by Tom Fowler
"I'm OK, thanks."
"Alice, did you get the juice?"
Alice froze. Her shifty gaze became furtive. "What?" She tried to look busy again, but she merely looked spooked.
"The orange juice . . . did you pick it up on your way home?"
"Oh." Alice's shoulders relaxed, and she let out a deep breath. "No, I guess I forgot."
"No big deal. Why don't you come and join us?"
"I don't mean to keep you if you need to make dinner or do something else," I said.
Paul waved me off. "Don't worry about it. We don't normally make anything too complicated. Right, honey?"
"Right," Alice said. She still looked like she’d witnessed a poltergeist invasion, but tension left her face, and she could look at me for two seconds before her gaze flittered away. Alice sat on the couch. Paul put his arm around her, but she didn't sit right next to him. The whole thing felt awkward. I wanted to observe the Fishers in their natural habitat to see if I could pick up a clue suggesting Paul had been unfaithful to his wife. All I saw so far was Alice freaking out over a simple question.
"You're looking at a house on this street?" Paul said. If he noticed the few inches of distance between himself and his wife, he didn't say anything.
"Among other locations," I said.
"Any kids?"
This is why I wanted to leave: avoiding questions like these. I tried to excuse myself earlier, only to be shut down by Paul. Now I was stuck for a while until the natives let me out of their sugary trap. "Just one," I said.
"In school yet?" said Paul.
"Getting closer every day."
"This is a good neighborhood." Paul gestured toward the front of the house as he spoke. "It's usually quiet around here. Good amount of kids around. The local schools are rated well, too. I think you'd like it here."
"I probably would. How do the houses hold their value?" I glanced at Alice when I said it. She looked down, apparently finding something on her lap fascinating.
Paul shrugged. "Every area took something of a hit when the bubble burst. This one’s coming up, though. We've done better than average, I would say. Right, honey?"
"Right," Alice said, looking up briefly. She couldn't even meet my eyes before she looked down again.
"Listen, you've been very helpful. I think I've taken up too much of your time already."
"You sure?" Paul said. "We could talk about this neighborhood for a while."
Alice's head dropped at his words. Paul remained oblivious to it. "I'm sure. Thanks for your time." Paul got up and walked me out. I glanced back at Alice, who remained semi-catatonic on the couch. Now I had no idea how to proceed with the case. It was likely Alice would fire me—if one could fire someone who works for free—for intruding on her thin veneer of domestic bliss. Now seeing the house of cards for myself, I didn't doubt something was wrong with their marriage, but I doubted Paul's role in it.
"Did you get the juice?"
Alice's reaction to the question intrigued me. Spouses asked one another similar questions all across the country. Almost all the time, it got a simple yes or no answer. In the case of the Fishers, Alice freaked out as if a squad of zombies nipped at her heels. She obviously knew a different definition of juice than her husband.
Juice, in addition to being a delicious beverage, is also a gambling term. It refers to the bookie’s take of the wager and is also an amount sought after to pay off loans or gambling debts. Jessica and Joey suggested Alice's lying and her evasive demeanor—not to mention the withdrawals from the joint checking account—indicated a drug problem. In fact, they indicated a gambling problem.
I didn't even know where someone would go to place a wager. Alice could have done her wagering online, but the online arena found itself hampered by legislation and didn't use terms like "juice" anyway. No, I had a strong feeling Alice used a real live bookie to place her bets. Now I needed to figure out who it was.
To do so, I wanted her phone records. She had given me her cell phone number, and from there, a simple search told me which provider she used, which was the easy part. Hacking into the carrier to get her calling records would take more time. Over the years, telecom companies have implemented more rigid security. They're responsible for a lot of information requiring serious protection, so they dedicate resources to keep the bad hackers out. Well-meaning morally ambiguous fellows like me get caught in the same net.
