by David Stever
He took the stool beside me and immediately launched into one of his stories that I had suffered through so many times I could tell it myself. I held up a hand. “I’d love to reminisce but I’m on business. I need your help. Any guys around?”
One thing Joey loved more than talking was getting in on some action. “Are you shitting me? Hell yeah. Carmine is here. He’s downstairs in the storeroom. What can we do?”
Carmine was Joey’s son and also a former cop. Tall and muscular, unlike his short and round father, he retired at age forty-two after twenty years. He now ran his own security firm with a roster of cops who picked up extra cash working event security at parties and functions around the city. He also pitched in at the bar.
I checked my watch. “A client is meeting me here in twenty-five minutes. A high-profile type. But I need it to be quiet.”
“Whatever you need, brother. Let me find Car.”
“Joey, wait. What I’m asking might bend certain legalities. I don’t want you guys jammed up.”
“Damn, Delarosa. This is what I live for.”
He limped off and was back with his son in less than a minute. We huddled at a table and I explained what I wanted. Their eyes went wide when I disclosed the name of my client. I also gave them a chance to back out, but they were sold.
“What about him?” I nodded to the only other person in the place. An older fellow with a long, gray ponytail. He nursed a bottle of beer and appeared to be lost in his own world.
“No worries,” Joey said. “He’s in here every day. I think he has old-timers. How’d you score this job, anyhow?”
“Are you shitting me, Joey? I’m the PI to the stars.”
He laughed and pulled me to the front of the bar and pointed to a framed, autographed picture of Stan on the wall. “I met him right after he retired and moved to Port City. I loved him as a player and loved him even more after I learned he bet on games. My kind of guy.”
“Play it cool, okay? Do your thing, though. He’ll expect it.”
“No problem.”
We took our places and ten minutes later, Stan came in through the back, his body filling the doorway. He glanced around at all the sports memorabilia before joining me. “Johnny, why have I never been here? I love this place.” He reached his long arm across the bar and shook Joey’s hand. “Stan Shelton. You the owner?”
“Yes sir, Joe Maccarone. Welcome, Mr. Shelton. Been a fan since your college days.”
“Call me Stan, please.”
“Any chance I can get a picture?”
“You bet.”
Joey hustled around and Stan threw an arm around him while I snapped a picture with my phone.
“It will go on the wall right next to that one.” He pointed to Stan’s photo.
“I’ll make sure I come back and sign it. I love it here.” As if someone flipped a switch, Stan began a random football story about a playoff game in Dallas.
Joey was enthralled, but I would be in for a long afternoon if I didn’t break up their party.
“Stan, we have to talk. Football can wait.” I took a seat at a table farthest from the bar.
“My fault,” Joey said. “Stan, what are you drinking? On the house.”
“Nope, I’m buying. Scotch, top shelf.”
“Coming right up.”
He continued to study the photos on the wall while waiting for his drink. He pointed to one of a famous pro baseball player from Port City. “He was incredible. Ever see him play, Johnny?”
I shook my head; frustration began to churn.
“Hey, I played with him, too.” He tapped on a picture of a player who had been on the Jets. “He was a beast. So glad he played offense. Would hate to be tackled by him.” Joey came back with the Scotch, set it on the table. “I met him before. A monster of a guy. Hell, I remember a time when he was in Baltimore and—"
“Stan.” My tone said it all.
Joey disappeared to the back.
“Yes?”
“Sit down.”
19
“Try again.” I dealt the third hand of the same questions.
“Nothing else to tell, Johnny. On our first date, we ended up talking more than I ever talked to a woman. I mean, pouring my heart out. It was so natural and easy with her. Did you ever meet someone and experience an instant attraction? We clicked from the moment we met. Then it dawned on me. It was love at first sight. Something I never believed was real.”
“We already established how you feel about her. I need you to tell me the things she did when you two were together. Outside the bedroom. Did she talk about anyone? Girlfriends? Old boyfriends? The job, her boss? Ever sneak out of the apartment and make a call? Anything of that sort.”
“No, and I don’t understand what you want.” He swallowed back the last of his Scotch and got up from the table. “This is going nowhere.”
“Wait. Sit back down.” The scowl across his face displayed his frustration with my questioning, but instincts told me he might have information and not realize it. I needed him to think of everything and anything about their dates. “This is important, if you want me to help you.” He took off his suit jacket and sat back down. “Another drink?”
“A short one. You got twenty minutes.”
I waved to Joey for another round and started over. “You met her at random, right?”
“Yes, the website had pictures of the escorts and I selected her. She was the third or fourth girl I hired, and as I said, we hit it off from the start.”
“Did she know you played football? Recognize you from the car commercials?”
“Yeah, on our second date together, she danced around the bedroom, saying she couldn’t believe she was with a celebrity. Recognized me from TV. No clue of my life before the car business. When I told her of my sports career, it only made things better. The sex was incredible that night.”
“Celebrity sex.”
“Has some benefits.”
