by Mike Faricy
“You checking license tabs on the street making sure everyone is current?” Louie asked then tossed a computer bag on his picnic table desk.
“Something like that, I’d feel bad if they weren’t up to date.”
“Any coffee left?”
“Should be, I made some this morning.”
“How’d it go at your new place last night?”
“You mean Casey’s? Fine, no problem except that she’s got work crews coming in there in the morning, a couple of plumbers, some contractor. Man, those guys are out front by about seven-thirty in the damn morning.”
“There’s a seven-thirty in the morning, too?” Louie said then settled into his office chair and blew on his steaming coffee mug.
“Pretty tough talk for the guy who shows up just before lunch.”
“I’ve been in court all morning. There must have been a push to nail guys driving while over the limit last February or March. I pled three DUI’s this morning.”
“Humpf, probably St Patrick’s Day. Any luck on getting the charge reduced?” The subject of my attention on the third floor across the street had moved into one of her other rooms and unfortunately reappeared a minute or two later and dressed. I set the binoculars back on the window sill and sat down behind my desk.
“In today’s world it’s just plain luck that no one will be serving time, first offense for all three, but the days of getting it pled down to a simple speeding or failure to signal are long gone.”
“That’s probably good. I mean we’ve all been behind the wheel when we shouldn’t have been.”
“When did you become so politically correct? You’re right, but each one of these guys, it’s gonna run them about ten grand by the time they pay the fine, have their driving privileges restricted for six months, pay court costs, my fee and then increased insurance rates for the next seven years. Two of these guys are married, you can just imagine the fallout on that front.”
“No thanks.”
“Hey, Jackie Van Dorn. You mentioned him yesterday, hitting on your friend Casey at her real estate closing.”
“Yeah, the sleazy lawyer?”
“Right, I got an update this morning in the hallway outside the courtroom. If he was representing the seller and when did you say this happened, a couple of years ago?”
“Yeah, Casey thought it was maybe twenty-eight months, almost two and a half years ago.”
“Well, the word I got is your pal Jackie has been exclusive for at least four or five years just handling transactions for, get this, Big Boy Enterprises.”
“Big Boy? You mean Tubby Gustafson?”
“Yup,” Louie said then put his feet up on the picnic table and took a sip of coffee.
Tubby Gustafson was our very own homegrown mobster. I’d run into some unpleasantness with him in the past and felt the best way to avoid any future problem was to just stay away, actually make that as far away as possible.
What Louie said made sense in an unfortunate way; Jackie handled Tubby’s business, Bulldog was in Tubby’s employ. Suddenly it sounded like Fast Freddy really was telling the truth the other night. If sleaze ball Jackie Van Dorn did in fact handle the closing with Casey and Dermot then there was a good chance that psychotic moron, Bulldog really had been the seller. Of course, that led to the big question, why did Bulldog want to get back into the place? Especially after almost two-and–a-half years.
“…it for quite some time. Anyway, the things you find out just chatting in the hallway,” Louie said then sipped some more coffee.
I tuned back into the present. “So does that mean Tubby or Big Boy Enterprises owned the place or was this just sleazy Jackie being a nice guy for a change and attempting to help poor old Bulldog out?”
“I suppose it all depends, I’m having a tough time seeing Jackie helping out and being nice to anyone.”
“I chatted with a neighbor lady across the street yesterday. She told me the place had been rented for five or six years before Casey and Dermot bought it. That it went steadily downhill with all sorts of sleazy bullshit going on there day and night.”
“She say who owned it?”
“No, she didn’t know. Of course it isn’t a far leap to see Tubby or Bulldog getting hold of a piece of real estate and turning it into an absolute dump. This woman referred to it as the worst house on the block before Casey and Dermot bought it. I’m guessing someone was running drugs or maybe women out of there. God, they were probably cooking meth in the basement.”
“Brings up a lot of questions about Dermot’s murder,” Louie said.
“Yeah. There’s that, and what Fat Freddy told me about Bulldog the other night, that he was just casing the place for that Neanderthal. I still can’t figure out why,” I said.
“Just a guess, this is far fetched, maybe, but do you think they have bodies buried in there, maybe beneath the basement floor or something.”
“Oh God, I hope not. Casey doesn’t need something like that happening just before she puts the thing on the market.”
“Plus, I mean it’s a city code violation,” Louie said.
I looked over at Louie.
“Just kidding, relax. I mean it is….”
“I know that, Louie, but I don’t think that’s it. The guy is going to essentially sneak into the house and what, dig up a body or bodies plural and sneak them back out of the house? That’s nuts.”
“Look who we’re dealing with here, Dev.”
“There is that, but I still don’t see it. Why not just knock on the door and ask to come in or pretend to be a city code inspector or something and you’re just there to inspect. It’s too simple not to pull something like that, the work crew isn’t gonna question you coming in. The home owner isn’t around during the day.”
Louie shook his head. “Something else is going on, Dev. God only knows what.”
“I think I might pay a visit to your close, personal friend, Mr. Jackie Van Dorn.”
“Man, hang onto your wallet and any gold you have in your teeth.”
