Frankie Aguirre and Art Jefferson - 03 - Simple Simon

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “Your wife,” Pooks repeated thoughtfully, old, twig-like fingers scratching the stubble beneath his chin. His eyes narrowed, the same way they had when long ago he would dream of cons and how they could be played. After a moment he smiled. He hadn’t lost his touch. “Jefferson.”

  “What?”

  “Your wife…”

  “Anne,” Art prompted.

  Pooks nodded, creased lips twisting into a grin. “Anne. Does she have an uncle?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hoods, Inc.

  Unlike the previous day, when a collective disbelief had brought many off day workers into the office, Nels Van Horn found it sparsely populated, even for a Sunday. Possibly the opposite was true today. Maybe people sought distance, like people fleeing and offending odor or an annoying sound.

  One of the few agents there waved at Van Horn as he wheeled past on his way to the Com room. He returned the gesture and continued on, his eyes shifting nervously, wondering if anyone would note that he was in on an off day, and if they noticed would they care, and if they cared would they…

  Geez, get a hold of yourself. You’re not robbing a bank.

  No, you’re just committing another felony. That’s all.

  After a moment, Van Horn convinced his little voice to shut up, and coded his way into the Com room.

  He wheeled up to the main terminal, powered it up, and placed the slip of paper Art had given him above the F keys on the keyboard. When the screen came to life he began entering commands. Requests, actually. Normal, everyday requests.

  He thought.

  * * *

  Even the guards had refused Breem’s request to have one of Anne’s ankles shackled to the interview room’s table, and so she sat across that flat surface from him now, the urge to strike out very real, even if only to inflict a minor, painful annoyance on him.

  But then Anne suspected that Angelo Breem—who was turning out to be just what her husband had described him to be—was, probably believing it as gospel, just doing his job. He was not the one trying to destroy their lives. He was being used as much as she was. As much as Art was.

  And he sure as hell was enjoying it.

  “I’d advise you to say nothing,” Bertram Hogan, a lawyer to whom Chas had referred her, suggested. He sat by her side, relaxed, quite in contrast to her rigid, arms-folded-on-the-table posture.

  “You don’t have to talk,” Breem said, writing something on a legal pad. “Let me remind you of the evidence so far. Bank records from three countries. Phone records showing calls from Kermit Fiorello to your husband’s personal cellular phone. And Kermit Fiorello himself. Where is he? We go to arrest him and he’s gone just like your husband. Both running at the same time. But, no, you don’t have to say anything. Just remember, however, silence can be incriminating.”

  “That’s a bowl of cold soup, Breem,” Hogan said with just the right amount of bombast.

  “Juries hate people who are afraid to talk,” Breem observed, continuing to make notes. “That’s a fact.”

  Hogan leaned close to Anne, touching her on the elbow. “Don’t say anything.”

  Anne considered the advice, then said, “I want to say something.”

  “Good.” Breem stopped his scribbling, a ploy in any case to make his quarry think him disinterested, not in need of further evidence. He gave Anne his full attention. “I’m listening.”

  “You can look under every trash can in this city, in this country, or in any country club, in any courthouse, in any jail, in any police station. You can look high and low. You can ask anyone any question you want to ask, and you can listen to their answers, even if those answers are lies. And after all that, you won’t have any more evidence against me or my husband than you do now. Because what you have is a lie. And you know the one incontrovertible fact about lies, Mr. Breem, don’t you?”

  Breem sighed, disappointed that all he was getting was a speech.

  “Lies have short lives, but the truth is always there, just waiting to be found.”

  * * *

  The sun was deep into its downward arc when Bob Lomax parked his car and decided to walk the remaining few blocks to the Green Oaks Social Club.

  Not a gathering place for seniors on a canasta binge, Green Oaks had, for decades, been the place where the crème de la crème of Chicago’s mob elite came on occasion to socialize, to talk business, to complain, to make ever so subtle comments that would result in someone getting whacked. It had been raided a half a dozen times, and everyone there, from the bosses inside to the lowliest crew members standing a casual guard out front, had seen the inside of a prison.

  And still it lived on, in a way with the blessing of the authorities. It was the place where a boss could always be found if a warrant required serving, or simple questions needed asking. It was a constant in Chicago’s long history with the mob.

  Lomax came up the sidewalk in front of the Green Oaks, seven hoods eyeing him cautiously, those that he passed forming up behind.

  At the entrance he stopped. He had to. A man of considerable girth stood on his way. “Is Milo in?”

  The big man snickered and traded looks with the rest of the crew. “You gotta be kidding, Lomax.”

  Two fingers from Lomax’s right hand reached up and pinched the big man’s nose, pulling his face close. “Look at my face. Real close. Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Two minutes later, sitting in one corner of a room dominated by a pool table, Milo Prosco lifted a glass of bourbon toward Bob Lomax, who politely raised his in return.

