The Doorman

by Roger Weston

  While driving back to DC, Chuck called Lawrence and told him about his new lead.

  “Did you say Ved Pasha?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you have his address?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on a minute. There’s something you’ve got to hear.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Chuck Brandt approached a row house on Capitol Hill. They were extra-thin two-story homes lined up side-by-side, forming an almost unbroken wall of brick, windows and doors running down the street.

  He knocked but got no answer, so he knocked again. He could hear a television inside. After a minute he also heard footsteps approaching the door.

  “Who is it?” a deep, angry voice said.

  “Cable guy,” Chuck said. “I need to verify your service.”

  “I already got cable. Get off my front porch.”

  “We’ve got four other homes hooked up to your cable line. You’re financially liable for all of their cable bills. I can clear this up.”

  The door came open. Chuck could see why he didn’t want to open the door. It was a large, hog-faced, bearded man wearing nothing but shorts. He looked hung over.

  “Who’s trying to scam me? I’ll break their heads like scrambled eggs.”

  “Four houses are. I’ll need a signature to shut them down. Can I come in?”

  He scowled at Chuck with contempt. “No, you can’t come in! What do you need me to sign?” Chuck handed him a clipboard. The guy started to sign it but stopped.

  “Hey, wait a minute. This is a bail bond application.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Chuck said. He executed a side kick to the man’s hairy chest, blowing him backwards. The man’s back slammed into a wall painting, which crashed down on top of him when he hit the floor.

  Chuck followed him inside. “You may be needing a bail bond, too.”

  The criminal sprung up onto his feet and faced Chuck with fury in his eyes. “You just broke into the wrong place, mister.” He threw a punch, but Chuck dodged it, stepped in, grabbed his upper arm, and threw him to the floor.

  The ex-con smashed into a table, knocking over a metal lamp, which he grabbed. Regaining his feet, he ripped the lamp cord from the wall and used the lamp to ward Chuck off. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. You’re dead meat.” He threw the lamp.

  Chuck ducked, but when he tried to recover, the perp grabbed him around the neck and got him in a head lock. Chuck tried to punch him in the groin, but he stepped back, protecting himself.

  Chuck used the situation to his advantage. He fell forward, which pulled the fighter forward. As he fell, Chuck flipped him forward slamming the tough guy onto his back. As he tried to get up, Chuck did another sidekick. The criminal buckled backwards, hitting a very solid coffee table.

  He reached under the coffee table for something under a newspaper. Chuck grabbed his hair and slammed his face down into a steaming TV dinner—three times until the man’s nose was bleeding, and the blood on his face was mixed with gravy.

  Chuck shoved him into the couch and overturned the table. He kicked away the newspaper, revealing a gun on the floor.

  “A real badass, aren’t you?” Chuck said. “Is this the gun you used to kill my friend?”

  “I don’t even know your friend.”

  Chuck palm slapped him hard enough to hurt his neck. “Then you shouldn’t have killed him.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “You stole your cell mate’s car, didn’t you?”

  “He owed me, so it wasn’t stealing. I sold it for quick cash.”

  Chuck drew his own gun and screwed on the silencer. He said, “I blame you for this.”

  “What are you doing, man? I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Of course, you did. Your name was given to me by the authorities.”

  “What are you, some kind of vigilante?”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I said no. You’re wrong. I swear it.”

  “You’re a killer. I listened to a recording of you talking to a lawyer who wanted to hire a hit man.”

  “You mean that guy? He’s the one who bought the car from me. Paid in cash. Then he wanted me to do wet work, but the bastard insulted me, so I walked out on him. I don’t put up with that kind of crap.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “At an office in Foggy Bottom.”

  Chuck extended his arm, aiming the pistol at the thug’s face. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying, man. I’ll give you the address.” He wiped his arm across his upper lip, leaving a streak of blood running up his arm. “Let me write it down.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I need to get a pencil. Just don’t shoot.”

  “Be very careful.”

  He limped to the counter and grabbed a piece of paper. “I don’t have to write it. It’s right there.” He handed the address to Chuck.

  “You’re on probation,” Chuck said. “If you’re lying to me, you’ll be back in prison within forty-eight hours.”

  “You’ve got my word, man.”

  “Your word better be good—or you’re going down.”

  “I never said anything more true. I don’t lie to hard-asses with guns.”

  Chuck pulled five dollars out of his wallet and threw it on the coffee table. “Sorry to ruin your meal. Go get yourself another tv dinner. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks a lot, man. Thanks a lot.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The Foggy Bottom neighborhood near the Potomac River was home to the Kennedy Center and the State Department—a nice, upscale neighborhood, sometimes referred to as the swamp.

  Chuck located the fourth floor office where the ex-con allegedly met with Seattle Lawyer Martin Hurst.

  This lawyer was no stranger to Chuck Brandt. The Washington State-based attorney was actually a cold-blooded killer who had recently tried to eliminate Chuck. Tracking this lawyer was what brought Chuck to DC to begin with. Only now, he’d landed in the middle of a much bigger conspiracy.

  Chuck opened the door and walked in.

