Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “I heard that a lot,” Tommy Craven said and almost all of the others nodded in agreement. “Shots fired in-between buildings. The direction they come from can easily fool you.”

  Sherry continued, still looking at her notes for accuracy. “One of the girls, Bethany, got it right. She thought the shots came from exactly where they did. She turned just in time to see Ferguson go down. And she saw the homeless guy sprinting—her word—away and disappeared into the crowd. By now everyone was running, and the girls did too.”

  “And the girls swear they told this to the investigator?” Carvelli asked.

  “Yep, They do, Tony.”

  Marc looked over the crowd and asked if any of them had anything at all like this. They all shook their heads and several quietly said no.

  “Anybody say anything about this homeless guy behind Ferguson?”

  This elicited the same response.

  “What do you think?” Marc asked Carvelli who was standing next to him.

  “I think you guys should go back at them, again,” Carvelli said. “At least the ones who were willing to talk to you. See if you can get some more sightings of this old, homeless guy.”

  “Especially if anyone else saw an old man sprinting from the scene,” Marc said.

  “Sherry, great job,” Marc said. “Now, babysit the girls and see if you can get a better description of him. You know, clothes or anything.”

  “They weren’t really sure about that, so I told them to think about it. I gave each of them my card…”

  “Hold it,” Marc said. “Did the investigator who talked to Tonya give her his card?”

  “No, that’s right. He didn’t. I remember asking her. She said no and couldn’t remember his name. Just showed her his badge. An old white guy, going bald. Of course, an old white guy to a sixteen-year-old black girl could be anyone over thirty.”

  “We’ll find him,” Marc said. “Maddy can get that easily enough. I have money for everyone,” Marc announced.

  On Jake’s desk were eight, plain white envelopes, each with a name on it. He asked Carvelli to hand them out while he talked privately with Sherry.

  “Start nosing around the neighborhoods and see if you can come up with more on Ferguson,” Marc told her. “Anything about the rumors the girls heard.”

  “Will do,” she replied. “And I’ll stay on these girls. I am positive they know more. Maybe even a name or two. Although I’m not sure how that helps Rob Dane.”

  “I don’t either. At least not yet,” Marc admitted. “But we need to dig some more. Rob swears there was a gun. We don’t have to prove absolutely that there was a gun. Just enough to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Lawyers,” Sherry said then shook her head and smiled.

  “One last thing,” Marc announced to the entire group. “We don’t have a lot of time so, if anyone can’t make this their priority, please speak now so we can replace you. No hard feelings, it’s just the clock is starting to tick pretty fast.”

  When no one backed out, Marc thanked them all and the meeting ended.

  Thirty-Four

  “You’re not gonna scare the shit out of me again, are you?” Wendy asked Carvelli.

  The two of them were in the rented Lincoln, a car Carvelli was becoming very fond of. He had parked across the street from Jimmy’s apartment and they were going in for more product.

  “Probably,” Carvelli replied as he exited the Lincoln.

  The same two guards were on duty on the front stoop. As Carvelli and Wendy approached, the smaller of the two men opened the front entryway door for them.

  “He’s expectin’ you,” the man said.

  “Well, thank you,” Carvelli replied smiling at both men. “Have a great day, fellas.”

  “You need more product?” Jimmy asked. “Who you sellin’ to?”

  They were in Jimmy’s office and Jimmy was seated behind the same table, the same man with the same chrome .45 was silently standing guard. Only this time the gun was stuffed down the front of his pants.

  “Let me tell you something,” Carvelli said looking at Jimmy. “I don’t like your man there staring and threatening me with a gun. If anything ever gets out of hand, I’ll put a bullet in his forehead and then one in yours. And yeah, I know about the Mac you have strapped to the underside of this table. You might possibly get me, but I doubt it. You better believe I will get you. Get your hands up on the table.”

  Jimmy smiled his gold-capped smile and slowly placed his hands on the tabletop. He looked at the guard and silently tilted his head, a signal for the man to take a break.