“Let’s move on. Did she ever tell you about her private life?”
“Not much.”
“Ever mention any other job? Go to a gym? What about a social life?”
“She told me she worked out. I never really asked. She only wanted to discuss our future and all these fancy plans she had for our life together.”
“She have any friends?”
“I remember one time she talked about going to a restaurant with a girlfriend. What’s this got to do with the blackmail?” he said.
Joey brought more drinks. The door opened and two middle-aged men walked in. We were huddled at a table in the rear of the bar, but one of the guys immediately recognized the former quarterback.
“Johnny, Dee Dee would never—”
I held up a hand and stopped him as the man approached our table.
“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt. Are you Stan Shelton?”
“The last time I checked.” He flashed his big toothy grin.
The man extended a hand. “Wow, I was a huge fan. I mean, I still am. Can I get an autograph?”
“Sure.”
The chance meeting for the fan turned into an awkward moment when both realized neither had paper or a pen. Joey saved the day with a napkin and a marker. Stan turned on the charm and chatted with him for a minute about his favorite game. Favorite Shelton game, of course.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Stan Shelton sitting in Joey Mac’s.” The man was all smiles as he walked away with his signed napkin.
“It has everything to do with the blackmail. And keep your voice down. The only way the blackmailer knew you hired escorts was through Dee Dee. Unless you told someone else about your hobby?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Think about the past few weeks. Where you went, people you were with. This is serious, brother. Somebody gave you up.”
He stared into his drink. Swirled it around a few times. “Buddy of mine. I bragged about her and how amazing she was. But he would never say anything.”
“What
’s his name?”
“Nope. You’ll want to talk to him. The police will get wind. I can’t bring my stupidity on him. And before you ask, yes, I trust him. He’s the only one who stood by me way back when. In a time when nobody else wanted to be around me, he was there for me. So no, I will not serve him up.”
In a crazy way, I respected his stand for his friend. I decided to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you know a Kendra Fitzgerald? Goes by Kenzie?”
He shook his head. “Who is she?”
“She was the blonde who was dumped in front of your building. Most likely it was her at the dealership.”
His eyes popped wide. “You identified her? Damn.”
“Police did.”
He sat back in his chair. Stared at the ceiling for a minute, either for divine intervention or trying to figure out how much trouble he was in. He focused back on me. “They’ll link her to me, won’t they? They’ll figure out I own the place.”
“We are way past that. Kenzie Fitzgerald and Dee Dee used to be roommates.”
His face went pale and expressionless. “What?”
“Did you know?”
He slowly shook his head. Either he was telling me the truth, or he had a great poker face.
“Dee Dee told me. She came to McNally’s last night. Late. Said she was scared because she and Kenzie were friends and now, she’s afraid. Wants me to find Kenzie’s killer.”
“She did? I can’t believe this.” He took a sip of Scotch, then another. Then finished it off in one gulp. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
“Doomed maybe but answer this. How did Dee Dee find out it was Kenzie who was killed before the police released her name?”
All he could do was sit with his hands in his lap, his head tilted to the side and his eyes watery.
I thought it best to not speak for a bit. Let him chew on this the Shelton way.
“I described the girl to her. On the phone…from seeing her on the street.”
“You said she didn’t answer her phone all night. That’s why you were so freaked out.”
“Jesus, Johnny, I don’t remember what I said…I…I left her a message, I suppose.”
“All right. Go home, stay there. Do not say a word to anyone. No public appearances. You hired me to investigate the blackmail and keep you off the front page. I’ll do what I can, but we only have a few days. Not going to lie—this will be a task, separating you from the escort agency and the dead girl. Cops probably have a list of questions by now.” I was sure Paul Ellison had a few questions, maybe not a list, but this had to be a come-to-Jesus moment for Stan. He needed to heed my instructions if I had any chance of bringing him through unscathed.
He pulled in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. I figured he was trying to calm a rising tide of anger or frustration or nerves. Or disappointment. “She would not betray me. We have a special bond. A trust,” he said.
“Maybe you can regain the trust someday, but from this point forward—and this is your life lesson for today—do not trust anyone. Ever. Understand?”
He nodded.
“I’ll call you. We will figure out where to meet.”
“Whatever you say.”
He got up from his seat, went to Joey and shook his hand. “My man, this joint is my new hangout. Quite a place you got here. Neighborhood bars are where the real people are. The blue-collar workers, the backbone of this country.” Then he launched into a story about how he worked on a farm one summer while in high school.
He could not help himself. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, the beloved, affable quarterback could not pass up a chance to endear himself to his public. It was in his wiring, his DNA, and deep in his soul. It made me realize at that moment, I could try to protect him from the thieves, the swindlers, and the blackmailers, but I would never be able to protect him from himself. After five minutes, I ushered him out the back.
Joey met me at the table with two shots of bourbon in his hand and we sat down.
“He looked like he saw a ghost. What did you do to him?” Joey asked.
