[Lady Justice 40] - Lady Justice and the Landlords' Nightmare

by Robert Thornhill

  “I understand,” he replied, “but this isn’t your normal kidnapping.”

  “How so?”

  “We know who has him and why he was taken. You see, our brother has a gambling problem.”

  “Gambling problem my ass!” Curtis interrupted. “It’s not just gambling. He drinks too much, can’t keep a job, and is frequently in the company of women of ill repute. Carl has always been the black sheep of the family.”

  “Now Curtis,” Clark admonished, “don’t be so judgmental. Sure, Carl has a somewhat checkered past, but he’s been trying to clean up his act.”

  “Rubbish! A leopard can never change his spots.”

  “Nonsense! A person never has to be a prisoner of their past. The past is just a lesson. Not a life sentence. It doesn’t matter what’s been written in his story so far. It’s how he fills up the rest of the pages that counts.”

  “Poppycock! Albert Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Carl will never change!”

  Tired of the brothers exchanging philosophical memes, Kevin interrupted. “Calm down, boys. Can we get back on track? You said you know who has your brother and why. Spill it!”

  Clark gave his brother a withering look. “Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Carl has a gambling problem. He suffered some substantial losses, then borrowed money to cover his losses from a rather questionable source.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Frank McGonigle. I believe his nickname is Fats.”

  “Good Lord!” I muttered.

  “You know the guy?” Kevin asked.

  “I’ve heard of him,” I replied. “Rumor has it that there’s a lot of broken kneecaps out there because people didn’t pay their debt on time.”

  “Yes!” Clark exclaimed. “That’s exactly our problem. Fats has Carl and is demanding we pay his debt. If we don’t, he said we’d be getting pieces of our brother on our doorstep, I am assuming he’s referring to fingers and toes.”

  “How much does he owe?”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  Kevin gave a low whistle. “Holy crap!”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Why is Fats coming to you?”

  “Because our father was a wealthy man. When he passed, he left a trust fund for each of us. Fats knows that there’s plenty of money in the fund.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Kevin asked. “Just pay the guy and get your brother back.”

  “It’s the way Father set up the trust. As the oldest brother, I am the trustee along with the bank. Knowing our brother’s foibles, he set it up so that each of us gets five thousand each month. Even though the money is there, the bank is bound by the terms of the trust. At five thousand a month, it would take six months to pay off Fats if we gave it all to him. Even if we gave him all three of our allotments, it would still take two months. Fats wants his money now or he’s going to start lopping off fingers. Can you help us?”

  “I don’t know, Clark. This is way out of our league. Like I said before, the FBI should be handling this.”

  “Fats said if we went to the police, he’d make sure we would never see our brother again. That’s why we came to you.”

  “Get real, Clark!” Curtis said. “You heard the man. This is out of their league. We’re wasting our time. Let’s go.”

  But Clark didn’t budge. “I saw what you and your partner did to rescue those poor cats. I just know you can figure something out.”

  “Jesus, Clark! You’re such a cockeyed optimist.”

  I wondered if Curtis knew he was repeating a line from one of the songs in South Pacific.

  “And you’re a pathetic pessimist,” Clark retorted. “A real poop! I’d rather be an optimist and be wrong than a pessimist and be right.”

  “Calm down, boys,” Kevin said. “I believe it was George Bernard Shaw who said, ‘Both optimists and pessimists contribute to society. The optimist invents the airplane. The pessimist invents the parachute.’ Walt and I will talk it over and see if we can come up with something. If we can, we’ll be in touch.”

  “See,” Clark said, getting out of his chair, “I knew they’d come through.”

  “There you go again!” Curtis retorted. “He said ‘IF.’ They haven’t given us squat. It looks like old Carl is screwed for sure.”

  “I’ll give you a call one way or the other,” I said as I ushered the squabbling brothers out the door.

  “George Bernard Shaw?” I said, returning to the office.

  “Hey,” he replied indignantly, “I’m not just a pretty face. Anyway, what’s your take on all this?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I know the first thing I’m going to do. Have a conversation with Carmine Marchetti.”

  Carmine Marchetti is the godfather of the Kansas City Mafia.

  While I don’t normally associate with known criminals, for some inexplicable reason, fate has thrown us together more times than I’d like to admit. On two of those occasions, Carmine actually saved my life, and on two others, I saved his. As a result of these experiences, we have developed a mutual respect for one another and Carmine has even helped us put away some very bad characters.

  Nevertheless, Carmine has made it quite clear that if I ever get on his bad side, I’m not immune from being fitted with cement shoes and tossed into the Missouri River. That’s the primary reason why I always check with him before going after someone operating on the wrong side of the law. The last thing I want to do is go after someone on his payroll.

  As Dirty Harry says, “A man has to know his limitations.” And the sad truth is that I’m not about to piss off the godfather of the Kansas City mafia.

  A symbol of my status in his eyes is that I have his private number on my speed dial. Not just everyone can say that --- or come to think of it --- would want to.

  “Carmine. Walt Williams here.”

  “Walt Williams! My favorite gumshoe. What can I do for you?”

