Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Jimmy turned his head, licked his lips and nervously looked at Lewis and Monroe. They both stared back with a completely dispassionate expression.

  “I try to convince them that you wouldn’t do that. You don’t want to make me look like a liar and a fool, do you, Jimmy?”

  “Um, ah, no, boss, no,” Jimmy stammered.

  “You see, they’re in charge of the crack business. Their pay and bonuses are tied to your sales and profits. Just like sales at General Motors. Do you understand that?”

  “Ah, I guess, sure.”

  “The better you do, the better they do. You understand?”

  “Yes, sure,” Jimmy quickly replied.

  “In fact, well, I hate to say it, but they want to fire you and replace you with someone they can trust.”

  Turning very serious, Damone looked at Jimmy’s eyes and said, “You do understand that if I give them the okay to fire you, it doesn’t mean you’ll just lose your job, don’t you?”

  Jimmy’s head swiveled back and forth between the two men opposite Damone and Damone himself.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” Jimmy said.

  “I don’t want to hear any more about smack from you. You were hired to do a job. I can easily replace you. Do your job, knock off the bullshit, boy, and you might see a few more birthdays. Now, get out.”

  By this time Monroe was at the door holding it open. Jimmy’s feet barely touched the floor as he fled.

  “I got a text from Saadaq a couple of minutes ago,” Lewis said. “The recruiter’s back and they want to meet.”

  “When?” Damone asked.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Lewis replied.

  Damone looked at his watch and asked, “Anything else for a while?”

  “No, not until later. You’re supposed to meet with that senator, Halane, later. Seven o’clock,” Lewis said.

  “Call Saadaq and see if now is okay.”

  Lewis made the call, received an affirmative answer and the three of them left.

  Damone and Imam Sadia were seated in tall, comfortable armchairs looking through a one-way mirror. Lewis and Monroe stood against a wall a few feet behind their boss. In the room next to them, the scene they were observing, were three people. Damone, as usual, held his Bible in his lap.

  In the room they were watching, to their right, was a Muslim man seated at a small, cheap desk. Behind and to his right was Saadaq. To their left, sitting in a chair identical to theirs, was the quiet man wearing the wraparound sunglasses. In the center of the room seated in an uncomfortable, unpadded, armless chair, was a young Somali man. He was facing the man at the desk while everyone else watched.

  The man at the desk had the same lighter skin complexion as the man with the sunglasses. The two of them had taken over recruitment of holy warriors in Minneapolis about a year ago. Their two predecessors had been killed by a Russian bomb in Syria.

  For the next two hours the man at the desk, Dawoud, questioned a total of three Somali teens. The three of them had been recruited together and had spent the past six weeks being interrogated and indoctrinated. They had lived in the building they were in, an abandoned store, the entire time. Not once had they been allowed to leave. Today was their final exam.

  When it was over, Dawoud and Saadaq briefly conferred. Then the man with the sunglasses looked at the mirror and silently nodded his head. All three of the recruits had been found acceptable.

  The next phase would be to get them to their destination. This was so highly classified that the recruiter, the man with the sunglasses, would not reveal it to anyone. Even the recruits would not know until they arrived in the Holy Land. Once there, the people waiting for them would let them know where they would go to begin their fight for Allah.

  Dawoud went with the three recruits while Saadaq and the recruiter joined those who had watched.

  “How many does this make?” Damone asked.

  “For us, these will make it fourteen. Why do you want to know?” The mystery man asked in a barely accented English.

  “Just curious,” Damone replied.

  Doing business with the Somalis, Damone had known all along that they were recruiting local Somalis and sending them to terrorist groups. That was why he was allowed to attend the session today. Minneapolis was the Number One terrorist recruiting area in America.

  The four of them, while Lewis and Monroe continued to wait, held an impromptu meeting. As usual, the Imam argued for more product. And, as usual, Damone politely refused.

  Saadaq accompanied Damone to the Tahoe when the meeting was over. It was parked alongside the building and Lewis and Monroe were waiting.

