Forceful Intent

by R. A. McGee

  “Dude, don’t play games with me right now. I’ll get back in the truck…”

  “Relax, I have food in the fridge,” Ross said.

  Ross’s cooking— bacon and eggs and toast—was just as good as ordering out, maybe better. Porter was stuffed and was feeling a little sleepy when he moved over to the couch.

  “Coffee?”

  “Nah, I’m good,” Porter said.

  “That’s right, it gives you the shits.”

  “It does, and I already had some earlier. Didn’t crap my brains out. It was nice.”

  “Where did you get coffee?”

  Porter told Ross about going to his mother’s house.

  “Nice of you to go see her. I swear I talk to her more often than you do.”

  “That’s not true,” Porter said, wondering if it was or not.

  “I like to check in on her, you know? I know the last few years have been rough.”

  “Things happen. People die,” Porter said.

  “I know, I know, but your dad wasn’t very old.”

  “The men in my family don’t live too long,” Porter said. “It’s kind of a thing with us.”

  “Maybe you’ll buck the trend.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Why you go over there so late?” Ross said.

  Porter told Ross about Abel Quintana, the bowling alley, the field, and getting a ride from Rivera. He left nothing out.

  When he was done, Ross was shaking.

  “You just kidnapped him? Why didn’t you call me? I would have come and gotten you. Probably shouldn’t have called Rivera, she’s a cop.”

  “I wish we could stop saying kidnapping. Quintana’s a grown man; is kidnapping still the word to use? Why don’t we have a better word for taking an adult against their wishes?”

  “Don’t dick around, I’m serious.”

  “Me too. Vocabulary sucks sometimes. How do you feel about man-napping?”

  “Porter…”

  He leaned forward on the couch. “See? This is why I didn’t call you. You worry too much. You would have given yourself an ulcer by the time you got out there to pick me up. Besides, I wanted to get Rivera involved,” Porter said.

  “Why?”

  “I think at some point I’m going to need her resources. I wanted to expose her a little to see how she would take it,” Porter said.

  “How did she take it?”

  “Remarkably well,” Porter said, “for being woken up in the middle of the night.”

  “How did you know she wouldn’t arrest you?”

  “I didn’t, but I had a feeling. First, I had Quintana in a county that was out of her jurisdiction. Granted, most cops can arrest in any county in their state if they identify a commonly-known law being broken—”

  “Like kidnapping,” Ross said.

  “Let’s call it man-napping. She could have arrested me, but that’s so much paperwork. Then she’d have to tell people why she came out to see me in the first place. It makes her look complicit.”

  “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? Were you going to blackmail her? Have her come out to a crime scene in the middle of the night so you can hang it over her head?” Ross said.

  “No. She seems decent enough, I wouldn’t do that to her. But she’s not stupid, she knows the drill. Besides, Quintana’s a scumbag. Even if Rivera did get her panties in a twist about it, how mad would someone be at me once they found out what he did to Danny? I’d get convicted of something, but by the time Steven Ajo fought it for me and we pleaded things down, I think the worst I’d be looking at would be an assault charge. That’s not including what would happen if the media found out.”

  “And you thought about all that before you kidna—”

  “Man-napped.”

  “Fine, before you man-napped Quintana?” Ross said.

  “I thought enough about it to figure it was a good plan.”

  Ross sighed and stood up from the chair opposite the couch Porter was lounging on, and went back to the kitchen to refill his coffee mug. On his way back in, he stopped to lean on the large granite island. “So what do we do now?”

  Porter didn’t move. He was too stuffed with eggs. “We don’t do anything.”

  Ross looked annoyed but didn’t say anything.

  “I wasn’t kidding when I told you I wanted you to stay out of it. You’re too emotional about it. You aren’t thinking straight.”

  “I’m not thinking straight? You kidnapped a guy last night and there’s a problem with my thinking?”

  Porter didn’t say anything, instead glancing to the television.

