly predictable creature of habit and that the cash that was generated each day by his gambling interests, liquor stores, knockoff product sales, and money-laundering scams made its way to Louisville on a nightly basis to be counted and batched for redistribution under Asalon's watchful eye, Pinkie had little reason to expect that the other man would be a no-show. If for some reason things didn't run true to form, he'd come back the next night.

  The single-story, bunker-style, cinder-block building where Asalon closed out his business dealings each evening occupied an otherwise vacant triangular five-acre lot two miles east of Highway 36, which connected Denver and Boulder. The building had belonged to a band of Gypsy card sharks and bunco artists, Cold War immigrants from Czechoslovakia, during the late 1950s. In the mid-’60s they'd sold the building and the land to Asalon's father, who hadn't realized until after the deal was closed that the building was on someone else's land. When Tony Asalon and two of his associates had threatened to castrate two of the Gypsies and serve them their jewels for dinner if they didn't come up with title to the land, the Gypsies had disappeared. In the more than forty years since the land swindle had occurred, neither the county assessor's office nor the true landowner, both aware of the Asalon family reputation for having things go their way, had ever mentioned the issue of encroachment.

  Pinkie parked his pickup a quarter of a mile from the building, deciding that the element of surprise, a lesson he had learned in Vietnam and in most of his business dealings since, would serve him well.

  Patting the 9-mm Glock in his jacket pocket and thinking, Here we go again, he moved in a half crouch across a field of three-foot-high timothy until his pants legs were soaked with dew. He wanted to think that Janet would have been proud of him for taking one more opportunity to stick it to Asalon—wanted to believe that whenever the pompous, wannabe blueblood began to think he was finally free from the sting of Janet's rejection, Andrus Niedemeyer would be there to remind him that he wasn't. But deep down, he knew that neither of those things were true. Janet's advice to him had always been to steer clear of Asalon, a man who had been labeled by medical people whom she trusted as a pathological narciss
ist. Her mantra for Pinkie, if she had lived, would no doubt have been, Please, please, please, baby, stay away.

  But Janet wasn't there, and the dark-gray building that at first had been only a low, rectangular shape in the distance was now just a few yards away. He'd been inside the building a handful of times, but always as an escort for Mario Satoni, and never this late. As he stopped to get his bearings, he realized that the building reminded him of a thatch-roofed Vietcong bunker he'd once torched with a flamethrower seconds before his squad leader, a reluctant draftee and stateside chemical engineer, had taken out two fleeing VC with half a clip from his M-16. Memories of Vietnam and of Janet caused him to hesitate and suddenly take a step backward.

  As he stood motionless, as if expecting a supportive word from Janet or an order from his squad leader, a low-pitched, gravelly voice erupted behind him. “Don't take another step, cocksucker.” Clicking on the flashlight in his left hand and adjusting the .357 in his right, Craigy Theisman looked Pinkie up and down. “What the fuck are you doing out here, numbnuts?”

  When Pinkie didn't answer, Theisman yelled, “Hands on your head and turn the fuck around.”

  Clamping his hands on his head and smiling, aware that he very likely now had a way into the building, Pinkie pivoted to find himself face to face with the thick-bodied Theisman.

  “Well, mother of mercy.” Theisman's voice rose a full two octaves. “Take myself a smoke break and look what I find! A killer rat out on the prowl! Damn! Hand over whatever you're carryin’, Niedemeyer. Or then again, maybe you don't want to.” Theisman smiled and fingered the trigger of the .357.

  Aware that Theisman would love an excuse to shoot him on the spot, Pinkie reached into his pocket and handed over the Glock. Theisman tucked the flashlight under his arm, took the gun, and jammed it into the left-hand pocket of his bulky, grease-stained jacket. “If I'd’a known who you were when I first spotted you, I'd’a put one in your temple, real sweet and easy.”

  “You wouldn't have done shit, Craigy. Except for what you're doin’ right now—talkin’ to hear yourself talk. Your puppet strings are showin’, lardass, and they're singin’ the same song as always: Don't do nothin’ without an okay from Garrett, especially not somethin’ as stupid as offin’ somebody on the front doorstep.”

  Incensed, Theisman flipped the beam of his flashlight back toward himself, cupped the lamp in his hand, and jammed the foot-long handle into Pinkie's midsection. Gasping for air, Pinkie dropped to his knees. Theisman patted the flashlight handle and burst into laughter. “Guess you never played football and had the wind knocked outta you, Niedemeyer. You'll be okay shortly. Feels like you're gonna die right now, though, don't it?” He watched Pinkie continue to catch his breath before twirling the flashlight around baton-style and clamping it to his belt. Nudging the muzzle of his .357 into the flesh beneath Pinkie's chin, he whispered, “Time to get up, sucker. We're goin’ inside to have a talk with Garrett. He'll wanta know why the hell you were out here nosin’ around. Hell, maybe you were huntin’ frogs or somethin’. There is a frog pond just north of here.” He pointed into the darkness. “But who's to know? Could be you were just out here beatin’ off. Dreamin’ that woman they say you snookered Garrett out of was givin’ you a hummer.”

  Choking back his rage as he rose to his feet, Pinkie remained silent. All he could think of as Theisman gave him a hard shove in the direction of the building was that he owed the cocky, beer-bellied, South Boston Irishman a lesson.

  A pleasant, fruity smell greeted the two men as they entered the surprisingly cold Asalon Enterprises building and walked its dimly lit length, past roulette wheels, gaming tables, cases of liquor stacked six feet high, and half-a-dozen slot machines. The gaming and liquor inventory ended abruptly near the far end of the building, a four-hundred-square-foot area that was lit up like a Christmas tree. Except for a couple of old leather chairs near one wall and a wrought-iron table that sat between them, the area was empty.

