by Tom Fowler
“Who?”
“I met you and your wife for coffee in Hampden recently.”
“Ah, right. How are things going? Have you found that son of a bitch Rosenberg yet?”
“No, but I know he’s fled the state, and I know where he went.”
“Sounds promising. Is this something you’re willing to share?”
I have never fancied myself a killer. It’s impossible to work as a PI in and around Baltimore without having someone point a gun at you. On the occasions I’ve needed to kill someone, it was because either my life or someone else’s was in immediate danger. I couldn’t simply kill someone out of spite or because it was more convenient, nor could I admire those who did. If I gave Rosenberg’s information to Chris Driscoll, I suspected he would have Rosenberg killed. This was no different than me doing the job myself. Sure, he was a bastard, but did he deserve to get killed for it?
Then the image of Eliot Eisenberg raping the poor Chinese girl leapt back into my head. Rosenberg had been a willing participant in kidnapping girls to use them in the sex trade, and who knew how many had been violated by someone in his crew before being sold overseas?
“Mr. Ferguson?” Chris Driscoll said.
“Sorry, I got lost in thought for a moment there,” I said. I gave him the information. I didn’t ask what he planned to do with it.
Chapter 20
On my second lap around Federal Hill Park next morning, I noticed a Nissan Maxima newly arrived since my start. People leave their cars at curbs close to the sidewalks all the time; it happens. After my last encounter with the two gun-toting goons near there, I didn’t want to take any chances. Running at a public place left me way too open in the event someone wanted to try again. Being paranoid didn’t mean miscreants weren’t hot after me, so I finished my run on the streets. I saw it as a win-win.
I broke off my lap and ran down Battery Avenue. The recently-parked car didn’t move. From Battery, I could easily get to Riverside Avenue and then to my house, but I didn’t want to lead any potential pursuers directly to my front door. I ran down Battery, picked up Warren, and checked for the Nissan. It was gone. I didn’t see it on the road. I hung a left down William, running against the flow of traffic on the one-way street. Since my last jogging encounter, I packed a gun for my morning constitutionals. It was a Ruger .32 revolver, and it required a warmup jacket at least a half-size too big, but at least I could feel prepared if someone decided to take a shot at me.
When I ran past the intersection of Hamburg Street, I noticed the white Nissan coming up William. It was before nine on a Saturday morning; traffic was light, and I didn’t have a wealth of places to hide. Southern High School and Federal Hill Elementary offered some protection, but I didn’t want to run and hide in a school—even on weekends, teachers or custodians could be there. Of course, I didn’t know the people in the Nissan meant to harm me.
I figured it out pretty quickly. The car squealed wheels and pulled to a stop at the curb about a hundred feet in front of me. Two men got out, one dashing across the street. I crouched behind the closest car and drew the .32 from the running holster—purchased from Amazon, of course—under my warmup jacket. The guy in front of me was open, but the one still on the opposite curb could hide behind vehicles, too. Depending on where he went, I could be a totally exposed target.
The one approaching shouted, ”Like morning jogs, do you?”
“You from Rosenberg?” I said. I looked for the other and didn’t see him. Shit.
“Don’t know who he is,” he said. The guy was short, slender, and probably shaved as a last resort. Rosenberg’s people might have been goons, but they were more respectable looking goons. I believed him. He rewarded my belief by firing at me. Two bullets shredded the air and embedded themselves in the car behind me. Was he simply a bad shot, or did he intend to spook me from hiding to set me up for his friend? I felt very vulnerable. I scanned the other side of the street quickly. If I spent too much time looking there, the jackass in front of me could get the drop on me.
Another bullet whistled my way, this one hitting the front of the car I crouched behind. I decided this guy fired to keep me occupied. Now all I needed was find the other guy and shoot him before he shot me, while not leaving myself open to the guy up the street. As I scanned the cars across the way, I saw a flash of motion and heard a report. I ducked, even though it would be too late to matter.
