Scarlet Fever

by David Stever

  “Referral,” she said with half a smile.

  “Not good enough.”

  She ignored this. “Mr. Delarosa, I need you to find something for me.”

  “That is...?”

  “Money. Money owed to my family. My mother.”

  “That’s not much to go on.”

  “That’s all there is.”

  I sighed. “Why don’t you start by telling me your name?”

  She hesitated. “Claire Dixon. I’m from Philadelphia.” She pulled a slip of paper from her purse and slid it across the table towards me. Two names and a phone number. Neither name belonged to her.

  “This is it? This is your information?” I took a swallow of bourbon and leaned back. I couldn’t stop looking at her green eyes, red hair, and perfect oval face. I figured her around thirty. And there was this calm, this air of sophistication to her, which was unusual. Most of my clients come to me either out of a frazzled desperation—or looking to settle a score.

  She reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope, and set it in front of me. “Twenty thousand dollars. Your retainer. You complete the job, you’ll get another one hundred and eighty thousand.”

  Or walking in with twenty grand gives you all the confidence you need.

  Now she had my attention. Flashing that kind of cash made me nervous. My work comes via word of mouth. I built a reputation of doing quick, discrete work, always putting my client first no matter the legalities involved—and twenty grand cash was a decidedly un-discreet amount of money to be tossing around an Irish pub.

  “I like money just as much as the next guy,” I told her, careful not to so much as look at the envelope, “but I need more than that. I need details. When did this happen? How much was stolen?”

  “Two million dollars.”

  “Two million?” I took another sip of my drink without taking my eyes off hers. “That’s a lot of money. I’m going to need a lot of details. Who is your mother, for starters?”

  “I don’t mean to be evasive,” she answered, breaking eye contact, “but it’s complicated. My mother died two months ago, and there are people who will have an interest in the money—and let’s say they’re not the most upstanding of citizens.” She tapped the piece of paper. “Start with the two names. Both are in Port City. I don’t know who they are, but Mother always told me they would help.”

  “When did the money go missing?”

  “Not sure. My guess, twenty-plus years ago.”

  “Twenty years?”

  “That’s my understanding,” she said.

  I looked at the paper again. “I know this one. Scarazzini.”

  “There you go. A start.” She got up from the booth. “I hear you’re the best. Or should I take back my money?”

  I finally peeked in the envelope. Loaded with cash, all right. Against my better judgment, I put the paper in my pocket. “I guess I could look into it.”

  She flashed a wide smile. “My phone number is on the paper. Be careful.” She turned and walked toward the door.

  “Wait—at least tell me your mother’s name.” She didn’t stop.

  The sunlight streaming in through the glass door made her white skirt translucent, and every guy in the place took notice. We stared until she went through the door and turned up the street. The guys all turned toward me.

  “Mike. Car,” I said.

  Mike went to the front window. I grabbed the envelope and went to the bar. Mike came back, scribbling something on the back of an order slip.

  “New Audi. I got the plate.”

  “Ask Junior to run it.” I showed Mike the envelope full of cash.

  “Whoa—she’s serious.” He grabbed my arm. “What have we learned over the years, partner? Gorgeous broad with that much cash is dangerous. Got to be a woman scorned, mad, or out for revenge. Been there before, buddy. Bad for your health.”

  I went to the window, but she was long gone. I turned back to Mike. “I’m getting that gut thing again, Mike—and I don’t like it when I get the gut thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded. “This is the big one. The one where we get rich—or we get dead.”

  Chapter

  3

  Tony the Scar was the first name on the paper Claire gave me, and he was no stranger to local law enforcement. Tony Scarazzini and his brother Sammy own City Salvage. They handle used auto parts and about anything else you might want to buy. The law was well aware the junkyard was a front business, but if you wanted anything of a questionable nature, including information, you went to Tony and Sammy.

  They also ran the biggest bookie operation in town, owned a strip club (Stiletto’s), and a massage parlor. But with all their interests, legal and illegal, the Scarazzini brothers’ greatest talent was staying out of jail. Neither one had ever been arrested. They stayed in business by giving the boys in blue good insider information from time to time, though they weren’t exactly confidential informants—more like part-time stoolies. They had an ear to the street at all times. Geniuses at working both sides of the law to get an edge on either.

  Their salvage yard was on Lincoln Road between a recycled tire business and a gas station. I pulled into the dusty parking lot a little after noon. The office at City Salvage was an old mobile field office they had poached from a construction job site in their younger days. I stepped inside and got smacked by a wall of cigar smoke. The brothers were in their usual spots: perched behind the counter, each with a sports page spread out in front of them. They dressed the same every day: khaki shorts, faded white T-shirts, and beat-up sneakers with no socks. Both fat, bald, with three-day beards and Churchill cigars lodged between yellowing teeth. Tony was the oldest, over sixty now, with Sammy a few years younger and many IQ points slower.

  Tony glanced up from his paper. “I’ll be God-damned.”

  “I told you we should keep the door locked,” chimed Sammy.