  Dressed in tailored Italian slacks, a black silk shirt, and a lightweight cashmere car coat, Asalon stood a few feet from the table rubbing his hands together to warm them. He was busy talking to a square-headed midget of a man with a massive forehead, bulging frog eyes, and a nose that looked as if it had been flattened a lot more than once in a boxing ring. When Asalon glanced up from the conversation to see Pinkie and Theisman, his head shot back. “Well, I'll be.”

  “Found him snoopin’ around outside when I went out for a smoke break,” Theisman said proudly, bringing Pinkie to a halt just in front of Asalon. “I watched him for a good little while before I moved in. Strange, he was startin’ to back away from the building when I swooped. I'm thinkin’ maybe old Andrus here mighta suddenly been gettin’ cold feet.”

  “Nope,” Pinkie said with a chuckle. “I was just movin’ downwind from that cancer stick you were puffin’ on, Craigy. I knew you were there all the time, dumbass. Just needed a way in here that would keep me from gettin’ my head blown off.” He looked at the suddenly slack-jawed Theisman and smiled. “And you know what? You proved to be the perfect escort.” Nodding at Asalon and the midget he'd been talking to, a well-known Motor City hit man Pinkie had known for years, Pinkie said, “Garrett. Aloysius.”

  “Bullshit,” yelled Theisman.

  “Would you tone it down please, Craigy?” Asalon said, looking displeased. “You're always so visceral. One day you're going to overreact and rupture a vessel.” Asalon eyed the midget. “I think we're done here, Allie.”

  Aloysius Slocum glanced at Pinkie before turning to leave. “Hope you're not here on any kind of official business, Pinkie.”

  “Not the kind I expect you are,” Pinkie said, puzzled as to why a high-profile rifleman like Slocum would be in this neck of the woods.

  Poker-faced, Slocum said to Asalon, “Talk to you later,” before waddling toward the exit.

  Asalon watched the pint-sized hit man disappear through the self-locking front door before turning back to Theisman. “You can put the gun away, Craigy. I don't think Andrus represents much of a threat.”

  Looking disappointed, Theisman slipped the .357 into his jacket pocket.

  “So what brings you up our way, Pinkie?” For the first time Asalon sounded noticeably peeved.

  “A killin’.”

  “I always thought killing people was your side of the street.”

  “That and hangin’ out with dried-up old dons and bail-bonding niggers,” said Theisman.

  Ignoring Theisman's description of Mario Satoni and CJ Floyd, Pinkie squared up to face Asalon. “Are you up on the news about the Shandell Bird killin’?”

  “Yes. Heard he was murdered down your way the other night. Shameful what a peaceful little cow town like Denver has come to these days.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?” Pinkie asked pointedly.

  “Straightforward these days, aren't we, Pinkie? Not even a little bit of hemming and hawing. Well, for the record, do you think I'd tell you if I did?”

  “Probably not. But I'm thinkin’ you had a reason. I've got it on good authority that Bird might've been tied into a college basketball point-shavin’ scam you were ramroddin’. Could be Bird was fillin’ in that reporter who was killed along with him, so you decided to shut them both up.”

  “Pinkie, Pinkie, Pinkie. Do I look that unschooled? Take a look around you. I'm not into speculative forms of making money. Never have been. I prefer to stick with things that are weighted in my favor. The kind that these days are pretty much legal everywhere. Now, why on earth would I risk a sure thing for involvement in some kind of basketball point-shaving scam that could easily have brought the wrath of sports lovers across the country, and maybe even the feds, down on me?”

  “Money, Garrett. Money. I understand you handled a nice-sized piece of change that Theo Wilhite laid down on the UCLA–Colorado State game last March. Wilhite claims the game was fixed.”

  Before Asalon could respond, Theisman said, “That bald-headed, c
igar-smokin’ nigger's got a mouth that's way too big for him.”

  Asalon flashed Theisman a look of pure disappointment. “You don't seem to ever learn, do you, Craigy? Guess I'll have to wash your mouth out with soap later.” Turning to Pinkie, he said, “Yes, I handled Wilhite's money. Seems that when it comes to gambling, the poor man loses an awful lot, and when he does, he's always so disgruntled. Perhaps he should invest some time in attending Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “Maybe he should, but let's say we get back to the Shandell Bird killin’. How's this scenario work for you? Shandell sees his NBA future suddenly in jeopardy, and he's primed to talk to a reporter about his past point-shavin’ transgressions, so you kill him—or have him killed,” said Pinkie, recalling Aloysius Slocum's hasty retreat.

  “You're in outer space, Pinkie. Why are you so interested in the Bird murder anyway?”

  Pinkie eyed Asalon thoughtfully. “I'm interested because I've got friends who are interested.”

  “They lose money too?” Theisman asked.

  “No. They lost a friend, and they're grievin’. It's an emotion you wouldn't understand, Craigy. One that's common to humans.”

  Theisman let out a snort, rolled his eyes, and flashed Asalon a look that said, Please let me kill him. Asalon ignored him.

  Pleased that he had Theisman close to foaming at the mouth, Pinkie said, “Here's another question for you, Garrett. Any word leak down your way that mighta had Blackbird peddlin’ sports-dopin’ drugs? Steroids, hGH, beta-blockers, that kinda stuff?”

  “You really are out there in the ionosphere on this, aren't you? Drugs aren't in my lineup. They're for amateurs. You know that, Pinkie.”

  “But money is. And like I said, you love the smell of it.”

  “Not enough to get involved in what you and I both know is poor folks’ territory,” Asalon said, enjoying the verbal joust. “Now, here's a question for you. Who pointed you my direction? Those same friends you mentioned earlier?”