Favors and Lies

by Mark Gilleo

  Dan pulled on his pants and filled his pockets with his necessities. He located his shoes and flipped through the sheets looking for his socks. Ears still ringing, he didn’t hear the two men enter the room until he glimpsed them in his peripheral vision. The first man to enter was older, more distinguished. Well-groomed and well-accessorized. An expensive suit to go with expensive leather shoes. Dark hair. Dark eyes. The second man was stuffed into a leather coat with no collar or visible indication of a neck.

  “Dan Lord?”

  “Depends on who’s asking.”

  “Joseph Cellini.”

  Dan located his socks, sat down on the edge of bed, and pulled them on. “The name sounds familiar, but I can’t picture the face.” Dan dropped his shoes on the floor and jammed his feet into them. “And if you don’t mind, I am in a hurry.”

  The man with the leather jacket was slowly working his way to his right and Dan registered he was being flanked. He eyed both men and sent a request to his brain for a database search on his visitors.

  “I am Lucia’s father,” Joseph Cellini replied, without elaboration.

  Dan’s thumping cranium digested the second part of the introduction. He had done a complete background check when Lucia had moved in and signed the lease, but the name Cellini was not in his memory banks.

  “What was the last name?”

  “Cellini.”

  “Lucia’s last name is Messi.”

  “Her last name is Cellini. As far as you know, her last name is Messi.”

  Dan thought about the answer and his concussed mind chugged through the possibilities.

  “How is she? The nurse mentioned she would be OK.”

  “She’s going to make it. A broken arm, bruises. Things she will overcome. Injuries that will pass. Lucia tells me you tackled her before some kind of explosion tore the gallery apart.”

  “I did.”

  “You mind telling me you how you knew the place was about to blow?”

  “Long story.”

  Joe Cellini nodded at his accomplice and the massive leatherneck took several steps back towards the door. He grabbed one of the two guest chairs in the room and wedged it between the edge of the doorframe and the wall.

  “How about you tell me just the same,” Cellini continued, hands together in front of him, fingers wringing.

  The man’s pose jarred Dan’s subconscious mind and his brain generated a delayed response to the silent inquiry made moments before. “Joey Cellini.”

  The man in the suit nodded slightly. “I call myself Joseph. Sometimes Joe. The media bestowed the Joey moniker on me, in honor of all Sicilian first names ending in a ‘y.’”

  “Yeah, you guys definitely get a bad rap when it comes to names.”

  “So now you know who I am. And in turn I want to know a few things about you.”

  “Dan Lord. I have an office upstairs from Lucia’s art gallery. I own the property.”

  “I’m aware you’re the landlord. I’m curious about the bomb. More specifically, why you suspected there was one and who the fuck would try to kill you and hurt my little girl.”

  Uh-oh, Dan thought. “I had reason to believe there were explosives. Levi told me.”

  “The dog?”

  “Is there another Levi?”

  The massive leather jacket moved back in the direction of Dan with his own hand extended. Joseph Cellini waved him off with a flick of his wrist.

  “Start explaining.”

  “I took the dog for walks on occasion. I usually watched the dog when Lucia was out of town or doing an exhibit. I liked the dog.”

  “You fucking my daughter?” Joey Cellini asked abruptly.

  I would but I am not, Dan thought. “That is a ‘no’ on the daughter-screwing. The reason Levi alerted me is because I trained the dog to smell explosives.”

  “That old mutt?”

  “He is old, but he isn’t a mutt. Wasn’t a mutt.” A brief wave of sadness was washed away by a larger dose of piss and vinegar over Levi’s demise.

  “Any reason a normal person would teach an old mutt to smell for explosives?”

  “The store was out of milk bones and I hate chew toys. Especially those squeaky ones.”

  “Danno, may I call you Danno?”

  “No, you may not. Danno is reserved for only one person.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Cute.”

  “Danno. I have a good sense of humor. Thick skin. My friend here, well, he is less jovial, shall we say.”

  “You looking to join the list of people trying to kill me?”

  “I want an answer to the question. Why in the fuck would you teach an old mutt to smell explosives?”

  “Well, if I didn’t teach Levi to smell explosives, then you would be talking to a corpse right now. I mean, it seemed like a good idea when it first occurred to me, and now it seems like it was an even better idea.”

  “There are a lot of ways to die, Mr. Lord. Why would you think someone is going to blow you up?”

  “I’ve made a few enemies.”

  “You’re a lawyer, of course you have.”

  “I prefer legal consultant or legal advisor.”

  “OK. So instead of someone running you over with their SUV or—I don’t know—maybe shooting you in the back of the head, you thought someone would take the time to get their hands on explosives, build a bomb, and kill you that way? And not only did you think it, you trained a dog to help you defend against it? Help me understand.”

  “It was an accident. An unplanned discovery. I took Levi for a walk one day. I usually take him a couple times a week.”

  “So you say.”