  “What have you found out about the Imam?” Damone asked.

  “He’s keeping at least two mistresses,” Saadaq replied. “And we believe there are one or two others.”

  “Muslim women?”

  “No, American whores,” Saadaq replied.

  “Anything else?”

  “He must be putting money away somewhere. He is skimming from both you and his employees.”

  Damone sadly shook his head then said, “Keep digging. Gurey should know. Lean on him. He is a weakling.”

  “Will do,” Saadaq replied.

  Twenty-Five

  Tony Russo, formerly Tony Carvelli, was sipping his unsweetened glass of iced tea. Acting the part of a refugee from Witsec, Tony was wearing a thousand- dollar, light gray, sharkskin suit and white silk dress shirt. His companion was a forty-year-old, elegant looking woman with a two-hundred-dollar hairstyle. She was also a thousand-dollar a night prostitute whose birth name was Gretchen Stenson. Gretchen was a high-end prostitute that Tony had known for over twenty years. He first busted her as a seventeen-year-old high school girl turning tricks and running three of her high school friends.

  Tony was wondering how he was going to cover her cost on his expense report for Vivian. He was hoping that swearing Adrienne, Vivian’s granddaughter, to secrecy would hold up.

  The woman they were watching was the trophy wife of a senior partner in a large, white-shoe law firm. Vivian knew both the husband and wife. The woman was in Chip Osborne’s ledger and Adrienne had helped them find her. Using Adrienne to locate the woman and meet Gretchen might have been a mistake. As soon as Adrienne found out what Gretchen did, she could not have been more curious. Fascinated even.

  The two of them had ignored Tony at lunch a couple of days ago while they talked. Adrienne wanted to know everything about Gretchen’s business. The best line was Gretchen explaining how she got into it.

  “Well, Adrienne,” she said to the question. “When I was in high school, I went down to the guidance counselor and he gave me the usual aptitude tests. The test results came back, and he told me a lawyer or hooker. I asked, ‘what’s the difference?’ and he said, ‘Hookers have more self-esteem, a better reputation and make more money!’ So, here I am.”

  By now, Adrienne was laughing hysterically and Tony was looking on in horror.

  “Relax, Tony. I’m not going to do it. It’s just, I don’t know, curiosity.”

  “Tony,” Gretchen said, “there isn’t a woman alive who hasn’t wondered what it would be like to go to a hotel with a strange man and get paid for sex. Especially at her age.”

  “Really?” Tony asked looking at Adrienne.

  “Uh, I plead the fifth,” Adrienne said.

  “Here it is,” Gretchen said. They were in the Highland Hills Golf and Tennis Club having lunch. They had used Adrienne’s membership card which had her name as Adrienne Grant, not Donahue or Corwin.

  The woman they were watching was Lois Collier. A long-legged, bored thirty-year-old blonde married to a fifty-eight-year-old man. She was alone at a table near the tennis courts, sitting under an umbrella with an alcoholic drink. A striking brunette, wearing white tennis clothes, sat down opposite Lois. She reached across the table with both hands and took both of Lois’ hands in hers.

  “That was it,” Gretchen said. “That was the drop-off.”
r />   “Are you filming?” Tony asked

  “Oh yeah,” Gretchen replied.

  On their table, Gretchen had placed a knockoff, light gold, Coach shoulder bag. You don’t punch a hole for a camera in a real one. In the purse was a video camera focused on the table barely thirty feet away. In less than five seconds after the exchange, Lois put the pill in her mouth and downed the rest of her drink.

  “She was hurting,” Gretchen said.

  “We need to find out who the other woman is,” Tony said.

  When he said this, both women stood up and exchanged an air kiss. Lois grabbed her tennis bag and they parted. While they watched, the brunette joined two other women at another table. Before she sat down, she discreetly put her right hand in her bag and came out with her fist clenched.

