by David Archer
“I don’t think she’s any the wiser,” Frank said.
“In a coupla minutes, I’ll ask her to help me with the horse’s ovaries [hors d’oeuvres] and see what she has to say.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“By the way, where’s Biggie? You did invite him, didn’t you?”
“Course I did. Turns out, he and his wife had tickets for a show. Said they’d be by around ten or ten thirty. Why, were you hoping to rhumba with him?”
“Ha! And they say the husband is always the last to know! No, I was just curious, that’s all.”
“Well, like I said, he should be by.”
After a few more dances, during most of which Sean had managed to reunite with Arlene, the two of them took a break.
“I’m going to the bar,” he told her. “Can I get you anything?”
“Yes, that would be nice. I think I’ll stick with rum and coke.”
“You got it. Back in a flash.”
“What kin ah git for ye, mon?” Rasta Pete beamed as Sean arrived at the bar.
“Scotch rocks and a Cuba libre.”
“Okay, I kin do de scotch, mon, but what is Cuba libre?”
“Really, you don’t know? It’s rum and Coke.”
“Oh, sure, now I know. I make one for dat lady you been dancing; wit’. Comin’ right up.”
“Muchas gracias, señor,” Sean said after Pete produced the drinks.
“What choo talkin’ dere, Japanese?” Pete asked with a shrug of his shoulders. “Me only speekee de king’s English.”
“Sorry, buddy, my mistake. Here. ya go,” Sean responded as he slipped the barkeep a five. Perhaps a bit more than he had intended to tip before his insensitive remark.
As promised, Biggie and Helene Hilton arrived at twenty past ten, in excellent spirits. That changed in a big hurry, once Detective Hilton made it to the bar.
“YOU!” he raged, as he grabbed the bartender by the lapels. “I been lookin’ for you, you son of a bitch!”
“Hey, mon, what’s the problem? I’m the man wit’ the plan, remember?”
“You got a plan all right. Rippin’ off that dope like you did. You didn’t just steal from the police, you corrupted evidence. You know what that means? It means we hadda throw the case out. I can’t prove you stole a pound of marijuana right under my nose, but I damn-well know you did. Guess what, fool, you off the payroll. Fact, I got a big-ass old machete back in my basement; sharp as a razor too. I swear ta God, I’m gonna dig that sucker out and take it everywhere I go. I even see your smiley-ass face again, your head gonna roll down the street. You got that punk?” Turning to his wife, he added, “Come on, darlin’, we outa here!” Mind you, the one-sided conversation Biggie had with Rasta Pete was no quiet encounter. Everyone in the room heard every word. Biggie was in no mood for sotto voice.
“Lordy sweet Jesus,” Frank sighed. “Can’t we just once throw a party without something going haywire?”
Chapter 7
“Two bucks,” Stan announced, as he threw in a five-dollar bill and took out three ones. It was the maximum bet he could make. “Time to knock out the bullshitters,” he added. He and Frank and four other cops were engaging in a low-stakes poker game in the precinct supply room. They were off the clock, so no one seemed to mind. It was dealer’s choice, and this particular hand was a nasty exercise in tension known as five-card stud…lowball. Get painted once, and there was no place to sluff that face-card off. It was like virtual Russian roulette.
Going into fifth street, Frank was holding a seven-high, with the seven one of his show cards. His hole card was a nice, polite deuce of clubs. Then on his fifth card, he caught a nine—not really a paint, but probably not a card you wanted, looking at that other hand. Stan was showing two, three, four six. Frank hated these situations, where he would either have to waste two perfectly good dollars or wonder if he had been bluffed out of a nice pot. The other players had bet heavily in the early rounds before three of them either got paired up or stuck with a high card.
Then he remembered what Ernie had taught him about spotting a tell, not only in a card game, but an interrogation room. It could be the simplest thing, but you had to keep your eyes and ears open. If Stan had an ace (a one in this game) or a seven, eight or nine, he had the winner, so it was only natural he would bet the maximum. But why would you want to knock anyone out, bullshitters or not? If you have a lock and you know it, you want everyone still in the game to stay in the game.
