We spotted Ricky B on the jungle gym, swinging from one bar to another.
“You want to take this, Manny, or should I?” I asked as we closed in on our target.
“You have the other halves of those bills, Charlie Floyd, so I believe you are the one he would prefer to converse with.”
“Okay. But feel free to jump in any time.”
As soon as we reached the jungle gym, Ricky B had a sweet face that reminded me of Little Richard. He was wearing a light blue jump suit, with a gaudy gold chain hanging from his neck. His skin was caramel colored, so it was hard to know if he was black or Hispanic. Most likely a touch of both. It didn’t matter. He was just another pimp living off the backs of vulnerable women.
When he saw us approaching, he dropped to the ground.
“You Floyd?” he asked.
“I am.”
“You bring those halfsies, man?”
“I did.”
“So, whatchoo want with me?”
In the background, I could hear the rhythmic thwap-thwap of the tennis ball traveling from one court to the other. The sound was soothing, like a mantra.
I looked Ricky up and down and shook my head.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a walking cliché, Ricky?”
“Cliché? What’s that, man?”
“It means over-worn, trite, expected.”
“I might be a lot of things but I ain’t none of those, especially expected. Why you call me that?”
“The way you’re dressed might have something to do with it.”
“You don’t like the way Ricky B dresses? Ricky B don’t give a shit. The only thing Ricky B cares about at this particular moment is hos and halfsies. Speaking of which…”
“First you talk, then we’ll see about the halfsies.”
“Who’s this dude? What’s he, like your bodyguard?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward Manny.
“This is Manny Perez. He’s my partner. And yes, he does watch my back and I watch his.”
Manny didn’t offer his hand. His arms were folded across his chest and he had a solemn expression on his face.
“I smell cop.”
“Manny’s not from around here, so he can’t pinch you. This is strictly unofficial.”
“Whatchoo wanna know then?”
“I’m looking for Francis Hoyt.”
“Don’t ring no bells.” He stuck his hand out. “Now where’s them halfsies?”
“Not so fast.”
I pulled out my phone and showed him Hoyt’s mug shot.
He stroked his chin as the thwap-thwap of the tennis ball hitting a racquet punctuated the air.
“You ain’t gonna give me them halfsies till I tell you something, right?”
“Right.”
“Something about this dude?”
“Right again.”
He took the phone from me and stared at the photo of Hoyt.
“Maybe he looks like someone I maybe mighta known sometime in the past.”
“That’s an awful lot of qualifiers, Ricky.”
“What dat mean, man?”
“It means you’re getting closer to those halfsies, Ricky, but you’re not quite there yet.”
“Ricky B can do the math, man. Those halfsies only add up to a C-note. Ricky B don’t get outta bed for less than five.”
“Good thing Ricky B’s already out of bed.”
“You a funny dude. Ricky B likes you, man. In spite of who you be.”
“You’ll never know how happy that makes me. Now let’s get back to Francis Hoyt.”
I went into my pocket and dug out the five half twenties. I handed two of them to Ricky.
“You’re halfway home, my friend.”
He stared at them, as if to make sure they were real, then jammed them into his pocket.
“Hey, man, I tape these halfsies together they gonna take ’em anywheres? I mean they kinda look like they be destroyed. And ain’t it against the law to what you call, deface, yeah that’s it, deface US money.”
“Money’s money, Ricky. Bring them to a bank. Tell them you accidentally cut them in half when you were opening a letter. They’ll make good on them.”
“Dat for true?”
“Yes, dat’s for true.”
Manny, his arms still crossed over his chest, a solemn expression still on his face, took a step closer to Ricky. It was a smart, subtle move announcing to Ricky that we wanted to get down to business, that we wanted answers and we wanted them quick.
I showed him the photo again.
“Yeah, that be the man, all right. Francis Hoyt.”
“We know who it is, Ricky. We just want to know what you know about his whereabouts. I take it he’s used your services in the past.”
“Yeah. Lotsa people gots my number, man. Now you gots my number, too. So, what?”
“When was the last time he used it?”
“It be a while.”
“How much of a while?”
He scratched his head. He was stalling. Manny took a step closer.
“Hey, man, whatchoo doin’? You be crowding me.”
“We’ll both get out of your way as soon as you tell us what we need to know.”
“I gets lotsa calls. That’s what my business is all about. I’m in the people business, y’understand?”
“I’m glad you brought up business, Ricky, and I’m glad it seems to be going well for you. But you know, with one phone call to the right people I can change all that.”
“What you mean?” he asked defiantly, sticking his jaw out.
“Even though I’m not working for the state anymore I’ve still got plenty of friends in law enforcement. You don’t work a job for twenty-five years without being owed a few favors. I don’t ask for favors very often but when I do people seem to want to honor them. You see where I’m going with this?”
He nervously stroked his chin. “Maybe.”
“I’m gonna ask you one more time and if I don’t get the kind of answer I think I ought to get, me and my partner are going to turn around and walk away. And you know what I’m gonna do after that?”