“You know where his office is?” I asked.
“I know where it used to be, far as I know he still offices there, you’ll love it.”
“Where’s he at?” I said then pulled a pen out of my desk drawer to write down the address.
“Last I heard he was still above Nasty’s.’
“You’re kidding?”
“Actually, if he’s now exclusive with Tubby it sort of makes perfect sense.”
Chapter Eleven
Nasty’s is a local institution featuring over-priced drinks, crabby bartenders and naked women. It has a six-foot red neon heart over the door with the word ‘Nasty’s’ scrolled across the front flashing on and off. The last time I was in there I’d been told to leave in no uncertain terms by one of the bouncers. Okay, I was kicked out, but not for being abusive or, abusive in my usual way. I’d been on a case and attempted to ask one of the dancers some questions. She took offense when I didn’t want to pay her, made a scene and I thought the best thing I could do was comply with the wishes of the gentleman who looked like he pumped weights all day and wore a T-shirt advertising the Ultimate Fight Club Boot Camp. I hadn’t been back since.
I’d never met Jackie Van Dorn, but I agreed with Louie that in a strange way it seemed fitting he would office here. I went through the front door into a small entry room that housed a heavy-set woman stuffed behind bullet proof glass. The little area she was in was so small her arm and shoulder were pushed up against the glass and I immediately thought of a large sausage stuffed into a very small jar. She laid the romance book she was reading face down next to her smoldering cigarette and coughed out, “Five dollars.”
I hated cover charges. I half wondered what kind of attorney would charge you just to get into his office then realized how really stupid that sounded. I slipped the five bucks into the little well in the counter and she slid a 4x5 color brochure back to me advertising a sex toy shop. She took a drag from her cigarette, didn�
�t bother to look up and went back to reading her romance.
The entry to the bar area was just past the bullet proof glass, a semblance of music thumped out from behind a pair of double doors. The large brass handles on the doors were in the shape of a pair of boobs, which seemed sort of fitting. I automatically raised my hands and pushed through both doors.
Not much had changed inside Nasty’s since the last time I’d been kicked out, except it looked a little more rundown. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I noticed the place had the definite reek of cheap perfume and dumb guys. The floor was covered from the double doors all the way up to the stage area in leopard skin carpeting with a red boarder running along the walls and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. The fifteen-foot stage was lit by colored flashing lights with a mirrored disco ball slowly spinning from the center of the ceiling. The back wall of the stage was all mirrors and a chrome pole was positioned on either end of the stage.
It was late afternoon and maybe just a half dozen bored patrons sat by themselves at different tables. Two guys sat up along the stage with maybe four empty stools between them and a pile of one-dollar bills stacked up next to their drinks. A couple of dancers wandered across the floor wearing negligees, sipping watered down drinks and offering lap dances. No one was buying.
The woman grinding her back up and down on one of the chrome poles had a look plastered on her face like she’d just passed out with her eyes open. I made my way to the bar.
“Yeah?” was the less than cheery greeting I got from the bartender. I would have pegged her age at about fifty, but given the lifestyle she was probably closer to thirty-five. I’d obviously interrupted whatever daydream she’d been involved in.
“Actually, nothing for me, I’m looking for Jackie Van Dorn’s office. I think he’s up on the second floor.”
“Yeah, he is,” she said then stared back at me, bored.
“How do I get up there?” I said looking around in a way that suggested I couldn’t find the door.
“You go outside around to the back of the building it’s the door next to the dumpster.”
“Back of the building,” I said.
“Next to the dumpster,” she replied.
“Gee, thanks.”
She didn’t smile, nod, or give me the finger. She just walked down to the far end, leaned against the back of the bar and pasted the same blank look on her face as the woman swirling around on the pole. On the way out I didn’t waste time asking for my five bucks back.
There were actually two dumpsters in the back of the building, one green and one blue. If they were color coded for some purpose it would appear no one had bothered to pay any attention. Both of them smelled equally bad.
The metal door at the back of the building was painted navy blue enamel, red primer showed through were the paint had chipped off the door. A small metal sign was fixed to the door that read ‘Sentinel Security.’ Someone had penned the word ‘Sucks’ behind Sentinel Security. There was a doorbell in the grimy metal doorframe and a security camera mounted overhead on the wall. The door was locked so I pushed the doorbell and heard a long buzz echo from somewhere inside.
A moment later a voice came out of a speaker in the camera mounted overhead and said, “Yeah?”
“Hi,” I said giving my nicest smile as I looked up into the camera. “I’m here to see Mr. Van Dorn.”
“Got an appointment?” the voice growled.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. I wasn’t sure how to get in touch with him.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’d like to take that up with Mr. Van Dorn.”
“Your name?”
“Haskell, Devlin Haskell.”
I heard the speaker click off and I waited, still smiling for the camera. A moment later there was a loud click and a buzzer sounded, I turned the doorknob then pushed the door open. There was a steep staircase about three feet inside the door with no stair rail and a dim yellow light about a mile away at the top of the steps. The cinderblock walls on either side of the stairwell were shiny with the same navy blue paint that was on the door, I started to climb.
