The three did not work hard, but rather continuously. Ray got a bag of ice and a case of soda from the corner store. By four-thirty, when they reached the front room, their drinks were almost gone and sweat coated all three cleaners. Hannibal had to admit that Cindy even glistened with style, and she had a smudge on the tip of her nose which he found just too cute to tell her about.
“Okay, okay, okay.” She fell back against the wall between the front windows. “That’s enough. We need to stop, get cleaned up, and go somewhere nice for dinner.”
“Sorry, doll, but the tub that works is upstairs.” Hannibal began sweeping his front room. “How about you and Ray go eat and bring me something back?”
“How about I go get something for all of us to eat here?” Ray countered. “You got a table here. There’s two chairs in the kitchen and I know there’s more upstairs.”
“All right, look. Just hop down to Popeye’s and get us some…” Hannibal had his hand on his wallet, but Cindy’s wave stopped him.
“Hey, I got it,” she said. “Least I can do. Popeye’s, right? Chicken, biscuits and some of them funny fries? Got you covered.”
Ray started through the door with his daughter following. At the last instant she ducked back into the room, reached for Hannibal, and dropped a small kiss on his lips.
“You’re doing something really special here, chasing those drug people away,” she whispered. Then she was gone.
Hannibal watched the Volvo motor off from his window perch. She was a special lady all right, lovely to look at, bright as a new penny, a hard worker and damned sexy on top of all that. And she seemed to like him. Too bad he was not in the market for a woman of his own.
As he turned away from the window, his inner voice asked, since when are you ever not in the market for a woman? He was laughing silently at himself when he heard feet on his front steps. For a moment he wondered what they had forgotten. Just as he heard a thumping knock on the door, he realized he had not heard a car pull up. Returning to the window, he found a familiar, well dressed figure on the stoop. He smiled at the expensive suit, so out of place in that setting.
“Well, Sally. I been wondering when you’d drop by.”
“Open this Goddamned door, spook,” Sal shouted. “My boy missed his appointment this morning. If you got to him, I’ll kick both your asses.”
“Language, language, Sally.” Hannibal stared at Sal’s two bodyguards standing behind him, filling the stoop. “Ain’t you heard? Your friends moved out. I hope they didn’t take anything you personally need with them. Like white powder, for instance.”
“Hey, I don’t touch that crap,” Sal said. “That shit’s for the weak, for losers. And I ain’t weak. They all get their stuff from me.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t sweat it. They’ll find you. You know they want what you got. Certainly nothing to fight about, since they’re elsewhere. Now, why don’t you and your muscle just move it on off my porch before I call the cops and have you picked up for trespassing?”
Hannibal was enjoying Sal’s face, wondering how red it could get before his head exploded, when he heard a whump sound, like one of his Papa’s artillery rounds. He was already running toward the kitchen before he identified the sound. Something had hit the back door, something big. Magnified through the long tunnel of the apartment, the sound had gained impact.
One room before the kitchen, Hannibal saw a gloved fist crash through the window nearest the kitchen door. The other window imploded seconds later, as the man in gloves climbed in the first window.
Without slowing down Hannibal drove his right foot up and forward, crashing into the first man’s face, crushing his nose, driving him back out the window. The bruiser halfway in the other window grabbed Hannibal’s ankle. Without hesitation, Hannibal spun, raking his free heel across his attacker’s face. The man grunted in pain and Hannibal was free, but his spinning kick left him face down on the floor. At the other end of the apartment he saw Sal’s black guard clambering in through a front window, into the room Hannibal slept in.
The room his gun was in.
Ignoring the men behind him, Hannibal dashed forward. The flat suddenly seemed many times longer than it was minutes ago. The black guard was just picking up Hannibal’s shoulder rig when Hannibal reached the front room. Without losing momentum, Hannibal long jumped into space, bringing his right heel around in a side kick to the man’s jaw. The guard staggered, and the holster flew.
Hannibal’s now green eyes trailed his automatic’s arc. It landed on the open windowsill. As he dived for the holster straps, the gun slid over the edge and down. Hannibal’s chest hit the sill, his arms reaching down, hoping he might just snag the straps.