“Raise you two,” Frank said when his turn came around. Stan looked at him as though Frank had just slapped him in the face with a wet mop. Then, trying to manufacture his craftiest smile he raised two dollars more.
“I can keep this up all night,” Stan assured his opponent.
“Good, then let’s do that. Two back atcha.”
“Aw, FUCK!” Stan shouted as he threw his up cards down on top of that king he had been hiding in the hole.
“Speaking of which,” added Debbie Hickerson, the only woman in the game, how do you get a dozen old ladies to say’fuck’ at the same time?”
“Okay, how?” Frank asked her.
“Just shout ‘BINGO!’”
“Pass me the entertainment section, okay?” Sadie Mueller asked her sister. Arlene often went with Sadie and Frank back to their place for a leisurely breakfast after Mass. To make up for their buying the groceries, she did the cooking.
“See anything you like?” Arlene asked her sister after a few minutes.
“Maybe. At least I see something interesting. Seems that West Side Story is playing out in Bala Cynwyd. I remember you tried to see that show once, without success, a long time ago. Ever get around to seeing a production?”
“Just the movie, like everyone else. To think, I once dated that creep. Ugh! It gives me the willies just to think about it.”
“Come on now, he’s not all that bad looking, is he?” Frank asked her.
“Oh, so now you’re sticking up for him!” Arlene stormed.
“Definitely not. The guy’s a first-class jerk. I’m just saying, it’s not like he’s an ogre or something.”
“So anyway,” Sadie asked, “ya wanna go see it? It’ll still be playing this coming Friday night, if you’re interested.”
“I suppose,” Arlene said. “Only thing is, I get tired of being the third wheel.”
“Okay, so how about we ask that guy you met at the party?” Frank suggested. “Then you could be the fourth wheel.”
“What ever happened with that anyway?” Sadie wanted to know. “Did he ever get around to calling you?”
“Yeah, he did and we talked for a while. He’s a really bright guy and not too bad looking either.”
“Okay, bright, handsome, now what about asking you out? Did he?”
“He said he would like to, but he had to take a business trip overseas for a few days. I kinda wonder why an accountant for the Department of Agriculture has to leave the country.”
“Who knows what goes on in that vast bureaucracy,” Frank said with a shrug. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they sent a guy from Civil Service on the next space shot.”
“Too bad he’s out of town,” Sadie said.
“Actually, according to what he told me, he’ll be back in Plymouth Meeting Tuesday,” Arlene pointed out. “On the other hand, I don’t want to seem so needy, you know, being the one who asks for the date—especially a first date. I like the guy OK, but there’s just something about him I’m not quite sure of. Until I get that ironed out, I don’t want to seem too eager.”
“Fine, so let your sister play the role of the pushy Jewish matchmaker. I’ll give him a call when he gets back. It’s not like I’m setting you up on a blind date. You already know the guy, right?”
“Oh, why the hell not. I just hope there won’t be any bad surprises, like the last time I went to that show.”
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Sweetie. He seems like he’s a decent enough guy.”
; “At least on that score,” Frank added.
Sean Higgins still called his friends in the Coral Gables office from time to time. He was glad they had killed Diaz, of course, but Diaz had been the mastermind. There was almost certainly no blood on his hands—and least not the blood of the people Agent Higgins was supposed to keep safe. The actual killer or killers were still at large. Sean desperately wanted whoever it was to be dead—and by his hand, if that were at all possible. On the other hand, he knew that was not very likely to happen, what with him exiled to Pennsylvania, while all the action was happening in Florida. That said, Sean still kept his ears open.
Finally he hit the jackpot. His buddy informed him in a secure conversation, pay-phone to pay-phone, that they had found Diaz’ filing cabinet, hidden in the back office of a ramshackle pizza parlor. After a good deal of searching, checking and double-checking, they were pretty sure they had the name of the killer: Enrique Valdivielso. It seemed pretty certain he had done all three of the murders and a good many others besides. Apparently he was the top gun in Diaz’ arsenal.