  The receptionist was a gum-chewing blonde who was filing her nails. She smiled at Chuck. “Can I help you?”

  “Sure, I’m looking for Martin Hurst.”

  “He’s not here right now. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “Does he have an office here?”

  “Yes, but he won’t be in today.” She returned to filing her nails.

  Chuck walked past her down the hall.

  “Sir, you can’t go down there. He’s not here.”

  “Which office is his?” Chuck opened a door, but it looked more like a sales office with products stacked against one wall. “Are you sure he has an office here?”

  “I will leave a message for him, but you must leave.”

  Chuck opened another door. It was a Spartan office with several law books on the desk and a big calendar. “Is this his office?”

  “Sir, you have to leave. I will call the police.”

  “I am the law, maam.”

  “Then show me your badge.”

  Chuck walked in the lawyer’s office and opened the desk drawer. There was a pistol and a flask of rum along with a yellow pad and a dozen pens.

  “I said, show me your badge or I’m calling the cops.”

  “I said I’m the law. I never said I was a cop.”

  “What are you then?”

  Chuck leaned over the calendar and said, “Who is Trafficante?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re his secretary. He has an appointment this afternoon with Trafficante. What’s his first name? Can you check the files please?”

  “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m leaving.” There was no file cabinet in the office, and this was obviously a temporary set-up. Still, leaning over the calendar, Chuck said, “Wait a minute. What is this?”<
br />
  The receptionist was gone. She was down the hall now, but Chuck could hear her. She was making good on her threat.

  “We have an intruder,” she said, and gave them the address.

  Chuck was staring down at yesterday’s box on the calendar. Seattle Lawyer Martin Hurst had met with a well-known congressman, Speaker Galloway.

  Leaving the building, Chuck realized that he was being followed.

  CHAPTER 30

  Georgetown

  As Rosa and Sergeant Grimes sat in Grimes’ white van parked at the condo complex where Congressman Rosa’s tenant lived, Rosa sipped his 7-11 coffee and stared out the window.

  Sergeant Grimes said, “This is no big deal at all. We’re just showing up. I’m investigating your tenant, a known con man, so I’m going to put him in cuffs and ask him a few questions. He’ll recognize me on sight, so your presence will be the least of his concerns. He knows I’ve sworn to put him behind bars. While I keep him busy, quietly go into the master bedroom. I know he used to keep his black books in his top drawer, but all I know for sure is that it’s in the master. Any questions?”

  “Are you sure this is legal?”

  “I already told you we’re stretching the rules here. When you’ve been around the game as long as I have, you learn where the soft spots are. You learn where you can cross the line and where you can’t. We’re walking the line, but we’re playing it very cool, so there won’t be any problem.”

  “I must be crazy,” Rosa said. “You know my wife has a restraining order on me.”

  “Your tenant ain’t your wife.”

  “No, but I’ll tell you something. I’m literally on the edge. I’m ready to go off the deep end. They have pushed me to the point where I just can’t take it anymore. I just want a way out. I’m desperate. I feel like I could crack up.”

  Sergeant Grimes put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about a thing. Your problems are going to get a lot easier. We’ll be in and out of there in five minutes. Just make sure that whatever you do, you stay in the master bedroom until you find the book. I’ll have a little talk with our mutual friend. By the time I’m done with our little talk, I guarantee, he won’t be calling you anymore or making any more threats. He will skip town within the hour.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Rosa said. “I just want to get it over with.”

  They got out of the car. They were both dressed in black t-shirts. That was one thing Grimes had insisted on.

  A couple of minutes later, Sergeant Grimes knocked on the door of Rosa’s fifth-floor rental condo. Rosa was looking over the railing down at the pool. He used to live in this condo with his ex-wife, and now he was having memories—which hurt.

  It took a minute, but the door swung open. The tenant, Ted Kenyon, tall and handsome, was all dressed as if he was about to go somewhere. He wore a wrinkled, half-buttoned shirt, several heavy-metal necklaces, and a leather bracelet. Since his shirt was hanging open, Rosa saw a leopard tattoo under his necklace.

  He said, “Rosa, what are you doing here?”

  Rosa kept quiet like Grimes had told him

  “I asked him to come along since he’s the owner,” Grimes said, holding up a piece of paper. “He has no other interest here. However, I have a search warrant. I need you to step aside while I enter the condo.”

  “Search warrant for what?”

  “Step aside or I’ll have to put you under arrest.”

  “You can’t just show up here. I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “You wanna resist arrest, is that it?” Grimes stepped inside. “Put your hands against the wall.”

  “What do you think you’re doing, man? Rosa put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “I’ll ask the questions here unless you want to go to jail. If you had nothing to hide, you wouldn’t have resisted, so I’m going to ask you some questions. Then I’m going to take a look around.” Grimes nodded to Rosa, who responded to the cue by entering the condo. Walking through the living room, he was surprised by the high quality furniture. Rosa guessed that he had plenty of cash left over from not having to pay rent.

  This is coming to an end! he thought. He had been the sucker for long enough. No sooner had Rosa entered the bedroom when he heard Ted Kenyon scream.