  “You took my guys a little by surprise, Lomax,” Prosco said in the empty room. He was not the boss of bosses, but he was a made man, an insider, and had such a piece of the construction industry in and around Chicago that it was said anyone building anything should talk to him first, then get permits. Bob Lomax had been trying to put him away for more than a decade. “Walking up all unannounced.”

  Lomax sipped as Prosco sipped. “Sorry about Tiny’s nose.”

  “It’ll heal fine,” Prosco said, minimizing the incident. “So, no warrant. To what, then, do I owe this visit?”

  “Fiorello,” Lomax answered.

  A swallow of bourbon swished in Prosco’s mouth, puffing his generous cheeks. He was not inclined to say anything.

  “No one can find him, and I was wondering if you were having the same problem?”

  “This sounds almost unofficial,” Prosco commented suggestively. “An off the record sort of thing.”

  “I thought the same thing,” Lomax confirmed.

  Prosco stared at the ceiling for a moment, then tipped the remainder of the bourbon past his lips. “My guys can’t find him neither.”

  “You know what Breem thinks.”

  “Breem. Hah! The prick wouldn’t know shit if it came out of his own ass.” Prosco leaned forward, a finger wagging at Lomax. “Let me tell you something. Kermit, he hated the coon. Couldn’t stand him. He got the biggest kick out of him testifying and getting him off. A big fucking laugh, man. But no fucking way would he do no thing with him. No way.” The chair’s cushions exhaled as Prosco sat back. “I know that much. I just don’t know where the guy is. You find him, you tell me.”

  No surprises to be found, just confirmation of what Lomax had figured all along. One scoop of answers into the hole, and umpteen more to go.

  * * *

  Sitting in his den, a cup of coffee by his side and the latest Tom Clancy open on his lap, G. Nicholas Kudrow relaxed as the day marched toward its end, a new week looming. When the tan phone on his desk rang he looked at it, and let it ring twice more before putting his book aside to answer it.

  “Kudrow.”

  “Someone is getting nosy,” Rothchild said.

  “Oh?”

  Rothchild explained the incident in less than a minute.

  “Why would he be doing that?” Kudrow asked. “Was he being watched?”

  “He’s not on the list.”

  “He is now,
” Kudrow said. “I’ll notify Willis.”

  A laugh embedded in a cough crackled over the line. “Jefferson doesn’t know when he’s beat.”

  “He will,” Kudrow replied confidently. “Soon enough.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lion Eyes

  As expected, there was a line at the drive thru, a long procession of desperate morning commuters in need of a cup of hot black heaven to get them ready for another Monday. Nelson Van Horn let his thumbs tap the steering wheel of his van, keeping beat with a Fleetwood Mac tune, turning the stereo down only when he reached the order board.

  The three cars ahead took their turn at the window, drivers accepting bags of Egg McMuffins and Danishes, paper trays with steaming cups of coffee, the infrequent orange juice. When Van Horn’s turn came, he handed over exact change and took his order, pulling away to a spot near the exit where he removed his Sausage McMuffin and hash browns from the bag. Then he put something in.

  As he drove away, the bag flew from the window and into a line of shrubs bordering the lot.

  * * *

  “Litterbug, litterbug,” Georgie said as he watched the act through powerful binoculars from a vehicle parked in a strip mall across the boulevard.

  “I’d say that’s a dead drop,” Ralph commented. He turned on the video camera and the recorders.

  All they had to do was wait.

  * * *

  They didn’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes to be exact. A rusted red Chevy Nova pulled into the McDonalds lot and close to the line of shrubs. The driver’s door opened and a black man with no hair leaned out, reaching into the bushes to retrieve the bag. In the passenger seat was a white kid with dark hair.

  * * *

  Ralph put a radio to his mouth as the Nova left the lot, making a left and passing right in front of them. “Fox Five.”

  “Fox Five,” came the response.

  “East on Washington Boulevard, red Chevrolet Nova, eighty one, license is—” Ralph paused to read the tag number.

  “Never mind. Passing us now. We’re on them.”

  Ralph patted Georgie on the shoulder. “Let’s get moving.”

  “Some cosmetic changes,” Georgie commented, pulling the van into traffic.

  “It’s them.”

  “When they get wherever they’re going, who do we notify?” Georgie asked. The plans had been changed.

  “Whoever answers at this number,” Ralph answered, touching his shirt pocket. He was quite glad they weren’t going to be the ones to make the move. This whole operation had the feel of desperation, and more troubling was that he suspected the most desperate were calling the shots.

  “I prefer being the messenger,” Georgie said, unwittingly agreeing with Ralph’s doubting thoughts.