The Coral Gables agents pressed the people they had detained from the pizza place and learned that most of them were D.G.I. They got a good deal of other useful information, but not an exact location for Valdivielso. The captured spies swore that Valdivielso had fled the country, shortly after the Vasquez killing, and they were certain it had not been to Cuba. Rosalita, the youngest waitress/agent went so far as to tell her captors in private that the guy had probably run off to Jamaica.
Sean’s contact—a good friend, who knew how badly his exiled buddy wanted this, volunteered a little extra information that had not been part of the inquiry, but that they had known about Diaz, without quite putting the pieces together. It was widely believed that D.G.I. through Diaz ran a safe house in Negril, largely for its agents operating in Los Estatos Unitos. As the cherry on the sundae, there had been a snapshot of a thin, bearded man, believed to be Valdivielso. The guy said he’d send a photocopy to Sean, first chance he got.
Sean studied the picture for a long time, trying to imagine the guy with or without a beard. It was not the clearest picture he might have hoped for, but at least it was something. As he thought back over his years in the Coral Gables office, he felt almost positive he had seen the guy before, but he could not pin down where or when. Maybe he’d have better luck when he took a week’s vacation in the sunny Caribbean.
As Biggie Hilton stood at the urinal, finishing up, he sensed a presence behind him—a presence intent on nothing more than staring at him. Hilton quickly turned around without even zipping up and saw he was right. His eyes flashed with rage.
“Hey, I come in peace, mon. No kill me, OK?” Rasta Pete whined.
“You got some nerve, boy, comin’ after me in my own station. How about I take my gun off and we get right to it, hand-to-hand.”
“Please, look, I don’ want no trouble. Fact is, I come to help you. You call a truce, and I’ll give you dat stuff about Johnson. I found out plenty. You still lookin’ for him?”
“Okay, I’ll listen to what you have to say, but you’re not getting’ one thin dime outa me, no matter how good it is. Tell you what, punk: you wanna get back in good with me, you work for free to the end of the year. When I say jump, you say how high, not how much, got it?”
“Yeah, sure, mon, dat’s OK wit me. Now lemmie tellya what I found out…”
It turned out Ivan probably never left the country. Pete had tracked Johnson’s mother down in Wilmington. After listening to her go on and on about her good friend, Mr. Bob Marley (who she had probably met once, if even that), Pete managed to steer the conversation to Ivan.
“Tell you da troot’, I’m worried. Boy said he was comin’ to see me a while ago, den he never show up. No call, no card, nothin’. Talk about you rude boys.”
“Do you think he went back to Kingston?”
“What back to Kingston? We no from dere, mon. All my boys born right here in da U.S. Ivan, he don’ even got a passport, I bet.”
Once Pete had finished laying out his whole story, he looked at the frowning detective hopefully.
“Pretty hot stuff, huh?”
“Maybe it is maybe it isn’t, but you already been paid all you’re gonna get.”
“Dat’s OK,” Pete grinned, although he had been hoping for at least a little bit of cash. “Long as you don’ cut my head off, I’m happy.”
“Aw, shit, you think I’d really keep a machete in the house with two rambunctious boys raisin’ Hell, day and night? Naw, that was just me blowin’ off steam, but, you know, if we hadn’t been out in public, I mighta kicked your ass all up and down the street.”
This fool thinks he can take me, Pete was thinking as he grinned and said, “Hey, no need to kick mah ass. I be a good boy from now on.”
“Well, now, how did we all like the show? Sadie asked as they were enjoying dessert and coffee after the performance.
“I liked it a lot, Arlene said. “The guy who played Tony was a real dream—um I mean good actor and Maria was almost as pretty as Natalie Wood in the movie. Didn’t sing quite as well, though.”
“You do know that Natalie Wood was just moving her lips to all those numbers, don’t you?. Someone else with a better voice did the actual singing,” Frank pointed out.
“Still, it’s a good show,” Arlene said.
“Remember what Mom said when we went to see the movie?” Sadie asked her.
