[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

That certainly fit here. These women were powerful. A top-producing female agent didn’t get there by being timid. Most have fought their way to the top and stay there by the sheer force of their will. If you cross them, they will squash you like a bug.

  After hearing Dr. Billings’s report, the detectives concluded that they should concentrate their efforts in the real estate community. The killer had the ability to lure his first two victims within the framework of normal real estate activity, indicating that he had some knowledge of how the system worked. With Dr. Billings’s characterization that the killer resented being subjected to powerful women, it was worth taking a closer look at intra-office relationships to see if they could uncover any antagonistic male-female struggle that, so far, had been under the radar.

  CHAPTER 14

  Everyone was eager to bring down the Realtor Rapist, but ongoing cases could not be ignored. Narcotics had been working on gang-related drug distribution for months. Undercover officers had penetrated the inner circle of the ‘Niners’, black gangbangers operating in and controlling the area around the government housing projects on Ninth Street.

  A drug deal had been set up, and Narcotics was ready to take down the boys in the hood.

  All available officers were pressed into service. The area that needed surveillance was large, from Charlotte to Troost on the east and west and from Independence Avenue to Twelfth Street on the north and south. We were to dress in plain clothes so as not to attract attention but to be available in the event any of the bangers slipped out of the net.

  Ox and I were at Independence Avenue and Campbell. It was a mixed neighborhood with small retail stores on the corners and large, old, two-story homes in between. This was an old part of town. Most of the homes were constructed at the turn of the century. Years of neglect had caused the neighborhood to deteriorate, and several of the houses were board-ups, houses that had been abandoned, and doors and windows were covered with plywood to keep out vandals and druggies.

  As the appointed time for the bust arrived, we waited anxiously for word that the party was over and all the bangers were accounted for.

  But instead, the message came over the walkie-talkie, “We have apprehended three subjects at the scene, but the leader of the Niners, Duane, or ‘Li’l D’ as he is known, has escaped. He is a black male with dreadlocks, dressed in gray cargo pants, black shirt, and black Nikes with a white check logo. Last seen he was heading north on Charlotte toward Independence Avenue.”

  Charlotte was just one block from our location, and we headed in that direction. We spotted Li’l D sprinting across a parking lot heading for a board-up. We took off after him.

  Just as we reached the board-up, we saw him disappear around the corner and down the old driveway beside the house. We were close behind, but as we turned the corner, no Li’l D.

  We surveyed the scene, and Ox quietly put his finger to his lips and pointed to the base of the foundation.

  In the old days, these big old homes were heated with coal. The coal truck would back into the driveway and shovel coal into a small opening in the foundation, a coal chute.

  We looked at the hole, maybe eighteen inches square. We looked at Ox. No way! We looked at me. Oh crap!

  It was dark town there. I could only imagine the insects, rats, and other vermin that occupied this dark abyss.

  “You got your stuff?” Ox asked. “Your gun, spray, cuffs, flashlight?”

  Flashlight?

  Why would I bring a flashlight? It’s the middle of the day.

  “Let me take yours,” I said.

  “Don’t got one neither,” he replied.

  Swell!

  “You go in and see if you can locate the perp. I’ll stay here by the chute and call for backup,” he said.

  Sounded reasonable except for the “me go in” part.

  Then I thought, What would my heroes do? Sam Spade, Boston Blackie. No guts, no glory. So I lay on my stomach, stuck my feet in the hole, and inched myself backward until I could bend at the waist. I let my feet dangle, hoping to touch something solid. Nope. Was it two feet or ten feet to the cellar floor?

  Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, and I gave a shove and launched into the darkness. I hit the floor, stumbled, and crashed into some old paint cans stacked against the wall. If Li’l D didn’t know we were after him before, he certainly did now.

  I moved into the darkness, and ewwww, my face was engulfed in a heavy, sticky spider web.

  You know how Indiana Jones hates snakes?

  Well, I hate spiders!

