Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  “You put the damned thing up for sale on the internet. You’re dumb enough to think we wouldn’t find it?”

  “I took it down.”

  “Yep, seems you are that dumb.”

  “Hey, you can’t talk to me like that.” He tried to sit forward in the sofa but failed.

  “Why the hell not? You’re an idiot. I saw how much you priced it for. How’d you come up with that magic number?”

  “Guy at the pawn shop offered me a thousand bucks. I know he’s a crook, ripping me off. So I figure I list it myself. It’s got to be worth at least double what he says. So I put it up for a deuce and a half. Leave a little negotiating room. That’s how deals are done.”

  “You’re a regular Donald Trump.”

  “Why? What’s it worth?”

  “Couldn’t be more than eight hundred bucks.” I watched him process this information. The genius could put a trophy up for sale on a classifieds site but couldn’t use a search engine to find the price.

  “You get takers?” I said.

  “Some nibbles.”

  “You arrange to meet or give out your address?”

  He looked more sheepish than a spring lamb. “No.”

  “Who?”

  Nothing.

  “Who did you give the address to? Do I have to shake it out of you?”

  “I dunno the guy’s name. He used one of them free emails.”

  “What email address?”

  “RealPro. That was it. RealPro. The thing got stolen before our meet. Didn’t matter none. I forgot to email him it was gone. But he didn’t show, anyway.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I SAT IN my office with the window open and the breeze blowing in. My shoes were under the desk somewhere. I'd spent the night wishing I'd thought of the Heisman Trust thing myself. Saved myself the trip and an evening of night sweats. But I knew what I knew now, so I moved on. I found a phone number online and dialed New York.

  "Good morning, Heisman Trust." The woman on the phone sounded pleasant and professional.

  I gave her my name and credentials and mentioned that I was working for Heisman alumni BJ Baker. I didn’t think she knew BJ Baker from Colonel Sanders, but the Heisman alumni thing helped. She told me she would see who could help me. I waited a long thirty seconds and another voice came on the line.

  "Hello, Mr. Jones?" It was the kind of voice you expect to hear if you call a trust in New York City. Clipped and nasally and smart sounding. An NPR listener. Hell, probably an NPR donor. It didn't sound like a voice that was the slightest bit interested in football. In my head a football voice came from Austin or Oxford.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "I understand you wish to speak to someone in Alumni Relations?”

  "Yes."

  "May I ask the purpose of your inquiry?"

  “As your colleague may have informed you, I represent Mr. BJ Baker, a Heisman alum, in the matter regarding the theft of his Heisman trophy."

  “Yes, ghastly business. How is it we can help?"

  "I'd like to know who else in Florida might have a Heisman trophy. You know, past winners who have moved here or are from here. So I can warn them."

  “Warn them? Yes, I see." He went quiet for a moment. “The person you really need to speak to is our Alumni and Community Relations Manager.”

  "That's pretty much why I asked to speak to someone in Alumni Relations.”

  "Yes, well the thing is, he's currently out of the office. Visiting schools, you see."

  "And there's no one else who can help me?"

  “No, he's really the person with the information you require." Another pause, then, "What I can do is this; I will leave your name and number and the nature of your inquiry and ask him to call you directly."

  "Let's hope he does that before another one of your trophies get stolen."

  "Indeed. Thank you for your call."

  I dropped the phone in the cradle and leaned back in my chair. I bet myself dollars to donuts that Beccy Williams would have gotten the information. But when it came to getting what we wanted, I was a bloodhound. Beccy was a wolverine.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  RON LAY BACK on the sofa in my office, nursing a glass of Woodford Reserve. I sat with my feet on my desk, sipping my scotch.

  “You know, our accountant doesn't think getting paid in scotch is such a great strategy," I said, tasting the leathery spice on my palette.

  "He's wrong. I once fixed an IRS problem with a case of scotch.”

  I smiled. It was probably a tall tale, but with Ron it just might be true. The door snapped open and Lizzy popped her head in.

  "I'm out of here," she said.

  I nodded. “Okay. Any luck with Mrs. Ferguson's missing husband?"

  "Nothing firm. She's getting me some stuff. I'll keep you posted."

  "Great. Have a good evening." She pulled her head back and closed the door.

  I looked back at Ron and swished the liquid around in my glass. Then my phone buzzed.

  "State Attorney Edwards is here to see you," said Lizzy.

  I smiled at Ron. "Tell him I'm here, but I don't want to see him."

  The door to my office opened and a man in an immaculate Italian suit stepped through. He was tall, almost too tall to fit through the door. His thick black hair was combed back. He had high cheekbones but divots where he should have had cheeks, and he was marathon-runner thin. He looked like a well-dressed light pole.

  "Jones," he said.

  "Come in, Eric, please. Great to see you."

  He looked around the room as if it were the first time he was in it and he was assessing escape routes. His eyes got to Ron on the sofa.

  "Ron." He smiled. His was an elected position, and he was always in campaign mode.

  “How’s things on the fifteenth judicial circuit?" I said.

  “We’re fighting the good fight."

  "Well, good for you."

  "I hear you're working on BJ Baker's burglary?”

