“You figure they have Louise as hostage?”
“Them or Eddie. Yeah.”
Finally, Bill said, “Let’s get to Dirty Frank’s. Maybe it’ll provide some direction.”
The bar was busy but not noisy. Peter Jambalaya greeted them by waving a towel from behind the bar. The murder of his friend had caused a shift in Peter. From flamboyant to merely pleasant. Bill signaled for him to come to the end of the bar. He reached over it and put his arm around Peter’s neck and pressed his cheek against the young man’s. They exchanged no words.
Bill disengaged and took a stool next to Jericho, who was already chatting up a young guy whose Gold’s Gym muscle shirt strained at the pectorals. He scanned the place then swiveled around and said in a low voice to Peter, “No word, huh?”
“Sorry Bill. We’re all worried.”
“Have you quizzed any of the customers?”
“Frank doesn’t want us talking it up. Between Thunder Woman, Phillip’s murder, and Louise’s disappearance, customers are spooked. Business is already off. We’re telling people Louise has taken some vacation days.”
Thunder Woman, he had said. Peter said Thunder Woman. A feeling came over him, a meld of déjà vu and tip-of-the-tongue struggle.
Trying to nail it down in his mind, Bill spun around to face the room. As he did, he spotted Thunder Woman’s friend wearing a tight black turtleneck, black slacks and pointy cowboy boots. He walked over to her table and said, “Can I join you?” She smiled and motioned him to the empty chair. “I’ve seen you in here a hundred times,” he said.
“Yeah, me too,” she said. You come in with the big guy and sometimes the bald guy with all the tattoos.”
“Eddie, yeah. The big guy is Jericho. Eddie used to chat up your friend, the girl in the Thunder Woman outfit.” Bill offered to buy her a drink, went to the bar, and returned with their drinks. By now, Jericho was talking up a couple of young guys throwing darts.
“Yeah, that was some outfit, huh?”
“Have you seen her lately?” Bill asked.
“You didn’t hear? She’s dead. They found her body in the river.”
“Oh my God! What happened?”
“Last time I saw her, I thought she was going to meet with your friend Eddie.”
“He’s not really my friend. We knew each other from somewhere else.”
“Graterford? Eddie said he did time there. You too?”
“’Fraid so.”
“I haven’t seen Eddie around,” she said. “By the way, I’m Sally.”
“I’m Bill. Have you seen Louise the bartender?”
“No. But hey, it’s a bar. People come and go, especially with all that’s happened lately.”
They small-talked more. Sally was nice, friendly, open. After thirty minutes, Jericho had returned to the bar and motioned Bill over.
“Excuse me Sally. My friend beckons. I’m glad we finally met. If you hear anything about Louise, let me know, okay? We dated for a while and she left an expensive-looking coat at my cleaners.”
Sally smiled and bobbed yes.
He returned to the bar and put his hand on Jericho’s shoulder. “Anything?” he asked.
“Nada. You?”
“Zip.”
“I thought about your question,” Jericho said on the phone the next day, “about where an outfit like ServMark would recruit thugs.”
“And?” Bill said.
“I’ll pick you up later. We’ll take a ride and talk then.”
“The more days that go by without hearing something, the worse things look,” Bill said before ringing off.
By six p.m. Bill was pacing the sidewalk, waiting for Jericho. Something needed to happen, even a short trip down a blind alley, anything. As Jericho pulled up, Bill ran his fingers through his hair. Before Jericho could say hi, Bill blurted, “Where we going?”
“South Philly.”
“What’s there?”
“Spaciad, where Luca Cunnio and his gang hole up.”
“And what, knock on the door and ask if Louise is there?”
“No, we’ll ride around and see if we see a green van.”
“You think they were Luca’s men?”
“If there’s a green Econoline around there, yeah.”
They slowly cruised the entire area.
“Lanza said it was worth checking out,” Jericho said.
Near dusk, they parked on Seventh and watched Spaciad’s comings and goings but saw nobody resembling Paulie or Angie. They did see a red De Ville pull up in front. A Benicio Del Toro look-alike got out and ran into the club, leaving the car in the middle of the narrow street.
