The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

“Brit,” I say, after what seems like a half hour of silence, “I was hoping you might like to join me for some drinks and tapas.”

  “Tapas?” she asks quizzically.

  “You know,” I say, “all sorts of little plates of food. Sort of like appetizers.”

  She giggles. “I know what tapas is,” she states. “It’s just that your suggestion took me a little by surprise. You don’t seem like the tapas type, Mr. Jobz.”

  “Please, call me Steve or just Jobz. Mr. Jobz was my father.”

  In full disclosure, my father insisted on being called Mr. Jobzcynski until he got to know you and like you. Only then would he allow you to go with the shortened Jobz. He might also mumble something about those uniformed jerks at Ellis Island who bastardized his proud Polish name. But I decide not to get into that.

  “Okay, Steve,” she says.

  “So, what type of guy do you think I am?”

  “More like the beer and wings type,” she says. “To be honest, that’s more like me, too.”

  Suddenly, my little infatuation with Brit feels like it’s shifting more toward love.

  “Great,” I say. “How about meeting me after work. Say six, Lanie’s Bar, off Albany Shaker Road in North Albany.”

  She pauses for a few long heart beats.

  “Sure,” she says, finally. “Lanie’s bar. Beer and wings. See you then.”

  I press the end call icon. There’s a happy scream forming inside my lungs but being as this is a school parking lot I’m sitting in; I decide to hold it in for now. Back to business. First off, I attach both videos that Principal Simon emailed which I forward on to Detective Miller. I dial his personal cell phone and wait. While I’m waiting, I watch the food being transported via dolly into the cafeteria’s back door.

  “Jobz,” Miller says, when he answers. “Whaddaya got for me?”

  “Check your email,” I say.

  “Hang on.”

  I make out some rustling, and then the tapping of some computer keys. He picks the phone back up.

  “CCTV video,” he says.

  “Principal Simon gave these to me less than a half hour ago,” I say. “You ask me, this pretty much seals the deal for Gladys Carter. It’s more than enough evidence for DA Soros to step in and order a bust.”

  “I’ve seen these before,” Miller says. “Both of them. So has Soros.”

  Confusion fills my brain.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “I thought that’s why you handed me this assignment in the first place. To prove without a doubt that Carter, despite being a sweet old lady who wouldn’t kill a fly even if it bit her on the tip of her nose, deserved to be busted like the common thief she is.”

  I picture Miller, seated in his office, his trench coat and blazer neatly hanging on the hat rack beside him. His brown fedora hanging there as well. He uses the fedora on rainy days. It makes him look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, even though nobody has the balls to say it to his face.

  “You used to be a cop, Jobz,” he says. “Take a look at those two films again and let me know if something’s missing. Something crucial.”

  For a long beat, I sit there more than a bit perplexed.

  “You messing with me, Miller?” I say. “This sounds kinda like a test.”

  “Have you ever in your life known me to mess around, Jobz?”

  He’s got a point. He’s probably sitting at his desk with the top button on his shirt buttoned and his tie pulled all the way up. His face is clean and freshly shaved, his full head of white hair, perfect. As for me, I have a ketchup stain on my jacket. Which begs the question, what is it women see in me? Must be the alluring and mysterious personality.

  “No,” I say. Deadpan. Because it’s the truth.

  “Then look at the films again,” he presses. “I’ll wait.”

  While I bring up the CCTV videos once more, the Field’s Food Service semi slowly backs out of the lot and takes off in the direction of the city. Suddenly, the parking lot atmosphere seems much more peaceful, more serene. The first video begins. Once more, I see Gladys Carter stealing a few bucks from the till, and shoving it in the pocket on her slacks. And once more, I see her grafting some of the day’s total take into her purse down in what she assumed was a secure, basement room.

  “Something missing,” I say to myself. “What the hell is missing?”

  That’s when it hits me like a black board eraser to the forehead.

  “A face,” I say.