  When I was six years old, Tarzan of the Apes was one of my heroes. I would go to the movies and see Lex Barker conquer the jungle bad guys. In one movie titled Tarzan and the Web of Arrack, Tarzan was captured by a giant spider and woven into a silk cocoon. I’ve been scared of spiders ever since.

  I could only imagine the hairy beast whose home I had invaded, and I let out a yelp as I brushed away the web.

  No sooner had my lips opened when, blam, I heard a slug whiz past my head. Cripes, nobody said he was armed and dangerous. Hmmmm. Gang leader. Drug dealer. Fleeing felon. Duh!

  I hit the ground and scooted across the floor for cover. I pulled my trusty revolver and tried to remember what Roy Rogers would have done when pinned down like this.

  Li’l D must have heard me scoot, and he fired off another round. This time I saw the muzzle flash. Blam, blam, blam. I fired three quick ones in Li’l D’s direction.

  I was somewhat on edge, this being my first gunfight. Suddenly there was a thud to my right, and I turned and fired again. Blam, blam, blam.

  Then a voice came from my left side. Left side? I had been suckered by the old throw a rock to confuse them ploy.

  Li’l D’s voice came through loud and clear. “Well, copper,” he said, “I counted six shots, and I didn’t hear you reload that peashooter. Now your ass is mine.” I saw his shadow coming for me in the dark.

  “I shoot nine peas, not six,” I replied, and fired a .22 long rifle at the approaching shadow.

  I heard a scream as Li’l D hit the floor.

  At that moment all hell broke loose. I heard a crash and wood splintering upstairs. A flashlight beam shone down the basement steps and illuminated the gloom. Hallelujah, the troops had arrived.

  Or not.

  The first thing I saw bounding down the steps was an eighty-pound German Shepherd with jaws wide open. He clamped his enormous jaws firmly onto my crotch, and I felt the pressure as Mr. Winkie and the boys were held firmly in this toothy vice.

  A light shone in my face, and a booming voice shouted, “Don’t move a muscle or you’ll be singing soprano.”

  “W-W-W-Walter Williams,” I stammered. “I’m on your side!”

  Ox had come in right behind the canine officer. “Oh crap,” he cried as he saw the big dog firmly gripping my privates. “That’s my partner.”

  “Release,” ordered the canine officer, and the German Shepherd backed away from my scrotum.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I muttered as I passed out and hit the ground.

  I awoke to the irritating sensation of smelling salts. I was surrounded by officers and medics. Gingerly I felt between my legs. All the parts seemed to be there. What a relief.

  “Li’l D?” I asked.

  Apparently my blind shot had taken out his left nut. Not life threatening, but it would certainly bring a guy to his knees. It was probably a good thing he was going to prison. I didn’t think he’d be starting a family anytime soon.

  Irony is certainly not lost on Lady Justice. My manhood, such as it is, was spared. Li’l D’s, not so much.

  I’ll take it. All of it. Well, maybe not the spiders.

  CHAPTER 15

  After my harrowing experience with Li’l D and the hound from hell, I was exhausted.

  Three days undercover and a drug bust hadn’t left much time for my sweetie. We had talked on the phone, but we needed an evening together. We decided we would go out for a nice dinner and
see what developed from there.

  I picked Maggie up at her apartment, and as we pulled away, I asked if she had any preference in eating establishments, secretly hoping for Mel’s. No such luck.

  Maggie had heard of a new restaurant that had just opened in the old garment district downtown. That area had once been all factories, but as more and more labor was outsourced to our friends in China, the factories had closed and sat empty for years. Then came the rebirth of downtown. Old factory buildings were converted to luxury apartments and condos that were gobbled up by the yuppie elite. Apparently this new restaurant, Chez Francois, was opened to cater to the tastes of the new downtown gentry.

  When we drove up, I knew we were in trouble right away. A large sign on the curb said ‘Valet Parking Only’. I hate valet parking. I hate turning my keys over to a pimply-faced kid with a stud in his lip. I hate waiting in line while they try to find where they hid my car. I hate tipping some jerk for something I’m perfectly capable of doing myself, but I had no choice.