“That guy could give two shits about blocking traffic,” Bill said.
“Nobody will complain,” Jericho said. “They’ll wait until somebody comes out and moves the car.”
“Who is that guy?”
“I think it’s Luca Cunnio.”
They watched until it was too dark to see much. Jericho signaled to pull out onto Seventh. A vehicle stopped behind and signaled intent to take the space.
“Bingo,” Jericho said. “It’s them, right behind me.”
Bill didn’t turn. “Let me out,” he said. “I’ll hide my face, watch and see if they go into the club. I’ll meet you on South and Eighth.”
He got out of Jericho’s car and crossed the street as the van backed into its space. He turned around a hundred feet later, just as Paulie and Angie climbed the stairs to Spaciad.
So that was it! The Italian mob was the muscle behind everything and Louise was caught in their web. It made sense, especially with the ServMark piece. Three of the mob’s Philadelphia people were doing time at Graterford. It must have been how they found out Mikey Osborne was blabbing about the food thing, and they recruited Eddie to wax him.
But as he walked down the street to rendezvous with Jericho, a ravenous parasite of doubt wormed its way into Bill’s mind. Could Jericho be involved? Hadn’t he kept his relationship with Henrietta a secret? Maybe Jericho’s friendship in prison was to keep an eye on him, since who knew what Bill may have gotten from Mikey before the kid took those thrusts to the throat? Maybe the DOC people had more on Jericho than he let on, and was the reason he got dispatched to bureaucratic Siberia. Worse, maybe Jericho had the goods on the DOC as well as the mob, and they all wanted him dispatched.
Bill slowed his pace. He needed to think. Stress over Louise was making him paranoid. Sure, there were questions, but what about Jericho’s heart, his openness, his willingness to be vulnerable to a convict, even before he knew that much about Bill?
He slid into the passenger seat of Jericho’s car. He only needed to say one word.
“Yes.”
Jericho pulled into the line of cars of South Street tourists edging along with open windows and radios blasting at hundred-plus decibels. Bill welcomed it. He didn’t feel like talking. He had decided not to share how the case was crystallizing in his mind. Wait and see if Jericho figures it out, whether he’ll speak his mind or keep it to himself. That would be telling.
And why was Thunder Woman haunting him?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The litigation against the Department of Corrections moved slowly pending numerous court motions. Jericho was persona non-grata and unable to get inside information, but he put Sam in touch with Ralph Imhoff, deputy-assistant-to-the assistant-deputy-of-somebody-or-other in the Office of General Counsel, the state office that oversaw the Department of Corrections. Going through channels would take until the End Times to discover anything useful. Besides, for now, everything was off the record. Sam Lanza was a lone bloodhound. This was his personal investigation, and nothing would be officially tendered to his bosses until he had things straight.
Meanwhile, on other cases, he posted innocuous busy-work memos to the file, so he had more latitude to go wherever he pleased and sniff the ass of any big-dog he wanted, as long as he showed some results on the twink murder before the gays took to the streets a
gain.
According to Imhoff, the only thing that set the food case apart was its scope. Individual prisoners or groups had always filed against their institutions which were usually successfully defended by establishing the state’s food purchasing, preparation, and serving protocols. This case was different. The state had chosen to deal with a single purveyor, ServMark Hospitality, and all the complaint allegations arose after it became the exclusive supplier of food to the system.
“Is anybody looking into the history of how the contract was secured?” Lanza asked the distinguished-looking, white-haired, cigar-smoking, nine-to-five lawyer.
“That’s a separate matter under the umbrella of the Deputy Secretary for Administration. That’s their turf. We don’t want to open any cans of worms, especially since it might undermine our defense to the specific allegations. Besides, I don’t want feds involved. Hanky-panky with bids is a federal offense.”
“Who would I talk to over at ServMark who would know anything about the contract?”
“You won’t talk to anybody at ServMark. We don’t want you mucking things up. You could hurt our case.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Imhoff, but this is a homicide matter and I’m the police.”