It took me about twenty minutes altogether, but I got into the customer phone records. From there, I ran a simple query for Alice Fisher. I exported the results to a file and perused it. Alice called Paul a lot, both at home and on his cell. She also phoned her work, various little shops, and other people I presumed were her friends. One named jumped out at me, though: SERRANO, VINCENT
I stared at the screen. He was still at it and should have been my first thought. Vinnie Serrano and I went to school together. He setup a gambling ring even back then, and it cost him his college enrollment. It sounded like he expanded his little empire over the years, and Alice had fallen victim to him.
Now I wondered if I could get her out, and more importantly, if it was my job to try.
Chapter 6
I decided to sleep on the problem. Alice got herself into this mess. She hired me to look into her suspicions about her husband philandering. I saw nothing suggesting it to be true. Now knowing what I knew, I couldn't blame him if he went and diddled someone he worked with. Especially the receptionist. If I told Alice her husband wasn't cheating on her, she would probably want to end our arrangement. In which case, she would be fending for herself against Vinnie Serrano. I knew Vinnie. Alice was in over her head.
She thought she needed my help finding out if her husband cheated on her. I could offer assistance dealing with Vinnie. She didn't have to take it, and if she didn't want it, who was I to insist? Offering to help her felt like the right thing to do. I hadn't gotten used to doing the right thing over the last three and a half years, so I wanted to sleep on it and see if my sudden attack of conscience passed.
When I woke up, it hadn't. I still wanted to help Alice. It would be against my better judgment, and wasn’t what I signed up for, but such is the way sudden attacks of scruples go. My parents would be happy. I decided not to tell them. My conscience creeping up on me felt bad enough; I didn't need them beaming about it on top of everything.
After breakfast, I called Alice on her cell phone. It went to voicemail, so I tried her at work. "Hello?" she said.
"Alice, it's C.T. Ferguson.”
"Why were you at my house last night?" she said, as soon as I finished my salutation. I wondered if she had been practicing this conversation in her head all morning.
"I wanted to observe you and Paul at home. It's important in cases of possible infidelity."
"Oh." She took a breath, and the accusatory tone vanished. "What did you find out?"
"I don't think he's cheating on you."
"But the hours he works . . . how evasive he is about everything . . . he has to be."
"I really don't think he is. There's something else I found, potentially concerning. I'd rather not discuss it with you on your company phone."
Alice sighed into the receiver. "Can we meet for lunch?"
"Sure. You tell me where."
"Do you know the Sakura Steakhouse in Bel Air?"
"I'll find it. What time?"
"Twelve-thirty?"
"See you then."
I got to the restaurant four minutes late. Alice had already found a table. I walked in and sat down. The waitress arrived so quickly I thought she materialized. I ordered an iced tea and said I would look at the menu for my lunch selection.
After the waitress returned with my drink and I ordered a sushi assortment, Alice got right down to business. "What's so delicate that you couldn't tell me on the phone?" she said.
"First, I want to reiterate I don't think Paul is cheating on you," I said as I added raw sugar to my tea.
"Why not?"
"From watching the two of you last night, I don't think he's capable of it. You were more distant than he was."
"I was . . . I just had a bad night." She avoided my eyes. Her gaze had never been steady, but she avoided looking at me now like I had a huge zit on my face.
"We all do."
"That's it?” she said. “He acts nice one night, and he's not a cheater?"
"He goes to work in a different part of the building when his shift ends, is why you can't reach him in his office."
"What's he doing? Who's he working with?"
"Maybe you should ask him,” I said.
She nodded. "I guess I have to." The waitress came with our food. Alice ordered a boring chicken and rice dish. My sushi plate, packed with a rainbow roll and other varieties of fish, looked vibrant by comparison. I poured soy sauce into the side dish and added wasabi. I mixed them and added more wasabi until I got the color looking exactly right—kind of a mottled brown with bits of green. Alice ate her lunch. I broke apart my chopsticks and devoured my sushi.
When we had both eaten most of our lunches, Alice looked at me again. She did a good job keeping her eyes on me most of the time. "Does this mean our arrangement is over?" she said.
"Up to you," I said. "I still haven't told you what I wanted to tell you."