  “Yeah, I need more product,” Carvelli said finally replying to Jimmy’s initial question.

  “This is the third time in less than a week,” Jimmy said as he placed the boxes with Carvelli’s supply on the table.

  Carvelli removed the envelope with his payment from his suit coat pocket and tossed it on the table.

  “It’s all there,” he said.

  “You’re doin’ twice the business old Chip did. How?” Jimmy asked.

  “What do you care? You’re still overcharging me. You’re getting yours,” Carvelli said as he checked the contents of the two boxes.

  “Maybe it’s time I take a look at your customer list,” Jimmy said rubbing the fuzzy, scraggly, goatee on his chin.

  “Then again,” Carvelli said looking down at him, “maybe not. When do I meet your boss?”

  “He says maybe someday, but not for a while.”

  Carvelli handed the two boxes to Wendy, who was sitting on the couch. He turned back to Jimmy and said, “Maybe I’ll find a new supplier.”

  Jimmy grinned again, laughed and said, “There ain’t no other supplier, my man. This is it. We runnin’ it all. You do with us, or you don’t do nothin’.”

  “I’m tired of making these trips here,” Carvelli replied.

  By now Jimmy had sliced open the envelope with a sharp switchblade. He ignored Carvelli while he looked over the contents.

  “Seems to be okay,” Jimmy said.

  “Count it later. I want to get credit. I’ll pay cash for…”

  “Uh, uh,” Jimmy said. “No credit. At least not for a while. You doin’ good, but I need to see more.”

  “Great,” Carvelli said. “Well, nice doing business with you again, Jimmy. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Call me when you need me, Mr. Rossi.”

  “That went well,” Wendy said as Carvelli drove away. “Except for the part about the gunfight.”

  “Let me tell you something about these guys,” Carvelli said as he drove and kept an eye on his mirror. His phone rang, Dan Sorenson was calling.

  “The whole bunch, including the two guys out front, just pulled out in a black Escalade,” Sorenson said. “It looks like they’re going somewhere in a hurry.”

  “Stay with them. See where they go.”

  “I am,” Sorenson replied. “Where are you?”

  Carvelli told him the intersection he was passing through. He was again heading toward downtown.

  “They’re not after you. I think they’re heading toward the freeway. 35W. I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Are they following us?” Wendy asked.

  “No.”

  “You were telling me about these guys,” she said.

  “Oh yeah. These are street punks––that guy with the chrome .45 in his pants, if he tried to pull that thing out quickly and shoot it, he’d be lucky not to blow his own balls off, which wouldn’t be the worst thing. These guys are not trained Navy Seals. They do their thing by fear and intimidation and a willingness to commit murder. It’s powerful and works, but they’re not trained soldiers or law enforcement. Essentially, they’re bullies who think doing time in prison is some kind of badge of honor. If you stand up to them, they’ll back down to do business with you.”

  “Are we going to Gretchen’s?’ Wendy asked.

  “Yeah,” Carvelli said. “We’ll get things together for you two to get your friends their
scores. I have to go somewhere. You okay with that?”

  “Yeah,” Wendy said. “I like her. Gretchen, I mean. What does she do?”

  Carvelli smiled and thought about what he should tell her. “I guess she’d be okay with me telling you. She’s an, ah, let’s see, she’s an independent businesswoman.”

  “Doing what?” a now seriously curious Wendy asked.

  “She’s in the, ah, I know, personal hospitality business. She’s very good, exceptional in fact, and quite expensive.”

  Wendy sat quietly thinking about this then said, “I don’t know what…” Then it dawned on her. “She’s a hooker! Is that it?”

  By now she was leaning forward as far as the shoulder strap would allow. She stared at Carvelli who was trying not to look at her.

  Wendy swatted him on the arm and asked, “Well?”

  Carvelli nodded his head up and down a couple of times, then said, “Yeah. She’s a high-end call girl. Makes a damn good living.”

