C T Ferguson Box Set

by Tom Fowler

  “Fourth?”

  “Their employer would know. They would. I’d be third, and when I told you, you’d be fourth.”

  “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Jennings said, though he fought a grin while he said it.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” I said.

  I walked back home, checking for shooters, ne’er-do-wells, and all manners of miscreants along the way. I didn’t find any. My face still hurt from the wood shrapnel, and the paramedic digging said shrapnel out. It could have been a lot worse. The shooters could have been in a less obvious car. I stopped thinking about these things and unlocked the door. I always took care to lock it behind me, but this time, I triple-checked all three locks. Note to self: add a fourth.

  Gloria walked out of the kitchen and frowned when she saw me. “What happened?” she said. “I was worried.” I told her. She ran toward me and squeezed me tighter than I thought she could. “I got the feeling something bad went down.”

  “I’m OK,” I said, hugging her and letting out a slow breath. It felt good to wrap my arms around her after what I went through.

  “This is the second time you’ve been shot at near your house,” she said. The first time happened just a couple months ago. Gloria had been with me. Two gang members tried to take me out drive-by style with a shotgun. If I hadn’t seen the reflection in an SUV side mirror, both of us would have been hit.

  “I know. I think I need to separate my office from my house. I can’t have these kinds of people buzzing around here.”

  Gloria finally released me. She peered at me with wet eyes.. I didn’t know she’d been crying. “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “And there are plenty of empty offices around the city.”

  She smiled. “Maybe you can get an office in the World Trade Center.” Her eyes brightened.

  “Something to work towards, maybe” I said. “For now, I simply need a door, some locks, and a landlord who doesn’t care about my computing habits.”

  “I think you’ll be able to find one.”

  “What’s with your face, son?” my father said as we settled for lunch at Chiaparelli’s in Little Italy. There was a time we all would have gone to Il Buon Cibo, but my parents and Tony experienced a falling-out about a year ago. One of these days, I would ask why, and someone would give me an answer. It wouldn’t be today. I took a deep breath. My father asked the question glibly, but concern furrowed his brows. My mother wore a similar expression.

  “I got shot at,” I said in a lowered voice.

  “Coningsby!” my mother said loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to take notice. Yes, fellow diners, it’s my real name; would it help if I explained I went by my initials? “My goodness. Why did you come out to lunch with such a face?”

  “I took some wood bits in the face, so I’ll wear a bandage for a few days. Other than superficial wounds and being shaken up, I’m OK. I can’t live my life looking over my shoulder.”

  “What happened, son?” my father said.

  I relayed the events of my aborted morning jog around Federal Hill Park to include the gunfire and the sturdy tree branch which allowed me to escape with my life. My mother listened with a white-knuckled grip on the table. “Coningsby, you’re lucky to be alive,” she said.

  “The thought occurred to me.”

  Before she could answer, a waiter introduced himself as Jay and took our drink orders. My mother asked for a glass of wine, even though I rarely saw her drink in public. My father and I both wanted tea. Jay left, and my mother picked up where she left off. “This job is dangerous. When we wanted you to help people, we were surprised when you chose to be a private investigator. We knew it could be dangerous, but we thought you would avoid those cases.”

  “So did I,” I said. “I thought I could sit behind my computer and solve people’s problems. Occasionally, I can. More often than not, though, I have to get my hands dirty. Hell, I saw a dead body and got knocked silly on my first case. It’s been an eventful ride.”

  “If you want to do something else, we’ll understand.”

  I gave my mother a funny look. My father did, too. “Why would I quit?”

  “Because this is so much more dangerous than any of us thought it would be.”

  Jay returned with our drinks. Despite the fact we’d barely looked at our menus, we each knew what we wanted to eat. When you’ve been to one good restaurant in Little Italy—and Chiaparelli’s is among the very best—you can order at any of them. Only the specials change. My mother chose eggplant parmesan, my father spaghetti Bolognese, and I requested spinach ravioli.

  “I’m not a quitter, Mom,” I said when Jay departed again. “I’m a loafer sometimes, but not a quitter. I can’t walk away from this now. It’s been almost a year. A lot of people have depended on me. Pauline Rodgers counts on me now. I’m trying to see to it she comes out of this alive.”

  “Make sure you do the same, son,” my father said.

  “It’s always my goal.”

  “What are you going to do to make sure it happens?”

  “I plan to wave a gun around wherever I go. It should discourage people from coming up to me.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. My father chuckled. He could always see the humor in a situation. My mother was usually too busy being concerned and making sure everyone knew she was concerned. “You need to be serious, Coningsby,” she said. “Your life could still be in danger. Just because you stopped those two men doesn’t mean someone else won’t try again.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Is there anyone you can call?”

  “You mean like a bodyguard?” I said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Something like that would be good, I think.”

  “I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Maybe you need to.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to get an actual office. This has shown me I can’t keep running my business out of my house. There needs to be some separation.”

  “Another good idea, son,” my father said.