Alice took a few more bites, leaving only a few stray grains of rice on her plate, and put her fork down. "OK, I'm ready.”
"It’s a question, really. How much do you owe Vinnie Serrano?"
Alice didn't know how to react. Her eyes went wide. Then she frowned. Then she looked around like she had no control of her eye muscles. "I . . . I'm not sure who that is," she said after taking a drink of water.
"You seem to call him a lot."
"You saw my phone records?" A couple of nearby patrons took an interest in the conversation at this point. I glared at them until they looked away.
"Of course I did," I said.
"Isn't that illegal?"
"I'm a licensed investigator, Alice. I can see a great deal of things."
"What makes you think I owe this person any money?"
"Because I went to school with Vinnie. Because he's always had a numbers racket and some other schemes going. Because you make unexplained withdrawals from your joint checking account. And because you acted like two assassins were in your house when Paul asked you if you got the juice."
She swallowed hard. "I hope he didn't notice that."
"I don't think he did. He seems very devoted to you. Maybe more than he should be."
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Alice.
"You lie about being underwater to cover your gambling problem, you hire me to spy on your husband because you somehow think he's cheating on you, and all I see is a man who loves you. Honestly, I think it's more than you deserve."
Alice looked down. "Maybe it is." She took another deep breath. "Now what?"
"I don't know,” I said. “I'm pretty sure your husband isn't cheating on you, which means the case you hired me to work is over. But you're in worse trouble than you would be if your husband were sleeping with every pretty girl in his office, aren't you?"
She nodded so slightly I could hardly tell. "I am." I had trouble hearing her breathy whisper over the ambient conversations.
"Maybe you need help getting out of this hole."
"Why do you want to help me?" she said.
"Why do you care?"
Alice looked at me, and for the first time, managed to hold my gaze. Maybe now with the lies exposed, she could have an honest conversation. "You said my husband’s devotion might be more than I deserve. You may be right. I'm a mess, and I'm in over my head. But our arrangement is done. You don't need to help me anymore, but you still want to. I wonder why."
I ate my last piece of sushi and took a long drink of my tea, wishing it were the Long Island variety. "Because,” I said, “despite my best efforts to suppress it, I've been cursed with a conscience. I know you're in over your head. I know Vinnie probably got a lot bigger since the last time I saw him. Alone, you're going to drown, and probably take Paul down with you. With me, you have a chance to make it back to shore."
Alice didn't say anything for a few seconds. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. "Thank you," she said. Her eyes glistened. "You just might be able to pull me up from rock bottom."
I didn't draw my hand back. She gave it another squeeze and then let go. "Now since I'm helping you, you need to answer my initial question. How much do you owe Vinnie Serrano?"
"Thirty thousand," Alice said in a whisper.
I bit my tongue to keep from shouting the number back at her. "Holy shit," I said. "He must have the hooks deep in you."
"He does." Alice used her napkin to wipe a stray tear sliding down her right cheek. "I can get some overtime at work, but it's hard to keep up with the juice."
"How do you plan to pay him?"
"I figured a big Super Bowl bet would get me even."
I rolled my eyes. "Or put you twice as deep in the hole. Alice, you can't bet money you don't have. Gambling doesn't pay itself off."
"What should I do?"
"Stop placing bets,” I said. “Right now. Quit cold turkey. Get help if you have to but stop. You can't go any further in debt." The waitress took our plates away. When we declined to order anything else, she returned a minute later with the check. Alice grabbed her purse, but I waved her off. "I got it. You save as much money as you can. We can figure out a more detailed plan later."
"What are you going to do?"
"I haven't seen Vinnie in years. Time to pay him a visit."
Vinnie Serrano and I went to high school together at Gilman. If you think that sounds like a fancy prep school in a ritzy neighborhood, it is. Gilman is in the Roland Park area of Baltimore, where it shares a ZIP code with my parents and other people who are pleased to write those five digits on their envelopes. Vinnie and I both played sports—we were on the lacrosse team, and I also ran track. We had been friends, though I don’t think we could have been called great friends. Even back then, Vinnie organized pools for pretty much every major sporting event and took bets from the kids at school. He kept a record of everything in the back of his history notebook. By the end of the school year, he had amassed more gambling notes than history notes.