  “Wow!” Wendy said as she sat back in her seat. She stared at Carvelli and said, “That’s fabulous. I would never have guessed. She’s so, I don’t know, smart, educated, sophisticated even. Now I really like her.

  “How do you know her?” she asked.

  “That, we’re not getting into. Not for a while, at least,” Carvelli replied.

  “You’re a customer,” Wendy said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are, tell me all about it. I’m an adult. I want to know,” Wendy said.

  Carvelli looked at her, shook his head and said, “I am not, nor have I ever been, a customer. We’re friends and that’s it. As for the rest of it, use your imagination.”

  “Can I ask her about it? Will she be offended?” Wendy persisted.

  “Go ahead and ask. I don’t know what she’ll tell you. Except, she’ll probably tell you not to get into it. The nosiness, I mean.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” Wendy said. “Hmmm. Now I really want to know.”

  “Look, Wendy, it isn’t what you see in the movies. None of her clients bear any resemblance to Brad Pitt or George Clooney, just so you know,” Carvelli warned. “Or even me, as far as that goes.”

  Tony and Wendy took the elevator up to the twelfth floor of Gretchen’s high- rise condo. When Gretchen let them in, having been here a couple of times before and knowing where it was, Wendy announced she needed to use the bathroom and went there. Gretchen led Tony into the kitchen and turned on the sink’s faucet to cover their conversation.

  “Is she jonesing?” Gretchen asked, wondering if Wendy needed a pill.

  “Probably,” Carvelli replied.

  “Have you told her what you’re up to yet?”

  “No,” Carvelli said shaking his head. “I’m not sure how much I can trust her. We’ll see.”

  “She needs help,” Gretchen said.

  “I know, and it worries me.”

  “What if she ODs and dies?”

  “Don’t even say that,” Carvelli said.

  “Are we going out today?” Gretchen asked.

  “You’re into this, aren’t you?” Carvelli asked.

  “Into what?” Wendy asked as she came into the kitchen.

  Gretchen shut off the water and replied, “Yeah, sort of. It’s a little risqué. A little dangerous. It’s a bit of a thrill, though.”

  “Tony told me what you really do,” Wendy said.

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Gretchen asked looking at Carvelli with her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “She, ah, um, kind of asked, so, I, ah, didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “It’s cool,” Wendy said. “I wish I had the balls to do it the way you do.”

  “Don’t glamorize it, Wendy,” Gretchen said. “It can be a tough business. For instance, I’ve been put in the hospital three times by assholes.”

  “Let’s get this done,” Carvelli said.

  For the next hour, they went over their delivery list for the next two days. They packaged the pills in small, sealable, plastic bags and used Post-It notes to identify the customers. Between the three of them they had it down to such an organized procedure, they were finished and ready to make deliveries by 5:00 P.M.

  Carvelli paid the women with his expense money, being careful not to use drug sale money. Every dime of that would be saved and accounted for. He also took possession of the inventory.

  Carvelli dropped both women off at Wendy’s car. They would go to the country club to take care of business and make deliveries. Carvelli left them to drive to Vivian Donahue’s mansion on Lake Minnetonka.

  Thirty-Five

  Lewis and Monroe were sitting together at a small table for two. They were a couple of rows away from the runway over the middle of the horseshoe- shaped bar in Gentleman Jim’s. It was a so-called gentleman’s club in the Warehouse District north of downtown Minneapolis. It was also Philo Anson’s favorite titty bar and hooker pick up joint––an expensive strip club.

  Damone’s two guys had been watching both Philo, who sat at the bar with his back to them, and the girls. They were each nursing their second weak, ridiculously expensive, vodka soda waiting for Philo’s date. It was after 10:00 and she was late. For what they had paid her, she was testing their patience.

  A third smiling, buxom, white girl leaned over their table looking for lap dance money. Lewis whispered in her ear, stuck a twenty between her breasts and she left happy. As she walked away, Philo’s date sat down next to Philo at the bar. Her working name was Bianca and she was a beautiful, biracial, copper-toned girl not even old enough to be in a bar. She was also an acquaintance of Monroe’s.

