Stiff Arm Steal

by A. J. Stewart

  "Tampa? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Another Heisman theft. You got an alibi?"

  "Alibi? I been at the Black Tie warehouse."

  Ron smiled. “You haven't had a job in several days. I checked."

  “Yeah, genius. That's why I'd been at the warehouse. After hours no one's there. So I been there prepping all this food." He waved his hands like he was modeling the spread on the Price is Right.

  “And you just happen to be working for an organized crime family," I said.

  "Man, you are dumber’n grits. You think it's easy for a guy with time under his belt to get work? They ask me where I trained, what I say? Prison? Mr. Bartalotto knows the score. He don't care about that stuff. He just wants results. And you guys are messing that up."

  One of the Gino's in the suits opened the door from the other room. "Problem?" he said. He sounded like he’d just stepped off the plane from Brooklyn. He was pale enough for it to be true.

  "No problem.” said Rivers. "Just getting my guys set up."

  "Well, Mr. Bartalotto wants to know what the hell he's eating.”

  "Be right there."

  The Gino eyeballed me and Ron without moving his head, then slipped back through the door.

  Rivers turned to me. "Don't move." He turned and went through the door.

  I looked at Ron. He mouthed the words, "What the?” Like we were being listened to.

  I shook my head. I had no clue. Rivers came back into the kitchen.

  "Tell me sport, why does a guy who has a whole restaurant at his disposal need an ex-con caterer?"

  "It's for his old lady, you moron. She spends winters down here."

  "A snowbird?" said Ron.

  "Yeah. She lives in Toronto. But can't handle the winters. So she spends them with her son in Boca."

  "I thought he was part of a New York family?" I said.

  "What am I? Genealogy.com? How the hell should I know? But the old lady is from Canada. That's why I was hired."

  "How so?" I said.

  "She loves some show on Canadian TV. Called Coronation Street. It's about some losers in England. It's all tea and warm beer and crap like that. But she loves it. So he says what she wants for her birthday celebration, and she says she wants to have a dinner like the morons on this show."

  "And his kitchen can't do it?"

  "Those guys are all Mexicans, man. They have enough trouble with American food.”

  "So how do you know anything about this stuff?"

  "I didn't. But I have a friend works here at the club. She says to Bartalotto I can do it, so I get the job. That's where I'd been." He looked at Ron. "At the library, man. On the damned Internet. Finding recipes for what these Coronation Street types eat. You wouldn't believe what these English put away."

  "I thought you said you were at the warehouse?" I said.

  “After that I was. I was using their equipment to prep the food. They just have me serve and tend bar. I don't cook nothing. That's what I want to do, man. But I don't got no equipment, so I borrowed theirs. No harm."

  "No harm," I said.

  “Until you two clowns show up. Now Bartalotto's out there thinking I’m trouble and he's made a mistake. And he don't like mistakes."

  "So I hear,” I said.

  I thought of what Sally had told me. Not big league, but vicious. I looked at Ron. He was the poster boy for sheepish. It looked like we'd got this one as wrong as we would have if we'd run around Palm Beach with clipboards asking people on the street if they'd nicked Baker’s Heisman.

  "Our mistake," I said. “We’ll get out of your hair and let you get on with it."

  "Leave? You can't just leave. He thinks you idiots work for me."

  "So what do you want from us?"

  “Wait there.” Rivers dashed out the back.

  I heard the slam of van doors and he reappeared. He threw something at me. It was a white coat, like a chef might wear. He tossed one at Ron.

  "You want us to cook?" I said.

  Rivers laughed. "Hell, no. Serve, man."

  "I'm no waiter,” I said.

  "Then let's go out there and tell Mr. Bartalotto that a couple of private eyes are snooping around his club."

  I looked at the food spread. "What is this stuff?"

  "What they eat in England, man. That pastry one, that's a Cornish pasty."

  "Okay. And what's this? It looks like a bratwurst casserole." A large dish held a row of sausages in a puff pastry.