Like the claw that picks up prizes in an arcade machine, a giant hand gripped Hannibal’s throat. Sal’s white bodyguard, Petey, stood below the window. Hannibal saw his gun under Petey’s right foot. Blue dots crowded the detective’s vision. Sal’s laughter filled his ears.
A slow rage began to build behind Hannibal’s eyes, and since he couldn’t reach Sal, he directed it toward Petey. Hannibal grabbed the guard’s pinkie with his right hand. His left wrapped around his right fist and he pulled down sharply. With a howl of pain, Petey released him. As Hannibal slumped forward, gasping for breath, he felt a hand wrap around his belt. There was just enough time for fear to begin to grow in his mind before his body whipped around like the teacup ride in a carnival, stopping abruptly against a wall, just missing the door out of the room.
His right side on fire, Hannibal looked up to see three of the biggest men he had ever angered converging on him. One swung a foot, but Hannibal managed to pull himself up and dive into the hall, avoiding a cracked skull. Lying at the base of the stairs he felt his mouth go parchment dry. Eye level with the bottom of the front door he fully realized his predicament. He could never move the wedges in time to get the door open and get through it. Even if he did, Sal waited outside with who knew how much help. On the other hand, the three linebacker types who were stalking toward him represented an impenetrable human barrier. He knew he had no chance of getting past them to escape through a back door or window. Only one avenue remained.
Legs pumping, Hannibal darted upstairs. His pursuers followed, but they were in no hurry. They must have realized he had no place to go. He would likely break a leg if he tried jumping from a second floor window. He could only hope he would find a weapon of some type.
As he moved, Hannibal cursed his own stupidity. He had gone to the window unprepared for defense, not wearing his gun since he changed for the cleaning. The fact was, he expected single assaults by drug crazed idiots. He never really believed Sal Ronzini would fight for this building once his clients had been convinced to leave.
A quick look back further reduced Hannibal’s confidence. Ox, the black guard, waited at the head of the stairs on the second floor while his two partners searched one of the apartments. They moved with smooth professionalism, and Hannibal knew they would make sure one flat was clear before they investigated the next. After making sure the second floor held no surprises, they would corner him on the third floor. That did not sound at all like fun.
Scant minutes later, Ox stationed himself at the top of the stairs on the third floor while one of his partners led the way into the flat on the right side of the house. As he pushed the door open, a gray steel folding chair smacked into his face. He fell back, almost but not quite flipping over the rail.
As the second muscle man charged the door, Hannibal swung his chair low, edgewise. It hit the man’s knees with a sickeningly loud crack, and he went down like a chain sawed pine. Unfortunately, in falling forward he wrenched the chair from Hannibal’s hands. Ox stepped over the other man and into the room. With so little room to maneuver, both fighters knew the situation favored the bigger man.
“Can’t afford to let you get past me, stud,” Ox said. “You understand?”
“Yeah, I get it. It’s just business, right?” Hannibal looked for a wa
y around Ox, but the man filled the doorway.
“Naw, Jack,” Ox said. “This is personal. You gave us trouble before, and I got a feeling you’re the same nigger held a gun to my partner’s head and took off with a car full of Sal’s best superfine China white. Now old man Ronzini don’t like his little boy getting humiliated.”
“So what are you, the baby-sitter?” Hannibal feinted to the left, then right. Ox ignored his movements. He wasn’t giving away a free inch around him that could lead to an escape.
“I’ve worked steady for the Ronzinis for nine good years. They count on me to solve their problems. And you a problem, Jack. You understand now?”
Hannibal nodded because he did understand. Maintaining solid eye contact with Ox, he dropped into a low crouch and raised his fists.
“Okay,” he said through clenched teeth, “but it won’t be free.”