  While they watched and waited, Lewis was keeping time. Less than ten minutes after she arrived, Philo was following her out the front door.

  “How long?” Monroe asked.

  “Eight minutes,” a dejected Lewis answered.

  Monroe smiled and held out his left hand to his friend. Lewis peeled a twenty from his stash and slapped it into Monroe’s hand.

  “I’m surprised it took her that long to reel in the white boy,” Monroe said as the two men stood.

  Maddy Rivers had been after Philo for almost ten days. Her usual method for dealing with someone like him would be to coincidentally sit down next to him in a bar. Philo was making that method difficult. So far, he had either worked late and gone straight home or stopped at a strip club.

  As an investigator, Maddy had tried twice to follow a mark into a strip club. Unfortunately, a single woman that looks like she Maddy is a little out of place. The good news was if she ever needed a job, the managers of both places had offered her one.

  Maddy was in her car across from Gentleman Jim’s waiting for a chance at Philo. A few minutes ago, she had seen a young woman go in by herself. She looked classy enough, but the signs still read ‘hooker’. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, she saw the girl come out with Philo in tow.

  Maddy watched the two of them climb into Philo’s Jag across the street and three cars down from her. The car’s headlights came on and illuminated two large black men who exited the bar as the Jag was pulling away.

  Maddy saw the two men hurry to a light-colored SUV and she instinctively knew Philo was about to be followed. She slumped down in her seat as they drove past. Maddy waited until they were a block away then pulled out to follow them.

  “Come on in, sugar,” Bianca said as she unlocked the apartment door.

  Philo followed her in and was surprised to find a tastefully furnished and decorated apartment. Bianca took his hand and led him to a sofa that matched the living room furnishings. He took off his outer coat and tossed it on the end of the couch. Bianca gently pushed him down, but when he tried to grab her, she playfully pushed him away and stood.

  “Not so fast, honey,” she quietly said with a seductive look. “For what I charge, we take our time and let you get the full enjoyment.”

  “Okay,” Philo said with a big grin.

  “You were drinking bran
dy, I think,” she said walking toward a dry bar set up across the room.

  “That’ll be fine, baby,” Philo replied.

  A minute later, she returned with a snifter of brandy on the rocks. She sat next to him, her legs curled under her and handed him his drink. While he took a sip, she lightly ran her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Philo put his hand on her knee and tried to slowly move it up under her dress.

  The exterior door burst open and slammed against the wall. A very angry looking black man came storming into the apartment with murder in his eyes. Philo, a little too buzzed to understand what was happening, sat and stared, his mouth open and an uncomprehending look on his face.

  When the man came in, Bianca jumped up and let out a panicky short scream. “It ain’t what you think…” she tried to say.

  “Yeah! Then what the fuck is it, bitch?!” the man yelled. He stepped over to Bianca, grabbed her hair and yanked with his left hand. In his right hand, so Philo could clearly see it, he snapped open a nasty-looking switchblade knife.

  “Well?!” he screamed in Bianca’s face.

  “I can explain…” she tried to say.

  Finally, realizing there was a problem, Philo put his drink on the coffee table and started to stand.

  “Look,” he said, “there’s been some kind of mistake and…”

  “Sit down!” the angry man screamed.

  “Put the knife down, Lemar,” they all heard a man’s voice say from the doorway.

  Lemar turned toward the door as Lewis and Monroe came in, Monroe holding a gun at his side.

  “What?” Lemar asked, a look of fear replacing the anger. “Okay, okay,” he said as he let go of Bianca and knelt down to drop the knife on the floor.

  Bianca backed up, her hand raised in the air saying, “We ain’t done nothin’. We were just…”

  “Shut up, bitch,” Lewis said. He looked back at Lemar and said, “What have you been told about this?”

  “We, ah…”

  “What have you been told?” he repeated more loudly.