  “I got an idea,” Gretchen said as she shifted the camera-purse to film the new table. “You go watch Lois and see where she goes. I’ll stay here and wait. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Tony stood up and Gretchen said, “If Lois leaves in her car, come back. It’s the brunette. It’s the brunette we need to talk to.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Gretchen watched the brunette as she made her rounds. She went to a total of six tables and serviced ten women. By then Tony was back.

  When she finished at the sixth table, they watched as she headed toward the clubhouse.

  “I’ll be back,” Gretchen said. She grabbed her purse and went after the brunette.

  Gretchen got inside just in time to see her go down a hallway to the left of the club’s member service counter. There was a sign on the wall telling Gretchen she was going exactly where she had hoped; the restrooms.

  When Gretchen got inside the Ladies’ restroom, the brunette was already in one of the stalls. Two other women were finishing up at the sinks. Gretchen set her purse on the counter and fiddled with her hair until the two women left. She then quietly locked the entrance door. In less than a minute, a toilet flushed and the brunette came out. Gretchen decided to go right at her.

  “Who’s your source?” Gretchen demanded. She had walked up behind the woman while she washed her hands. Startled, she straightened up and turned around. Gretchen was staring at her with a tough, no-nonsense look on her face.

  “My what? My source? I don’t…” She started to stammer.

  Gretchen grabbed her blouse under her chin and pulled her toward Gretchen’s face. “Don’t go there, honey. I got you on film going from table to table dropping off today’s dose.”

  By this point, the brunette was clearly terrified. This woman who was glaring at her was not from any debutante school she had attended. This woman was clearly hard as nails and meant business.

  “Do you want to see it? It’s in my purse,” Gretchen said still gripping the woman’s blouse.

  “No,” she barely managed to croak.

  “Relax, honey,” Gretchen said then released her. “We’re going out there and the guy I’m with is gonna have a chat with you. We know Chip was your supplier. We want to take over. You’ll all be made well again.”

  There was a knock on the door after someone tried to open it. Two seconds later the knocking became louder and more urgent.

  “Let’s go,” Gretchen said.

  Gretchen marched the woman arm-in-arm through the country club like they were two old friends. On the way to the parking lot she called Tony and told him to meet them. The women were waiting next to Tony’s car; a leased, burgundy colored Lincoln Continental courtesy of Vivian Donahue. While Tony drove, the women sat in the back seat.

  “What’s your name?” Gretchen asked.

  “Wendy Merrill,” she replied.

  “Okay, Wendy,” Gretchen said. “We’re going to a little park about a half mile up the road. We know of a nice spot for the three of us to have a little chat. When we’re done, we’ll take you back to your car.”

  “Are you police?” Wendy nervously asked.

  “No,” Tony replied. “We’re not with any law enforcement agency of any kind.”

  “Okay,” she said much more calmly. “Then what do you want?”

  Without answering her, Tony turned into the park and drove to a small pavilion. He parked and the three of them went to a shaded bench about a hundred yards from the car.

  “My name is Tony Russo and her name’s Gretchen,” Tony said. Wendy was sitting in between them. “I knew Chip and what he was up to. I want to take over.”

  Wendy said, “Chip never mentioned anyone named Tony.”

  “Yet, here I am. And how do you think I pulled that off?”

  Carvelli looked like a serious gangster. With his sharkskin suit, Italian loafers, a diamond pinky ring and rose-tinted glasses, he looked like he could star in a Goodfellas sequel.

  Wendy stared at Tony for three or four seconds then turned to Gretchen. Gretchen stared back with the same impassive look Tony had. It was then Wendy burst into tears and began sobbing. She covered her face with her hands, bent over and put her head between her knees.

  Tony looked at Gretchen with a ‘what did I say?’ expression. Gretchen frowned, rolled her eyes, shook her head and mouthed the word “men” at him. Uncertain what to do, Tony sat and looked helplessly at her. Gretchen let it go on for almost a minute.

  “All right,” Gretchen said. She pulled on Wendy’s shoulders, forcing her to sit up. Without any empathy in her voice, she said, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get a grip. How did you get into this in the first place?”

