by Glenn Rogers
I smiled, shrugged and held out my hands, palms up.
Mario laughed. “Whatever you need, man.”
I tried to stay hidden and look out the front window. But the angle was bad and I couldn't see far enough down the street to see them. If I were in their place, I'd be a couple of blocks back parked on the same side of the street, sitting patiently with the motor running.
I waited a couple of minutes, smiled at Mario, and then went past him into the back of his profitable little kitchen and slipped out his back door, which opened onto a small alleyway. The alley allowed me to go through to the next block, go back up the street a couple of blocks and cut back across to Moorpark, where I hoped my pursuers would be parked, waiting for me.
I crept up alongside the building on the corner of Moorpark and took a look. There they were, about half a block up, sitting in their Tahoe, casual and relaxed. The simplest thing to do was just walk up behind them. But if either of them glanced in the mirror, they’d see me. I took out my phone and called Papa's Pizza.
“Papa's.”
“Mario, it's me, Jake. I'm a couple blocks away, kind of stuck. I need a diversion.”
“A diversion?”
“Yeah. Go out onto the sidewalk in front of your store and shout down the street like someone stole something and ran out of your shop. Wave your arms around. Make a scene.”
“Sure, man. No sweat. Right now? “
“Now would be good.”
“You got it.”
He hung up and in a couple of seconds came running out shouting and waving his arms. The guys in the Tahoe watched him, allowing me to walk up to the back door, open it, and get in. I had my .357 in my hand.
“Hi, fellas,” I said.
As they turned in their seats, they saw my gun.
“Unless you want me to shoot you,” I said, “you should put your hands on the dashboard.”
They did.
I took one set of handcuffs out of my pocket. To the guy in the driver's seat, I said, “Very slowly, put your right hand up here right in between you and your cute friend here.”
He did.
I cuffed him around the wrist.
Then, to the guy in the passenger seat I said, “Now you, very slowly, raise your left hand up here next to his.”
He did, and I cuffed his wrist so that the two of them were cuffed left hand to right hand.
“Now,” I said to the driver, “the other hand, bring it up slowly and hold it right out there in front of you.”
He did and I cuffed his wrist with the other pair of cuffs I had. I had his buddy do the same and cuffed him, too, so that they were cuffed to each other hand to hand.
“Now, lower your hands so they are below the level of the dashboard.
They did. They were just a couple of cooperative sweethearts.
Then I reached around and retrieved each of their guns, a Glock and Browning. Then I reached over and shut off the engine and took the keys.
“Okay guys, now we talk.”
Neither of them said anything.
“I'm sure you probably already know what I need you to tell me.”
Nothing.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
Silence.
“Who are you working for?”
They remained silent.
“Okay, let's think of it like this. If you tell me what I want to know, the people or person who hired you is going to be very pissed off. That might not be good for you. But if you don't tell me what I want to know, I will be very pissed off, and that, I assure you will be very bad for you.”
Still nothing.
I looked around. There weren't any people on the street around us, no one to see what I was about to do. I reached down and took a bootlace out of my right boot. I put my gun down on the seat beside me, wrapped the lace twice around each hand, slipped it quickly over the head of the guy in the passenger seat and pulled it tight around his throat. He went stiff. Both guys tried to pull at the lace. But with their hands cuffed together, their efforts were ineffective.
I reduced the pressure a bit and made a shushing sound and said, “Stop. Stop.”
They relaxed a little.
I kept the pressure light but steady.
“Stop struggling, or I'll kill you.” I had no intention of killing either of them, but they didn't know that. I sounded rather convincing, even if I do say so myself.
They stopped resisting.
“Now, I'm going to ask you again, who sent you?”
“We don't know,” the driver said. “We get a phone call. The guy tells us what he wants. We tell him how much. Half gets deposited into an account. We do the job, the other half gets deposited. We never see anyone.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. And what if the second half doesn't get deposited? What do you do?”
There was some hesitation. “That's never happened.”
“Yeah, but what if it did?” I asked.
He was thinking.
I said, “Either you are the stupidest hit men ever, or you are lying to me.”
I pulled the bootlace tighter around the other guy's throat.
He gaged.
“All right,” the driver said. “It's a broker. A middleman between the person who wants the hit and us. We only talk to the broker. We never know who's paying for the hit.”
“That's an efficient system,” I said. “Who’s the broker?”
“He'll kill us.”
“So will I. The difference is, I'll do it right now. Tell me his name and I'll leave you here. At least that way, you have a chance to get away and start over somewhere else. Maybe get jobs as school bus drivers in Detroit.”
For some reason they didn't think that was funny. Neither did they give me a name. I pulled the bootlace tighter.
The guy started gagging and struggling again.
“All right,” the driver said.
“Hanson. The guy's name is Hanson. Norman Hanson.”
“And where will I find Norman Hanson?”
“He owns a strip club not far from the airport,” he said.
“And the name of this establishment?”
