C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “We’re going to be late,” she said as she put on eyeshadow.

  “Then you should call and make it for later,” I said.

  “Oh, I should, should I?” Gloria winked at me, then frowned because doing it mussed her makeup. She went back to it with a determined look.

  “We’re late because you’re insatiable.”

  Gloria finished putting makeup on her right eye. “Guilty as charged,” she said. “But if you’re complaining. . . .”

  “None here.” I smacked her magnificent bottom. “Just pointing it out.” I splashed on some cologne, then checked my hair in the mirror to have something to do while Gloria completed getting ready. All my hairs were the same dark brown as always, and they were still where I left them.

  “Fine, I’ll call when we’re en route. The way you drive, it shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes to get there.”

  “I can make the drive in nine minutes.”

  “But not eight?”

  “Can’t account for the lights.”

  “That’s what they all say.” This time, Gloria smacked me on the butt.

  I sat on the disheveled bed and watched her. Gloria didn’t need makeup, but if she were going somewhere she could run into other people, she always wore it. It was like a Vanity Express Card. I had one in my wallet, too, so I couldn’t fault her. Sometimes, Gloria noticed me watching her, but she always focused on her makeup like a sword swallower would the point of a blade.

  A few minutes later, she put her makeup back into the bag and set it down in my bathroom. I wondered if she planned on leaving it here, too. She must have enough at her house to furnish an army of women for a year. “Ready to go?” she said.

  “Let’s eat,” I said. “I hope this isn’t a small plate place. I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  “See,” said Gloria, “there are perks to being late.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” I said.

  Gloria lied. We didn’t go to a new place, and it wasn’t ten minutes away. She heard about a Szechuan restaurant called Mr. Chan’s from a vegan friend and made up the other story because she feared my objection on dedicated carnivore grounds. Already, I dreaded going there. General Tso’s sprouts didn’t appeal to me. Gloria insisted the restaurant catered to carnivores and herbivores alike. Pikesville was a lot longer than ten minutes from downtown, but I sped up I-83 to the Beltway and we parked in a lot across the street at eight-sixteen. As we got out of the car, I realized we weren’t far from Rosenberg’s. I hoped he didn’t care for the food.

  We walked in the double doors, past the wind chimes and indoor fish pond. Swirls of colors swam in the water. I hoped nothing in there got used to make sushi. A banquet room on the right held at least a dozen people, and they made enough noise for half again as many. The main dining room was about half full. Booths ringed the perimeter with four-seat tables filling up the center space. A Chinese woman in her forties sat Gloria and me at the last available booth. It was on the other side of the dining room from the banquet hall, but the voices still carried. Aimee Mann knew her stuff.

  I looked over the menu and saw why vegetarians and vegans loved the place so much. I never witnessed so many options and so many fake meats. They featured the standard fare of tofu and tempeh, but also stuff not heard of before like healmey. If I hadn’t heard of it and could only guess how to pronounce it, I wasn’t going to order it. I focused on the meat options, which took up three pages of the menu. Mr. Chan loved variety.

  A Chinese girl in her twenties came to take our order. We both asked for iced tea. The waitress returned a minute later with the two drinks, along with a bowl of noodles, complemented with duck sauce and hot mustard. Gloria pondered options while the waitress waited. She finally settled on a spring roll and a yuba red curry—whatever the hell yuba was. I ordered eel nigiri from the sushi menu and the salmon and shiitake stir-fry from the main menu. The waitress raised eyebrows when I chose foods in Cantonese. She complimented me on my accent (in her native tongue, of course) before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “What did she say?” Gloria said, putting sugar in her tea.

  “She said you’re a very lucky woman to be out with such a handsome man,” I said.

  Gloria stirred her tea. “Really?”

  “Actually, she complimented me on my accent.”

  She smiled. “That’s too bad. I liked the other one better.”

  “So did I.”