  “I’m not emotional,” Ross muttered.

  “What’s that?

  “I said I’m not emotional.”

  “You seem pretty butt-hurt right now. What would you have done if I’d told you I was going to smack Quintana in the face with a plunger handle?” Porter said.

  “That’s a crazy thing to do, and I would have stopped you.”

  “Tried to stop me,” Porter said.

  “Yes, Porter, I would have tried to stop you.”

  “That’s exactly my point. I needed to get that asshole to talk to me, he did, now we can move on. Stop all the hand-wringing. No one needs to cry for Abel Quintana.”

  “I’m not, I just can’t understand what to do next. He told you about his brother, now what?”

  “There isn’t a big magic trick to it. I just need to keep asking people questions. Once I find out as much about Hector Quintana as I can, I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” Porter said.

  “I’m not a cop,” Ross said.

  “I hope not. You’re investing a substantial part of my portfolio,” Porter said.

  “Shut up, asshole. I’m trying to say I don’t know what kind of stuff you want Rivera to get for you. I’m trying to follow along, despite the fact that you think I’m an emotional mess. Two heads have to be better than one, even if it is a head as big as yours. Fill me in.”

  “I’m looking for everything. Any tiny bit of information that helps us figure out who this guy is, what he does, and who he does it with. His criminal history, previous addresses, family history. How many kids does he have? Where do his baby mamas live? Where did he live in New York? What did he do there? Why did he come to Florida? What kind of warrants does he have? Where did he do time? Who did he do time with? What kind of car does he drive? Any shred of information we can find can only help.”

  “What’s the point of all that? Suppose you get all this info, then what? Hector’s not going to tell you anything. Why would he? He doesn’t want to go to prison,” Ross said.

  “I think a conversation with him will be productive.”

  “Why?”

  “I can be persuasive,” Porter said.

  Twenty-One

  Ross and Porter cleaned up the dishes from breakfast and then watched football for the rest of the afternoon. Neither of them spoke about Danny, or Abel or Hector Quintana. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers were getting slaughtered and they spent most of their time arguing calls against the TV referees, as if the refs could hear them. Around six thirty, Porter got a call.

  “Hello,” Porter said.

  “Porter, it’s Rivera.”

  “Hey, Tina. What’s going on?”

  “It’s Christina, asshole, how many times have I told you? Are you hard of hearing or just stupid?”

  “Why? Christina is three syllables, Tina’s only two. I like the economy of speech.”

  “Just don’t,” she said.

  “You didn’t call me to argue with me, did you?” Porter said.

  “No, but I’ll take the time to if you don’t stop calling me that. I’m not playing, I’ll kick your big ass.”

  “Excuse me, detective.”

  “Listen, I’ve got what I can on Hector Quintana, do you want it or not?”

  “Yes, detective, I’d like that very much,” Porter said.

  “Now you’re just being stupid. Where can I meet you to give you t
his shit?”

  “I’m at a friend’s place; do you want to come over here?”

  “What are we, in college? I’m not coming to hang out,” Rivera said.

  “Your loss. We’re going to order pizza,” Porter said.

  “Just meet me somewhere.”

  “Dinner,” Porter said.

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, let’s get dinner.”

  “Porter, I just want—” Rivera said.

  “What, you don’t eat?”

  “Of course I eat,” Rivera said.

  “So let’s kill two birds with one stone. I’m never going to be able to get the thought of pizza out of my head right now.”

  Rivera sighed into the phone. “You know, you can just come by the office on Monday, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Yeah, but then I’ll have to see those guys at the door again. You don’t want to put me through that again, do you?”

  “Fine, just make it quick.”

  “There’s this great place in Ybor City, off Seventh Avenue. Shorty’s?”

  “I used to eat there when I worked side jobs. It’s not too far,” Rivera said.

  “Great,” Porter said. “Thirty minutes?”

  “Fine. Don’t make me wait.” The phone disconnected.

