I didn’t argue. He was busting my chops and getting way too close for comfort now. I needed Agent Keane to go away and let me do my job, but it interfered with his. One of us was going to walk away at the end of this story, and I needed to do everything in my power to let it be me.
“You’re too quiet now. I think I struck a nerve,” Keane said.
“No. When you actually have something worth listening to I’ll comment. You’re chasing ghosts. It would be great to say all those kids you’ve been searching for are alive and well and living on an island with Jim Morrison, Elvis, Amelia Earhart and Bigfoot in sin. But we both know the sad truth: people kill people, no matter what the age or race or anything else. In the end, no one is safe from a murderer. I’m surprised there aren’t more of these celebrity kidnappings, to be honest. One or two a year isn’t bad odds at all. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were rich,” I said.
“Aren’t you, though?”
I shrugged. “I do quite well. My sports card wheeling and dealing is great. I can’t complain. It allows me to take trips like this whenever I want without worrying about money. I’ve never been married and have no kids. I can come and go as I please. I’m living the dream,” I said truthfully.
“It must be nice,” Reggie said quietly. He was staring at the field but not watching the game. “I like you, James, or whatever your real name is. I really do. I wish I had the life you lead.”
“Then work for me. I could always use a security detail when I move some of my bigger collections,” I said impulsively. Yeah, I was thinking of buying him and being done with it. I knew even if he accepted, and I knew he never would, another FBI agent would pick up the pieces and the trail eventually. I could only buy his silence with a steady paycheck for so long, anyway. Reggie Keane wasn’t a guy you could buy no matter what the cost was. I respected and hated him for it right now.
“You know I can’t do it. I know you’ll never admit to any wrongdoing and I’d be disappointed if you did, but you’re involved in something very big and very bad. I’ll figure it out and slap the cuffs on you. You’re about the only thing keeping me from retiring, actually,” Keane said.
“Which is why I call you Captain Ahab,” I said.
“I’m a dinosaur in this business. I know it. If it wasn’t for these missing kids I’d be long gone to Boca Raton, looking forward to the early bird specials,” Reggie said.
“You said missing kids.”
Reggie grinned. “Before this week I called them dead kids. Children you slaughtered for money, and still slept at night. Honestly, I feel better about you now. If it turns out you’re only stashing these kids. . . I can live with it on one hand.”
“But on the other hand you’d still arrest me.”
He shrugged and went back to watching the game.
I wanted to spill my guts. I wanted to tell Keane everything I’d done over the years, and how it wasn’t technically a bad thing. But I knew who he was and he was starting to figure out who I was, and this still wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t going to be the big hero and turn myself in. Real life didn’t work like that. If I confessed I wouldn’t serve a few months in a cushy country club prison and then walk away like in every bad movie, off to live a quiet life with no regrets and looking like the good guy.
Real life was hard prison, where I’d be tortured and worse when every millionaire, celebrity and drug lord figured out I took their money without taking out their trash. I’d be dead inside of a week, and the bad guys would fight over who got to make the call for someone to shank me.
Reggie would turn me in because it was the lawful thing to do, and he obeyed the rules. He’d put aside his own personal beliefs because he was paid to follow the letter of the law, and the only way this worked for him would be if I went to prison.
“I don’t suppose you want to talk off the record?” Reggie asked.
“I don’t think you could. You’re the super cop who is always on duty, Reggie. If there was something to confess, do you think I’d really do it? At a baseball game? Please don’t tell me you’re wearing a wire or your phone has the stupid app on it,” I said and held my half-empty beer in the air. He knew the implication: I’d destroy the damn phone if I had to.
Reggie laughed. “No. This is a semi-social visit. I don’t play games. If I want to talk to you I’ll drag you down to an interrogation room and hold you for a few hours like I always do. I’m done with the game, though. I’m done playing dumb around you and hoping to catch you in a lie. You’re too good at what you do.”
“I sell baseball cards to people who want baseball cards,” I said.
“You keep sticking to your story. I’m fine with it, because when I catch you red-handed it will make this sweeter,” Reggie said.
“Your tone changed. You seem meaner, and I don’t like it. I thought we were enjoying a night out. Just us guys. Why are we always talking shop? Frankly, I was having fun hanging out with you, Reggie,” I said.
“I’m having fun, too. Which is what makes all of this harder, you know? I actually like you. I’ve been chasing down men like Chenzo for years and when I look them in the face I see nothing but hatred and evil. I don’t see it with you, though. With you. . . I see something more. I know you think whatever it is you’re doing is the right way to do it, but I’m here to tell you to stop. Walk away. Sell your baseball cards and keep making more money than you could possibly spend.” Reggie smiled and looked at my wardrobe. “And, for God’s sake, start dating a woman with some fashion sense. You dress like you’re still in high school.”
FIVE
“Why didn’t you just tell Keane what was going on? It isn’t like you don’t already have a few FBI guys in your pocket,” Marisa said on the phone. I was standing in the rain, trying in vain to hail a cab outside JFK Airport.