“No, you excuse me, Detective. The Office of General Counsel reports to the governor. I don’t want to make a phone call and have your badge, or have the State Police lock you up. I gave you the courtesy of discussing the case, so don’t go being an asshole. Understood?”
“Yeah. Okay. But I got homicides on my hands.”
“You let us do the thinking. After this case resolves, you can work your homicides.”
“Understood.”
Sam got up and left, but Imhoff had pushed a button. Maybe he had a point. Maybe he wanted to preserve the integrity of the defense or, maybe he wanted to cover something up. The charitable view was that somebody, maybe a group of somebodies, was careless or even negligent. Lanza’s view was that somebody was on the take.
Why else would there be corpses?
CHAPTER FORTY
Eddie slipped a note through the mail slot of Louise’s house on Day Street. All it said was, “Fri. Ten.” The priest would figure it out. Eddie wondered if he should play a tape of Louise’s voice when he called at ten p.m. He decided against it, not let out any more information than needed.
It had been six days since he snatched Louise in front of Dirty Frank’s. She seemed to have settled into her plight. She was talking to him nicely, even asking about his life. She was obeying and not resisting when he watched her use the toilet or take a shower. She was eating and not kicking the door when locked in the closet. When he ran his hands over her while he masturbated, she didn’t resist, though he wished she wouldn’t look away. He’d rather just fuck, but he wanted her to want him.
That would change. Look how far she had already come? Learning to see him for what he was: a powerful guy, civilized, smart. Soon enough, rich, too. He’d have a Caddy of his own instead of the punk-ass Toyota he drove now.
Eddie placed his call at precisely 10:00 p.m. The phone rang once when the priest picked up. Eddie put him immediately at ease so they could talk commerce.
“I have her. She’s safe. She’s not injured.”
“Eddie, you sonofabitch, if you touch a hair on her head…” Thunder Woman’s image jumped into Bill’s mind, that she was last known to be with Eddie.
“You want her back? Don’t threaten me,” Eddie screamed. There was a long pause.
“What do you want?” Bill said. “You know I don’t have money.”
“Oh yeah, vows of poverty. Get it, vows of poverty?”
“What do you want, Eddie?”
“Two things. The first is that you connect me to whoever will pay for what I know about the food thing. Your friend Jericho can guide you.”
“How can I connect you unless I know what you are selling?”
“I got proof of a rigged bid.”
“What kind of proof?”
“You don’t need to know. If you want your girlfriend back, healthy I mean, you’ll connect me to whoever will pay.”
“And what was the second thing?” Bill asked.
“You don’t need to know that right now. Before we talk about it more, the first thing has to play out.”
“I need to know she’s safe. Let me talk to her.”
“No can do. Let me think of how to do it. But she’s safe, okay,” Eddie said.
“I’ll get back to you. How can I reach you?”
“You can’t, I reach you. I’ll call back this time in three days. Meantime I’m enjoying your girl’s company. Get my drift? So don’t fuck this up.”
Eddie hung up. What did she see in that priest anyway?”
Once the priest came through with whoever would pay for his information, Eddie wouldn’t care about Jericho. Eddie would have successfully cut Luca out of the loop. He giggled to himself. Who’s the stooge now, Luca?
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jericho told Bill something was off kilter. No way would Luca’s mob pull a stunt like kidnapping for ransom. Maybe that was how Eddie fit in, Luca using him as the stooge to carry it off. But it still didn’t add up. The mob’s usual action was extortion of gangsters and businesses, stock frauds, tax scams, things like that. They left prostitution, gun-running, and dope for the Russians and blacks to fight over. But kidnapping? Uh-uh.
“I know one thing for certain,” Bill said. “Eddie’s got her and I have to get her back. He might be connected to Thunder Woman’s disappearance, too.”
At the mention of Thunder Woman, he again had that vague feeling of his mind viewing something through smoky glass, and no amount of wiping it or peering or squinting brought it into focus. Yet it was there, on just the other side.
He explained Eddie’s demand.
“Evidence of a rigged bid?” Jericho asked. “Eddie will want ServMark to know he has that information.”