  “Was that Rivera?” Ross said.

  “She’s got some more info to give me. I’m gonna meet up with her and grab it. Maybe we can go through it later. Mind if I use your shower?”

  “Shower? To talk to Rivera? Dude… are you trying to get laid?” Ross said.

  Porter laughed. He showered and changed clothes. He was at Ross’s place so often that he had a drawer full of personal items in a spare bedroom. Back when he was married, Trisha had not-so-jokingly told him that in fifty years, he and Ross were going to be the old married couple. He hadn’t argued.

  Porter walked out of the spare room and found Ross lying on the couch watching the evening football highlight show. “I’m out.”

  “Let me know if you come up with anything from Rivera. Like the clap.” Ross had a smile on his face.

  Porter laughed. “You feeling lonely? You could always call Tessa…”

  Ross grumbled behind him as he shut the door and walked out the door into the humid evening.

  It wasn’t a long drive to Ybor City. Porter spent most of the ride trying to get in front of the questions he imagined Rivera might ask. He found it easier to have a conversation with someone if he had a cursory idea of where the talk might go. He figured Rivera would scold him about Abel Quintana, then admit to calling the local sheriff to set him free. Porter hoped there would be more info about Hector than admonishments about his methods.

  There were some things he had no intention of changing.

  Pulling off the highway, he turned onto Seventh Avenue, past the numerous nightclubs and bars of Ybor City. A bit like Tampa’s homegrown version of Bourbon Street, Ybor was packed with places to have fun and get into trouble.

  When he was younger, he had been a bouncer in most of these places. It was a great job for a college kid, especially a big guy with a temper. Porter had stopped when he went to work for Homeland Security. The pay as a federal agent was better than that of a knuckle-dragging bouncer, so there wasn’t much of a competition.

  Pulling into the familiar parking lot, he found Rivera’s car already sitting there.

  She must be anxious to get this over with, Porter thought.

  He got out of the car, patted himself to make sure he had his wallet, phone, and gun, then headed into the pizza place.

  Porter was greeted by a welcome smell. He wasn’t sure if it was the dough or the sauce, but he loved it. His stomach lurched and he couldn’t wait to eat. On the left side was a wall of stainless steel pizza ovens; on the right, booths, and in the middle several tables with their chairs pushed in around them. Porter made a detour to the counter adjacent to the ovens.

  “Welcome to Shorty’s. Help you?” said a thin, pretty blonde girl with tattoos.

  “Yeah, I’m meeting the girl that’s sitting over there. Did she order anything?”

  “Nope. Just water.”

  “Okay, let me get a large pepperoni and Italian sausage.”

  “No problem,” the blonde said.

  Porter paid and got the little plastic number to put on the table for the pie delivery. He grabbed a cup for water and walked over to Rivera.

  “You didn’t think I’d come to Shorty’s and not eat, did you?” Porter said.

  “I don’t care what you do, Porter. I’ve done my part. Here’s the file, I have to go.”

  “Suit yourself, but I’m not looking at any of that until I eat pizza. It might as well be hieroglyphics.”

  “Porter—”

  “Not doing it,” he said.

  “Fine,” Rivera said. She gathered up her bag and pushed her chair away from the table.

  “Come on, detective. Don’t you want to at least explain this crap to me?”

  “I’d be glad to, but you seem like you want to waste my time.”

  “I’m not wasting time, I need to eat. You don’t want me to die, do you?”

  “From the looks of you, you aren’t in danger of starving to death,” Rivera said.

  “Ouch. That’s how I get treated for making you wait?”

  “And waking me up in the middle of the night. And getting me to work on my day off…”

  “I get it. At least just keep me company until the food gets here. Then you can leave me. Come on, sit back down. I’ll look like a weirdo all by myself.”

  Rivera looked toward the door, then back to her chair, and slid back into her seat. “You look like a weirdo regardless.”