  We ate noodles until Gloria’s spring roll and my nigiri arrived. Gloria frowned at the strips of fresh eel covering small blocks of white rice. I mixed my wasabi into a small dish of soy sauce. “You eat eel?” said Gloria.

  “I’ve been known to on occasion.”

  She wrinkled her nose. I couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked doing it. “I don’t get the appeal of sushi.”

  I gestured toward my plate. “You can try a piece of mine.”

  “I’m not feeling that adventurous,” she said, shaking her head. “Whatever happened with the woman who came to see you?”

  “Her husband got killed.”

  “That’s terrible. Do you know who did it?”

  “I have an idea who,” I said, “but not why yet. I need a motive.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Her husband was in hock to a loan shark for a pretty good sum. I don’t know why the loan shark or his cronies would kill him without giving him a chance to pay up. It seems like bad business.” The realization took me back to my first case. One of my old buddies, Vinnie Serrano, set himself up as a bookie and budding loan shark. He made the point how killing whoever wrote the checks was unwise.

  “It seems like awful business,” Gloria said.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Aren’t you worried? If this loan shark killed someone who owed him a lot of money, what stops him from going after you?”

  She posed a very good question. I watched concern furrow Gloria’s brows. “I don’t know,” I said. “Right now, he doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m Pauline’s finance guy. If he guesses I can help her pay him off, he’ll want to keep me around.”

  Before we could converse further, the waitress returned with our entrees. My stir fry looked and smelled delicious. The salmon, mushrooms, and vegetables combined for a dish boasting of more colors than a rainbow. Gloria’s looked like many red curries I’ve seen with the yuba standing in for chicken. The waitress wished us a happy meal in Cantonese before she left again.

  We tabled talk of the case while we ate. The stir fry was amazing. I barely needed to chew it before it dissolved in my mouth, especially the salmon. It could have been a tick or two spicier, but I hadn’t asked for extra spice, so I couldn’t complain. Nor would I complain about a meal this good. Gloria cut her pieces of yuba into more manageable bites. Seeing it cut in half shed no light on its nature for me.

  “Do you want to try this?” Gloria said.

  I shook my head. “My body is a temple,” I said.

  “A temple to whom?”

  “Depends on my mood. Dionysus sometimes . . . Athena other times.”

  Gloria laughed around her bite of food, covering her mouth with a napkin. “I can see those,” she said.

  We finished our dinners and declined dessert. A petite sweet came in the form of fortune cookies and orange slices. I reached for the check but Gloria grabbed it first. “This one is on me,” she said.

  “Who are you, pod person,” I said, “and what have you done with Gloria Reading?”

  She smiled. “A pod person?”

  “You eat like a vegan, you seem interested in my case, and now you’re paying the tab. You’ve been body snatched.”

  “Maybe you can do other things with my body later. Unless you still think I’m a pod person.”

  “I’ll have to inspect you closely,” I said. “We can’t risk having an alien on the loose.”

  “Sounds like we can’t be too careful,” Gloria said. “We’d better take our time.”<
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  Gloria was quiet on the drive home. It stood as a marked contrast from the end of our meal. I looked over at her a few times in an effort to draw her out, but I got nothing. Finally, when we were most of the way down I-83, she found her voice. “I’m going to court soon.” If my Audi’s engine had eight cylinders instead of six, I wouldn’t have heard her over it.

  “For what?”

  After a few seconds of silence, she said, “My old tennis coach.”

  I sucked in a deep breath and gripped the wheel hard enough to turn my knuckles white. “What happened?”

  “He’s been accused of a lot.”

  “Did he—”

  “No,” Gloria broke in. “Not to me, at least.” She paused and collected herself with a sigh. “He propositioned me. More than once. Said he could get me better pairings in the tournaments.” Another deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

  I grabbed her hand and smiled. “Don’t apologize,” I said. “You need me to go beat his ass?”

  She smiled. “Thanks, but no. We’ll get him in court.”