“It isn’t that simple and you know it. Keane isn’t going to just pat me on the back and let me know I’m doing a wonderful job and offer to buy me another beer. He’ll toss me in prison in a heartbeat.” Marisa just didn’t get it. I was getting irritated and soaking wet. “Why didn’t you get me a car again?”
“You told me not to. Twice. Even though I told you the weather was going to be bad in New York. You act like you’re poor and it’s annoying,” Marisa said.
“I’m having no luck with a ride.” I went back inside the terminal to dry off, or at least stop from getting wet.
“I have one on standby. He’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You owe me,” Marisa said.
I owed her for many, many times she’d bailed me out of messes, small ones like this and much larger ones. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“When we hang up you need to pull the battery and chip from the phone and drop all the pieces in different garbage cans. Can you handle it?”
“Of course.” I’d stopped asking her the why of certain things. I had so many of these burner phones and when Marisa deemed it time to destroy another one I went with the program. If there was even a hint we’d been hacked or someone was listening she wanted the phone gone. She’d done something to each of them to make it harder to listen to our conversations and to hack them, but I’d stared at her blankly when she tried to explain it once. Now, she just told me what to do.
And I happily did it.
By the time I’d gotten rid of the phone parts a car had pulled up and I was on my way to Manhattan. I was still wet but didn’t want to waste time going to the hotel and getting changed first. I knew once I was in for the night I wasn’t going back out. It would be room service and finding a game on the television for me.
I had three addresses for Will (or Little Chenzo?) I needed to check out, all in a bad area of the Bowery. I didn’t expect the guy to be hanging out in the nicer spots, but with the rain and only a couple of hours until darkness, I instructed the driver to cruise past the three addresses so I could get a feel for them. At night the streets would be alive with people coming and going, hustling and making a not-so-honest living.
I knew I was
wasting time. It wasn’t like I was going to cruise by the right address and someone would come running out of the building, dramatically in the rain, and hand me a clue before disappearing into the night.
I didn’t want to spend another night in a hotel by myself.
I wasn’t the kind of guy to go find a street walker or call an escort service or hang out in sleazy bars and try to find someone drunk and easy. I also didn’t want to find something long-term, but sometimes a friend to share a couple of drinks with and a laugh wasn’t so bad. I traveled too much and with so many homes spread out across the U.S. I never had time to get real roots into any one area.
The sports card community was excellent and I had plenty of people in the business and as customers I could have a great time with at a show, but there were no social calls. I spent my life watching a ballgame or reading a book on my Kindle about sports. What a life.
“Are you familiar with New York City?” I asked the driver as we slowed in front of the first stop, a dilapidated two-story with boarded up windows. It looked like every other building on the block. If Will had spent time inside it was sucking on a crack pipe.
“What are you looking for?” the driver asked and I could almost see the smile. I’m sure he catered to rich, married men who got off a plane, called an expensive car service like this and part of the high cost was the fact the driver knew where to go no matter what you were looking for and could keep his mouth shut no matter what.
“I need a drink.”
He shrugged in the driver’s seat. “I could name fifty bars within a square mile. What exactly are you looking for, or does it matter? This isn’t really a good neighborhood.”
“I need someplace decent. Not too fancy but not a dump,” I said.
He was driving again and glanced in the rearview mirror at me. “Do you have clothes you want to change into? You’re still wet and very casual.”
I laughed. Jean shorts, a black t-shirt and a pair of black Converse All-Star high-tops were my normal wear. I knew I probably looked like an old guy trying to act like a young guy. Marisa had finally convinced me wearing my Braves cap backwards wasn’t a good look for me, either.
“I need to change first,” I said.
“I know a spot not too far, once we get out of the area. You can change or buy a new set of threads. Up to you,” the driver said.
“Sounds like a plan.” It really didn’t. Already I was wishing I’d asked to get me to the hotel so I could get changed into my sleep pants and another black t-shirt and watch TV.
I wasn’t surprised when we pulled into a parking garage and I was led by the driver to an elevator. Even when things were legal (or seemed legit) people loved the air of secrecy and the games.
“Go to floor seven. Jacques is expecting you. Take your time,” my driver said.
I handed him a fifty dollar bill and he gave a polite nod. Now it made me wonder if I’d under-tipped the guy or maybe he was expecting a twenty. No tip? I hated all these non-rule rules in life. The amount wasn’t the issue. It’s knowing what the right amount for things like this was.
Jacques was, indeed, expecting me, and he offered me a glass of wine and a quick tour of his suite. It wasn’t a storefront, although they usually never are. A designer would rather entertain you in a private setting, away from the glare of customers and employees. Jacques wanted to not only sell me something expensive but keep selling me expensive something’s over and over, each time I landed in New York.
It was a simple setup like I’d seen in big cities: small, cramped rooms with a large open studio area faced with giant windows. I knew the rent was astronomical and unnecessary unless you wanted to brag you could afford it, or give the allusion you could.
“Are you in town often?” Jacques asked as he took my measurements.
“Often enough.” I decided to be vague. I was in a mood after being soaked and not being able to make a decision when it came to how I spent my night. I was also paranoid after Keane’s bold but otherwise sloppy move in Boston and Little Chenzo washing ashore and the multitude of problems it caused me. Across the river, on the Jersey side, was Chenzo as well. I hated being this close to danger but I really had no choice.
