The Downtown Deal

by Mike Dennis

  Cranking it up, I turned on the radio, looking for the World Series game. As I flew out of the parking lot, I didn't know what station it would be on, or even if it would be on AM or FM. I guessed AM. Sweeping the dial, I couldn't find it. I figured I went too fast, maybe sliding right over it, so I made a second pass, only more slowly.

  Finally, by the time I got halfway to Martine's, I found it. Weak reception, but it was there. The Yankees had two men on and nobody out.

  One out later, I swung into Martine's parking lot. A Yankee pinch hitter smacked a two-run triple, tying the game, just as I pulled into the spot outside her apartment. I debated whether to sit there and listen to the next batter. Shit, I really wanted to hear at least the end of this inning, you know? But I had more pressing business inside.

  I approached her door. It was the same as with Colby Farrow's, forced open. I peeked inside and called her name. She came running from the other room into my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. I pushed the door into a somewhat closed position with my foot, then tried my best to console her, while taking a good look around.

  Just like with all the others, everything was in a state of ruin. Things thrown around on the floor, broken, cut, spilled, smashed — I was getting deadened to this repeated scene.

  "Who could've done this?" she cried. "They didn't even take anything!" She returned to my shoulder to continue shedding her tears.

  "Come on," I said. "Come on over to the couch. Let's sit down."

  We picked up the torn cushions from the floor, putting them back on the sofa frame, torn side down so we could sit on them. After a few more minutes of sobbing, she wound down to merely sniffling, as I took her hand in mine.

  I said, "Martine, this is only the latest in a series of similar break-ins involving people connected to the murder victims."

  "What?"

  "I mean that John Brendan Blake's house, Sandra Blake's house, and Colby Farrow's Turnberry condominium have all been ransacked in exactly the same manner as yours. Ryan Farrow's home was lightly gone over right after he was killed, but I suspect they've returned to do a more thorough kind of a job on it, like this." I indicated the wreckage in her apartment.

  "What? Why? What's going on? Who's doing this?"

  "I think I know who's doing it, but I'm more certain as to why they're doing it." Her tear-dimmed eyes were looking out at me, wide and innocent, from her milky complexion. I just wanted to hug her tight. But instead, I continued, "I believe a guy named Hector Olivera is behind these break-ins, and I believe he's looking for that case of wine I asked you about."

  "Wine? Why would he think I would have it?"

  "Because he thinks I took it from Sandra's house and hid it here, so he couldn't get hold of it."

  "But … but how does he even know who I am? How does he know to wreck my apartment?"

  "He's probably been having me tailed. That's my guess. It's really the only way he could know about you. I might add, I thought he would target me next. I never had any idea he'd come after you."

  I finally gave in to the urge to hug her. She came right at me and returned it.

  The knock at the door snapped us back to reality. Martine got up from the couch as Madden pushed the door open. Bolino was not with him. He wasn't surprised to see me.

  "Jack," he said in a grim greeting.

  "Frank, look at this. Just like the others. When are you going to nail that son of a bitch? How many more of these does he have to do?"

  "Now, take it easy, Jack. You know there's nothing I can do right now. There's no evidence that he was involved in any of these, even though we both know that he was."

  "Shit, this isn't right! She had nothing to do with this. He just thinks I'm stashing the damn wine over here. He'll tear up the whole goddam city if he thinks he can find it."

  "He's not gonna tear up the city." He put a big, cool hand on my shoulder as a means of calming me down. "Now let me get the information I need here. Go on over there and take a seat, okay?" I returned to my seat on the couch, wanting to turn on the baseball game, but knowing it wouldn't be a good idea right then.

  He turned to Martine and showed her his badge. She was actually a little more together than I was at this point. "Miss Devereaux? I'm Detective Madden, Homicide. We met the day after Sandra Blake's murder." Martine nodded her recognition. "When did you discover this?" He began writing in his little notebook.