  Rosa froze. What the devil was Grimes doing to him. It sounded like Kenyon was being tortured. Rosa started toward the door but froze.

  No! he told himself. He realized that he needed to find the black book fast so he could get out of there.

  Ted Kenyon screamed again. It was a primal, blood-curdling scream.

  Congressman Rosa felt like he wanted to vomit. Whatever was happening in the hallway was not what they had talked about.

  Working fast, Rosa checked the three top drawers of a nine-drawer bureau dresser. He rifled through a bunch of accessories and junk, but there was no black book.

  “Stop,” Kenyon said, “Please, I beg you. Oh, no, no!”

  Rosa cursed—but Ted Kenyon screamed again--another hideous, blood-chilling scream. Fear set in, causing Rosa to work with machine-like efficiency. He was already regretting going along with Grimes’ plan. After hearing Ted Kenyon screams, no sane person would have still thought this was a good idea, but Rosa was there. All he needed as just a few more seconds. He just needed to get his sticky fingers on that black book. Then he was out of there.

  He checked the other drawers. He was throwning clothes on the floor. Nothing! How could Grimes have been so wrong?

  He heard a thumping sound, as if Kenyon was being slammed against the wall repetitively. With every thump, he heard a grunt.

  Rosa was in a state of panic. He wished he’d never met Grimes. He just wanted to find that black book and get out.

  He checked the bathroom drawers and cabinets. Nothing.

  He heard another scream, but it sounded kind of muffled.

  He dumped the bathroom drawers on the floor.

  No black book!

  He leapt back out into the master bedroom, which was now a mess, the floor covered with clothes. The bed was untouched.

  Finally, Kenyan had quieted down. The dirt-bag finally decided to quit resisting, Rosa figured.

  Rosa checked under the pillows. Nothing.

  He lifted the mattress and sure enough, there it was!

  The black book. Kenyan had kept all his secrets under his mattress next to a handgun.

  Rosa realized then and there that Kenyan was indeed a criminal and Grimes was right. They had to push the rules a little because this guy was no good.

  Kenyan was still making no noise. Rosa figured it was obvious that he’d realized it was futile to resist against Grimes.

  Wait a minute! Rosa thought. He didn’t hear Grimes either. Wasn’t Grimes supposed to be interrogating him? Why was Grimes so quiet?

  Rosa pocketed the book and rushed out into the living room. He was not planning to say a word to Grimes or Kenyan. He was getting out of there and leaving the area, but fear caused him to freeze in his steps.

  There was nobody in the living room. He rushed to the second bedroom.

  Empty!

  Congressman Rosa was the only one in the apartment. What was going on?

  Then he realized that Kenyan had resisted so much that Grimes must have arrested him. Of course, Grimes was retired, but he could still do a citizen’s arrest.

  Rosa left the condo. At the railing he glanced down at the pool in case he could see Grimes and Kenyon, but what he saw shocked him to the core.

  Kenyon was splayed out on the patio by the pool. There was blood by the body.

  Rosa looked to the left and to the right.

  Down the walkway, a man and a woman were taking in the same shocking scene that he was, but then the woman looked at Rosa and pointed.

  “There he is,” she said. “The man in the black t-shirt. That’s the one who pushed him over.”

  Panic seized the face of the man she was standing with. He grabbed her arm, led her into a co
ndo, and slammed the door.

  Rosa hurried to the elevator. He pushed the button and waited, but the elevator was taking forever. Maybe it was only a couple of minutes, but it seemed like eternity. He gave up and found the stairwell. He hurried down the stairs.

  As he walked through the lobby, he saw the security officer on the phone and tried to ignore him, but next thing he knew, the security man dropped the phone and charged Rosa, tackling him.

  CHAPTER 31

  Washington DC

  House doorman Lionel Ratlif walked impatiently around the Dupont Circle fountain in Northwestern Washington DC. The fountain and surrounding park was all located within a traffic circle. It was not a particularly quiet place—which was good in this town, as far as Ratlif was concerned. In addition to traffic noise, there were loafers sitting around and talking, but the splashing sounds of the fountain mostly drowned out their idle chatter. As soon as he saw Congressman Henderson heading toward the fountain, Lionel hurried over to him. They shook hands and took a little walk around the perimeter of the park. They walked on grass in the shade of big trees, buildings of the surrounding neighborhood always in sight.

  The congressman’s receding hairline was shiny from whatever he’d used to grease his hair back in the standard wave favored by the elected class. Long strands of graying hair were pasted to his balding scalp.

  The crow’s feet reached out from the corners of Henderson’s eyes when he looked over his shoulder.

  “You said this was urgent, Ratlif. What is it?” The congressman checked his watch.

  “Congressman, I am on your side, but I fear you are in serious trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Just like we talked about in the steam bath—fraud, conspiracy, banking and security laws.”

  “That’s what this is about?” Anger filled his tone, but he caught himself and lowered his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Even if you did, last time I checked, borrowing money was legal.”

  Lionel shrugged. “I’m just a humble doorman. You’re the bank owner and congressman. Still, I would be worried about excessive overdrafts, adding up to over three million dollars. I think there’s reason to worry that conflict-of-interest rules have been breached.”