  Porter looked at Rivera and Rivera looked around the restaurant. There were nostalgic posters from movies and television shows and comic books on the walls.

  Rivera spoke first. “What’s the deal with Power Man? Why is he rocking that terrible tiara?”

  “First off, Power Man doesn’t wear a tiara. It’s a headband. It’s just a little shiny. Second, Power Man is awesome. Who wouldn’t want super strength and diamond-hard skin? I used to read his books when I was a kid,” Porter said.

  “Only when you were a kid?”

  “I may still have a few of them somewhere.”

  “What did Power Man do?” Rivera said.

  “He beat people up. He had a partner who was a karate expert. Maybe kung fu, I can’t remember. They worked together, the ‘Heroes for Hire.’ People came to them with problems and paid them and they fixed the problems. Kind of like the Equalizer,” Porter said.

  “Is that a show? Never saw it.”

  Porter shook his head. “Did you have no childhood, woman?”

  “Not really. Dad bailed and Mom worked three jobs so we could survive. I raised my brother and sister and didn’t have time for movies.”

  Porter didn’t say anything. He hadn’t meant to open up a sore spot for Rivera. He enjoyed needling her, but didn’t think she was at all bad. A little uptight, but he liked her.

  After a much shorter silence, the blonde girl from the counter brought the pizza. It was enormous, easily two feet across. It was on a giant metal platform with legs so that it hovered above the tabletop and didn’t take up any space. Porter grabbed a plate and handed one to Rivera.

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” Porter said. “Your loss.”

  There was a brief pause, then Rivera reached for a plate. “Yeah, you have a point. It is Shorty’s. Just don’t get grease on the file.”

  There were another few minutes of silence as they ate. Rivera was much slower than Porter. He finished his piece, wiped his hands on a napkin, and reached over to her side and took the green file sitting there.

  “So what did all your hard work at the office tell you about Hector Quintana that we didn’t know yesterday?”

  “He’s bad news,” Rivera said through a mouthful of pizza.

  “I said something that we didn’t
know. We already knew that.”

  “That’s what you think. Check his criminal history. It’s all in there. He started out young—convictions for assault, conspiracy, strong-arm robbery, and involuntary manslaughter all before the age of eighteen.”

  “You got the juvenile records? How’d you manage that?”

  “I know a guy who works in New York. We met at a cop conference in Atlanta a couple years ago and kept in touch. I called him this morning; he was working a side job so he looked into things for me,” Rivera said.

  “Hector was a scumbag before he was even legal. I’m assuming he got out of whatever juvie home he was in when he turned eighteen?”

  “Yep. Clean slate. He didn’t waste any more time. More convictions for assault and petty drug stuff. Then his criminal history sort of trails off.”

  “Makes sense,” Porter said.

  “Sure, the older guys in the gang aren’t going to get in trouble themselves and risk going to real, pound-me-in-the-ass prison when they can just let all the underage guys do the dirty work.”

  “Pound-me-in-the-ass prison?”

  “Yeah, you know, grown-up prison?” Rivera said without missing a beat.

  “I know what you meant. An old partner of mine used to say that. You just took me back a little bit, that’s all.” Porter smiled. “Where is Abel during all this?”

  “Split town. He’s older by about seven years. It looks like he left New York for Tampa as soon as he could, right when he was eighteen or so. He missed little brother’s wild streak. Get this. You want to hear something even crazier?” Rivera said, leaning across the table.

  Porter looked up from his slice.

  “My guy in the NYPD said Hector was run out of New York for killing his own father.”

  Twenty-Two

  “I get it,” Porter said. “I can see it.”

  “You get it? How? Since when does killing your father make sense?”

  “Cronus. Oedipus. Ramsay Snow,” Porter said.

  “What? Is that a joke or something?” Rivera said.

  “Never mind. When I finally got to have a talk with Abel, one of the reasons he was scared of his brother had something to do with their father. Hector killing their dad might have left an impression.”