  I glance at both videos one last time. Not once in each video is it possible to make a facial recognition of Gladys Carter. One can only assume it’s her based on her proximity to the cafeteria, the cafeteria cash register, and the cash itself. Also based on how the woman in the video is dressed. It’s exactly how I put it to Miller.

  “So, what this means is,” I go on, “the woman in the video could easily be someone trying to assume the identity of Mrs. Carter.”

  “Now you’re cooking with gas, Jobz,” Miller says. “We can also assume it’s possible someone, for whatever reason, is trying to set the nice old lady up.”

  “But for what?” I say.

  “That’s why I’m paying you the big bucks,” he says. “It’s your job to find out or eliminate the possibility.”

  He hangs up.

  I feel a small pit in my stomach. I realize we’re dealing with an old lady and a few middle-aged ladies, but what if the situation at Loudonville Elementary School suddenly turns dangerous once I start turning over stones? I know from experience that you should never underestimate anyone. Reaching into my glove box, I pull out my .45 caliber semi-automatic. I thumb the magazine release, and the mag drops into my palm. It’s fully loaded. Slapping the mag back home, I set the safety and shove the barrel into my pant waist. Suddenly, I feel more secure.

  Starting the engine, I pump the gas a few times, then throw the tranny into reverse. I make sure the coast behind me is clear of small children. Turns out, it’s all clear other than two women loading some boxes into a minivan. It’s Frumpy and Cute Brunette Chris. As I brake the Mustang and shift into drive, I extend them both yet another smile and wave.

  “So long ladies,” I say.

  “Bye, Mr. Jobz,” says Cute Brunette Chris.

  Just to make them think I’m super cool and super young at heart, I peel out of the lot.

  Switching my eyeglasses for a pair of prescription Ray Ban Aviators, I contemplate my next move which is nothing less than heading across the river to Terry Kindlon, Esquire’s office—Kindlon being the defense attorney who’s agreed to represent kind old Mrs. Carter.

  It takes me less than ten minutes to drive through North Albany and over the Green Island Bridge into the historic district of Troy. Kindlon’s office is located inside an old, stately, red brick townhouse on River Street. The windows are French, along with the doors, and the walls are covered with ivy. The place reeks of brains and Harvard educations.

  I find a spot to park along the road within view of the Hudson River and get out. If I had a pair of binoculars on me, I could see my houseboat from here. Shifting the .45 so it’s concealed against my lower spine, I head up the stone steps to the Kindlon Law offices and enter the building. The vestibule smells of musk, and the old floorboards creek. It’s very quiet inside the dimly lit office.

  Set before me is a stately wood desk. An attractive woman about my age is seated behind it with an open laptop set before her, along with a large telephone console. She’s wearing a headset that I assume is connected to the telephone, which I’m guessing also doubles as an intercom.

  “Can I help you?” she asks pleasantly.

  She’s got shoulder-length dark hair, a black dress, and white pearls around her neck. Her eyes are big, brown, and alive. If I hadn’t fallen in love several times already over the course of the past twenty-four hours, I might allow myself to fall one more time.

  “My name is Steve Jobz,” I announce. “I’m from the APD. I’m here to see Terry Kindlon regarding the
Gladys Carter case. Is he in?”

  She scrunches her brow. “Do we have an appointment?” she asks.

  “I don’t know about you,” I say, not without a grin, “but I don’t have one.”

  She smirks at my wise-ass-ness.

  “Do we . . . I mean, do you have some sort of identification?”

  “One can never be too careful these days,” I say pulling out my wallet, revealing my Insurance Fraud ID, and knowing full well the quiz I’m about to encounter.

  “Before you ask the first question,” I go on, “I work for the APD under special circumstances related to my work at the New York State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency. My direct superior in the department is Chief Detective Nick Miller.”

  “I know Nick,” she says. “We’re all very familiar with him.”

  “Then, by all means, give him a quick call if you need him to vouch for me.”

  She continues to gaze at the ID.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Jobz,” she says, that quizzical expression still painting her pretty face.