At the top of the stairs was another metal door, this one was open and I stepped through into a short hallway with a room maybe ten feet ahead. I could feel the music from below vibrating through the floor and the smell of cigarette smoke grew stronger as I approached.
The room was paneled in the sort of wood paneling that had been popular in basements during the 60’s. A woman sat at a large wooden desk in the middle of the room half hidden behind a computer screen and a smoldering cigarette. There was a beige push button phone circa 1980 sitting on her desk off to the left with four clear plastic buttons at the base, signifying land lines. One of the buttons was lit.
“He’s on the phone, just take a seat,” she said not looking up from her computer screen. I could see the reflection in her bifocals of the solitaire game she was playing on the computer. Behind her was a closed door. I took a seat in one of the plastic chairs against the wall and waited.
After a good fifteen minutes, the beige phone buzzed and without looking up she said, “Guess you can go in now.”
“Thanks,” I said and headed toward the closed door.
Louie’s description of Jackie Van Dorn as a ‘B’ grade movie star from the 40’s wasn’t far off the mark. He sat behind a massive desk and sized me up as I entered his office. From a good fifteen feet away I could spot the home dye job on his black hair along with maybe a quarter inch of grey roots showing, all of it slicked back and fitted to his head like a helmet. His mustache looked like it had been drawn above his thin lip with a cheap eyebrow pencil. He wore a light blue shirt with a starched white collar and a fire engine red tie. His coat was snow white with a red pocket silk that matched his tie. I pegged him for about a hundred years old. He studied me from behind a pile of files as I approached.
“Mr. Van Dorn, I appreciate you making time to see me without an appointment,” I said and extended my hand.
He looked at my hand for a moment and then, probably against his better judgment gave me a limp shake in response.
“Mind if I sit down?” I asked.
“Be my guest,” he said almost under his breath. The way he continued to stare gave me the feeling he was trying to read my mind.
“So,” I said taking a seat in an uncomfortable green leather chair and waited. Then I waited some more. I could still feel the vibration from the music down below in Nasty’s throbbing through the floor. Finally I broke the ice. “Your name came up regarding a real estate deal from a couple of years back and I wondered if you might be able to help me.”
“I guess that all depends.” His massive black leather chair squeaked as he tilted back and appeared ready to listen. The red lining of his suit coat became exposed and appeared to match his tie and pocket silk.
“A friend of mine was involved in a real estate closing about two-and-a-half years ago. You represented the selling party. I guess they were traveling or something. Anyway, I wondered if you might be able to provide some information on them, the sellers.”
“Information? What sort of information?” he asked then stroked his chin with his right hand.
“Well, their name for starters.”
“That’s a matter of public record I’m sure you could get in touch with the county and they could tell her.”
I didn’t know if the ‘her’ was a guess, a slip of the tongue or was he just letting me know he knew exactly why I was there.
“Along with their names I wanted to find out something, actually anything I could learn about them.”
“I don’t intend to reveal my client’s name just from the confidentiality standpoint, I assume you understand. Frankly, if you want the name that bad you can look it up. As far as ‘finding out’ about them I really couldn’t be of much help. Without going into specifics, my only dealings would be related to that particular transaction, hardly the sort of interaction that would allo
w me to gather information and then pass that on to you. There is that troubling little item called ethics that comes into play.”
“Ethic’s” I said and nodded. “You’ve a bit of a unique practice, Mr. Van Dorn, don’t you more or less keep Tubby’s feet away from the fire.”
“I wouldn’t really know what you’re referring to Mr. Haskell and I think I’ve been more than generous with my time. Please enjoy the rest of your day,” he said then pressed a button on his desk. A moment later a rather large individual entered the office. He showed the residual effects of a beating, a purple discoloration across the bridge of his flat nose and beneath both eyes, although the swelling had all but disappeared. His lip was split on the right side and seemed to be healing somewhat slowly. His entire right ear was bandaged up in white gauze. His eyes grew wide as I turned in the chair to face him and a sadistic look of recognition splashed across his face. He reached behind his back and pulled out a rather large looking .45. Fat Freddy.
“I’d like you to see our guest to the door. He’s finished here,” Jackie Van Dorn said, then sort of shooed me away with a few flicks of his hand.
Fat Freddy waved the .45 at me indicating I was going to leave. I wasn’t about to argue, I rose to my feet, gave Freddy a wide berth and headed for the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Van Dorn, I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” I called over my shoulder.
Van Dorn didn’t respond. The woman at the desk didn’t bother to look up from her solitaire game which one could only hope she was losing. I walked out of the room, down the short hall then picked up speed once I was at the top of the stairs.
“Oh no you don’t, not so damn fast,” Fat Freddy said half under his breath, then hurried down the steps after me.
I had to slow down to let him catch up. He thundered down the steps grunting. His hand holding the .45 was placed against the wall for balance. He was busy focusing on the stairs when I half turned, reached up and grabbed him by the wrist then twisted him over my shoulder. I hung onto his wrist and yanked the .45 out of his hand as he let out a loud groan then slid down a half dozen steps. His head bounced off the steps a couple of times and he skidded to a stop at the bottom.