“Well, hi,” Hannibal said with the brightest voice he could field. He wrapped his jacket around the girl’s narrow shoulders. She was five or six years old, he guessed, with blonde hair trimmed above shoulder length and teeth a little too big for her mouth. “What’s your name, honey?”
Something broke behind her eyes and the girl began screaming, a new scream with each breath. Still, she did not struggle, which he greatly appreciated as he wriggled his arms under her and pushed himself into a low crouch. He had seen soldiers low crawl this way with a rifle cradled in their arms the way he was holding the girl now.
He dashed blindly through the living room. He was on his feet when he left the apartment, hugging he child to his chest. The hallway was a tube of even thicker smoke, completely filled, but he did not need to see. His right side felt as if he was standing beside an open oven door. He simply trotted away from the heat, following a mental picture of his building to estimate the distance to the outer door. After bumping his shoulder against a wall twice, he seemed to almost fall sideways, then down three steps to the walk.
His eyes burned terribly, he was wracked with coughing spasms and his arms were getting tired. He staggered on for a dozen steps, afraid to stop for fear of falling. Then a high piercing wail of “My baby!” penetrated his ears, and the girl’s weight was lifted from him. Two pairs of strong hands grabbed his arms and lowered him into a seated posture with his back against a truck wheel. Someone pressed a plastic mask over his mouth and nose.
Three deep breaths of oxygen cleared his head and energized him. He forced his eyes open, letting the sharp summer breeze clear them as he stared at his whole world literally floating away on a cloud of smoke.
And then he realized he was sitting in a pool of cold water.
-4-
When Ray walked into the house, he found Cindy perched on the edge of the sofa, eyes riveted on a News Channel Eight report on the fire. She wore a powder blue peignoir over a nightgown that stopped high on her bare legs. He wished she wouldn’t dress like that when he was there. As he closed the door she turned toward him, one eyebrow cocked.
“So where is he?”
“Hannibal? He got a motel room.”
“Oh.” She sipped from a wide mug of coffee. “I just thought you’d bring him back here after.”
“Good thing I didn’t,” Ray called from the kitchen, getting his own coffee. “You dressed like that. Or should I say undressed.”
Cindy was on her feet to greet her father when he returned from the kitchen.
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Papa.” Her hands on her hips forced her shoulders into a defiant shrug. “I love you, but this is my house and I’m not going to be uncomfortable in it. Now, is it true what they’re saying on the TV? Did he really run into the burning building to save a little girl?”
“It happened like that,” Ray said. “I think he’s loco.”
Cindy settled back into the sofa. She cradled her mug in both hands, filling her lungs with the aroma of the strong Cuban brew. A warm smile lit her face. “So, just where did you meet this Hannibal Jones? He’s no street hustler.”
“Oh, you mean like the low lifes I usually hang out with, is that it?” Ray dropped heavily into the easy chair and kicked off his shoes. “Well, one of the boys down at the dispatch office gave me his card.”
“You still going down there?” Cindy asked, her brows lowering menacingly. “Papa they fired you because they had too many drivers to keep busy. They’re not going to take you back on unless things get a whole lot better than they are now.”
“Jocinta you do not understand,” Ray said.
“Cindy please, Papa. Why must you call me by that name?”
“I call you Jocinta because it is your name,” Ray snapped. “It is a good, solid traditional Spanish name, with no H in it. And it is the name your mother gave you, God rest her soul. It is a tie to your past that you don’t want, which is why you don’t understand.” He sat forward to make his point. “I go down there, as you say, because my friends are there. I like to be surrounded by other Cubanos and speak my own language. I’m not running from it like you. And also because it’s good to smell the grease and the fumes. And because I like to be around men who are earning a living. It makes me feel…” He stopped because she was no longer listening. Her eyes had strayed back to the file footage of the blazing buildings lighting the television screen.
“I wonder what made him do it.”
“Some people just like to help,” he offered. “Not everybody wants to run away from all the bad things in life.”