  "I am. So what brings you here?"

  He helped himself to one of the visitor’s chairs. He smoothed his tie with his hand after he sat.

  "I just wanted to relay some information that came to my attention."

  "Being?"

  "Sal Mondavi."

  I didn't speak.

  “You know Sal Mondavi?"

  "Remind me,” I said.

  “You were seen entering and leaving his premises on Okeechobee Boulevard last week."

  "You watching me, Eric?"

  "Not you."

  “Is Sally charged with something?"

  He ran his hand down his tie again. It looked as smooth as an ice rink after the Zamboni had done its rounds. "So you do know him."

  "We both know I do. What's your point?"

  "I don't think Sal Mondavi is the kind of person you should be associating with right now."

  "Thanks, Dad."

  "I'm serious."

  "That's always been your problem, Eric. I was just visiting a pawnshop. That illegal now?"

  “You took nothing into the pawn shop and brought nothing out."

  "That you guys could see. Maybe it was something small."

  "Like what?”

  "Like a diamond ring."

  State Attorney Edwards was a cool customer. He wasn’t easily put off balance. But it was a hell of a lot of fun trying. I saw his jaw clench at the mention of the ring. But nothing more.

  "Getting yourself implicated in underworld dealings won’t just hurt you, Jones. You need to think about that."

  “So you're not really worried about me?"

  "I could care less what happens to you, Jones. You and I both know that." He smiled at me, but it wasn't the politician’s smile. “But being linked to you could hurt Danielle's career."

  "And you're worried about Danielle."

  "Yes, I am."

  “Where was that worry when you were married to her?"

  "You're not as clever as you think, Jones."

&
nbsp; “And all that concern you had for her when you slept with your secretary?"

  He stood up. I had to hand it to him. I’d put in the low blows and he hadn't lost his cool. He got up slowly and smoothed his tie one more time. At least it saved having to iron it.

  "I should just let you go down, Jones. You're no good for her.” He turned and strode to the door.

  I let him get half way out.

  "That makes two of us."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  SOMETIMES STAKEOUTS ARE extended, tedious affairs, where you sit in an uncomfortable car for longer than the seat was designed to hold you, trying to keep your attention up, or at least stay awake, while watching nothing happen for hours on end. Other times you find yourself sitting at a bar watching leggy women in lingerie wander around an overly cooled function room.

  Ron had been doing most of the sitting in cars. I decided to join him on the one day in a million when we would have paid to do our job. Our ex-con suspect, Dennis Rivers, had been keeping to himself, work and home. Ron was leaning towards thinking the guy was just trying to go straight. The Palm Beach PD hadn’t trailed Rivers. They got pulled in a lot more directions than we did. They’d hate themselves when we told them this story, as we surely would. Ron decided to follow Rivers one last time. The fact that Black Tie Catering was working a lingerie show for the lady members of a local golf club may have been a motivator. Ron showed his membership card from another golf club to gain us guest entry. I’d never seen him play golf, but he seemed to have membership cards from all sorts of clubs.

  The bar quite rightly overlooked the eighteenth green. A function room was partitioned off from the bar area by a concertina wall. From the bar we couldn’t see the show, but the design of the space was such that the models had to come through the bar to get to a small side room where they were changing outfits. There weren’t many people in the bar, but everyone resisted the temptation to say anything. The girls were professional and offered a few winks as they dashed through to their costume changes.

  Dennis Rivers was tending bar behind a white-clothed table, pouring lots of chardonnay and vodka tonics. His table was set up against the concertina wall. So he had his back to us, behind the wall. From where we were seated, we were hidden by a row of beer taps but could see the exit out of the function room. We could also see down to the parking lot where the Black Tie Catering truck sat in the sunshine. I watched a tall model with whippet-thin legs and black garters stride by. She shot me a smile like we were passing on the street. I wondered if I should get something for Danielle. I decided she didn’t need the help. Plus, she’d see right through it. She’d figure the gift was more for me than her.

  We watched the parade in and out of the function room for an hour. Then the models came out dressed in street clothes and left. We waited another hour as the ladies in the function room enjoyed the catering and traded snide remarks about the shape of the models. Dennis Rivers appeared as the last guests departed. He ran downstairs and I thought we might lose him, but he opened the truck and dashed back up. He grabbed a crate of equipment and dashed down again.

  “He seems in a hurry,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s got a date,” said Ron as he handed his credit card to the bartender.

  He settled up and we took the outside patio stairs down to the Mustang. Rivers spent fifteen minutes shuttling equipment down into the van. When he slammed the rear door closed I fired up the Mustang’s engine.

  He drove the van back to the Black Tie Catering headquarters. It was a light industrial space with roller doors. It could have housed a mechanic or a distribution warehouse. I guessed they had it fitted out with a full kitchen. Rivers repeated the process in reverse, shuttling the equipment out of the van and into the small warehouse. When he was finished he slammed the rear door closed again.