  “You don’t give a damn,” Wendy whined to her. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Oh, you’re looking for sympathy,” Gretchen said. “Well, honey, you’ll find it in the dictionary somewhere between shit and syphilis. Now, I want to know how a pampered, country club princess could become a junkie, drug-hustler.”

  “Fuck you, bitch!” Wendy snarled.

  “That’s better,” Gretchen said. “Now, I do want to know.”

  Wendy looked at Tony who gently said, “Go on, let’s hear it.”

  “About three years ago I hurt my knee in a skiing accident. I went to a doctor who prescribed pain medication––thirty milligrams of Percocet. He thought the knee would heal by itself.

  “After a few months, it hadn’t healed, so I had surgery. I didn’t realize it, but by this time I was hooked. I was taking twice the amount of Percocet prescribed.

  “Anyway, I had the surgery and he increased the dosage to fifty milligrams. By this time, I was taking two or three hits of fifty milligrams every day. I knew a couple of the girls at the club were taking them too. That’s how I met Chip. The knee healed, but now I was taking them to get high. And I became involved with Chip…”

  “You were sleeping with him?”

  “Hell, half the woman at the club were screwing him. For the drugs,” Wendy said. “Yeah, I was too. Why not. My husband pays zero attention to me.”

  “That’s always the excuse,” Gretchen said. “And then you started selling for him and turning tricks.”

  “No, no, I never turned tricks. He tried to get to me to, but I wouldn’t. Some of them did. They were having fun they said. Going down on guys in the back seat of cars for their dope money while their husbands are working.

  “It’s disgusting. Our husbands are successful professionals. They provide us with a nice life. But you know what, we’re all arm candy. Our lives are so dull and boring we resort to drugs and hooking to liven it up.”

  “What’s your husband do?” Tony asked.

  “He’s the managing partner of a mid-size brokerage. He makes over a million dollars a year and you know what? I’d give it up to get clean and away from him. He’s an arrogant, self-centered control freak.”

  “Who’s your supplier?” Tony asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “I told you,” Tony said. “We’re taking over. I have Chip’s customer ledger and…”

  “How did you…”

  “None of your business. I have it and that’s that. Now, w
ho is your source?”

  “A black guy by the name of Jimmy Jones,” she quietly said.

  “Good. Now, you’re going to introduce me. After that, if you really want to, we’ll help you get clean,” Tony said. “But you’re going to work with me for a while first.”

  “Really? You’d help me…”

  “If you really want it, yes,”

  “Why?” Wendy asked. “I don’t get it. Why would you want to help me get clean?”

  “Because you’re gonna help me and for now, that’s all you need to know.”

  Wendy looked back and forth between the two of them and said, “Deal.”

  “That’s him,” Wendy said. “The guy with the cornrows and red leather jacket.”

  Tony had dropped off Gretchen and then Wendy had taken him to where Jimmy Jones lived. They were parked on Dupont, a half block north of 28th Street watching a small apartment building. A shiny, black Escalade pulled up and parked in front and four men got out.

  “I think Jimmy owns the apartment building. It has two apartments in the basement, two on the first floor and two on the second,” Wendy said. “Jimmy lives and works out of one of the second-floor places.”

  “Let’s go,” Tony said.

  They hurried across the street and reached the four men as they started into the building. One of the men, a fairly large, serious looking black man stepped in front of Tony and stuck his right hand in Tony’s chest.

  “Are you right-handed?” Tony asked him.

  “What? Are you a cop? Get lost,” the bodyguard replied.

  By now the others, especially Jimmy, were watching.

  “Get your hand off of me or you’re gonna have to learn to wipe your ass with your left hand,” Tony quietly said.

  The man started laughing along with his friends, everyone except Jimmy. He had recognized Wendy and figured this had something to do with business. He silently watched to see how this little drama would play out.

  When the bodyguard laughed, Tony snatched two of his fingers in each hand. As he spread them apart, he also bent the man’s hand back which caused enough pain to drop him to his knees.