“What?”
“I’m gonna get on my cell and I’m gonna make a call. And that call is going to be life altering, Ricky. Not for me but for you.”
“I think I sees what you mean.”
“I thought you would.”
“I mighta got a call from him maybe a week or so ago.”
“And what might have transpired as a result of that call?”
“You mean what did we talk about?”
“Yeah, Ricky, that’s what I mean. What did you talk about?”
“You know, things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Like the weather and like that shit.”
“Did you introduce him to a new friend, by any chance?”
“I mighta done that.”
“She from around here?”
“It mighta been around here.”
“You mean like around where this playground is?”
“Not exactly around here, but kinda like in the vicinity.”
“Let’s get a little more specific,” I said, pulling out the remaining three halfsies.
“I think maybe it was like Norwalk.”
“Now when you send him a new friend you have to give that friend an address, don’t you?”
“How else they gonna get together?”
“So, what was the address?”
“You expect me to remember something like that, the busy man that I be?”
“You’re a businessman. Either you write it down or you keep it up here,” I tapped my temple.
“It was maybe some motel up around there. I don’t remember exactly which one. There be a lot of ’em up that ways.”
“Maybe your friend remembers.”
“She might, only she not be my friend anymore. Friends come and go in the line of work I’m in, if you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean,
Ricky.”
Manny was shifting his weight back and forth. He knew we’d come to the end of the line.
I handed Ricky B the rest of the halfsies. I took out my wallet, pulled out a fifty and waved it in front of him.
“This is a retainer, an advance on future services. I’m gonna give this to you, Ricky, and because I do you’re going to be beholden to me to call me if you hear anything at all about Francis Hoyt or about this friend you sent him. You hear what I’m saying, Ricky?”
He reached for it. I pulled it away.
“I want to hear you say it because when you do in the eyes of the law we have a contract. Manny is a witness to this transaction. And if I find out you’ve breached this contract, Ricky, I’m going to bring down the wrath of Charlie Floyd on you. That’s not something you want to experience.”
I handed him the fifty and he quickly stuffed it in his pocket.
“You just signed the contract, Ricky, so I’m counting on you to keep your end of it.”
“I am very impressed, Charlie Floyd,” Manny said as we got back into the car.
“Well, thank you, Manny. I’m sure if you did it you’d get the same result.”
“Perhaps, but I do not think I would have been half as amusing. So now we know that Francis Hoyt is most likely in Connecticut, or at least he has been recently.”
“It’s a start. But until we get something solid, he could be anywhere.”
Francis Hoyt
If you’re looking for a fight, the best place, other than prison where the trick is to avoid them as much as you can, is a bar. Low-class, blue-collar bars are best, but any bar will do.
I don’t drink anymore but I been around drunks long enough to know how they act. I had a pretty good role model in my old man. It didn’t take much to get him started and once he did the only way he stopped was when he fucking passed out. First my mom then me, when I got old enough, had to collect him from whatever bar he was at, which meant any bar he hadn’t already been thrown out of and banned from coming back. I dreaded those calls but when they came I did what I was supposed to do: I got my ass over there and dragged the sonuvabitch back home where, if he had anything left in him, he’d whack me around for pulling him away before he drank enough to pass out again.
He got into plenty of fights and most of them he lost. He’d come home, his face all bloodied, his eyes half-closed, and he’d tell us he fell down. He fell down a lot. Maybe he shoulda been a little more careful.
I vowed that would never happen to me. Get drunk or lose a fight.
Newark, New Jersey seemed to be as good a place as any. I picked one of those anonymous working-class, Irish bars figuring it wouldn’t be too hard to find the right patsy there.
It was the middle of the week, Wednesday, late, maybe a little after eleven, when only the serious drinkers were left. There were maybe ten, fifteen people in the joint, mostly guys. Most of them paying attention to the glass in front of them. When it got close to empty, they motioned the bartender for another.
I sat at the end of the bar and ordered vodka and a glass of water. Like I said, I don’t drink, but this time I kinda made an exception. I nursed the vodka, every so often adding a little water so the drink always appeared to be full. When the water glass was empty enough and when I was sure no one was looking, I’d pour the vodka into the water glass and order another vodka. By the time it appeared as if I’d had three or four drinks under my belt I forced myself into a conversation with a burly dude who had a tough time reaching over his enormous belly to grab his beer. He had me by about a hundred pounds and six or seven inches, but that made him perfect for what I had in mind.
When someone’s already three sheets to the wind it don’t take much to get him into an argument. If he’s the right kind of drunk, the guy who’s having trouble at his job, or his wife don’t understand him, or his kids are the devil’s spawn, or he’s just plain pissed at the world, he’s got so much anger welling up inside he’s looking for an excuse, any excuse, to blow.
He didn’t know it, but I was about to give this sucker that chance.