  Jay brought our food on a large tray. The perk of Little Italy for lunch is food always came faster. He set everything before us, checked on our drinks, and disappeared again. “Right now, eating is a good idea,” I said.

  “Look into protecting yourself, Coningsby,” my mother said. “You can’t keep taking these awful cases and coming away unscathed.”

  I nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  After I got back from dining with my concerned parents, I did what I said I would. I didn’t want to hire a bodyguard. I could take care of myself. My training in Hong Kong, and the black belt conferred on me, proved the fact. Bodyguards were for people who couldn’t defend themselves. I shook my head at my outmoded way of thinking. The fact I’d studied advanced martial arts didn’t matter to the two shooters this morning, and it wouldn’t matter to the next asshole with a gun Rosenberg sent after me.

  A quick online search gave me some local options, but who would I be getting? Private security companies could boast about nebulous awards and standards. One said all their people were bonded. Did they need to advertise this? Another touted the protection of several pop stars during local concerts. I thought I could fend off the kinds of kooks who would menace Taylor Swift. I could call a few of these companies and make inquiries, but the whole thing struck me as a crapshoot.

  I thought about people I knew. None really fit the bill. Joey was big and could pull off looking like a legbreaker, but when it came down to it, he didn’t have the skills. I knew a few guys from the dojo, and while they were proficient at breaking boards with fists and feet, those feats alone did not a bodyguard make. I needed someone with real experience in security, could handle threats to me as well as himself or herself, could be invisible when necessary, and didn’t object to shooting someone if the situation required it.

  An idea came to me, and I picked up the phone and called Colonel Stevens. The colonel was a family friend wh
o retired from the Army a few years ago. I helped him out by taking on a cold case back in the spring. Now I hoped he could return the favor. As usual, the colonel let the phone ring for a while before he answered in his familiar gravelly voice.

  “Colonel, it’s C.T.”

  “C.T., how are you?”

  “I’m well, sir. How are you?”

  “Hell, I can’t complain, but sometimes, I do it anyway just to see if anyone is listening.”

  “Are they?” I said.

  “Not usually. What can I do for you?”

  I explained the situation this case put me in. “I think I need a bodyguard,” I said to wrap it all up. “I could call some company, but who knows what I’ll get? I figured you’d know a few good people to recommend.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I do. Let me make a few calls, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Great. Thanks, Colonel.”

  “Give my best to your parents.”

  “I will, sir.”

  He hung up. I waited for his call by making a trip to the grocery store. I checked for rapscallions on the way there, in each aisle of the store, and on my return. As I drove home, I reminded myself to start looking for a real office.

  About an hour after I got home, Colonel Stevens called back with a recommendation. The fellow’s name was Rollins, and I should meet him at 1800 hours at Illusions Magic Bar. I thanked him and said I would be there. I spent the next two hours looking into office spaces near Federal Hill. Plenty were available, ranging from renting a house to a real office in a building designed to host real offices. I favored the latter as long as I could setup my computers how I wanted.

  I could walk to Illusions in a few minutes, so I did. The evening was cool enough for me to wear my leather jacket and holster the .45 under it. If anyone took a shot at me, I would blast a manhole-sized fissure in them in exchange. Peace through superior firepower and all. I kept a close eye out for any more of Rosenberg’s henchmen, but I didn’t see anyone too suspicious on my stroll through the streets of Federal Hill.

  I strode into Illusions promptly at 6:05. The place packed them in for their magic shows, but at other times, you could easily find a seat at the bar. A family of magicians owned Illusions, and if they weren’t busy, the proprietors would often regale their patrons with tales and demonstrations of magic. Watching your cell phone disappear inside an inflated balloon while enjoying an adult beverage is a unique experience.

  Colonel Stevens informed me the man I would meet was black. He didn’t give me many other details. Illusions hosted four people at the bar: a man and a woman, both white, at the far end, a black man in the middle, and another at the near end of the bar. The man sitting at the middle of the bar was paunchy and shoveled peanuts into his mouth as if they were coated in ambrosia. The one closer to the door had a military buzz cut with not a single hair out of place. He wore a white button-down shirt, dark jeans, and boots suggesting he won a fight with an alligator. He nodded as I let the door close behind me.

  I pulled out the barstool beside his. “Not here,” he said, and got up to head toward one of the many unused tables. At least he had his own drink. I ordered an IPA, paid for it, and followed him. Rollins’ build reminded me of Rich’s—a little shorter and more compact than mine but always conveying the threat of violence.

  “The colonel tells me you’re in a bad spot,” he said.

  “Sounds about right.”

  Rollins pulled pink liquid through a straw with an equally pink umbrella beside it. “Tell me about it.”

  “My client owes a loan shark through no fault of her own. Because I’ve been advising her, I’m on his radar, too.” I pointed to the bandage on my face. “Wood via gunshot from a bench in Federal Hill Park.”

  “How many were there?” he said.

  “Two.”

  “You take them both out?”

  “Using a tree branch I could have taken to the plate in a softball game.”