  We were escorted inside, and as I looked around, my suspicions were confirmed. I was in trouble. The building had once been one of the big, fancy hotels of the era, but with the decline of the district, it closed. During the remodel, the interior had been restored to its former grandeur with high ceilings and ornate woodwork. Tables were set with fine linen cloths and sparkling crystal, and from somewhere the strings of a Bach fugue or some such thing wafted through the dining area.

  We were seated in a quiet little alcove and were soon approached by a waiter dressed in a starched white shirt and black tie. He had on trousers with a pleat so sharp it would cut your finger. His demeanor was somber, and he walked like he had a broomstick up his butt.

  He bowed and said, “Good evening, my name is Rolph, and I’ll be serving you this evening.”

  “Evening, Ralph,” I replied.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “It’s Rolph, not Ralph.”

  This couldn’t be good.

  “Uh, yes, Rolph,” I replied and muttered under my breath. “Whatever.”

  He laid a book the size of the Kansas City phone directory in front of me. “Our wine list, sir. Would you like a moment?”

  I looked at the first page and when I saw that I couldn’t even pronounce their first offering, I figured that it might take more than a moment.

  Rolph waited expectantly while I looked at page after page of wines, but I couldn’t find the Arbor Mist. “You do have Arbor Mist, don’t you?”

  Rolph looked aghast. “I don’t believe we have that in our wine cellar, sir.” He stuck his nose in the air.

  How can you have eight pages of wine and not have Arbor Mist? Go figure.

  Maggie came to the rescue. “We’d like a bottle of your house chardonnay,” she said.

  “Very good, ma’am,” Rolph replied. He bowed and walked away.

  I might as well share some of my other idiosyncrasies. I am neither poor nor uneducated. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’m a simple guy. I come from a middle class, blue-collar background, but I have made a comfortable life for myself.

  One of my pet peeves is the affectations of the wealthy. They bore me and, in my humble opinion, are a real pain in the butt.

  Maggie knows me well, and I thought I saw a smile cross her face as Rolph and I did our verbal thrust and parry. She would have to be on her toes this evening.

  Just then, a busboy arrived with a woven basket of bread.

  Hot dog.

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  He laid the basket on the table then produced two small platters and a jug that was filled with some viscous liquid that resembled thirty-weight motor oil. He sprinkled some green stuff on the platters and proceeded to pour the Quaker State on top. “For your bread, sir,” he said and bowed.

  That was not how I was accustomed to lubricating my bread.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a pat or two of butter back there, would you?” I asked.

  “Very good, sir,” he replied, bowed again, and headed off to the kitchen.

  I opened the cloth cover of the breadbasket anticipating warm, soft yeast rolls. Yikes! It might as well have been a basket of hockey pucks. In my mind, I could see Mel’s Texas toast. Thick slices of soft bread lightly buttered and grilled to a golden brown and served piping hot to your table.

  Dream on.

  Have you ever tried opening one of those things? A hammer and chisel should come with them as standard equipment, and if you do manage to penetrate the outer shell, crumbs are everywhere. I tried, and sure enough, crumbs were everywhere. No sooner had my roll exploded in my lap than Rolph approached with a tiny silver dustpan and a tiny whiskbroom.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said and proceeded to whisk away my crumbs.

  Just think of all the labor they would save by serving soft bread. I wondered if they had a suggestion box.

  Soon Rolph returned with our bottle of wine, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. He set one glass in front of me, and with the skill of a surgeon he whipped out his corkscrew and popped out the cork. Gotta hand it to old Rolph. It came out in one piece, and he didn’t even need the Black & Decker.

  He poured about one swallow in my glass and stepped back. I thought, I paid forty-five dollars for that bottle. I ought to get more than that! Then I noticed that he hadn’t poured even a drop in Maggie’s glass.

  I looked at Maggie. She grinned at me, nodded her head toward the glass, and said, “How about you give it a taste and make sure it’s right for us?”

  “Oh, right!” Maggie saved my butt again. I tasted, and Rolph waited for my response. “It’s okay,” I replied. “But it’s sure no Arbor Mist.”