  “Me too.”

  As they drove, Georgie suddenly looked to Ralph and asked, “Have you got a place to lay low, you know, if they ever throw you to the lions?”

  “From day one.”

  * * *

  Anne hadn’t seen her uncle Frederick in ten years and was utterly surprised to hear that he had come to see her. But that surprise changed to bewilderment when she laid eyes on the man through the bulletproof glass of the visiting cubicle.

  He winked once at her and put the handset to his ear. Anne sat, eyes studying him, and took her end from the cradle.

  “Annie, you look strong. Strong.” The old eyes moved a fraction in a silent gesture, adding more to the words.

  “Thank you,” Anne said in a cautious cadence, her words tiptoeing through a strange landscape.

  “You look like you could use a sundae.”

  A sundae? A sundae. Anne’s gaze changed, finding common ground with that of the stranger, who she thought now was not that at all. A sundae!

  “Your G-man could probably use one, too,” Pooks Underhill said, his eyes checking the location of the marshals. When none was looking he gave Anne the ‘okay’ sign.

  Anne swallowed and put her fingertips to the glass. “I hope he’s all right.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Pooks said.

  “And Simon,” Anne added hopefully.

  “I’m sure he’s just fine.”

  Anne nodded, a sheen making her eyes glisten. “I’m glad you came, Uncle Frederick. What else can we talk about?”

  “Oh,” Pooks answered, “lotsa things.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Stranger

  How could a number not exist?

  Art punished himself with that question as he and Simon walked up the stairs to 3B.

  If you call a number and someone answers, it exists.

  Then a converse thought muddied his reasoning.

  Just like bank accounts with Anne’s name. Those exist, but they don’t.

  Reality didn’t matter, apparently, Art was beginning to believe. At least the kind he knew and understood didn’t.

  At the door he almost knocked, then remembered that Pooks was gone. Would not be back. Not after doing what Art wished he could be doing himself. Eyes might be on him now. Eyes that might follow.

  Art opened the three locks with the keys Pooks had left him, and, following Pooks’ habit and his own skittishness, reset them as soon as they were in.

  He only got to number two before Simon said, “There’s a stranger.”

  Art looked over his shoulder and saw a man through the open door to the bedroom, sitting on the bed, eyes cast upon Simon’s creation on the dresser.

  “Shit,” Art said as he drew his weapon and pushed Simon to the couch, bringing the Smith to bear at the stranger, advancing in cautious sliding steps toward the bedroom. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Mr. Pritchard.” An awesome creation, Pritchard thought as he looked upon the replica of the tower, comparing it with the coal black rectangle reaching for the clouds to the north.

  “What do you want?” Art demanded. He was in the bedroom now, and eased around the bed, checking the bathroom and the closet, both of which were clear. Behind Pritchard now, he said again, “I asked you a question: what do you want?”

  Tearing his eyes from the sculpture of dominoes, Pritchard stood and faced Art. “You can put that away. You’ll no more shoot me than you would have shot Agent Van Horn Saturday evening.”

  The pistol came down a degree, Art’s head cocking curiously to one side.

  “That wasn’t the smartest thing to do,” Pritchard said. He came around the foot of the bed and looked into the front room, smiling briefly at the back of Simon’s head, then continued, “You were doing things right until then. And sending Mr. Underhill—”

  “Just who the hell are you?” Art asked again, wanting more than a name now.

  Pritchard look at the gun. “Do you think I would be sitting in here alone if I were here to arrest you?”

  “I’m not worried only about the people who want to lock me up.”

  Pritchard smiled. “If I were here to take him, would you have made it more than a step inside the front door?”

  The stranger was not a good guy, and he was not a bad guy. That lack of definition did not soothe Art’s concern, but he could not deny the truth of Pritchard’s analysis. He lowered his weapon but kept it in hand at his side.

  “I don’t have a weapon,” Pritchard said.

  “I feel better that I do,” Art replied.

  “Very well.” Again Pritchard glanced toward Simon. “How is he?”

  “He’s fine,” Art answered suspiciously. “And why do you care?”

  “My entire reason for being here now is that I care. As do a number of other people.”

  “Other people.”

  Pritchard nodded. “You seem surprised.”

  “Pardon me for doubting any implied benevolence, but my life is not exactly on track at the moment, and his is worse.”

  “People care,” Pritchard said.

  “Right.”

  Another tack was needed, Pritchard saw. “Tell me, Agent Jefferson, who do you believe is doing this t
o you?”

  Art stared warily at Pritchard.

  “The bank accounts, et cetera, et cetera. We know about it all. Who do you believe is doing this to you?”

  Art sighed, not sure what to make of this Pritchard fellow, but feeling less than threatened by him. “Someone in the National Security Agency.”