“Eros,” he said.
“Eros,” I said. “Not Pussy Galore or something else equally classy?”
“Eros,” he said. “Okay? That's the name of the place. Hanson owns it.”
“And how do I know that you are telling me the truth?”
“In my shirt pocket,” he said. “Hanson's business card.”
I released one end of the bootlace and reached around and retrieved a business card from his pocket. It was a card for the club Eros.
“On the back,” he said.
I turned the card over.
“That's his cell phone,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “Here's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to kill you ... this time. But if you're stupid enough to come after me again, I’ll kill you. Do you believe me?”
They both nodded.
“Okay then. I think we're done here.”
I laced up my boot. Put my gun back in my shoulder holster, and opened the door of the Tahoe.
“You’re not just going to leave us here like this, are you?” the driver asked. “Cuffed like this?”
“Yes.” I got out of the Tahoe and went back to Papa's. I told Mario I'd be by later for a pizza. He smiled and nodded. I got into my Jeep and drove away.
Chapter 29
It took me forty minutes to get to the Eros club. The large sign near the parking lot entrance advertised nude dancers. So did the sign over the door. I parked my black Wrangler between a blue F150 and a silver Mercedes C class. Before I got out, I called Frank McGarry.
“What kind of trouble are you causing today?” McGarry said.
“Trouble? How do you figure? I'm just helping the LAPD with the cases that are too tough for them.”
“Uh-huh. What do you need?”
“You know Papa's Pizza on Moorpark in Studio City?”
“Not off the
top of my head, but the LAPD can probably find it.”
“About two blocks west of it there's a silver Tahoe with two guys in it handcuffed to each other. Shooters.”
“All right. I'll send a car. That it?”
“What can you tell me about a guy named Norman Hanson. Owns a strip club called Eros. Near the airport.”
“Hold on.”
I heard typing.
After a moment, McGarry said, “Nothing. Who is he?”
“The guys in the Tahoe say he's a broker for shooters. They claim he sent them after me.”
“Someone calls him and he outsources the job,” McGarry said.
“Something like that,” I said.
“We got nothing on him. Which means he's new to L.A. or he's very smart. Which means you should be very careful.”
“Careful is my middle name,” I said.
“Yeah? I heard it was Buttercup.”
“Okay, you got me. Jake Buttercup Badger. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”
“Absolutely. I suppose you're going to go see Norman Hanson.”
“Getting ready to go in his club right now.”
“You want me to send a couple of guys over?”
“No. I'll be okay.”
“Your call,” McGarry said. “By the way, when you go in the club, don't look at any of the naked women. You'll go blind.”
The outer door of the club opened to a dimly lit hallway with a window on the right. A large man with lots of tattoos and long hair combed neatly back sat behind the thick glass with a little round speaker in it.
He said, “Ten dollars.”
I handed him a ten dollar bill. Then I said, “I need to see Norman Hanson.”
He looked at me for a moment. “Who are you?” he asked.
“A guy who needs to see Norman Hanson.”
“Does Mr. Hanson know you?” His articulation was incongruous with his appearance.
“Not yet.”
“And why would he want to?” he asked.
“Getting acquainted with me would be to his advantage,” I said.
“Mr. Hanson doesn't see anyone without an appointment.”
“Look,” I said. “I asked nicely. Now I would really appreciate it if you would dial Mr. Hanson's extension and tell him that Jake Badger would like to see him.”
“Jake Badger,” he said, repeating my name.
“Badger,” I said.
He continued to study me.
“Like I said. It would be to Mr. Hanson's advantage to get to know me.”
The guy took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
He spoke. He listened. He hung up.
“Marvin will be here in a moment to escort you to Mr. Hanson’s office,” he said.
“Marvin.”
“Marvin. And he's gonna want that piece under your jacket.”
“Security,” I said.
“Security.”
In a moment, a guy even larger than the guy behind the window came into the little hallway. Given my own size, guys don’t look big to me unless they’re pretty big. The hallway got quite a bit smaller when Marvin entered it. He had to have been six five, two-eighty. He looked down at me.
With my left hand I slowly pulled back the left side of my sport coat, revealing my .357. He took it.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Don't need anything else,” I said.
He looked me over, said, “Follow me,” and turned and went into the club.
The music was way too loud. The seating area in the club was so dimly lit that the hostesses probably had to help customers negotiate the tables to find a seat. There was a naked girl dancing on the stage. The men appeared to be mesmerized by the rhythmic, erotic display of female anatomy. A gynecologist would have felt right at home. The men watching didn't seem to be worried about their eyesight.
I followed Marvin around the edge of the seating area to a door that opened to a hallway. There was a stairway at the end of the hallway. Marvin went down the hall and up the stairs. I followed him. At the top of the stairs a door opened into an expansive and expensively decorated office. We went in. It had been soundproofed against the blaring music from the club. Classical music played softly in the background. The carpet was plush, the lighting soft but adequate. The walls were paneled in light oak, the desk was walnut, the chairs were covered in fine leather. Norman Hanson had good taste. Or maybe it was just his decorator who had good taste.