Bill barely heard him. If Eddie had any goods on ServMark, he got it from Mikey Osborne, and killed him to get whatever it was.
Jericho tapped him on the shoulder. “Bill?”
Bill snapped to.
Jericho went on. “What’s the guy’s name who runs ServMark, the man-about-town who owns a piece of the Flyers and Phillies? Oh yeah, Gary Bigelow. If the feds sniff bid-rigging by an international company, the wolves will circle. But they’d tread softly with a guy like Bigelow. He has a battalion of lawyers to hide behind.”
“All they’d care about is bringing down a big company,” Bill said.
“What other choice do you have?”
“This. I get a name at ServMark and lay it on Eddie. ServMark will want to pay to keep a lid on things.”
“Sounds risky. How much do you think they’ll put themselves out for a barmaid roller derby queen?”
Bill flinched. “C’mon Jericho, I love her.”
“Sorry. I only meant that’s how they may see it.”
“That’s why I need to be broker for both sides.”
“How do you carry that off?” Jericho asked.
“I’m the guy who knows the guy who has the goods. I’m also the guy who knows the guy who wants to pay for the goods.”
“And who would that guy be, the one who pays for the goods?”
“Who at ServMark Hospitality has most to lose if word of rigged bids hits the press?”
“Gary Bigelow?”
“Yeah. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
“How will you get word to him? You don’t just make an appointment. He’s got ten layers of screens before you get to him.”
“Let’s take a drive to ServMark Tower.”
They parked on Arch and Seventh and walked to the garage of the international conglomerate’s headquarters building. They trudged up its spiral ramp. All the spaces were reserved: “ServMark Only—Violators Will Be Towed.” There was no sign of a space for the president’s car.
“So how does Bigelow get to work, helicopter?” Bill
said.
“Probably a company limo with a private entrance.”
They walked to Cuthbert Street, a non-descript alley of back doors and dumpsters. Beside the building’s loading dock, they saw a brown, unmarked steel door fit flush to the building.
“That’s a possible,” Jericho said. “Only way to tell is sit here all day and see if a limo pulls up.”
“Drop me off at Louise’s car,” Bill said. “I’ll come back and see what I see.”
“Hell, he may not even be in the country.”
“Crystal can call the executive offices. Anybody who answers can tell her if he’s in,” Bill said.
“I’ll take you to Louise’s car.”
Now that Bill knew Louise was alive, he was able to think. Jericho had had losses of his own. But the big guy’s friendship never faltered. How could Bill have doubted him?
Bill needed strength and wisdom and luck, but prayer was an unused muscle gone to flab. Readings from his missal were exercises of the eyes rather than the heart. Worse, worthlessness had sired despair, and before he could ask for strength, he had to feel worthy of it. All he could do for now was utter the words, “Do this for her.” It was a start.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
On the eighth day of Louise’s disappearance, Sam Lanza checked with Missing Persons. Yes, they had a report from a William Conlon, a boyfriend, but hadn’t begun an investigation.
“Why the interest, Sam? You figure a homicide?” they asked.
“This Conlon guy, ex-priest, did time for rape. Bad things happen when he’s around. Thing of it is, he’s pals with Jericho Lewis. You remember Jericho?”
“He was a pretty straight shooter, wasn’t he?”
“Still is, I think. But you never know what kind of influence one person can have over another,” Sam said.
“That shit happens when drugs are involved.”
It was time to bring the priest in again, grill him about this missing barmaid.
Bill sat in an interrogation room lined with white tile, a two-way glass, and a frayed poster of the 1974 Broad Street Bullies. Dave Schultz sneered menacingly through missing teeth, his hockey stick poised to decapitate whoever got in his way. Sam Lanza and a cop from Missing Persons sat across from Bill. The MP detective asked Bill to repeat the exact circumstances under which he discovered Louise missing. Bill repeated the story as Lanza leaned back in the Steelcase metal chair with his arms folded. The whole time Bill related the story, he looked at Lanza rather than the MP detective who paced the room. Sam’s expression was fixed and unblinking.
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