No bullet approached me. The movement I saw turned out to be the other shooter. He staggered from behind a car, a spreading red stain on his left ribcage. He looked down at his gun, up at me, and collapsed onto the asphalt. Nearby cars stopped. People could always rationalize away gunshots, but a guy bleeding to death in the street was something else again. The cops would be here soon.
The one down the road stood to see what happened to his friend. He looked at me and raised his gun again. I steadied my .32 on the trunk and fired. My two shots whizzed past him on the right. He ducked, moved to his left, and raised up behind another car.
I heard another shot and watched a hole appear in his chest below his throat. He staggered, only to take another round a few inches lower than the first. Blood gushed from the hoodlum’s chest and his gun fell from a hand which could no longer hold it. He sagged to his knees, then slumped forward. Past ringing in my ears, came screams and shouts from people stopped on the street. Then I turned around.
Rollins, holding a small assault rifle, waved to me from about a hundred feet.
Leaving the scene would have been nice, but too many people lingered after witnessing what happened, so we stayed and gave statements to the police. Later, Rollins and I sat in my living room. He sipped a cranberry juice and club soda—the latter being an infernal beverage brought into my home by Gloria—while I nursed a coffee with a plus-sized shot of Irish whiskey. Gloria seated herself beside me on the sofa, silent since Rollins and I sat down, but her warm eyes glistened if the light caught them right.
“I paid you,” I said to Rollins.
“Yeah,” he said, “you did. But you saved my ass in the warehouse.”
“So now you’ve returned the favor.”
“I guess. Look, I’m a guy for hire, sort of like you, but I do different work. In the Army, I shot a lot of people because the alternative was much worse. But I’m not you. You haven’t shot many people. You shooting someone to save me means a lot.”
“I don’t think body count is a factor,” I said. “You popping those guys today means everything to me. The fact that you’ve killed more people doesn’t matter.” Gloria grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Maybe you could’ve gotten yourself out of that little mess,” he said. “Whatever. You’re doing good work, C.T. If I can help you along the way, let me know. I’ll make sure to give you a good rate.” Rollins smiled.
“You think the attempts on my life are over for a while?” I said.
“Depends on who sent those two today. You know?”
“I’m working on it.”
Rollins regarded his drink. Its pink sheen matched the trim on his jogging pants, jacket, and shoelaces. He looked up at me. “You know why I left the Army?” he said.
“I can make a good guess.”
He smiled again, but it lacked humor this time. “They didn’t ask, but I told.”
I said, “Good for you.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Your outfits and the drinks you choose?” I grinned. “Let’s just say you’re not exactly stamping out the stereotype.”
“No, I suppose I’m not. Did you know I have three to live down?”
“Three?”
“I’m black, I’m gay, and I’m Jewish on my father’s side.”
“A gay black Jew,” I said.
“At your service.”
“I went to college with a guy who was a gay black Hispanic Jew. He beat you by one.”
“Bastard,” Rollins said with a chuckle. “My being gay bothers some folks.”
“
Not me,” I said. “Besides, you don’t seem like the type to let it bother you.”
“I’m not, really. It’s just good to know.”
“I suppose it is,” I said.
After Rollins left, I called Joey, hoping he'd be awake by now.
"Hello?" he said, in a voice sounding like he’d survived a mummification attempt.
"I know you need your beauty sleep, but it's getting late," I said.
"It's not quite eleven."
"What if I needed a new identity at eight-thirty?"
"Then you'd be shit out of luck. What's up?"
"Find anything about Jasper?"
"No,” he said, “nothing."
"Same here. I think it's time for a different tactic."
"Do tell."
"How would you like to play legbreaker once more?" I said.
Joey chuckled. "Are we going after a state senator's wife again?"
"A lower-profile target this time. I'll come by your place in an hour with brunch. Practice your menacing stare in the meantime."