  “You son of a bitch, Delarosa.” Tony folded his paper. “Been a while.”

  “I’d like to say I missed you guys, but...”

  “You only stop in when you need something” Tony said. “I doubt you’re here for a used muffler.”

  “That hurts my feelings. I’m just checking to make sure you guys are staying on the right side of the law.”

  “I would believe that if you were still Detective Delarosa. But now that you’re private dick Delarosa, something tells me different,” chided Tony.

  “Mean, Tony, mean. Sammy, we’re still buddies, right? C’mon.”

  “Yeah, you’re still okay,” said Sammy with a half-smile.

  “I see you still have your sword,” I said.

  Tony killed a fly on the counter with his folded sports page. Then flicked the dead fly at me. “Damn, right. And don’t make me take it out of the case.”

  Behind him, mounted on the wall was a glass case containing a four-foot long samurai sword with a silver blade and a gold-plated handle studded with tiny ruby colored jewels. Rumor has it he won it in a private poker game in Las Vegas from a wealthy Japanese businessman. Except, Sammie got drunk one night in a bar and told everyone Tony bought it online, so that was the end of that story.

  “No need for violence,” I said.

  “For now.”

  “Good, ’cause I need to ask a question.”

  “I knew it. You’re a son of a bitch, Delarosa.”

  “Hey, you guys owe me.”

  “Really? What do we owe you, Mister Private Dick?”

  “Well, remember the time your strippers were turning tricks in the back of the club and the city threatened to shut you down? Then the threat went away.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And what about the time we had a district attorney who had a bug up his ass about illegal sports book operations in town? Anybody get charged?” Tony shot a sideways glance at Sammy. I leane
d on the counter. “Get the hootch, and let’s toast the old days.”

  He stuck a finger in my face. “I always said you were a stand-up guy.” Tony grabbed a bottle of bourbon and three small juice glasses from under the counter.

  He poured a shot-worth in each glass. We toasted and threw it back. I put my glass on the counter. “Good. We’re all friends again. Now will you answer a question?”

  A customer opened the door and came in. Sammy moved over to help him. “Ask away,” said Tony.

  “My client is looking for some money she claims was stolen from her family. The problem is, she doesn’t have much to go on. Just some old rumors.”

  Tony shrugged. “I don’t hear a question yet.”

  “Think back. When you were a young buck running the streets. Remember any stories about a missing two million dollars?”

  Tony took the cigar out of his mouth and put it on the filthy counter. “Two million? Why would I know about two million? Who lost it?”

  “Can’t say. But back then, nothing happened in this town without you knowing.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  I shook my head. “Client and all.”

  He slid the glasses around a bit, staring at the bar, lost in thought. Was he remembering?

  He looked up at me. “Want another?”

  “Sure.” He poured two more and we downed those.

  Did the two mil strike a nerve?

  “Sounds like a real interesting case you have there. Wish I could help you.”

  “You’re sure two million dollars doesn’t jog your memory?” I prodded.

  “When did this happen again?” he asked.

  “At least twenty years ago, maybe more. You guys knew everyone and everything back in the day.”

  “We still do.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “But I would remember two million.”

  “Here’s the problem. My client gave me two pieces of information. Two names.”

  “So?”

  “Yours is the first name on the list. Why?”

  He shrugged. “How would I know?” He held up the bourbon. “Another?”

  “Not now. Tony, somebody thinks you know something about a missing two million dollars a long time ago.”

  “Obviously have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Think harder.”

  “Johnny, you know as well as I do. A lot of shit went down all the time in those days. What can I say?”

  “Heist job, blackmail, a kidnapping. Something on the docks. People wouldn’t forget a score this big.”

  “I agree, but I can’t recall. If guys scored a two-million-dollar job they would be heroes in the underworld, living on some island, or they would be targets, or dead by now. They would be…what’s it…a legend?”

  “An urban legend.”

  “Exactly.” He puffed the cigar and added to the ceiling of smoke.

  He had a point. Word on a job that large would spread like wildfire on the street. It would be legendary. I laid my card on the counter. “In case you’re memory improves.”

  I did not want to press too hard and decided to let the conversation simmer. I took a few steps toward the door.

  Tony said, “Hey.” I stopped. He had picked up the card and flipped it around in his fingers. “How old is she? Your client?”

  I came back to the counter. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Thirty or so.”

  “Any chance she has red hair?”

  “Dark red. Sort of auburn-like. Why?”

  He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I got work to do.”

  “Must be something or you wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Nah, never mind. Just a weird thought, is all.”

  “Tony?” I stared at him and he held my gaze. First one to blink loses?

  “I got work to do.”

  I snatched the card from his hand. “Second thought, don’t call me. I’ll be back.” I tapped the edge of card on the counter. “Thanks for the drink, old friend.”

  Chapter

  4

  I left City Salvage convinced I opened an old wound or knocked loose a memory. I had to find out what he’d locked away all these years in some dusty corner of his mind. His question about my client’s hair color only fueled my curiosity.