  “And before you ask the second question,” I say, “Jobz is short for Jobzcynski. I’m not nearly as rich or smart as the other Steve Jobs. But I do consider myself better looking. Don’t you think?”

  Her eyes open up like the clouds after a thunderstorm.

  “You have quite the wit, Mr. Jobz,” she says. “We rarely get that kind of thing around here.”

  “Being a stuck-up law office and all,” I say.

  A pall of silence drapes the entire first floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I go on. “Did I ruffle a few feathers?”

  She clears the annoyed frog from her throat. “Let me see if Mr. Kindlon is free,” she says.

  “That would be very kind of you,” I say.

  She hits a button and speaks into the headset to a woman named Marge whom I’m guessing is the defense lawyer’s personal secretary. She reveals my name and my unique position with the APD.

  “Okay,” she says. “Thank you, Marge. I’ll let him know.”

  Then, peering back up at me. “Mr. Kindlon will see you. But he needs to be in court in just a little under an hour, so it will have to be quick.”

  I smile. “I like it quick,” I say.

  For a long beat, we just look into one another’s eyes without blinking.

  “Yes,” she states, “you sure are a witty one.”

  “And handsome, don’t forget.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Mr. Kindlon’s office is to the right on the second floor. You can take the stairs, Mr. Jobz.”

  “See you on the rebound,” I say.

  “Can’t wait,” she shoots back.

  I head for the stairs.

  The staircase and its polished wood bannister is situated in the center of the townhouse. It corkscrews its way up all five floors. As I climb the partially carpeted stairs, I picture a time more than one-hundred years ago when a single wealthy family owned the entire townhouse. Maybe the place was owned by a lumber baron, or a steel mill CEO, or maybe a shirt collar executive. Troy is nicknamed the Collar City, after all.

  I come to the top of the stairs and hook a right. Sure enough, I come upon an open door and yet another attractive woman seated behind another large wood desk with yet another laptop set on top of it. This one is blonde and, as previously stated, also very pleasant looking.

  “Let me guess,” I say, “you must be Marge.”

  “And you must be Steve Jobz,” she says. “Holy Christ, what a fucking name.”

  Okay, Marge couldn’t be more different from Pretty Receptionist if she were a three-hundred-pound gay man.

  “I was born with it,” I say. “It’s short for Jobzcynski.”

  She giggles.

  “That’s even worse,” she says. Then, hitting a button on her intercom. “Hang on, Steve Jobz.”

  I’m suddenly speechless, having been leveled by a cute blonde in a white satin blouse.

  “Mr. Kindlon, get this, Steve Jobz is here to see you.”

  I make out a loud belly laugh coming from the office behind the secretary’s station. I guess Kindlon’s law office, besides brimming with smarts, is one of the most fun places on the planet. Kind of like a Chuck E. Cheese for adults.

  “Well, tell Mr. Jobz to come on in,” he says.

  Marge looks up at me, a shit-eating grin on her face. “You heard the man, Steve,” she says.

  “Thanks so much, Marge,” I offer, walking around her desk toward Kindlon’s office.

  “Steve fucking Jobz,” I overhear her whispering. “Now that’s rich.”

  I head into an office that looks like something out of an old British black-and-white picture form the 1940s. Something Sir John Gielgud would have played the lead in. Terry’s mammoth mahogany desk is situated before two floor-to-ceiling French doors. To my right is a fireplace big enough to stand in. There’s no fire going since it’s still too warm out, even for mid-September. To my left is a long brown leather couch and an easy chair with a table set beside it. There’s a couple of liquor decanters set on the table along with a glass ashtray with a half-smoked cigar balancing inside it. The brown coffee table before the couch is stacked with newspapers and the wall above the couch contains an eclectic assortment of framed photos and diplomas.

  One photo shows him shaking hands with the younger President Bush, and another with President Obama. In another, he’s yucking it up with Hillary Clinton. She’s dressed in a baby blue pants suit. Sadly, no pictures with President Trump. But then, I guess we can’t have it all.