Cindy turned, stung by his remark. “Oh, like I don’t want to help my people? Is that what you’re saying, Papa? I know. You think I should have stayed in the neighborhood and been a nothing all my life. Papa, the whole reason I wanted to get away was so I could get into a position to help. I beg for pro bono work, helping our people start their own businesses, and then helping them hang on to them. They let me do way more than an associate at my level should dare to expect. And I contribute to…”
“It’s not all about money, child. Like what Hannibal did tonight. Money and position didn’t save that girl. You know, he told me he used to be some kind of government agent or something.”
She sat back, her eyes turning inwardly dreamy again. “Really? A government agent. Well, maybe too many years in public service infected him with a compulsion to help others.”
“Sounds like an infection all right.” He swallowed a big gulp of coffee and watched firemen pointing their tiny hoses at the giant blaze. “That’s the kind of virus that might turn out to be fatal some day.”
-5-
TUESDAY
Hannibal’s white Volvo eased into the left lane as it left Alexandria, heading north. In front of him, he saw Ray smiling in the rear view mirror, and watched him weave effortlessly through the stream of cars. He guessed Ray had driven a cab across this stretch of the George Washington Memorial Parkway countless times, taking fares to the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport that they would pass in five minutes. Traffic wouldn’t really get bad until they reached the ramp onto the Fourteenth Street Bridge, which crossed the Potomac into the District.
There had been an awkward moment when Ray arrived to pick Hannibal up. Hannibal hadn’t really thought about how it would feel to have someone else drive his car. But a deal was a deal, so he nodded good morning to Ray and dropped into the passenger seat beside him. The Volvo sat still, idling, and it took Hannibal a second to realize that something was wrong. He turned an inquiring eye toward his new driver.
“Hannibal,” Ray said, staring straight ahead, “I been driving cabs and limos for a long time now. I’m really a lot more comfortable if I have the front seat to myself. I mean, passengers usually ride in the back, you know.”
Hannibal didn’t want Ray to feel like an employee or a servant. Still, he did want him to feel as if he was earning the money that he’d get at the end of the week, so he climbed out and moved to the back. Later, when they pulled to the curb in front of Cindy’s townhouse, she had slid in beside him without a second thought.
Now she sat next to him, bubbling like a talk show host in her navy blue power suit, perfectly made up with her hair tied back. In the opposite corner he absorbed the verbal and psychic energy she sent flying at him. He sat in his black suit and gloves, staring straight ahead at the Washington Monument, a white target marker in the distance.
“You know what your problem is?” Cindy asked, but left no space for an answer. “You’re too darned used to things going your way. Think you’re the only person ever put out of their home because of a fire? You had insurance right? Besides, after last night, you’re a hero. That’ll bring you business galore. Cheer up, for God’s sake.”
Hannibal thought of earlier hours of the morning, before Cindy had joined him in his car. He remembered walking through sodden, charred ruins in the dawn light. Furniture and decorations, the artifacts of people’s lives, were made bri
ttle by the fire and crackled beneath his shoes. The relics of his own existence had fared no better. His computer and disks were now slag and trash. Paper files and records, protected from the heat by a steel file cabinet, had been converted to lumps of pulp by well-intentioned firemen hosing down the building.
The only item he salvaged from his entire apartment was the woman’s photograph, found face down, its brass cameo-shaped frame intact. Even that moment was soured by the look Ray gave him when he noticed the woman’s blond hair. With all this on his mind, his eyes, mostly brown now, slowly rotated left, bringing the girl into focus. “Cynthia…”
“Cindy, please,” she corrected him.
“Cindy. I’m homeless. Everything I own is on me or in the trunk. And I don’t have a case right now. They were hard enough to get, new to the business, without even an office. They’ll be damned hard to get without an office or a phone. Or an address. This is not a time for celebration.”