  My phone rang as I got to my car. Dave Richards, Jr., is now a lieutenant in the department. He was one of our running buddies when we were rookies. Now he runs tags and pulls criminal records for us in exchange for food and beer at Mike’s.

  “Junior.”

  “Hey boss. Got yourself a real interesting client.”

  “How so?” I said.

  “The car registration address is a private mailbox place downtown. Mike asked if we could sit on it for a while. Willie wasn’t doing anything, so he hung around and got lucky.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Said the red hair is hard to miss.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “He tailed her from the mail box place to the Marriott on Washington.”

  “Okay.”

  “He followed her in to try to get a room number, but no sooner did he go in she came back out and walked right past him. Said she’s better-looking close-up, too.”

  “Junior.”

  “Here’s the cute part. From the Marriott, he follows her to the Harbor Court Motel over on Harbor Boulevard. She has a room there, too.”

  “She’s checked into two hotels?”

  “If you can call the Harbor Court a hotel.”

  “Was she by herself?”

  “Yep.”

  “Now why would someone check into two hotels? With one in the sleaziest part of town…”

  “Well, either hiding or wanting to throw somebody off her track. Like I said, boss. Got yourself a hot one. Anytime you need us to watch that red hair, give a shout.”

  “Will do, buddy, will do. Thanks—and good work.”

  “Yep.”

  So my client drops a twenty grand retainer on me, says she’s looking for two million owed her, and only has two names to go on—and she’s booked into two hotels.

  Junior was right. We got ourselves a hot one.

  Chapter

  5

  If Claire Dixon was going to rent a hotel room, the four-star Marriott—among the finer hotels in the city—would be an obvious choice. But, if she’s going to rent two hotel rooms, one in a ritzy place and one in a sub-zero-star motel ready for the wrecking ball, then my expert investigative skills told me to start with the dump.

  It was one p.m. when I parked my car in a McDonald’s parking lot across the street from the Harbor Court Motel, a one-story motel shithole from the sixties where you park your car in front of your room. I’m sure the front desk had no problem renting rooms by the hour. The area consisted of project apartments, boarded-up storefronts, and homeless sleeping on the sidewalks. I’m sure the motel has its share of vagrants, hookers, and junkies hanging around. The cost of a room for a week was less than what I’m sure she pays for a day at the hair salon.

  Her black Audi was parked in front of Room 112, which made no sense because driving an Audi A6 in this part of town would put even more eyes on her than her hair. But her link to the Scarazzini brothers was even more of a mystery. These weren’t church-going Rotary Club family men. They were street-smart and street-tough, and Claire was in over her head—and way out of her league. Maybe that’s why she hired me.

  Making her the smartest one of all.

  Twenty minutes went by before the door to 112 opened and Claire came out. The unmistakable red hair, tied back into a pony tail, bounced as she walked to her car. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a red blazer. She drove out of the lot and turned east on Harbor Boulevard, which runs toward the harbor and the docks. I waited a few seconds and then pulled out behind her, p
utting a city block between us. To my knowledge, she didn’t know my car, but even still, I hung back far enough that she wouldn’t notice me. She stayed on Harbor for a mile and then turned south on Ocean Avenue. Ocean runs parallel to the beach and after three miles or so, the real estate is more expensive and the people are better-looking. High-rise condo buildings line both sides of the avenue, along with some of the more upscale restaurants and shops. This part of Ocean Avenue is known as the Silver Strip—a mile-long section that contains the most pricey real estate in the city. The large hotel chains all have oceanfront properties here, mixed in with some independent hotels that had not yet sold out to the big operators.

  Claire turned left into the parking lot of the Marquis Seaside Resort Hotel. A newer, four-star property, it gobbled up three smaller hotels and a mini-golf a few years ago. I pulled to the side of the road and watched as she parked her car and walked into the lobby. I turned into the lot and parked on the far side, opposite her car.

  I keep a collection of coats, jackets, sweatshirts, and hats in the trunk of my car for the occasional disguise—and I end up using them more often than one might believe. I popped the trunk and picked out an old tan jacket and a floppy fisherman’s hat. With my sunglasses on, I tried to look as touristy as possible as I entered the lobby. I picked through the morning crowd on my way to the bar. The bar overlooks a restaurant; the restaurant has a deck that overlooks the beach. Unless Claire was headed up to a room, she’d be in the restaurant. I took a chance and found a seat at the end of the bar that had a view of the restaurant.

  The bartender came over and slid a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  “Gin and tonic,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  He went for the booze and I turned to the restaurant. As sure as the sun was shining down on the white sand outside, there was the red hair and red blazer being led to a table. An attractive brunette, maybe mid-sixties, stood at the table and extended a hand to Claire. She wore a smart blue suit and heels; her chocolate hair framed her face, falling to her shoulders. The waitress took an order and vanished. They both sat upright in the chairs, nodding and smiling. From their body language, the meeting looked more like business instead of two old friends getting together for lunch.