“He did it to himself.” We touched our glasses and threw back the whiskey. A minute later, Carmine came in.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“No problem,” he said. “Blue Corvette, just like you said. Stuck the tracker in the right rear fender well. Got to admit, it was a bit of a rush. Reminded me of my old undercover days.”
“Hold that thought. Security cameras in back?”
“Yeah, front, too.”
“Any chance a couple of guys around tonight? No more than an hour. Pay in cash.”
“Sure. Always one or two in here anyhow.”
“Good, because today we have a doubleheader.”
20
The meatball subs at Joey Mac’s were world-renowned, at least in the ten square blocks of Port City’s Little Italy. When he first opened, he had other sandwiches on the menu, but all anyone ever ordered was the meatball sub. The recipe was his mother’s, so he named it Mama Maccarone’s Meatball Masterpiece. Customers nicknamed it the 4-M. It was now the sole item on the menu, and he had just placed mine in front of me when my phone rang.
“Anything?”
“Yep, he left your location and went home for an hour. Then he drove to the Harbor Lofts building. Still there now.”
“Thanks. Keep me posted.”
Katie had let out a whoop and a holler when I told her we were successful in placing a tracker on Stan’s car, forgiving me for not allowing her to go with me on the interview. Now she was involved in the action by watching his travels on her laptop, with instructions to text me when he was on the move.
I made short work of the meatball sub and washed it down with a draft beer. Dee Dee was scheduled at eight and part of me hoped the woman with the long, black hair would show up instead of her.
But at seven fifty-five, the door opened and in walked Dee Dee in jeans, flats, and a tight black T-shirt. I was at the same table from this afternoon, my back to the kitchen door and an unobstructed view of the entire bar. She saw me and smiled. I stood.
“Hi. I am so sorry about lunch today. Something I couldn’t get out of.”
“No problem.” Instead of sitting opposite me she took the chair to my right.
“Isn’t this the place with the famous meatball subs?” she asked, as she looked at all the sports memorabilia on the walls.
“Sure is. You want one?”
“No, no. Some other time. Wait, I was supposed to buy you dinner.”
“Well,” I said, “we have an excuse to come back.”
She smiled an attractive and downright sexy smile and I saw why Stan lost his mind. She had an instant likeability about her. She was not nervous or scared the way she was the night before at my place. She was also somewhat upbeat considering her friend was murdered two nights before.
“How about a drink?” I asked.
“Wine. Red. The bolder the better.”
“A woman of my own taste.” I called Joey over and he came back with an eight-year-old Antinori Chianti Classico from Tuscany. I could not resist, so I canceled my bourbon, told him to leave the bottle and bring me a glass.
We toasted to meeting under more pleasant circumstances.
“So, here we are. Any developments in the case?” she asked.
“I wish I had something to tell you, but I don’t. Kenzie’s murder threw a curve into why Stan hired me. He told you of the blackmail attempt—at least, we assume it was to be an extortion of some sort. Did a job like that fit her character?”
She flashed a big smile. She slid her chair a few inches closer to me and placed her hand on mine.
Interesting.
She leaned in and whispered, “Let’s not sugar coat it. We are hookers. Call girls. Whores. Money is the goal. Put enough cash in front of someone and they are capable of anything.”
I nodded. “Truer words were never spoken. People do unimaginable acts for the promise of a payday. Kept me employed
for all these years.”
“Where are we then?”
“I have some questions.”
“Ask away.”
“How did you know Kenzie was killed before the police released her name?”
She removed her hand and leaned away from me a bit. “Umm…ah…let me think how the night went. I was home, in bed. I wasn’t feeling well. I suffer from migraines every so often, so things were fuzzy, but Stan called me and said a girl was murdered outside his building. Thrown in the street. He described her—blonde hair, her clothes. I immediately thought of Kenzie. I was nervous from what I told you before. She was into something but would not tell me what. I could tell he was shaken and told him I would come over if he wanted. He told me no, said he had to leave. The night is a blur, and then I heard her name on the news today.”
“Stan said he couldn’t get you on the phone the night of Kenzie’s murder.”
She scrunched her brow. “Huh? I talked to him. His call woke me up.”
Conflicting stories, but I decided to save the contradiction for later. “I’m sure he had it all mixed up,” I said. “He definitely had a few that night, and you know how he gets when he’s loaded.”
“Oh, yes. Trips all over himself then passes out.”
“He’s out of his mind over you. Keeps talking about your future together. The feeling’s mutual?”
She smiled and took another sip of wine. “In my business, I meet all sorts of men. With most, it stays all business. But somebody like Stan comes along, and you feel comfortable. Despite the public Stan we all see, he is different in private. He’s not an arrogant jerk like many of them. He treats me well. He’s generous, which is great. Yeah, I enjoy his company.”
“He has deep feelings for you.”
“And I don’t want to hurt him in anyway. At first, he was into it for the sex. Then we started talking and over the next few dates a friendship sort of developed. He’s genuinely a nice guy.”