“You know, you get quite eloquent when you’re pissed off,” Cindy said with a smile. “Lucky for you, you happened to fall in with a real problem solver. We’ll fix all that up this morning. Mister Balor’s a big real estate developer now. I’m sure he’ll give you a place.”
Hannibal stared out his window, trying to keep his pessimism to himself. His mood seemed to match that of the commuters around him. Despite the traffic’s density, Washington drivers did not use their horns like New Yorkers. They were as resigned to this part of their lives as they were to the gridlock inside the government buildings they passed. He watched old landmarks flow past as they inched down Fourteenth Street. The Bureau of Engineering on the left. Agriculture on the right. The pretentious Commerce Department building.
“The old neighborhood,” he mumbled to himself.
“You’re from here?” Cindy asked, apparently trying to draw him into conversation.
“Not really.” He leaned forward to look past her. “Before I went out on my own, my work was my life. For eight years my whole world was right over there, between the White House and the Treasury Department building.” Cindy turned to look. The two white marble structures stood practically next door to one another.
“It must have been a small world,” Cindy said quietly.
“You some kind of treasury agent?” Ray asked. “A tax guy or something?”
Cindy sighed heavily with her eyes closed. “I rather doubt it, Papa, but I believe the Secret Service works out of the Treasury Department. That sounds more like Hannibal’s style.” Then she realized where they were. “Down that ramp,” she ordered her father. “We’ll park under the building.”
They drove under an older sandstone structure, newly renovated, tall by Washington standards since skyscrapers are forbidden by law in the city. Cindy pressed an identification badge against a magnetic plate and nodded to the smiling teenager in a glass booth as the wooden arm rose. They rolled into a manmade cave beneath the capital city’s streets.
Ray parked in an unmarked space and they all got out. Cindy pointed toward a door and walked off, her heels clicking on concrete. Hannibal followed, making no sound. Ray looked at them, and then looked down at his windbreaker, canvas pants, and rubber soled shoes.
“You two go take care of business,” he called. “I’ll catch a nap in the car.”
A short elevator ride took Hannibal and Cindy to a richly appointed suite of offices. Audubon prints adorned the walls. They combined with fresh cut flowers to give the outer office an atmosphere much like the den in someone’s home. Hannibal wondered why a law office would want people to feel as if they were visiting old friends. As they brushed past the receptionist, he slid his wraparound shades into place and tightened his gloves. Cindy pointed him to a vinyl chair while she went into the biggest of the offices.
Hannibal noted the antiseptic smell law offices always had, try as they might to seem homey. He could think of lots better places than a lawyer’s office to sit for even a few minutes. Feeling like an invader, he smiled at the receptionist. She was a mature woman with her hair up in a bun, more likely referred to as an administrative assistant or office manager than a secretary. She looked like a pretty effective gatekeeper, and Hannibal anticipated a lengthy wait while Cindy somehow smuggled him past this barrier.
To his surprise, Cindy returned in less than a minute. She had stashed her genuine smile in her purse, replacing it with an imitation she used for business. “Mister Balor will see you now, Mister Jones.” She waved him inside. He walked toward the big desk, but stopped just inside the door.
They entered a room paneled in dark maple, which matched the wide desk. Deep carpet, heavy drapes at the windows and waffled ceiling tiles absorbed sounds that would normally bounce off the walls.
It was a huge office, but the man behind the desk filled it. He was wide but not fat, medium height with too much thick, pepper-colored hair and way too much eyebrow. Bright brown eyes beneath all that dared you to say so.
“Dan Balor,” he snapped, as if that explained everything. His handshake was fierce and strong. “You’re Jones. Santiago tells me you lost your apartment in that terrible fire in Alexandria last night.”
“That’s right,” Hannibal replied. He remained standing because Balor did. “I understand you might have one available.”
“Let me call my building manager.” Balor pushed a preset button on his executive telephone. While it dialed itself, he said “You saved a little girl’s life last night.”