After graduation, Vinnie and I both ended up at Loyola College. I lived on campus for the experience (and to be away from my parents); Vinnie commuted. Gilman was a lot smaller and much more insular. On the college campus, Vinnie organizing pools and running a sports book got a few people talking and drew too much attention. He got expelled during the first semester of our sophomore year. I saw him a few times afterward, including a party about a week before I went overseas. He had refined his sports book to a more professional gambling business and sounded ambitious about branching out into other areas. Never underestimate bored, curious rich kids who have too much free time and too little supervision.
I wondered if time and a taste of the finer things changed Vinnie’s preferences. Before I went overseas, I knew he regularly took a late lunch at Donna’s in Cross Keys. Vinnie would sit in a booth with his notebook, taking bets on his cell phone. He probably hired people to handle legwork for him now. I drove to Donna’s to see if he would still be there. When I walked in, I saw Vinnie in a booth at the back. The restaurant wasn’t very crowded. A man in a cheap suit at the bar watched me over the rim of his glass.
As I got closer to Vinnie’s booth, a short, burly Asian man got up and stared at me. He stood five-three only because his shoes helped him with the last two inches. He appeared Chinese, and tried to grow a Fu Manchu mustache that ended up looking like a rough goatee. He glared at me through narrowed eyes and blocked my path to the table. This marked the closest I had come to a Chinese person since getting out of their prison. I took a deep breath.
“Sorry,” I said, holding my hand a couple inches above his head, “but you have to be this tall to try and fight me.”
The Chinese fellow glowered at me and started to say something when Vinnie spoke. “I know that voice.” He looked up and smiled. “Hot damn. Haven’t seen you for years, C.T. It’s OK, Sam, he’s an old friend.”
Sam kept glaring at me, but I simply smiled and stepped around him. I hoped I had masked my nerves. Chinese men still made me anxious. I slid into the booth opposite Vinnie. Sam went back to his table. “When did you start hiring midgets?” I said.
Vinnie shook his head. “Sam does good work.”
“I’m sure his name isn’t Sam.”
“I don’t know his fucking name. I just call him Sam, for Small Asian Man.”
“Ah, Vinnie,” I said, “sensitivity was always your best trait.”
“Like hell it was,” Vinnie said with a slight laugh. “What brings you by? I heard you were overseas living the high life.”
“I was overseas. I don’t know about the high life part.”
“Hong Kong, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” I told him most of the details of my excursion there.
“So now you’re back here,” he said. “Living with the folks?”
I said, “No, I have an apartment.”
“Money must be getting tight for you. First time in your life you’ve had to think about cash, I’m sure.”
“I’m working on something.”
“Ain’t we all?”
A waiter brought Vinnie’s lunch, a barbecued chicken pizza. He asked what I wanted, and I ordered only an iced tea. Vinnie’s cell phone, sitting atop his notebook, vibrated when the waiter walked away. Vinnie looked at the number and ignored it. “I’m always working on something,” he said.
“You always were.”
“I was small-time then. Just some numbers, really. It gave me a taste. I still do the numbers . . . have a girl who takes a lot of my bets for me. A few longtime clients call me directly. When I have problems, I use Sam and a couple other guys.”
“I heard you were getting bigger.”
“I am,” Vinnie said a little too quickly, as if my role in the conversation had become superfluous. I felt like a test screener for a commercial too poor to ever air. “The numbers game still makes bread, but I’m getting started in the loan business. Interest is higher, and I get to keep another guy or two gainfully employed.” Vinnie’s voice, already low, dropped to a whisper. “I got offered a role in the drug business, but I’m leaving that shit alone. I don’t need any crazy Mexicans chasing me with burning tires and machetes.”