“I’m tired of playing,” Ox said. He swung his huge fists in a one-two attack at Hannibal’s head. Bobbing and weaving, Hannibal felt only the wind from the two blows. He countered with a sharp uppercut to his foe’s jaw, followed immediately by another. A front kick pushed into Ox’s solar plexus and for the first time, Hannibal thought he might slip by the bigger man. As he ducked past on Ox’s right, a huge hand wrapped around his upper arm and he realized he had missed his chance. Again he was airborne, and again he crashed into a wall. Stunned, he could only watch as the monster’s shoulder came crashing into his midsection.
But the big man was slow, maybe tired. Hannibal gathered what he had left to bring a knee up hard into Ox’s face. The bigger man pressed a hand against Hannibal’s chest, clamping him in place against the wall. When he looked up, blood dripped from his nose.
“That hurt.” Ox looked at Hannibal with contempt. Taking his time, he cocked his other arm back and smashed his fist into Hannibal’s face.
Dazed, Hannibal could barely make out his target as Ox pulled his fist back for another shot. Before he could strike, Hannibal lifted his own leaden right. With a loud shout, he delivered three rapid fire jabs into Ox’s face. The pressure against his chest eased and he dropped below the arm and moved as quickly as he could for the door. He was panting and his legs were a little wobbly, but he pushed the weakness out of his mind. The stairs were his only chance at survival. He felt a sort of crazed relief as he stepped into the hall.
Then the man Hannibal had hit in the face with a chair brought a fist around and down against the side of Hannibal’s head. When he hit the hallway floor, Hannibal knew the fight was out of him. He mustered his last reserves to survive what would surely come next.
His mind slipped back to when he was seven years old. It was not his mouth that got him in trouble then, just his skin tone. At the hands of bigger boys with blond hair and blue eyes, he had learned that after a while, if you just hold on, your body starts to reject the pain messages. The feeling reminded him of sitting in a dentist’s chair. You know a high-speed drill is making a hole in your tooth, you feel it, you might even smell smoke, but the hurt is gone. Well, not gone really, but banked up for later.
With some surprise, Hannibal looked up to find himself staring out the open front door. He did not think he had hit enough stairs to reach the first floor, but there he was. Clenching his teeth, he pressed up to hands and knees. He just wanted to make sure all his limbs worked and no bones were broken. Sal Ronzini, just now walking in, took it as an act of defiance.
Maybe that too.
“Kind of hope you got the message this time, shithead,” Sal said. Hannibal could not lift his head, but he did not need to. Shadows told him two men stood on either side of him.
Through a red haze he saw the pointed tips of Sal’s handmade Italian loafers. Crawling forward five inches put him within reach. He swallowed, disturbed by the fact that his lips were not dry. He was dripping red splotches on the floor. He coughed and cleared his throat.
“Something to say, shithead?” Sal asked arrogantly.
Sal’s voice was all the help Hannibal needed. Sal’s Italian loafers made perfect goal posts. Hannibal swung his right fist up, directly between Sal’s pointed toes. It was not much of an impact, but it got him a satisfying gurgling moan. Sal dropped onto his knees beside Hannibal. Behind Hannibal, Ox roared. Then that weightlessness feeling returned. Ox and one of the others had no trouble making Hannibal fly.
Some part of Hannibal managed to smile inside. As big as that doorway was, they missed it twice. On the third pass he did not hit the door or its frame, but sailed out onto the sandstone steps which delivered him to the sidewalk. Footsteps followed him. Someone lifted him again. Hannibal opened his eyes, and a face came into focus through a shifting red curtain. It was the black guy. Again that slow motion fist wound up, but this time Hannibal could not even raise a hand. Hannibal kept his eyes on the knuckles, anticipating their impact with his face.
“The police.”
It was a very young voice, with the accent on the first syllable. Monty? Then he heard some angry mumbling, followed by faster steps away down the block. A final hard slap, and Hannibal tucked and rolled trying to keep his head from hitting the concrete too hard.
-21-
Black confusion clouded Hannibal’s mind. Not a new feeling, but the first time since high school boxing. It was different this time, because there was travel involved. Moved. Moved again. Ow! Something rubbing his face, his chest. Moved one more time. Slowly the aches started seeping in. Not like beatings in school. Those boys just did it for fun. The guys who did all this damage were experts. A very professional working over, he thought. Everything hurt, nothing broken.