  They talked awhile, Madden asking the questions, Martine answering them. Soon Madden said, "Miss Devereaux, I'll need to see your ID again if I could, please. Just to get the information I need for this incident. Full name, spelling, correct address, and so on."

  Martine looked around for her purse. It was by the couch, at my feet. "Here it is," I said, and I reached in to retrieve her wallet.

  I walked over to where they were standing and handed it to her. She pulled her driver's license out, then gave it to Madden. He took down the data.

  As he returned the license to her, she handed the license and the wallet to me, so I could return them to her purse. On my way back to the sofa, I glimpsed the license and saw something I didn't want to see. I looked at it for a moment, swallowed hard, then shoved it back into the wallet, burying the wallet deep inside the purse. What I really wanted to do was bury the last ten seconds deep in a fucking hole somewhere. I didn't want to think about it, but I knew I would have to sooner or later. Not tonight, though.

  Madden stayed a little while longer, walking around, examining everything, going through the motions. Eventually, he finished up, then left. I took Martine to bed, where she fell asleep almost immediately.

  I laid awake most of the night. I didn't find out who won the game until the next morning.

  29

  Upon arising, I helped Martine straighten out her place. She was still very upset. Shit, who could blame her?

  Fearful, she begged me to stay, but I assured her the burglars wouldn't be back. It was the wine they were after, not her, I told her. I gave her all of Blake's money that I had with me, about five hundred, to get her door fixed. Then I let her know I would give her more to help replace her ruined furniture. Finally, I put on my jacket and got the hell out of there.

  On the way home, I heard on the radio that the Marlins had won the game, 4-3 in twelve innings, on a walk-off home run. In doing so, they had tied the Series at two games apiece, with game five set for tonight. If the Yankees won that one, they headed back to New York for two games, needing to win only one of them.

  I spent the better part of the day going over every last detail of this whole affair, arranging it in my mind, sorting out the people involved, remembering who said what, and when they said it. After I thought I had things in order, I went to the computer, going back over all my research on Blake, Olivera, the Marlins, everyone.

  I didn't exactly have a crisp picture yet, but the fog was starting to lift.

  Late in the afternoon, the World Series came on, so I watched it. I purposely refrained from drinking any Scotch, however, because I wanted to play poker afterward. It's never a good idea to play poker if you have alcohol in your system, even one drink.

  Good ideas aside, I was really tempted to break out the Dalmore. From the second inning on, the Marlins were in complete control of things. At one point in the game, they led 6-1, while their pitching shut down the Yankee bats. The Marlins eventually won, 6-4, but the game wasn't nearly as close as the score indicated.

  Now, after taking Friday off, they were leading the World Series, three games to two, and were scheduled to play game six in New York on Saturday. The Yankees, with their backs to the wall, needed to win two in a row at home. I could visualize my eleven hundred dollars that I had bet on the Series floating off into the fog.

  Following the game, I drove straight to Binion's. There was an open seat in the game I wanted, so I took it. I played till around two AM, winning a little over four hundred. Because of what Fong did to me the last time I played, however, I tended to avoid getting involved with him
in most hands.

  That's the way it is in poker. Sometimes a player just gets your number, and you hear his footsteps for a long time. Maybe a lot of it was in my own head, but I knew it would be awhile before I felt comfortable challenging Fong again in a major pot.

  ≈≈≈

  The next day, around noon, I drove to the Palms. Making my way across the odd-shaped casino floor, I headed straight for the movie theater complex, located in the rear. I approached the ticket taker, a kid around twenty years old, whose name badge read "Jared". I showed him one of the photos I had of Martine at Hoover Dam, somewhat of a close-up, and asked if he'd ever seen her.

  "It would've been about two weeks ago," I said, giving him the day and exact date. "She was here to see American Wedding. It would've been an evening show."

  He didn't look at the photo right away. Instead, he looked at me, saying, "Two weeks, man. That's a long time. I was working day shift then, but I don't know …"

  I put the photo in front of him. "Just have a look, Jared. And please, try to remember."