“Is there a particular style you’re looking for? A certain cut?” Jacques was staring at me, his wine glass tipped at an odd angle for effect. He was doing everything he could to get me to loosen up and spend too much money. A true salesman.
We chatted about the crummy weather and traffic in Manhattan and anything else he wanted to talk about, all the while trying to casually up-sell me on a string of suits I would rarely wear.
“I’m really looking for something to wear tonight,” I said. “If I like it I’ll order a few for home.”
“Where is home?”
I always hesitate when asked this simple question. “Atlanta.”
“You don’t have a southern accent. If I had to guess I’d say Midwest,” Jacques said. He, of course, had a thick French accent I was positive was faked. He was probably a failed actor, originally from Los Angeles by way of Boise, and had stumbled into expensive clothing on the opposite coast after never making it in movies or TV.
“I travel extensively across the country and sometimes the world,” I said.
“I read somewhere your accent is set on the schoolyard as a child. I’m not sure I believe it. What line of work are you in, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Sports cards and memorabilia,” I said. I looked out the enormous windows of the flat and could see the pelting rain against the glass, tinkling sounds as it struck. As a kid I loved the comforting sound of a heavy rainfall.
Jacques disappeared behind a set of screens in the room.
My new phone, the one I’d unwrapped as soon as I’d destroyed the last one, rang. I knew it was Marisa since no one else had the number.
“When do you want to go to Montreal?” she asked.
“A couple of days. Maybe three. I’ll dig around here tomorrow but then I’d like to sleep in my own bed for a change,” I said.
“Which bed?”
It was a legitimate question. “The flat in Pawtucket. I can rent a car and drive it.”
“I’ll get you a car,” Marisa said.
I sighed. I know she loves helping me and I’m scatterbrained most of the time, but I needed a few hours to escape. Once in awhile I liked to be off the grid in a car, listening to bad radio and stopping at greasy spoon diners along the way.
“I’m fine,” I said.
To her credit Marisa didn’t push it any further. I guess she could tell I was having a moment and needed some space. I told you I didn’t have it all together all the time, only when it was really needed.
“You got it, Boss. Call me in the morning if you change your mind,” Marisa said and disconnected. I knew she was annoyed with me, and it wasn’t just my insistence at driving myself. The Caruso incident was nagging at her as well, since she’d done so much to never let me get near to a client again. Yet, I was always walking into the hornet’s nest and trouble. I wondered if I had a death wish or just wanted to sabotage my life at times.
“Is everything alright, sir?” Jacques asked as he stepped out with a gorgeously handsome black pinstripe suit.
I smiled and waved him off without an answer. I wanted to remain vague and I was getting tired, wondering what I was doing here again.
The suit felt like a second skin and I didn’t bother to ask what the price was because then I’d balk even though I could afford it and many more.
“I’ll take it. Do you have it in any other colors?” I asked.
“Of course. I got lucky on this fitting but I need to take it in right here and there,” Jacques said, running his fingers lightly over the suit.
“Don’t bother. I’ll take it as-is. I like the feel of it. I’ll need another black with pinstripes, two black without, and three dark suits your choice. I’ll have my secretary contact you in the morning,” I said, knowing Marisa would be pissed i
f she knew I called her my secretary. Even though she did everything one would do, she preferred personal assistant. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
“Excellent.” Jacques handed me his card. I knew better than to hand him a credit card. Deals like this were done by the secretaries. . . I mean personal assistants. We couldn’t be bothered with the arduous task of swiping credit cards.
I would never understand what having money meant to most people, and I’d stumbled into it at an early age. Some would say I didn’t appreciate it, and maybe they were right. On a slow night about a year ago, while watching a repeat on the Investigation Discovery Channel, I did the mental math about how much I’d need to spend a day in order to spend every dime I had to that point. I don’t remember the exact number but I know it was ridiculous. Skimming the interest from all these accounts wasn’t fast enough. I’d since grown bored with buying homes and cars. Some days I wish I had a bad cocaine problem or drank too much, because I was restless.
I decided (I swore to myself for the hundredth time) I’d make an effort to date someone. Anyone. A first date wasn’t going to kill me, and I needed to hang around with someone who wasn’t rich or was tied up somehow in what I did, either legal or illegal.
Jacques was staring at me again. He’d been asking me questions and I was off daydreaming.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
I shook my head, plastered a smile on my face, tried not to worry about my cheeks flushed with embarrassment and headed for the door.
In the elevator I checked out the suit in the mirrored doors and smiled. I looked good. I also looked tired. I had bags under my eyes and my skin looked grayish. I looked fat and looked much older than I was.
“Stop acting like a diva,” I whispered. If a dude was with me right now he’d pull my Man Card. I wouldn’t be able to argue, either.
The doors to the elevator opened and I jumped back, ready to strike.
It was my driver and he was smiling.
“You alright?” he asked, trying not to laugh.
“What are you doing? You almost got punched in the face and knocked out,” I said.
Dirty Deeds Page 4