  "That's Toad In The Hole."

  "Come on," I said.

  "Seriously. It's sausages in Yorkshire pudding."

  I picked up a breaded ball the size of a baseball. It was heavy. "And these?"

  "Scotch egg. Hardboiled egg covered in sausage meat, breaded and fried."

  "And they eat this, you say?"

  "Swear to God. You get these out while I warm the entree." He pointed to a tray.

  "Meatballs?" I said, picking up a tray of the eggs.

  "Sort of. They call them faggots."

  I dropped the eggs back onto the counter. "Excuse me?"

  "I'm not kidding. They're meatballs made from lamb’s liver and kidneys. Covered in beef caul."

  "Beef caul?" said Ron. "I don't want to know, do I?"

  “It’s a thin membrane of fat from a cow’s intestine."

  Ron appeared to hold back a dry heave.

  “It’s served with mashed potato and peas. Like meatloaf."

  "I'll never eat meatloaf again," Ron said.

  “Just get the appetizers out," said Rivers.

  Ron looked pale. "Appetizers? I don't know.”

  “Then help me with this cask ale." Rivers pointed to a small oak barrel on its side.

  "They'll need that," said Ron.

  "Okay?" Rivers said to me.

  "Sure. We'll help you out. You serve this stuff up, you need all the help you can get." I picked up the Scotch eggs and headed out to the waiting mafia family, leaving behind my sick-looking partner, the ex-con cook, and a roomful of Yorkshire Pudd, toads and faggots, and I wondered if I had just reached the low point of the Heisman case, or my career.

  Chapter Forty

  A STORM CAME in the next day. The clouds were massive edifices in the sky, like a hundred atom bombs had gone off. They grew darker and less distinct as the day wore on, until they were one flat mass of blackness. Then the lightning started, then the thunder. Then it rained. Hard.

  I was eating a late lunch at Longboard Kelly's. A turkey sandwich with Greek salad on the side. Mick did a good Greek salad. It was simple, the way Mick liked things. Cucumber, tomato, onion, feta, and olives. A vinaigrette of olive oil, vinegar, and salt. The rain pelted onto the roof like a drum band. The televisions were all tuned to the weather channel. I had to shout to be heard.

  “What do they say about the storm?" I asked Mick.

  "This too shall pass," he said, walking away down the bar, rubbing a clean glass with a dirty towel. The philosopher poet.

  The sound of the rain was soothing. Like things were being washed away and the earth would begin anew tomorrow. I sipped some iced tea. The weather channel reporter was out in the storm. He was almost being blown away. As if this made their report more credible than the weather guy who had the sense to get in out of the rain.

  The front door flung open and Danielle dashed through. She held an umbrella that looked like it had been hit by mortar rounds. Her PBSO issue rain slicker was cascading water onto the mat on the floor. She stomped her feet a few times and poured off the raincoat and hung it near the door. Then she walked over to my spot at the bar. She sat at the end, next to me. We could see through the bar area out across the patio, where we would sit if the sun were out. The rain was creating a lake around the water feature.

  Danielle put her elbow on a crab pot that sat at the end of the bar.

  "Some lunch?" I said.

  She shook her head. "I ate."

  "Okay. So to what do I owe this pleasure?"

&n
bsp; She smiled. Her lips stretched and tiny wrinkles formed at the corners of her mouth. "I got some news on the emails to Newt Bellingham."

  “How’s Jenny?”

  "She's doing okay. She was in rough shape."

  "I know."

  Danielle looked at the crab pot under her arm. An old thing, chicken wire and wood. She fiddled with the wire. She didn't look at me. “How’s Newt?"

  "I think his wife leaving will cause him to see the error of his ways."

  "You think?" She turned her head and looked at me.

  "I know."

  She turned back to the pot. "What is this thing?"

  "It's a crab pot. For catching crabs."

  "I know that. I mean, why is it here?"