  He took it, gazing at it for a minute. Then: "Yeah, wait a minute. I remember her. With the dark brown hair and real white complexion. Yeah. She was, like, old, but kind of hot … in a way."

  "You're sure. She was here."

  "Positive, man. I remember that ultra-white skin, you know? Plus, it was a weekday afternoon first show, so there weren't too many people here. Hers was one of the only tickets I tore for American Wedding. You know, everybody wants to see Pirates Of The Caribbean. That's the one that's, like, a monster hit movie right now."

  I pulled out my money clip, sliding a hundred off the top. I gave it to the kid, and you'd've thought I just gave him a new car. He thanked me over and over, even as I walked away.

  ≈≈≈

  I took a small roundabout detour, making sure I wasn't being tailed, and swung past Ronnie Wills' apartment on the way home. He was still at work, so I just got out of the car and went up to his front door. I pushed on it. It was locked. Thankfully, Olivera hadn't found this place yet. I headed home, stopping off at the liquor store for a fresh bottle of Dalmore.

  When I arrived at my apartment, I parked around back of the other building in our complex, to make it look like I was out. Inside, I retrieved my .357 from the dresser drawer in my bedroom. This time, I strapped on the shoulder rig. I jacked a cartridge into the chamber, put two extra full magazines in my shirt pocket, just as I did the other night, then slid the weapon into the holster, as I went back into the living room to watch TV. And wait.

  30

  I didn't want to leave, so I ordered out for pizza around eight-thirty. ESPN was showing Baseball Tonight, zeroing in on the unfolding World Series drama.

  According to all the "experts", the announcers said, the Marlins weren't even supposed to make the playoffs, much less be one win away from a World Series championship. They hashed it out among themselves, as well as numerous guest "experts", all of whom were slowly coming to the realization that these nobodies from Miami might actually win the whole enchilada.

  While all of this hand-wringing was going on, the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was the pizza.

  I opened the door and it crashed hard into my jaw, sending me reeling backward onto the floor. Two of them charged in, both wearing topcoats, the one in front tossing the pizza box aside, the other one showing a semiautomatic pistol.

  From my prone position, I pulled my weapon from its holster, firing off two rounds. They both found their target, hitting the first one to charge in the door. One round went through his neck, while the other hit him squarely in the face. Pieces of his skull and brain sprayed all over his partner, as he fell backward into him.

  I scrambled to my feet, but the partner managed to get a shot off — it was a muffled pop, fired through a silencer — hitting me in my left shoulder, knocking me back into the divider that separates my living room from the kitchen. On the impact, my gun flew out of my hand, landing behind me, or under me, or somewhere that I couldn't see. I dove to the floor for it, the pain shooting through my entire body. As I got my left hand on it, he had finally shoved his comrade's corpse to the floor, then moved across the room toward me with the business end of his weapon looking right through me.

  Because my shoulder felt like it was on fire, my hand couldn't grip the gun properly. Instead, I saw my dinette chairs on the other side of me. It was an outside chance, but right then, that was the only kind I had. I grabbed a chair leg with my right hand and flung it at him. It hit him around waist-high, making him stumble momentarily, but it didn't stop him. I tried to transfer the .357 to my right hand, but I didn't know if I could do it in time.

  Suddenly, I heard two muffled spits. My assailant's gun fell to the floor, and his head jerked upward. Two exit wounds in his chest spewed blood in all directions. He groaned once, then collapsed to the carpet, the look of death painted permanently on his olive face.

  I looked beyond him to the doorway. No-Sleeve Steve and Julius stood just inside, smoke trailing out of the barrel of No-Sleeve Steve's large, silenced semiauto. It looked like a nine millimeter. They shut the door behind them while they took stock of the situation.

  Both about twenty-five, both with shaved heads, and both solidly built, they were Blake's two-man security service. Julius checked out the two attackers to make sure they were dead, while No-Sleeve Steve came over to me.