  He almost jogged to his car, a beat up Camry which I had a sneaking suspicion belonged to a family member. Rivers didn’t grab me as a Camry guy. We followed him again. The traffic was starting to build as office workers made early exits. Rivers got onto I-95 and skipped down to Boca Raton. He pulled off and drove to a mall, where he parked outside a large chain pet store. We waited a bit, then followed him across to the sidewalk. Rivers strode past the pet store and the shoe outlet next door. He turned into a bar and pulled the frosted glass door open and went inside. We wandered up to the door.

  The place was called Mango Martini. The outside had tasteful wooden chairs and tables overlooking the beautiful expanse of blacktop that made up the parking lot. Inside was a different story. It looked like Vegas, a mix of dimly lit space, pocked by shots of blue spotlight. The furniture was dark wood and red upholstery. The bar was backlit so all the liquor glowed like a summer sunset. I scoped the room and spotted Rivers.

  He was at the bar, chatting with a barmaid who didn’t look old enough to drive. He was standing, not sitting, despite the row of empty bar stools. It looked like the kind of place that hit its peak at around 2am. Right now there was more staff than customers. A girl approached, dressed in much the same fashion as the models at the golf club. She wore black trousers that looked painted on, and what I thought to be called a bustier on top. A black bra showed several inches above the bustier. As she approached, I had the sense I knew her from somewhere. When she winked at me, I knew I did.

  “You following me?” she smiled. It was the model from the golf club.

  “Just my lucky day. You work here?”

  “Can I get you a table?”

  We followed her to a counter-height table in the corner of the room, near a dance floor that was lit by UV light. The scuffmarks on the floor made the whole thing look like a crime scene off television. The girl told me her name was Amber. We ordered two beers. I watched her walk back to the bar. She walked differently from the golf club. And it wasn’t because she was wearing less clothes at the lingerie show. I’d have called it a tie that way. But at the golf club she had stepped quickly and with purpose, one foot directly in front of the other. Very erect. Now her hips swayed, giving her whole walk an attitude. The word that came to mind was strut. She got to the bar and interrupted the barmaid’s chat with Rivers. He nodded and gave the barmaid a casual wave. She pointed haphazardly at a door beside the bar and Rivers waved again and disappeared through the door. Amber returned with four beers.

  “Four?”

  “Happy hour, two for one,” she said. She had great teeth and flawless skin. So did every second kid in South Florida. Before the sun got to them.

  I wanted to ask her about Rivers. He seemed to be a known commodity here. But if they were both at the golf club job as well they might be friends. The kind of friends that mention when someone is asking questions about them. And I wasn’t ready for Rivers to know I was asking after him just yet.

  “You do most of your work dressed like this?” It wasn’t my intention, but it came out sounding condescending.

  “You my dad now?”

  It occurred to me that I might be old enough. A group of young guns in summer suits came in. They made a noisy entrance, drawing every eye in the house. They all looked around without looking around. Just to make sure they were being noticed.

  “The happy hour crowd,” said Amber, rolling her eyes.

  “This place always so slow?” I said.

  “Those guys are the first of the double H crowd. In for the cheap apps and half price drinks. But later it’ll be cheek to cheek.”

  “Who owns the club?”

  “You don’t know?” she said.

  I took a slug of my beer. “Why should I know?”

  “You just strike me as being the kind of guy who would know stuff like that.”

  “But if I knew then we’d have nothing to talk about.”

  “I’m sure we could find plenty to talk about.”

  The guys at the host desk were getting restless. Amber looked at them.

  “Gotta go,” she smiled. She smiled at Ron then moved away. She looked at me over her shoulder
as she did. “The club is owned by Mr. Bartalotto.”

  She swayed over to the group of guys and had earned her tips before she even opened her mouth.

  Ron watched her go, then turned back to me. “Interesting girl,” he said.

  “Indeed.”

  “Bartalotto. You think it’s that Bartalotto?”

  I sipped some beer. “Sally will know.”

  “And if it is?”

  I drained the last of my beer and dropped a twenty on the table. I left the extra happy hour beer untouched. “Then I have to ask myself why Dennis I’m so clean Rivers is working for the mob.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I PARKED IN a space out front of the packing store. A sign hung in the window offered to wrap and pack my Christmas presents. If I wasn’t going to think about that two days out from Christmas, then I certainly wasn’t interested in October. I locked the Mustang and wandered down the strip mall. The concrete was laced with chewing gum, baked hard by the summer sun. I wore sunglasses despite a light cloud cover. Through them I could see the Chevy Caprice parked further down Okeechobee Boulevard. Two guys inside who just happened to pull over on the side of the road to enjoy a coffee. Apparently they weren’t trying to be covert. I hoped they weren’t. I hoped they were better than that.

  I got to Sally’s store and went in. The air was on and made the place smell like the changing rooms at a public swimming pool. The same girl was sitting in the check-cashing booth. I didn’t nod. I figured she wouldn’t miss it.

  Sally stepped out from the rear. He wiped spindles of hair across his scalp. He was wearing a big magnifying monocle on one eye. He was either looking at gemstones or impersonating a one-eyed man with a bad astigmatism. He took the monocle off as he reached the midpoint of the glass cabinet along the wall.

  “You find your Heisman yet?” he said.

  “Not yet.”

  “When you do…” He winked at me. “So what are you in the market for?”

  “Not sure. I’ll know when I see it.”