  I always breathe a sigh of relief when he calls me his favorite gumshoe. It means I’m still in his good graces.

  “I’d like to have a word with you if you have some time.”

  “How about now? I’ll have Vito meet you in the parking garage.”

  Sure enough, Vito, Carmine’s personal body guard was waiting for me when I pulled in to park. In spite of all the times I had met with Carmine, Vito always pats me down. He takes his job very seriously. At least now he doesn’t bruise my arm when he escorts me to Carmine’s office.

  “So,” Carmine said in his booming voice, “what brings Walt Williams downtown?”

  “I just wanted to run something by you,” I replied. “Fats McGonigle. Is he one of yours?”

  “Not only no,” he said with a grimace, “but hell no! Fats McGonigle is a pig! It’s guys like him that give guys like me a bad name. Why do you want to know?”

  “A client came to us for help. Apparently Fats is holding his brother and demanding payment for a gambling debt. He’s threatening to start cutting off digits if he doesn’t get paid. Unfortunately, my client can’t come up with the money.”

  “Well, there you go,” Carmine said, slapping his hand on his desk. “That’s Fats all right. Brutal from the get-go. The man doesn’t know the meaning of finesse. Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve sent Vito to urge some backslider to cough up a payment, but cut off fingers? Never! Usually a well-placed threat will do the trick. You don’t swat flies with a baseball bat.”

  As Carmine was railing away against Fats, an idea began to take form.

  “I know Fats is not in your league, but all the same, you and he are competing for the same business.”

  He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Then I suppose you wouldn’t be too disappointed if Fats was suddenly out of business.”

  “I suppose not. What are you gettin’ at?”

  “How much would it be worth to you to have Fats out o
f the picture?”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  I held my breath.

  I could see the wheels turning in Carmine’s head.

  “Thirty G’s. Hmmm, exactly what do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll have my client contact Fats and tell him they’ve come up with the money, but the donors will only pay if they can get a seat in one of Fats high-stakes poker games. Fats gets his thirty grand, my client gets his brother back, and Kevin and I get a seat at the poker table.”

  “I like it so far. Go on.”

  “This is the part you may not like. At this point we’ll have to involve the cops. Either Kevin or I will lose big and turn to Fats to cover our debt. When we can’t pay up, Fats will threaten us like he did my client’s brother. We’ll be wearing a wire. As soon as he incriminates himself, the organized crime task force will move in and make an arrest. The cops will never have to know that you were involved.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Okay then. I’m in.” He opened his desk drawer. “You want the cash now?”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that Carmine would have that kind of cash just sitting around, but I was.

  “Uhhh, no not yet. I still have to talk to organized crime and if they’re in I’ll have to set up the exchange with Fats. As soon as all that is in place, I’ll contact you for the cash.”

  His face broke into a wide grin. “You’re okay, gumshoe. That’s why you’re my favorite.”

  My next stop was with Brent Wheeler, the head of the Organized Crime Task Force. I knew him from my days on the force.

  “Walt Williams!” he said as I tapped on his door. “Come in. I hear from the grapevine you’ve been pretty cozy with Carmine Marchetti since you left the force. I hope you’re here to turn him in.”

  “Actually, no,” I replied, taking a seat, “but I am here to offer you Fats McGonigle on a silver platter. Are you interested?”

  “I’d rather have Marchetti,” he replied, “but I’d settle for Fats. What have you got?”

  “As you know, Kevin McBride and I opened a P.I. business when I retired. A client came to us saying a relative borrowed money from Fats, couldn’t pay it back, so Fats kidnapped him and is threatening to start whacking off body parts if he isn’t paid.

  “I was able to come up with the money, and my plan is to tell Fats that he’ll get paid if he gets Kevin and I into one of his high-stakes poker games. We’ll be wearing a wire with you listening. When one of us loses and can’t pay up, Fats will do the same to us as he did to our client’s relative. The minute he threatens us with bodily harm, you guys move in. Our testimony, along with that of our client, should be enough to put Fats away for a very long time.”

  Wheeler thought for a moment. “Where did you come up with the money?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I thought as much. What do you need from us?”

  “We need cash to buy into the poker game.”

  “How much?”

  “The buy-in is five grand a person.”

  I could see he was about to protest. “Look! Once you move in and bust up the game, you’ll get your money back.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. Tell me this. Why are you and Kevin volunteering to stick your neck out like this?”

  “First of all, it helps get our client out of harm’s way, and second, it gets a really bad guy off the street. Just because I’m not a cop anymore doesn’t mean that I don’t care. Are you in?”

  “Yeah, I’m in. What’s next?”

  “Let me set things up with my client and Fats and I’ll be in touch.”

  My next call was to Kevin. I had volunteered him for an undercover gig he knew nothing about. He listened carefully as I outlined my plan.

  “I like it!” he said, grinning.

  Needless to say, I was relieved.

  My next move was a meeting with Clark and Curtis Kent.

  Their mouths dropped open when I told them I had come up with the ransom money.

  “But how --- who?” Clark asked dumbfounded.