I know exactly what to say to and how far to go to provoke someone into hauling off and throwing a punch. And I’m quick enough to see it coming, dodge it, then throw my own punch so I’m the one who makes first contact. Not that I can’t take a punch. Just back away from it, while at the same time moving slightly to one side or the other. Even if he connects, it’ll be a glancing blow and he’ll be off-balance and he’ll fall forward. Once that punch is thrown the other guy leaves himself wide open and you give it to him. Pop. Pop. Pop.
“What the hell did you say?” he slurred.
“Are you fucking deaf, you moron?” in a voice close to a whisper. “You want me to say it again, asshole? Okay. Try to read my lips, if you can fuckin’ read. This fuckin’ state sucks. Your governor sucks. Your football team sucks. Your state stinks like an outhouse. Did you fucking hear that? Or maybe you’d like it in sign language?”
He telegraphed his punch and I let his fist graze the side of my cheek. Then, while he was still off-balance, my right connected with his nose. I heard the crunch and felt bone when I quick hit him with another shot flush on the upper cheek. Surprisingly, he didn’t go down, but he did sag heavily against the bar. One more punch and he would have kissed the floor, but I wanted him to throw another before I did. It took him a couple seconds to get over the shock of being slugged by someone small as me, but I had plenty of time. Finally, he threw another and this one was wilder than the first. I shifted to my left and watched as it passed by me. I could have done some serious damage, but I didn’t want to hurt the guy too bad. I didn’t have anything against him. I just wanted him to go down. One more blow should do it, this one to his kidney. I heard a whooshing sound, like when the air is let out of a balloon. He grunted then went down. You could hear the thump when he hit the floor.
It was all over in less than a minute. Next thing I knew, someone was pulling me away and the bartender, waving a baseball bat he’d gotten from under the bar, was yelling something. I looked up to the end of the bar where I knew the surveillance camera would be and smiled, then let myself go limp.
I heard someone yell, “I called the cops.”
“You saw it,” I said to the bartender. “He threw the first punch. I was just defending myself.”
The bartender, a panicky look on his face—probably worried that any trouble with the cops might get him closed down—nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what the hell happened but yeah, he threw the first punch, all right.”
Mission accomplished.
Manny Perez
The day I was suspended from the Miami Police Department I became a hero in the eyes of my fellow police officers many of whom silently and not so silently cheered what I had done. I was both honored and embarrassed by this show of support from my brothers in blue, and yet it only magnified the shame I felt.
I had done the wrong thing, even if it was for the right reason, and I deserved to be punished for it. And so, I did not object to what I believed was the harshness of my punishment nor did I request the union to appeal my case.
And yet, I was forced to listen to several of my less sensitive colleagues mock me.
“Hey, Perez, I hear you let some hundred-pound punk get the best of you. Maybe we ought to assign you to the kindergarten beat where you can kick some serious ass.”
I know that it was all meant in the spirit of good fun, and yet I would be lying if I did not admit that the words of some of my colleagues stung deeply. I am a proud man and I was deeply ashamed of what I had done. I knew that by engaging in foolish and selfish behavior I might have seriously compromised a case against this master criminal. It was possible that my irresponsible action might have resulted in prolonging Francis Hoyt’s reign of terror.
It was at that moment I swore to myself I would hunt down Francis Hoyt, no matter how long it might take me. I would do what no other law enforcement member has ever done: produce
evidence of his crimes that would result in sending him to prison for a very long time.
I told only one of my fellow officers what I had planned. This was my former partner, David Chung, a first-generation Chinese police detective who feels the same way about America as I do. He promised to help me all he could by keeping me abreast of any information that might come in. And so, when I received a phone call from him, I knew it had to mean that he had some important information about Francis Hoyt.
“Something came in over the wire this morning I thought might interest you, Manny. It’s from the Newark, New Jersey police department and it’s about your boy, Francis Hoyt.”
“What is it?” I asked eagerly, as I sat on the back porch of the house owned by Charlie Floyd. He was inside preparing dinner, and I was reading the notes I had taken on the likely periodicals Francis Hoyt had access to when he visited the Society Library. Looking for some kind of pattern in terms of location, I catalogued every article in terms of wealth and geography.
“Just an alert that Hoyt had been detained as a result of a little fracas in a Newark bar the other night. It went out to departments across the country that have expressed interest in our boy.”
“Did you, by chance, get any details?”
“Sure did. Soon as Hoyt’s name popped up, I gave them a call. Seems he was in a local dive and somewhere around midnight he got into an altercation with another patron. It didn’t last long. A few punches and it was over. When it was, Hoyt was the one standing, the other guy wasn’t. Broken cheekbone, broken nose. Someone called the cops, but no arrests. The whole thing was on video. I had them email me a copy of the video and it showed your boy Hoyt didn’t throw the first punch. So, it was self-defense. But, man, he sure as hell messed up the other guy who, by the way, looked like he was twice Hoyt’s size.”
Second Story Man Page 15