  "You all right?" he asked in a surprisingly soft voice, which didn't match his thick-necked, muscular image at all. It was the first time I ever heard him speak. He holstered his large weapon inside his sport coat.

  I struggled to my feet. "I'm — I'm hit in the shoulder. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I think I'll be all right. What are you guys doing here, anyway? Talk about being in the right place at the right time."

  "Mr Blake told us to watch out for you, starting yesterday. We followed you down to Binion's last night, then followed you home. We stayed outside till just before sunup. Then, we came back this afternoon, and parked outside here until we saw you come home from someplace. We noticed you parked around behind the other building, so we thought something might be going down." He led me to the sofa and gently sat me on it. "We sat out there until just a few minutes ago, when we saw the pizza delivery boy walk up to your door. These two jumped him, pistol-whipping him till he went down. They took the pizza and rang your doorbell. We were parked way across the lot or we'd've been here sooner."

  Julius spoke. "They're both dead, Steve. Hispanics, with Miami ID. Olivera's men for sure."

  "Okay," No-Sleeve Steve said. "Call Mr Blake."

  Julius took his cell phone from his pocket and punched up the number.

  No-Sleeve Steve turned back to me. As he did, he stripped off his sport coat to relieve the high heat I maintained in my apartment. Underneath it, large, log-like arms exploded out of his sleeveless dress shirt. The sight of all those arm muscles came back to me in spades, as I remembered the night back in February when he and Julius worked me over right here in my apartment at Blake's direction.

  He said to me, "Now, we're gonna leave in a minute, and when we do, you call 911. When the cops get here, tell them exactly what happened, except to say that you don't know who we were. All you know is that we were just Concerned Citizens who happened to be in the vicinity."

  "Concerned Citizens. Right."

  "We saw someone in danger of being killed and we stepped in. Okay? We shot the one guy who was trying to kill you, then disappeared into the dark, okay? You don't know any more than that, right?"

  "Right."

  These guys just saved my life. I wasn't about to rat them out. They nodded at each other, threw me a casual wave, then stole out the door.

  ≈≈≈

  As soon as they left, I called Madden. I told him I was wounded in a home invasion, so he called for an ambulance. While I waited, I examined my attackers. They were Hispanic, somewhere in their twenties, and well-dressed. Each carried a silenced .22 semia
uto, as well as a couple of thousand dollars in cash. I took most of the money, leaving a little for Madden's boys and the ambulance crew. One of them had a room key for the Riviera, a decidedly more downscale hotel than the Venetian.

  Less than ten minutes later, Madden was at my door, with Bolino trailing behind him like poisonous exhaust. I let them in. At the sight of the carnage, Madden put his hands on his topcoated hips, saying, "Okay, Jack. Let's have it."

  I recited the No-Sleeve Steve version of events, claiming two mysterious strangers with guns happened by during a violent home invasion and saved my life. I'm sure he didn't buy it, but what was he going to do? That was my story, and I was sticking to it. Deep down, I think he was glad it unfolded that way.

  I then added some personal opinion, like a cherry on top: "Despite what happened here, Frank, I really don't think they came here to kill me. Not at first, anyway. I think they wanted me to tell them where the wine was, and they were willing to lay some major hurt on me so I would give it up. I probably would've told them, since I don't endure torture very well, after which they quite possibly were going to put one in my head. Those .22s are designed for that, as you know."

  "So you do know where the wine is, after all."

  "Yeah, I do. But the way they came barging in here, I didn't have time to think. My only selection was to defend myself and start shooting, which is what I did."

  Bolino spoke up. "So what you did, asshole, was to take the law into your own hands."

  I narrowed my eyes into a sharp glare, aiming it right at him. "What I did — asshole — was act in defense of my own life against two armed intruders, who came busting in to my home at night with bad intentions. They didn't exactly pause to give me their agenda. If you don't like it, go fuck yourself."