  He nodded. “Not bad. Sounds like you don’t have great need of a bodyguard, though.”

  “But,” I said, “I can’t also be vigilant for every threat and still try and get my client out of the fire at the same time.” I took another sip of the IPA. It was hoppy and a little citrusy. “I’m good at multitasking, but even I have my limits.”

  “And this is where I come in,” said Rollins.

  “Hopefully, yes.”

  Rollins pulled more pink concoction from his straw. I didn’t know what it was. I’d seen girls in bars drinking similar stuff, but I never asked them about boring things like what’s in the glass when I chatted them up. It smelled pretty strong from across the table, whatever it was. “The colonel said you’re a family friend. Said I should give you a good rate. You dress like you don’t need a discount. Armani jacket, right?” I nodded even though I knew it would be superfluous. “Your jeans are Calvins, shirt is Ralph, and I can see the Tommy logo peeking out on your belt buckle.”

  “Would you believe I shop at outlet stores?”

  “Not for a second.”

  He stared, which compelled me to talk. “Too bad, because I do. I have some money, but I put it into my house and some investments. Now I need to get an office.”

  “You been running your business out of your house?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Rollins shook his head. “I never expected to get caught up in a bunch of dangerous cases. Getting shot at was for detectives on TV, not me.”

  “Find an office.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Rollins finished his drink and put it down on the table. I could see his bicep flex under his shirt as he straightened and bent his arm. “Here’s the deal. Two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  “What about the discounted rate?”

  “You’re getting a nice discount.”

  Oof. “All right,” I said. “What does this usury get me?”

  “Me. I’ll be around as often or as little as you want. I can follow you on foot, by car, whatever. You won’t know I’m there, and the assholes trying to shoot you won’t know I’m there, either, until it matters. I don’t do vendettas, and I don’t shoot first unless one of us is in danger.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Good, because those terms aren’t negotiable.” Rollins went back to the bar. I heard him ask for another bay breeze.. A minute later, he returned with it. “What’s the word?”

  “You’re my bodyguard,” I said, “but I’m not writing a song about you.”

  He cracked a small smile. “You probably can’t sing anyway.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “All right. I’ll start tomorrow. What time do you get up?”

  “It fluctuates but normally between eight-thirty and nine.”

  Rollins stared at me. “Eight-thirty and nine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eight-thirty and nine?” He grimaced like someone had just pulled his spleen out through his navel. “What the hell do you do if you need to wake up early?”

  “If I need to, I do. I just don’t like to.”

  He took a drink of his bay breeze and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have made it in the Army.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Make it in the Army?”

  “I did all right. Started doing private security when I got out.”

  I sized him up long enough to make him frown. “You enlist right after high school?”

  “Shit,” he said with something approximating a laugh. “College first. Once I had my degree, I could go down the officers’ path.”

  “So you started at twenty-two. I’d say you look about thirty-six now. It gives you fourteen years in, tops. Retirement starts at twenty, so unless I’ve really missed my guess, something doesn’t add up.”

  Rollins kept staring at me, but I didn’t wilt under his gaze. I simply gazed back at him like a man who knows he has the best hand at the table. “I’m starting to see wh
y the loan shark took a shot at you,” he finally said.

  “You’re dodging the issue.”

  “There’s an issue?”

  “I’ll only find out anyway. I like to know who I’m hiring. Maybe the colonel didn’t tell you, but I do a lot of my detective work by hacking into things. I can get your Army file, your credit report, your phone records . . . all it takes is talent, a little patience, and time. Fortunately, I have all three.”

  This elevated Rollins’ stare to a glare. “I’m thirty-eight,” he said. “I spent just shy of fifteen years in the Army. Since my discharge, I’ve worked in private security. I learned a lot in there.”

  “Why’d you get discharged?”

  “I’m going to keep some secrets for myself. You want to try and look it up, I can’t stop you. But I can stop working for you.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “Tomorrow morning, then. I’m going to go running around Federal Hill Park again.”

  “Back to the scene of the crime right away?”

  “Why change my life just because one asshole wants to hire goons to take a shot at me? Besides, I have you watching my back now.”

  A curt nod. “You do. How long’s your run?”

  “About three, four miles.”

  “I guess I’ll run with you.”

  “So much for not seeing you, then.”

  “My camouflage jogging suit doesn’t work in a park,” Rollins said.

  I made it home without incident. I meant what I said to Rollins: I didn’t want to change my life because David Rosenberg didn’t like me. The fact I looked over my shoulder anywhere I went constituted more than enough change for me. When I got home, Gloria was already upstairs sprawled on my bed. What I could see of her evening wear past the blanket made me eager to climb in with her.

  She woke up briefly after I eased in but sacked out again as quickly. In the morning, I got up, checked the bandage on my face, put on my running attire, and hit the streets. When I got to Federal Hill Park, it was eight-forty-three. A few industrious joggers made their way around, including the girl I liked to run behind. I made sure to stretch and walk long enough so I could fall in at an appreciable distance.