  Rolph turned and walked away.

  He returned with menus.

  “What’s good tonight, Rolph?” I asked.

  Just friendly banter with the waiter.

  He stiffened. “Sir, everything from our kitchen is good.”

  Well, okay then. It was really just a rhetorical question.

  We studied the menu. When I say studied, I’m serious. You’d have to be fluent in three languages to read the thing. “Do you know what any of this stuff is?” I asked Maggie.

  She shrugged her shoulders, and frankly I was relieved when she said, “Not really.” I hated being the only dummy.

  Rolph returned with order pad in hand and looked expectantly in our direction.

  Maggie spoke first. “I’d like a shrimp cocktail and your house salad with creamy Italian dressing, please.” Maggie had been watching the calories, so I didn’t know if her order was weight watching or a cop-out on the menu selections.

  Now understand, I’ve got nothing against salad. I even eat it sometimes. But man didn’t get to the top of the food chain by grazing. We’re carnivores, after all. I needed meat.

  I pointed to the menu and said to Rolph, “Maybe you can help me out here. Where’s the beef?”

  I thought I detected a slight flinch, but Rolph replied without hesitation, “May I recommend our beef tenderloin medallions, garlic whipped potatoes, and vegetable medley.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I replied. Meat, potatoes, and vegetables; can’t be too bad.

  Our dinners arrived. A huge bowl of salad and a glass with shrimp butts sticking out the top was placed in front of Maggie.

  I looked at my plate. Good grief! There were two tiny pieces of meat, each about the size of a fifty-cent piece, and each was covered with a teaspoon-sized dollop of mashed potatoes. On the left side of the plate were two carrot spears and on the right two asparagus spears. Yellow gunky stuff was dribbled around the edge of the plate, and a sprig of something that resembled the weeds I spray in my yard was sticking out of the mashed potatoes.

  “Lovely presentation, isn’t it, sir?” Rolph gushed.

  Presentation! Really? I thought. I’m gonna starve!

  But to Rolph I replied, “Lovely, just lovely. You wouldn’t happen to have some gravy back there, would you?”

  W
ounded, he replied, “We don’t serve gravy here, sir.” He walked away.

  It didn’t take long to finish dinner.

  Rolph returned with another menu. “Would you care to order dessert, sir?”

  I was still hungry, and I was thinking of Mel’s pies. Lemon, chocolate, and coconut cream. Six inches high with creamy filling and fluffy white meringue. “Sure,” I said and took the menu.

  Okay, they had flambé, brûlée, and a torte, but no pie.

  Rolph returned. “Your order, sir?”

  “Two tortes,” I replied, “and two cups of coffee.” And off he went.

  He returned with a dainty little cup about the size of a big thimble. My heart sank as I thought of the giant mugs of steaming coffee at Mel’s. You could sit and drink all day for $1.95. Here, I was paying $6 a gulp.

  I turned to Rolph. “Do you give refills?” I asked. Without even a nod he turned and walked away. I think I was getting on his nerves.

  He returned with our tortes. Do you know what a torte is? Well, I didn’t either, but I soon discovered it was a little square piece of pastry not much larger than a postage stamp. It doesn’t even have icing, but all kinds of colored syrup were dribbled around the plate in a fancy design. Humph, must have been a Picasso torte. But what good was it? The only way it could be eaten was to lick it off the plate, and after what I’d seen so far, I didn’t think that was an option.

  Oh yeah. Presentation.

  By the time I had paid my bill and tipped Rolph and the valet, I had dropped a couple of c-notes. I could have eaten at Mel’s for two weeks for that kind of money.

  Probably won’t be back.

  We had avoided talking about the Realtor Rapist at dinner. Just getting through the meal was stressful enough.

  On the way back to her apartment, I related my latest adventures in crime fighting. Maggie was shocked to learn that I had actually been shot at and horrified that she had almost lost Mr. Winkie to the Hound of the Baskervilles.

  She invited me in for a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie. Maybe two cookies. I was starving. We finally got around to the subject that we had been avoiding.