  “One day we’re down by the river front, in the park, and Levi walks right up to this kid sitting in the grass, resting his arm on his backpack. He looks like he’s waiting for someone, or maybe just hanging out. I don’t think much about it until Levi walks up beside him and sits. Almost as if the dog was at attention. Then he lets out three crisp barks, scrapes his paw on the ground, and lies down. At first I ignored it, but then Levi wouldn’t budge. He just sat there next to this kid with the backpack, barking and scratching at the ground with his paw. About this time, the kid starts breaking out in a sweat. He looks real uncomfortable. I figure maybe he doesn’t like dogs. I try to reassure the kid Levi doesn’t bite and I reach down to grab Levi by the collar and that is when I get my first big whiff of weed.”

  “A drug-smelling mutt.”

  “Exactly.”

  “My daughter owns a drug-smelling dog?”

  “Make you nervous?”

  “Careful, Danno.”

  “So, after this incident, I figure our mutt Levi had a history. I mean, Lucia got him from the pound so who knows where he really came from. Maybe his owner was an old cop who died. Maybe the dog didn’t like the way he was being treated at home and ran away. There are a million possibilities. I called the animal shelter and they said Levi was found in Old Town with nothing but a dog tag with his name on it. At any rate, one thing was certain. Levi smelled something and was trained to respond.”

  “So how do you make the jump to explosives?”

  “I figure, who knows what this dog was trained to do. So I bought some gun powder and sure enough Levi goes ape shit. After that, I got my hands on more formal explosives.”

  “How do you get your hands on explosives?”

  “This is the USA. It’s all made right here. Certainly you know how easy it is to come by.”

  Joseph Cellini ignored the implication. “Go on.”

  “That is pretty much it as far as Levi is concerned. I’m going to miss that dog.”

  “What is it exactly you do that would attract this kind of enemy?”

  “I can’t divulge that information.”

  “The fuck you can�
�t. Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen. You are going to tell me everything I need to know about who could have possibly bombed my daughter’s art studio. I want a list of suspects. I want names and addresses. If you can’t figure out a likely suspect, then I want a list of all your clients and I will have my people go through the list and find suspects myself.”

  “Not going to happen. My files are very confidential. They are privileged information. And they are all right here,” Dan replied raising a finger to his temple.

  Joseph Cellini ignored Dan’s rebuttal.

  “Then, after you give me the names, you and I are going to talk money. I lost a lot of investment cash in that art gallery.”

  “The place is insured.”

  “Only if you can collect.”

  “What are you getting at? Didn’t pay your bills?”

  “Let me tell you a few things, smart guy. Number one, explosions are covered by insurance when some part of the house or building—like a water heater—blows up. When you start talking about bombs, well, that is a different story. Someone taking offense to your legal advisory skills and trying to remove your head with a special delivery may not qualify for an insurance claim. And then there is the matter of the investment money I have lost in the gallery.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My daughter—God love her—always wanted to be an artist.”

  “She is an artist.”

  “Have you seen her work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you think?”

  Dan became uncomfortable. “Art is not really my thing.”

  “It’s awful. I know it. You know it. I look at some of these paintings and I don’t see anything. Just colors. Shit, sometimes I can barely even see that.”

  That much we agree on, Dan thought. “They seem to be selling.”

  Cellini paused and looked back at the closed door. “They are selling because I am buying.”

  “You are buying your daughter’s artwork?”

  “Well, not under my real name. I pay to have others buy the art. I mean, it’s not like I can buy it all and put it on the walls at my house. I have buyers who pose as art dealers and connoisseurs. People who are willing and able to do me a favor and buy artwork at top dollar from an artist in DC.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right. And one of the major calculations for insurance claims is . . .”

  “. . . fair-market value.”

  “And you can see where that may be trouble for insurance.”

  “Hard to determine fair-market value when the market is manipulated by one buyer. Probably even harder to collect an insurance claim for a man with your, uh, history. Not to mention it would raise some money laundering questions.”

  “You are a smart guy. I have customers who have ordered and paid for some of that artwork. I have a daughter who was almost killed. I spent enough money on renovations for that art gallery to buy a mansion. And I am going to have to sign another big check to fix it up again. I only think it’s fair that the person responsible be held accountable. After all, they injured my daughter. They almost killed my only child.”

  Dan nodded. He didn’t want to, but he understood.

  “Maybe we can sit down and decide on some level of financial compensation. Maybe once we find the guys who tried to blow you up, they will feel compelled to agree with a reasonable monetary settlement. To right the wrong they have done. If not, then it is on you.”

  “Me? I was almost killed as well.”

  “You or the people responsible. Makes no difference.”

  “I can tell you this—the people who bombed the art gallery are not going to be around long enough to help out financially.”

  Dan and Joseph Cellini exchanged a long, deep stare. Dan looked away first, but not until he had seen a flicker of recognition in Cellini’s eyes. A look of recognition indicating Cellini understood Dan was anything but just a lawyer.

  Dan pulled the tattered t-shirt from the plastic bag. He shed the loose-hanging gown and stuck his head through the neck hole of his shirt.