  "It belonged to a guy called Pat McGinnis. Everyone called him Stonecrab Pat. He used to catch crabs and bring the claws in here and Mick would boil them up and put them on the menu. Stonecrab Pat used to carry that pot around like it held the crown jewels. He'd come in here and drink where you're sitting."

  "So why is his pot here?"

  "One night he left it there. Went home and died in his sleep. No one has ever wanted to move it."

  "I'm not going to get weird looks now because I've sat in the guy's seat, am I?"

  “You'll get plenty of looks, but it won't be because you sat in Stonecrab Pat's seat."

  “Ever the charmer." She did the smile again.

  "Tell me about the emails."

  Danielle took her arm off the crab pot and turned on her stool to face me. "I heard back from the email provider for the username we were looking at."

  “RealPro.”

  "Right. That was the only user who got the Bellingham’s address. So the provider tracked the IP address, which is sort of like the physical location of every computer in the world."

  "Unless the computer was on a network. Then the IP might only get us the location of the network."

  "Right. And there are other ways to track a specific computer, but they're not recorded by the email provider. But here's the thing. The location of the IP that sent the email. It's in West Palm.”

  "Tickety-boo," I said.

  "You care to take a drive with me?" she said, smiling.

  "Even if you were Thelma and I was Louise."

  Chapter Forty-One

  WE WAITED UNTIL the rain abated a touch before heading out. The wipers on Danielle’s patrol car still worked overtime to keep the windshield clear. We struggled to see the addresses on buildings. The cable company had told Danielle the account holder was a business. The name gave us no clue what type of business. We got to a strip mall that matched the address on Wellington Terrace. The mall was a Spanish-style, with terracotta roof tiles and white washed walls. It was pleasant if uninspiring. Perhaps it looked better in the sunshine.

  We drove around looking for the unit that matched our address. I spotted the number and Danielle pulled into a space in front. It appeared to be a cafe and bagel house. We got out of the patrol car and dashed for the cover of the awning. Rain ran off tall palm trees like the proverbial duck's back. I looked in the window of the cafe. It was tinted dark against the sun. All I saw was my own drenched head. I pushed my wet hair back and thought I looked like Kenickie from Grease.

  We went inside. The cafe was one of those places that doesn't know what it wants to be, tries to be everything and fails to be anything. There was an area near the window with aluminum chairs and tables. Behind that, two lounge chairs and a low table. A bench seat ran along the wall with further tables dispersed along it. At the rear was a condiment station. The counter was glass and displayed pre-made sandwiches and pastries, all of which looked designed for longevity not taste. A range of bagels that looked more like Kaiser rolls with small holes in them. A coffee station dispensing house blend by the gallon. The space had the ambience of a railway station concourse at 1am.

  Danielle stepped to the cashier and spoke quietly. Demanding to see the owner while dressed in uniform tended to spook the cattle. The cashier moved briskly to a door in the rear. She reappeared with a young woman dressed like a barista. The woman had long blond hair and looked like she did the job to pay for her trips to the cheerleading championships. Danielle and I weaved through the tables.

  "Hi, I'm Lisa. Is there a problem?"

  "No problem, Lisa. We’re just looking for some information," said Danielle. We sat down and Danielle slid a piece of paper over to Lisa. On it she had jotted down the name of the business and the IP address.

  "Is this the business that owns the cafe?"

  Lisa looked at the paper, then at Danielle. She wasn't convinced there wasn't a problem. "Yes," she said.

  "Is it your business?" I said.

  She looked at me. She had aquamarine eyes and porcelain skin. "Yes."

  "You're very young to be running a business," I said.

  "Am I supposed to just get married and breed?" She didn't say it angrily, but I could tell she had said it before.

  "I would've thought you a bit young for that, too."

  "Well, I'm not. I'm twenty-three.”

  "I stand corrected."

  "Lisa," said Danielle. "We are searching for someone who may have committed a crime. It's nothing to do with you. But we executed a warrant and discovered that the suspect may have used a computer here. Is there a computer here that someone might be able to access?"

  "I have one in the office, but only I and our accounts girl use that."