“Miss Santiago exaggerates.” Hannibal smiled, folding one gloved hand around the other.
“Maybe. I don’t think the Post does, though. Except about Democrats.”
After four rings, a gruff voice came over the speakerphone. “Balor properties, this is Mick.”
“Mick? Balor. I need an apartment for somebody. What we got vacant?”
“Not a thing, boss,” Mick answered. “All twelve buildings, all full up.” After four seconds of dead air, he added “Course there’s the place over the river where the ni…”
“We’re on the speaker, Mick.”
“Oh.” The gruff voice softened a degree. “Sorry, boss.”
“Across the river?” Hannibal asked.
“It’s over in Anacostia,” Balor said, waving the place away. “You can’t live there. Nobody can.”
“Why?” Hannibal stepped a few inches closer to Balor’s desk. “Neighborhood too rough? Or too good?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Balor suddenly realized Hannibal’s meaning. Even through his Oakley’s Hannibal held Balor’s eyes, his skepticism clear. Finally, Balor dropped into his chair, bringing one hand to his face. He seemed to think a moment, and then looked up at Hannibal with the kind of openness one seldom sees on an attorney’s face.
“Look, I bought this place cheap from HUD,” Balor said. “Planned to renovate it. Now it’s full but I can’t collect any rent.”
“I don’t get it,” Hannibal said, but he backed off and eased himself into the surprisingly comfortable visitor’s chair.
“It’s six apartments,” Balor explained, “what we used to call railroad flats, in kind of a run down neighborhood. I figured if I fixed it up I could make it some low income housing, you know?”
“Sure, and it’s full, so why can’t you collect?” Hannibal asked.
Balor almost chuckled. “It’s full of squatters. I think the place is a crack house, and I can’t get them out.”
Hannibal sat quite still, except for his left hand’s middle finger, which tapped rhythmically on the arm of the chair. “Why haven’t you called the police to move them out?”
“Do I look stupid?” Balor snapped, louder than he intended. “The police were my first stop. They won’t do a damned thing. I got a court order for those schmucks to vacate the premises, but they won’t go in and drag them out. That place is costing me money every month, and I get back zip.”
“Well, then, maybe I can help.” Hannibal pulled his card case from an inside jacket pocket, and dropped a card on
Balor’s desk.
“Thanks, pal,” Balor picked up the card, “but you haven’t seen the place. I already tried two detectives. They drove by and said the job’s too dangerous.”
“Sounds like real trouble,” Hannibal said, standing up. “That’s my specialty.”
Balor looked at his visitor quizzically. He was thin, wiry, sharply dressed, but something in his manner said he could handle whatever came his way.
“You’re not just a private eye, are you?”
“I’m not really a detective, although I do have a private investigator’s license. And I’m not a bodyguard, although I have been known to protect people from danger. And I’m not a strong-arm man, but I do sometimes have to fight on the job.”
“So what the hell are you?” Balor asked.
“Like the card says, man. I’m a troubleshooter. I help people out of tight spots.”
Balor stared hard at the card for a moment, then raised his gaze to the light skinned black man sitting in front of his desk. Hannibal held a thin smile, radiating confidence. Balor spent a full minute making a decision. Hannibal stayed silent, his dark lenses staring out at the lawyer. Finally, Balor stood, extending a hand.
“If you think you can clear the squatters out, I’ll hire you on the spot, pal. I like the look of you.”
Hannibal met Balor’s strong handshake. “I can take care of it, probably inside of a week. But I ain’t cheap.”
“Name it.”
“I get five hundred a day, plus expenses,” Hannibal said. “I sometimes need to subcontract specialists. They get paid separately. No questions, no restrictions, and I don’t leave the job until it’s done. Deal?”
“Done.” Balor slapped a palm on his desk. “Santiago, draw up a contract like he says. Jones, by the time you reach my office manager’s desk there’ll be a two day retainer waiting for you, with the building’s address.”
Troubleshooter Page 2