"I'll give the showerhead quite the hairy eyeball,” Joey said.
"Now there's an image I didn't need," I said.
I brought a bag of breakfast sandwiches and coffee to Joey's house an hour and six minutes later. He inhaled one of the croissant delicacies before I opened the bag all the way. I counted my fingers to make sure they were all still there. "Help yourself," I said.
"Thanks," Joey replied around a mouthful.
I sipped a vanilla latte and munched on a turkey bacon breakfast sandwich while Joey gorged himself amid bursts of looking for his best legbreaker suit. When I suggested he'd had over an hour to find the goddamn thing, he grunted something uncharitable at me past more food and coffee. By the time I finished eating and downed half my drink, Joey emerged in the necessary attire. His suit fit snugly in just the right spots to suggest strength and malice. His narrow, opaque sunglasses made the scowling eyebrows above them look a measure more sinister.
"If you ever need a second job, I think you've found one," I said.
"The only problem would be if actual legbreaking were required," Joey said.
"Definitely a snag," I said.
With Joey garbed correctly, we headed for Rosenberg's business. His office manager, Shelley Hicks, had been with him long enough to know what her boss really did for a living. None of the other employees logged more than sixteen months but Shelley stayed with Rosenberg for seven years. Her financials also showed direct payments from Jasper. I hoped she knew where he was. Someone did. If it was Shelley, Joey's legbreaker routine and some clever fabrications would hopefully be enough to get her to talk.
I parked the Audi across the street from Rosenberg's supply company. We walked inside and headed toward the back offices. My dark gray Armani overcoat flared in my wake. Joey didn't wear an overcoat. Better to keep the tight suit jacket on and maintain the legbreaker illusion.
A young woman at the back looked up at us. Her throat bulged and contracted as she gulped. Joey kept his sunglasses on. I took mine off, slowly put them away in their case, gazed on her, and smiled. Joey stood beside me, arms folded, the suit jacket straining at his chest, midsection, and upper arms. "We're here to see Shelley Hicks," I said.
The girl swallowed hard again. I almost felt bad doing this to her. She was the right age to be a recent college graduate, shared no connection to the seedy part of Rosenberg's business, and was easy on the eyes. "Um . . . do you have an appointment?" she said.
"We don't make appointments," I said.
"The people we represent don't do appointments, sweetheart," Joey said. He sounded like he stepped freshly out of a pizza shop in the heart of Brooklyn. Joey normally spoke with no accent at all, but he could fake the stereotypical Italian-American one when necessary. "Why don't you go fetch Miss Hicks for us?"
She looked at us a moment with wide eyes, then rapidly bobbed her head. “Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” She scurried down the hall. Normally, I might have watched her walk away with some interest, but I couldn’t now. The price we pay for keeping up illusions.
A minute later, she came back, still looking pale. “Miss Hicks will see you in her office,” she said. “It’s at the end.” She pointed to the short corridor she traversed down and back.
“I thought she would,” I said and walked past her along the hall. Shelley Hicks’ door was open. We walked in. Two guest chairs sat before her plain and sparse desk. I didn’t see any pictures of family or anything marking the office as belonging to a long-term employee. I sat in the left-hand chair and Joey took the right one.
“What can I do for you?” Shelley said. If we frightened her, she didn’t show it. She’d probably seen worse from Rosenberg and his cronies. Or other scary types in the arrangement.
“Mr. Rosenberg skipped town,” I said, “along with several of his . . . shall we say . . . important players. He was supposed to stay out of Baltimore City. He didn’t.” I gave a slow, negative shake of my head. “I understand Mr. Rosenberg wasn’t making all of the decisions of late. You know what I’m talking about?”
She looked at me for a few seconds, then Joey. She stared at him longer, sizing him up. “I know what you mean,” she said after a moment. “It was unsavory, what they did.”
“Why’d you stick around, then?”