Marvin escorted me across the expansive room and stood me in front of the walnut desk. The man behind the desk appeared to be in his mid-forties. He was quite average looking, with sandy colored hair and gray eyes. He was reading Machiavelli’s The Prince. He put it down and looked at me.
“So, you’re Jake Badger,” he said.
“I am.”
“I'm Norman Hanson.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“You killed one of my men.”
“I did.”
“And the other two I sent?”
“Last time I saw them, they were sitting in a silver Tahoe on Moorpark in Studio City.”
“Dead?”
“No. Very much alive. Handcuffed together. Probably embarrassed. But alive.”
“For now at least,” he said.
“Don't blame them,” I said. “I can be very persuasive.”
“Obviously,” he said. “And you're courageous, coming here like this, knowing I've got a contract on you.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that's what we need to discuss.”
“Really? “
“Really.”
“Okay,” Norman said, “discuss.”
“I know you're a busy man, so I'll get right to the point.”
“Please do,” he said, looking somewhat amused.
“If you send anyone else, after I kill him or her or them, I'll come for you.”
His expression turned to stone. He eyed me for a long moment. “You are either very stupid or very formidable,” he said.
“My IQ,” I said, “is just a little north of one seventy, so you should probably go with formidable.”
He studied me for another moment before a smile began to creep across his face.
“I like you, Jake Badger. So I'm going to let you walk out of here. But business is business. I'm sure you understand.”
“I do,” I said. “But dying is not good business.”
“Money's been paid,” Norman said. “Job's got to be done.”
“You could always give the customer a refund.”
“A refund?”
“Sure. Or you could tell me who the customer is and I could solve your problem for you.”
Norman smiled. “That would be bad for business.”
“That depends on who’s behind the contract,” I said. “Besides, sending another shooter after me will also be bad for business.”
“This conversation appears to have run it course,” Norman said.
I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket. “If you change your mind,” I said as I laid it on his desk, “give me a call.”
He looked at the card where it lay. “Marvin, escort Mr. Badger out and return his weapon to him.”
Marvin led me back downstairs and through the club. A different girl was displaying her wares to the seductive rhythms of the music. I bumped into a chair watching her instead of where I was going. Marvin led me through the tiny hall to the outside door, opened it, and stepped outside. As I stepped past him, I turned toward him. He handed me my gun.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Badger.”
“Thank you, Marvin. You, too.”
He stepped back inside and closed the door. I went to my Jeep.
Chapter 30
It had been a stressful day and I was tired. I drove back to Papa's Pizza and picked up a large pepperoni. Then I went by Mildred's and picked up Wilson. I drove home and parked in my usual spot. As Wilson and I were walking past Heidi's door, it opened.
“Hi,
Jake,” she said. Her clothing covered more of her body than it had last time she'd ambushed me.
“Hi, Heidi.”
From behind her a boy stepped into the hall. He looked to be about fifteen.
“Jake Badger, this is my brother, Kyle. He wanted to meet you.”
I transferred our pizza to my left hand, and offered him my right hand.
He took it as I said, “Nice to meet you, Kyle.”
“Nice to meet you, Sir. I saw your last fight—with Gomez,” he said. “It was awesome.”
I struggled for a moment with how to respond. Then I said, “Actually, Kyle, it wasn't awesome.” I needed to be kind but honest. “It was shameful. I lost my temper in the cage and almost killed him. He was in a coma for several weeks. That's why I quit fighting. Cage fighting is a brutal, violent activity that should not be glorified with words like awesome.”
He looked a little confused.
“Do you understand?” I asked.
He thought for a moment, as Heidi looked on, concerned but silent.
Finally, Kyle said, “I guess so. But aren't you a private detective now? That’s what Heidi said.”
“Yes.”
“Don't you sometimes have to beat people up?”
“Not that often,” I said. “And on the few occasions when I do have to fight, it is always only in self-defense.” I paused a moment. “There's nothing wrong with being tough and able to defend yourself. But fighting should not be glorified.”
“So why did you get into cage fighting?”
I liked the kid. He wanted to understand.
“I started fighting because something terrible had happened and I was very angry.” I glanced at Heidi. She was listening intently. “I blamed myself for what had happened. My anger made me behave badly. It's a time in my life that I'm not proud of.”
He thought about that for a moment and then nodded. “I get it. But I'd still like to learn to fight like that.”
“Maybe your dad can work with you,” I said.
Heidi put her hands to her mouth.
“My dad died two years ago,” Kyle said.
“Oh,” I said, “I'm sorry to hear that.”
He looked away and nodded.
I took a deep breath and said, “Well, if you can talk your sister into it, maybe we can arrange some Saturday morning where you can come over and I can give you some pointers.”