  “I’m sure you will.” I squeezed Gloria’s hand. She squeezed mine. Neither of us pulled back. A couple minutes later, I parked a few houses up from mine. Gloria and I walked down Riverside Avenue. As I fished my keys out of my pockets again, I saw a red Mustang with a distinctive racing stripe cruise the street. Whoever drove made sure to go slow enough to be noticed. The windows never lowered, and the car sped up past my house and was gone. I watched it for a few seconds.

  "Everything OK?" Gloria said from my top step.

  "Yeah," I said after a second. "Just watching the Mustang. Nice car."

  "I like your car better."

  I grinned and hoped it didn’t look forced. "Me, too."

  Chapter 8

  I woke up a bit after 8:30 the next morning. My venetian blinds, which I meant to replace since the first time I saw them, barely restrained the sunlight outside the bedroom window. Gloria lay on her side, facing away from me, and she breathed the rhythmic sighs of a happy sleeper. I got out of bed, swirled some mouthwash around in my mouth, put on my running shorts, shirt, and jacket, and went downstairs to stretch. When I felt as limber as a dancer, I headed outside.

  If I owned any grass, I might have seen dew glistening on it. I zipped the jacket up a little higher, walked briskly for two minutes, then ran toward Federal Hill Park. When I got there, I confirmed the grass did, in fact, have dew on it. Being right about the little things mattered. At eight-forty on a weekday morning, Federal Hill Park cannot boast of many joggers. People with regular jobs are already at work or on their way, and hipsters aren’t awake yet, so it only leaves people like me. Me and my two running compatriots for the day. I noticed with some disappointment neither was the girl I loved to follow on my laps.

  I ran my second lap around the park when I noticed the red Mustang again. My left hand went for a gun, but a void on my left hip reminded me I hadn’t worn one. The Mustang pulled to the curb. I kept a close eye on it behind my sunglasses. The passenger’s window went down. Someone got out of the driver’s side. Both men held revolvers. I saw a bench about thirty feet away. All I needed was to make it there.

  They thumbed hammers back, the mechanisms clicking to break the quiet morning calm. A zig-zagging sprint carried me to the long wooden seat as the first shot blasted. It shredded the air as it whistled past me. The second shot tore up a divot near my feet. A finish-line dive put me behind the bench, and I landed in a belly flop. I moved to a low crouch. The shots thundered in and my heart beat just as loud. My two fellow runners took off in the opposite direction. I could only hope one of them would call 9-1-1, and I wouldn’t need a hearse.

  A bullet splintered the backrest near my head, sending wood shrapnel into the left side of my face. “Shit!” I closed my eyes and turned away. Blood ran down my cheek. I opened my right eye first, then the left and hoped it still worked. It did. Thick wood and metal hardware saved me so far, but I couldn’t count on the scanty protection forever. I looked around for something I could use. Under a nearby tree was a branch I could use for a club if I got the chance. I looked back to my assailants, saw more muzzle blasts, then their revolvers clicked on empty chambers.

  I sprang toward the branch and picked it up on the run. Wiping blood out of my eye, I dashed toward the car. The man crouched outside the driver’s door—a short and dumpy fellow who looked like shooting a gun was the only exercise he took—tried to reload his revolver as I bore down on him. He looked down at the gun, then up at me, and I swung the club at his head like Manny Machado going after a hanging curveball. The crunch sounded more like a home run than I expected.

  Without breaking stride or watching the first man fall, I ran around the car to confront the second gunman. He finished reloading and snapped the cylinder shut. I couldn’t get close enough to club him in the head, so I settled for his shooting hand. He yelled in pain as the gun bounced off the car door, then the curb before skidding to rest under the car somewhere. We both glanced down and looked back up at the same time.

  This guy sported more of a traditional goonish build than his friend, like he spent most of his mornings admiring his reflection in the Downtown Athletic Club mirror as he did another set of bicep curls. His upper body looked like it came from the pages of a comic book.