  The wall behind me contains bookshelves packed with hundreds of volumes, most of them having to do with the law, or so I can only assume. Maybe they’re just for show.

  Kindlon stands, holds out his hand. I take the big hand in mine and he squeezes the crap out of it before sitting back down.

  “Have a seat, Jobz,” he says, gesturing toward one of the two chairs set before his desk. “Like Sheila told you downstairs, I ain’t got much time before I gotta head out to court in Albany.”

  When I sit down, my pistol barrel nearly rides up my ass. I’m forced to pull it out and store it in the front of my pant waist.

  “Forty-five cal,” Kindlon says. “That a Kimber?”

  “Only the best.”

  “You ever kill a man, Jobz?”

  The teenager down in Poughkeepsie . . .

  “Not proud of it.”

  “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

  Kindlon’s a big, barrel-chested man who’s maybe ten years older than me. His dark, pinstriped suit is expensive, but it fits him sloppily. Or should I say, he wears it sloppily—the top button on his white button-down undone, the ball knot on his red and black striped rep tie hanging low and a little to the side. His once black hair is receding and gray at the temples. It’s been slicked back on his round head with gel. He’s clean shaven, but I can tell he’s one of those guys who’s got one hell of a five o’clock shadow by three-thirty. I can bet he keeps an electric razor in his desk, just like Perry Mason.

  He smiles at me while placing both his hands flat on a desktop that’s stacked with case files, more newspapers, legal pads, a phone, and naturally, a laptop computer. He’s clearly a highly educated man who likes to portray himself as a sort of everyman. Bet he rowed crew at Harvard.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks.

  “Gladys Carter,” I say. “Did she really steal five-hundred grand from the Loudonville Elementary School cafeteria?”

  He pauses for a long beat, his dark eyes boring holes into my brain.

  “Go right for the jugular why don’t ya?” he says, grinning. “I like that in a man.”

  “I know time is tight,” I say, glancing at my watch for effect.

  “If you wanna know the truth, Mr. Jobz,” he says, “my client is being railroaded. And I suspect you and your boss, Detective Miller, suspect there’s a teensy bit probability she’s being railroaded too.” He does this thing with his index finger a
nd thumb where he creates a narrow space, when he says, teensy bit.

  “I’ve viewed the CCTV video,” I say. “And she sure looks guilty as hell to me.”

  He slaps the desk hard, and it’s enough to send my heart up into my throat.

  “But ya see, that’s just it!” he barks. “Where in that video does it show Gladys Carter’s face? It’s exactly the question I’ve already posed to Miller.”

  So, Miller and Kindlon have already spoken. Why does the old detective not tell me these things prior to my making an ass out of myself?

  “You’re right about that,” I say, feeling kicked down a notch. “You can’t see a face. Miller seems to think there might even be the possibility of someone posing as Gladys Carter.”

  “And until we can see a face, you and your boss, aren’t going to be able to make an arrest stick, and you know it.”

  I think about it for a long second or two. I decide to play Devil’s advocate

  “What about circumstantial evidence?”

  “Like what, Jobz?”

  “Like, there was only one lunchroom lady, and only she had access to the till. Maybe we can’t see a face in the CCTV footage, but whoever it is, looks like her, dresses like her, and acts like her. And you know what they say, Mr. Kindlon?”

  “No, what do they say?”

  “If it looks, smells, feels, and tastes like a banana,” I cock an eyebrow, “it’s probably a banana.”

  “Well, when you’re dealing with locking up a nice old lady for the rest of her life over something she didn’t do, probably isn’t good enough.”

  “Just saying,” I say.

  He looks at me cross-eyed.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he says, “where’d Miller dig you up, Jobz?”

  “Don’t ask,” I say.

  He glances at his watch, grabs his big leather briefcase and places it on the desktop. It’s one of those briefcases that looks more like a mailbag with buckles than a case. Standing, he begins to fill it with folders.

  “I gotta leave, Jobz,” he says. “But before I go, I want you to consider a little of the math involved here. How many grade school days are there in an academic year in New York State?”