“They paid me well enough.” She shrugged. “I don’t have any children, so sympathizing or empathizing with the parents wasn’t going to happen. I guess I was the perfect person to know about the whole thing.”
“We’re trying to find Jasper,” I said.
“We understand he’d been the brains for a while,” Joey said, still affecting the accent. I didn’t think we needed the legbreaker act at this point, but we couldn’t stop in the middle of it.
“Mr. Rosenberg became indifferent a while ago. Jasper . . . branched out and picked up some revenue we needed. Mr. Rosenberg went along because he got a cut.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said. “Jasper split, too?”
“I presume so,” Shelley Hicks said. “He left me an irregular note.”
“You’ve been involved on some level since they started kidnapping the girls?” I said.
“I’ve known about it. I never helped with a kidnapping, if that’s what you mean.”
“What I mean is . . . Jasper and them paid you all along this process. Now they cut and run when the heat is on and all you get is a note?” My hands splayed to show I understood her plight. “They’re doing you wrong.”
She looked at me again. “They are,” she said. “I’ve kept my mouth shut about the loan business, this mess with the girls, all of it. I admit they’ve paid me well over the years, but now this?”
“You’re dealing with scumbags, lady,” Joey said. “The people we associate with wouldn’t do you so wrong.”
Shelley Hicks seemed to weigh her options. “What is it you’re here for?”
“Jasper,” I said.
“He left me a note with a phone number. Said he would have it for a while and then get a new one. He didn’t say where he was going.”
“It would help if you could let me see the note,” I said.
“I’ll do you one better,” she said. “I’ll make you a copy.”
And she did.
Chapter 21
I dropped Joey off at his house. He said he was upset at not getting to play the part more, but he would get over it. When I got home, I took out the copy of the note Shelley Hicks made for me and dialed Jasper on my office line with a recorder attached.
“Who’s this?” he said in a rather rude way of answering.
“A man you can’t kill,” I said.
“I guess I’m not trying hard enough, then. But you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Have a lot of people you’re trying to kill?”
“Can’t keep track of them all.” I heard sounds in the background, like someone talking at regular intervals without excitement. “Why don’t you tell me who you a
re?”
“C.T. Ferguson.”
“Ah, the detective. You took a shit all over our operation in Baltimore.”
“Our” operation? “So big a shit you and your boss both needed to split town like cowards.”
“My boss?” Jasper’s voice rose. I heard agitation setting in. “My boss? Rosenberg wasn’t my boss. We made it look like he was because he had the reputation, but he’d become . . . what do you call it . . . a paper tiger? The accountant and I ran pretty much everything.”
“Loan sharking, too?” I said.
“Rosenberg was involved there. Met with the marks and all. And he could still act ruthless if someone came to see him. But I think he just got older and didn’t care as much.”
“So you decided to branch out?” I said.
“We wanted to make up the money he wasn’t bringing in anymore.”
“You don’t mind telling me all of this?”
Jasper laughed. “I’m half a world away from you,” he said. “I won’t have this phone in a few days, and you couldn’t trace it anyway. What do I care?”
“You’ll care when this whole mess swallows you, too.”
“What are the odds?”
“Better than you think. Eisenberg is a day or so away from getting his comeuppance in jail, and I happen to know where Rosenberg went.”
Silence. I heard the background noises again. They weren’t clear enough to make them out, but I could play the call back later and amplify specifics. Something sounded familiar in them, like I’d been where Jasper was right now. “Congratulations. You found two Jews who couldn’t hide very well. I’m a little better at it. You’re not finding me. My family will protect me.”
“Your family?”
“The Zhangs,” he said, laughing again. “We have reach. We have power.”
The Zhangs. Jasper Z. Dexter. Now it made sense. I never looked deeper into Jasper to find his middle name. I should have made the leap or at least the presumption. Because I didn’t, Jasper might get away. “I thought you looked Asian,” I said after a few seconds of self-flagellation.