He heard voices. Frightened voices. One female voice seeped through. He tried to assure her. I’m okay, Ma. Don’t worry, they can’t hurt me. Scheiskopf. He called me scheiskopf, Ma.
The cloud was slowly lifting. The world waited patiently for him. He always hated this part. He forced his eyes open. He had a sideways view. Cindy stood with her back to him, but as she pulled her tee shirt over her head she moved a little to one side. Then her bra dropped and she stood revealed in profile. Magnificent, proud, thrusting. Almost worth getting knocked out for. Then she wiggled out of her shorts. When they dropped to the floor he saw that the front of them was splotchy with blood. They landed beside her cast-off tee shirt, which was even more broadly stained red. That brought tears and a strong, unreasoning sorrow for having made a mess.
Hannibal tried to speak while she pulled on another tee shirt. Breathing got difficult. He realized it might be phlegm, or it might be blood. Either way, he had to clear his throat. Try to cough. Come on, you can do it. Cough. Get that stuff out of your throat before you drown, or suffocate.
One cough cleared Hannibal’s throat and sent a tremor of pain through his ribs and chest. Cindy turned, shouted “Madre de Dios” and a long string of Spanish he did not understand, ending with calling “Papa” three times. She cradled his head in her lap, stroking it gently. While her tone moved from soothing to accusatory and back she dabbed very gently at his mouth with a tissue. The tissue felt rough and scratchy, but her thighs were warm and baby soft against his ear and cheek.
The first thing Cindy said that he clearly understood was “Damn you, Hannibal Jones, you scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Where?” He noticed he was slurring. His lips must be a mess this time.
“My place,” Cindy said. “We headed for the hospital at first, but you kept saying get you to the base. Papa figured you meant here.”
Hannibal smiled. It was too complicated, but he would need to explain why he feared ending up in a strange hospital, where they might not understand him. Tomorrow.
“Good to see you’re in one piece,” Ray said, entering the room. Hannibal felt guilty for taking his bed again.
“Monty okay?”
“Sure,” Ray said. “He saw what happened. Says they were going to kill you, but a cop car came down the block just in time.”
“Yeah.” Hannibal’s mouth hurt when he tal
ked. “Heard him tell them about it. That got them off me.” Turning his head, he looked up past Cindy’s overhang to make eye contact with her. “I’m really sorry I got blood on your shirt. It’ll never come out.”
“Paco, you got blood all over everything,” Ray said. “I looked like I worked in a meat packing plant after I drove you over here.”
“Sorry.” The word had barely left his mouth when the full meaning of Ray’s comment sank in and Hannibal sat up too fast. “My car!” he shouted, then clutched his head as pain surged upward, slamming into the underside of his skull. Keeling over, he muttered “white leather upholstery.” On his back, he brought the ceiling into focus and tried to do the same with his thoughts.
Cindy stood and Ray turned his back, hold out a pair of jeans. She squirmed into them, talking all the while. “There’s a doctor on his way over here. When we found you lying there I guess I went a little crazy. I called Dan at home.”
“Dan?”
“Mister Balor,” Cindy said. “He says end it. He doesn’t want you to get killed over a piece of real estate.”
“Out of the question.” Hannibal hated the drunken sounds his torn, swollen lips made. “You tell that bastard we had a deal. I told him, first day, I’m on the job until it’s done.”
“But Hannibal…” Cindy began.
“Just have to work harder,” he muttered. “I still don’t get it.”
“What?” Ray asked.
Hannibal looked over at his friend. “I really figured once I was in, that would be it. A couple of junkies might come to the door, or vagrants trying to climb in a window.”
“Poor Hannibal. Never took a physics class, did you?” Cindy asked, smiling for the first time. When he looked at her quizzically, she added “That place was full when you got there, right? You emptied it out, but you couldn’t fill it up. With just you in there, it was still a big, empty space. They had to rush in. Nature abhors a vacuum, remember?”
Troubleshooter Page 11