  “That’s confidential, but there are strings attached.”

  “I knew it!” Curtis the pessimist snorted. “There are always strings. What kind of strings?”

  “Curtis, please!” Clark admonished. “Remember the words of Joyce Meyer, ‘Being negative only makes a journey more difficult. You may be given a cactus, but you don’t have to sit on it.’ Let’s hear what Walt has to say.”

  “Actually, the strings aren’t all that bad. First, you’ll have to call Fats, tell him someone has offered the cash on the condition that they be invited to one of his high-stakes poker games. I don’t think he’ll object.”

  “That’s easy enough,” Clark said. “What’s the second condition?”

  “You and Carl will agree to testify against Fats in court.”

  “There it is!” Curtis roared. “I’ve heard about witnesses mysteriously disappearing. Surely you won’t agree to that!”

  Clark smiled. “My dear brother, Marilyn Monroe said, ‘Fear is stupid. So are regrets.’ I am willing to face my fear because if I don’t and Carl is harmed, I will regret it the rest of my life.” He turned to me. “I’ll agree to your conditions.”

  Everyone had agreed to my plan. Now all I had to do was make it work.

  CHAPTER 5

  With everyone in agreement, the first step was for Carl to call Fats and set up the exchange. It was no surprise that Fats was more interested in his thirty thousand than collecting a set of Carl’s fingers.

  Also, no one was shocked that he was eager to welcome some new fish into his high-stakes poker game.

  Once that was settled, I contacted Carmine and told him I was ready for the cash. He said he’d have Vito bring it by my apartment.

  When Vito arrived, he handed me a thick envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. His demeanor was much like my Domino’s guy delivering a pizza. Just another day doing the bidding of Kansas City’s crime czar.

  The exchange was set for Friday night, just before the start of the clandestine poker game. Naturally, Fats wanted to know the names of the new fish so he could check them out. Obviously, Kevin and I couldn’t use our real names, so the organized crime tech boys set us up with fake identities.

  My new name was Brian Whipple. The moment I heard it, the image of George Whipple, the grocer on the TV ads who admonishes his customers, ‘Please don’t squeeze the Charmin’ popped into my mind.

  Kevin’s new moniker was Steve Stone. He gets all the cool names.

  On Friday afternoon, Kevin and I met with Brent Wheeler to be fitted with our listening devices.

  “No doubt,” he said, “Fats will have you frisked and checked to make sure you’re not wired.”

  He handed each of us a pocket keychain that looked exactly like the one I carry to lock and unlock my car door.

  “Recording devices can only be identified when they are transmitting,” he said. “These will be inactive until after you have been checked at the door. As soon as you’re inside, just press the ‘panic’ button and we’ll be able to hear everything. As soon as Fats incriminates himself, we’ll be all over the place. Any questions?”

  We had none and were ready to proceed.

  Clark Kent met us at my apartment and we headed to our rendezvous with Fats McGonigle. We went in separate cars. Clark would be leaving with his brother and we would be staying to get the goods on old Fats.

  The directions he gave us led us to a deserted-looking warehouse in the West Bottoms. We pulled up to the old loading dock, rang the bell by the door, and moments later a man opened it and motioned us inside. He led us to an office.

  “Go on in. Fats is waiting for you.”

  I had never seen Fats before, but the moment I saw him, I understood how he had gotten the nickname. He reminded me of Jabba the Hut from the Star Wars movies. His huge rolls of fat h
ung over the arms of the chair in which he was seated. He looked up and took the cigar out of his mouth.

  “You got the money?”

  “Right here,” I said, holding up the envelope.

  “Hand it over.”

  He opened the envelope and thumbed through the cash. Satisfied, he motioned to his lacky. “Go get him.”

  Moments later, the lacky returned with a very white-faced Carl Kent.

  Carl leaped forward and embraced his brother, sobbing. “Thank you. Thank you. I was so scared.”

  “These are the men you should thank,” Clark said, pointing to us.

  Carl grabbed my hand. “How can I ever repay you.”

  “Well, for starters, “I replied, “you can stay out of trouble.”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “I really will.”

  Clark saw an opening and jumped right in. “The only person you should try to be better than – is the person you were yesterday.”

  “You’re so right, Clark. I’ll change. I promise.”

  “I certainly hope so. May God grant you the serenity to accept the things you cannot change, the courage to change the things you can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  “Okay, okay,” Fats bellowed. “Enough of the schmaltz.” He pointed to Clark and Carl. “You two. Get lost!” Then he pointed to us. “You two go with Louie to be checked out.”

  Clark whispered, “Thank you,” as he slipped out the door.

  We followed Fats’ lackey to another room.

  “Empty your pockets,” he ordered.

  “There’s nothing but car keys and loose change,” I said.

  He handed us little trays similar to the ones the TSA guys use at the airports.

  “You wanna play, you follow the rules and these are Fats’ rules. Now empty ‘em!”

  Reluctantly, we both placed our fake car key recorders in the basket. Neither of us had the opportunity to activate the audio feature. I looked at Kevin and he just shrugged. What else could we do?