  Danielle looked at Lisa then at me. She was asking silently if I believed Lisa. I did.

  "But we do offer free wifi, obviously," said Lisa.

  "Obviously," I said. "And anyone could access that?"

  "That's the idea."

  Danielle taped the paper on the table. "Is there any way you can check if that IP address belongs to your network?"

  "I can check the settings on the router." She took the paper and went into the back office.

  "You don't think young people should run businesses?" said Danielle.

  "Young people? What are you, Ma Kettle? I think that girl will be successful beyond her wildest dreams. But she looks too young to vote."

  "You think this place will succeed?" Danielle said, looking around the cafe. There were only two customers.

  "I wouldn't think mid-afternoon is hardly rush hour for a cafe, but no, I think this place will fail miserably. But I don't think she will."

  “Why?”

  "She's smart. Had the good instinct to make you come to the back of the shop and not stand in the window like it was a crime scene. She's articulate, she's driven, and she's prepared to do the work. She's the owner, but she's wearing an apron. Ready to man, sorry, staff the register. But she has an accounts person, which says she understands that cash flow makes or breaks every business."

  “And she's pretty."

  "That won't hurt, because she'll use it but won't let it get in the way."

  Danielle smiled. "So you think she's pretty."

  "She's a porcelain doll. Cute as a button."

  Lisa stepped out of the back room and looked at us like we had our hands in the cookie jar.

  "It's our router," she said. "Does that mean trouble?"

  “No,” said Danielle. "Is there anyone regular who comes in and uses the Internet?"

  "Most all we have are regulars. People who work in this complex, to be honest."

  "We’re thinking a man. More than thirty but not more than sixty."

  She thought then shook her head. "I don't know. We don't track people like that."

  "Really?" I said. I made a point of looking around the mostly empty room.

  "It's not always this slow."

  "Really."

  "Not always."

  I smiled. She didn't.

  “You think we’re doing something wrong?" she said.

  "Your cafe is empty."

  "What are we doing wrong?"

  "In business school they teach you a lot about understanding your weaknesses, overcoming them." />
  "Yes, I know."

  "I didn't go to business school. I played baseball. And in baseball we were taught that the only way to win was to play to your strengths."

  She thought about that and nodded. "What are my strengths?"

  "Not coffee," I said, standing. Danielle stood with me.

  "What do you think my strengths are?"

  "Thanks for your time," said Danielle. "If you think of anything, or see anyone suspicious, please call." She handed Lisa a card. Then she turned from the table.

  I looked at Lisa and she at me. I put out my hand and she took it. I pumped a quick shake.

  "Your biggest strength is you,” I said. I felt like Tony Robbins, giving some BS pump up advice. Except I meant it. She was one of those people. She radiated energy. I let her hand go and followed Danielle out into the rain. It had eased and would no longer knock over a child. It just made us wet as we rushed for the car.

  "You want me to drop you at home or the office?"

  I looked out the window.

  "Or Longboard’s?”

  "When do you get off?" I asked.

  "Not ’til eight."

  "Not Longboard’s, then. Office, I guess."

  She started the car.

  "No wait," I said. "Where are we?"

  "Wellington. You lost, sweetie? I get you all turned around?"

  "Every time I see you. But I gotta make a house call around the corner. Mrs. Ferguson."

  "The missing persons case?"

  "Yeah."

  “What do you know?"

  "Nothing. Well, nothing good."

  "What?"

  "He's gone."

  “Why?”

  "Don't know. Either midlife crisis or end life crisis."

  "And you're giving up?"

  I glared at her. That was harsh.

  "I'm sorry. I just told her you could help her."

  "I did. I spoke with her. They've been sad for so long, she forgets what sunshine looks like. She just wants to move on and I don't think she believes she can do it with him. So she just wants to know."

  "So what will you tell her?"

  “Not all I'd like. But something. It's okay, I don't have to do this now."

  “No. I took the call. I sent her to you. We'll do this together."