“Yeah,” Arlene replied with a laugh. “Here is this beautiful, tragic love story—they say it was an update of Romeo and Juliet—and on the way home all Mom could say, God love her, was ‘Well, I see they didn’t say anything about the colored gangs. They’re just as bad, you know.’”
“Say, Frank, Arlene tells me you’re one of Philadelphia’s finest,” Sean cut in. “What’s it like being a cop?”
“Frank is a detective,” Sadie was quick to point out.
“Still I bet it’s dangerous work,” Sean added. “You ever kill anyone?”
“No, have you?” At that, Sean blinked twice, hard and fast, then broke into a smile.
“Oh, sure, we accountants kill people all the time. Usually six or seven before breakfast. No, seriously, my life is debits and credits, not guns and ammo.”
After a little more amiable chit-chat, Sadie and Frank left enough to cover their share of the tab and tip and headed home, to give the remaining couple as much alone time as they wanted.
Later, just before they were getting ready to turn off the light and go to sleep Sadie happened to observe that this Higgins fellow may just turn out to be Mr. Right…what do you think, Honey?
“Keep this to yourself, at least for now. If that guy isn’t a stone-cold killer, then I’m Tiny Tim.”
Chapter 8
“Lovely evenin’, Miss Sonya. How’s tricks?” the big detective grinned.
“I suppose you think you bein’ funny,” the prostitute replied. “You here to bust my chops? Shit, man, I just got outa jail. Can’t a girl catch a break?”
“Relax, Sistah, I’m not here to run you in. I just felt like havin’ a pleasant conversation with a lovely lady. Now isn’t that better than a hot, sweaty hump in a cheap hotel?”
“I ain’t much good with small talk.”
“Okay, then, let’s talk about big stuff. I’m trying to find something out about the Lehigh Avenue Rude Boys. Word I got was your cellmate liked to hang with them.”
“Yeah, that’s what she says. They had her in for embezzlement, but she was all, like, one time the Rude boys had her and a couple of girlfriends beat some faggot to death.”
“She say this happened here in Philly or somewhere else? Reason I’m asking is I haven’t heard any cases recently of a gay man getting beaten to death.”
“This bitch said they beat the faggot to death and dropped him in the river. Also, I don’t think the guy was one a them fancy-ass queens. Said he was some Jamaican punk who tried to rat out the Rude Boys. She did say his name o
nce, but I forgot, ‘cept I remember he had a Russian first name, like me, but he weren’t no more Russian than I am.”
“You believe her?” Biggie asked the lady.
“Naw, she just tryin’ to pass herself off as street. I dunno. maybe she coulda done it, but that don’t matter none to me. Point is, I’m back out and she’s still in.”
“You’re probably right. Still, I wonder, you remember the name of this lyin. bitch?”
Biggie had cleared his schedule to visit Miss Twanda Richardson, convicted embezzler and imagined murderess, at her place of incarceration. He was in the process of clearing his schedule, when his intercom rang.
“Hilton here,” he answered.”
“Yes, Detective Hilton, you are wanted in the Captain’s office,” Captain Grimes’ secretary informed him. “Do hurry, please. The Captain says this is most important.”
“Sit down, Detective Hilton. Thank you for getting here so soon. As you know, I hate to be kept waiting.”
Yes, sir, I am well aware. Now what can I do for you? Is this something you need to see my partner about too?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. Let’s start with you, OK? Tell me, what do you know about Peter Tosh?”
“Um, well, he’s a very successful singer. In fact I have a couple of Wailers albums, you know, back when he and Marley used to work together.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” the newly-promoted captain snapped. “I didn’t call you in to chat about some damn musician. I mean your guy, Peter Tosh.”
“You got me at a disadvantage, Sir. Only guy I know named Peter is my informant—you know—Rasta Pete.”
“Yeah, him. You didn’t know his full name? Sounds like sloppy police work if you ask me.”
“Well, we always kept things off the cuff—sort of cash and carry. Anyway what’s that damn fool done this time? If it was somethin’ crazy, you gotta believe, I didn’t tell him to do it.”