  He grunted and lunged at me. I sidestepped and swung the tree branch. He turned enough to take it on his massive back, which broke the club in two but didn’t even stagger my assailant. He turned to face me and tried to grab me in a bear hug. I stepped to the rear. A siren pierced the morning in the distance; I hoped it headed this way. I watched the musclebound goon as he tried to hit me again. His legs, not as cartoonish as his torso and arms, moved stiffly with no grace at all. He lunged once more. This time, I dodged and delivered a side kick to the front of his knee. The bone cracking sounded like when the stick splintered across his back. He fell forward, away from the car, and I gave him a wide berth as he crashed to the grass.

  I hoped it would take the fight out of him, but it didn’t. He tried to punch me from the ground. I blunted the ineffective blow with my leg, then kicked him under the chin. The goon’s head snapped back, and he collapsed forward. It didn’t knock him out, but it did take the wind out of his sails. I walked back toward the Mustang. The driver lay on the street, an impressive pool of blood forming near his head. I wondered if I’d killed him until I saw the rise and fall of his chest.

  The sirens got closer. I leaned against the car, wiped some more blood from my face, and waited.

  I told Officers Jennings and Brennan exactly what happened while a paramedic looked at my face. His very attractive partner tended to the assailant with the broken leg. What did I do to get stuck with the male EMT? He used tweezers to dig slivers of wood out of my skin. A couple narrowly missed my eye. “You could have been blinded,” he told me as he worked.

  “I could have been killed,” I said. My comment shut him up.

  I told the truth, and neither attacker could counter my story. “The one with the head wound is in pretty bad shape,” Jennings said after EMTs loaded him into an ambulance and whisked him away.

  “I’d be in worse shape if he shot me,” I said.

  “Understood. We’re not charging you with anything.”

  “The state’s attorney will want to look it over, I’m sure,” Brennan said.

  “And here I thought my donation to the State’s Attorney’s Office covered parking tickets and assaults,” I said.

  Brennan chuckled. “You didn’t donate to her,” he said.

  “Would you?”

  “I can’t comment on an elected official such as herself,” he said while shaking his head hard enough to unscrew it from his shoulders.

  “Of course not.”

  “You seen these guys before?” Jennings said.

  I winced as the paramedic dug a splinter out. “Sorry,” he said. “It was in there pretty good.”

  “Do I
need stitches?”

  “No. I’ll clean these up for you and put a bandage on top. You should wear one for a few days to make sure everything stays clean.”

  “I will.”

  “So now your healthcare is established,” Jennings said, “you ever seen these two before?”

  “I’ve seen the car twice.” This must be a record with respect to my truth-telling to the police. “Both times, it drove past me like whoever was inside followed me. But you can see the windows. Too dark to make out who’s inside. Could have been these two clowns. Who knows?”

  “You’ve never seen them away from the car?”

  “Not before today.”

  Jennings made a few notes. “Any idea what you might’ve done to draw their attention?”

  “I’m just a guy trying to make a living.”

  “Uh-huh. You know who they work for?”

  “Nope.” So much for my truth-telling. Though I didn’t know who sent them, I could hazard a pretty damned good guess.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding out on me?”

  The female paramedic bent to treat the wounded man’s knee. “Maybe my reputation precedes me,” I said without looking away from the nice view.

  “It does,” Brennan said. “But we know you a little. Maybe you don’t need to hold out on us.”

  If I told them these two clowns worked for David Rosenberg, the BPD would sniff around his whole operation. They’d need the BCPD to help, so two police departments could muck around in my investigation and endanger Pauline. Rosenberg couldn’t want the cops involved, and twice the cops meant twice the chance he would catch on and do something to Pauline. Or to me. “I don’t know who they work for,” I said.

  Jennings shook his head and flipped his notebook shut. “All right . . . . If you . . . uh, happen to find out at some point, let us know.”

  “You’ll be the first,” I said. “I mean, the second. No, the fourth.”