  “I will let you know when I find the guys you are looking for,” Dan replied. “As for a financial settlement, I am a little pinched at the moment.”

  Joseph Cellini nodded at his side kick. Mr. Neckless stepped forward and grabbed Dan’s shoulder. Dan stepped to the side, raised his right hand and trapped the big mitt against his own shoulder. In one fluid motion he brought his other hand over the arm he now controlled. He felt the bones, muscles, and tendons tighten. Mr. Neckless groaned and Dan drove him to the floor using his shoulder as the fulcrum. Dan looked over at Cellini.

  “Let me see what I can find.”

  “I’m in town through this weekend. Before I head back, I want names and addresses and a way to get reimbursed. I don’t care where the money comes from.”

  “I’ll put you on the list.” As the words rolled around in his concussed mind, Dan saw a potential solution to half his problems.

  —

  Dan muttered to himself as he walked through the sea of chairs and benches in the emergency waiting room. The mafia. There goes another rule. His head pulsated and he sat down in a worn brown chair just as the sliding glass doors to the emergency room opened. Dan watched as a team of paramedics pushed an accident victim across the tile floor on a large stretcher. Blood-soaked sheets dripped from a plethora of braces and tubes, the human subject hiding beneath the pile of life-saving paraphernalia. Dan made a phone call, spoke quietly for a minute, nodded several times, and then hung up.

  As the commotion in the emergency waiting room quieted, Dan rubbed his temples and stood again, testing his internal gyroscope. Satisfied with his condition, he went outside, put one foot on a wooden bench, and made another call. Sue answered on the third ring.

  “Where are you? You OK?” Dan asked.

  “Yeah. Good thing I wasn’t working late last night. I am here in the hospital. In the surgical waiting area on the north side of the first floor. I tried to get in to see you but the nurse’s station wouldn’t budge on visiting hours.”

  “I’m surprised that stopped you.”

  “It didn’t. But the Alexandria police officer near the elevator in the hall was a little more persistent about honoring visiting hours.”

  “Apparently they only allow family members and family members.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. How did the office building look?”

  “It needs some remodeling. It was all over the news. A dozen fire trucks and enough rescue equipment for a mass shooting. They shut down the block.”

  “How about the second floor?”

  “Seemed OK. I figure the bullet-proof glass and all that other jazz you claim you have probably helped.”

  “Maybe. But nothing is bomb-proof. The bomb wasn’t trying to take out the building. It was targeted and I was the intended victim. Very likely a cell phone detonated device. They were most certainly watching from outside.”

  “What is our next move?”

  “Get your car. Drive around the block a few times and see if anyone is following you. I will meet you in the circle in front of the emergency room entrance. It’s going to be a quick pickup. Just throw open the door and keep your foot off the brake.”

  “Dukes of Hazard style?”

  “No, they slid over the hood.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see a doctor.”

  “But you’re already at the hospital.”

  “I am at the wrong one.”

  Chapter 30

  —

  Sue pulled into the Yorktown Shopping Center parking lot at the intersection of the Gallows Road and Route 50. The morning crowd of prescription fillers snaked down the aisle in the CVS next to the Staples and the half-dozen little resta
urants crammed into the nooks and crannies of the sprawling concrete layout. Dan pointed at the small fire lane in front of a Thai restaurant.

  “Drop me off here and keep moving. Take laps around the parking lot until you see me at the curb.”

  “Will do.”

  Dan exited the car as rain began to fall. He disappeared around the corner near an ice cream shop and returned a few minutes later. He stood at the curb and scanned his environment.

  Sue pulled over. Dan opened the door and handed a bouquet of flowers to his driver.

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t. They aren’t for you.”

  “You could have humored me for a minute.”

  “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

  “Can’t do both?”

  Dan patted the plastic CVS bag in his lap. “I did get you a few things. Toothbrush. Change of underwear.”

  “Nothing screams flattery like drugstore gifts.”

  A few blocks south of Gallows road, Dan directed Sue to turn into a narrow entrance next to a three-story concrete parking garage on the premises of Fairfax Hospital. A gate arm blocked the entrance and Sue stopped the car and read the sign through the windshield. “It says ‘Physician Parking Only.’”

  “I know.”

  Sue watched as Dan jumped out of the car and pushed the gate arm into the air. The bright yellow fiberglass deterrent rose without protest. Dan waved Sue through the entrance and then jumped back in the car.

  “I get the feeling you’ve done that before.”

  “Once or twice. The gate has been broken for years. Lucky they haven’t fixed it.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know how you know that.”

  “I’m not sure I want to tell you.”

  Sue pulled into the middle aisle of the parking garage and parked between a Mercedes Benz and a Lexus. They both got out of the car and Dan grabbed the flowers and the plastic shopping bag. He pulled out a new plain blue t-shirt and a pair of dark gray cargo pants with myriad pockets—the finest clothes CVS offered—and quickly dressed in the parking garage between the cars. He balled up his tattered, blood stained, odorous, bombed-out attire and threw it in the trunk.