by S. D. Thames
I cleared my throat. “You take that belt off, you’ll find it wrapped around your neck faster than you can say ‘fat piece of shit’.”
He nodded at Jace before he unbuckled the belt. Then he set the belt on the table, glared at me, and said, “Fat piece of shit.” He snorted another laugh, and then said, “I called your bluff, Porter.”
I sprang to my feet, but Jace produced a Saturday Night Special that he waved just the right way to guide me back to my seat. Once I was seated again, he lowered the gun beneath the table. He tapped it on my knee to let me know where it was pointed. “No more disrespecting Mr. Pilka.”
I was beginning to understand why Pilka liked to sit in the far corner. “What you gonna do, Jace, shoot me right here? Wouldn’t they revoke his privileges?”
“You heard me,” Jace said.
I nodded faintly. “You better be a good shot. I’ve been shot twice this week. That’s a total of five times in my life I’ve taken lead and lived.”
Jace didn’t flinch. “Then I guess I should call you Superman.”
Pilka studied me, his expression turning with an idea. “Put the gun away, Jace. I want to hear what he has to say.” Jace was slow to obey, but once he finally did, Pilka cast his moribund eyes on me. “What the hell do you want, Porter?”
“Angie’s going independent. You’re going to respect that. And you’re going to leave her alone.”
“She’ll be lucky to last a week without protection,” he scoffed.
“I’ll be protecting her.”
“Then you obviously have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“I guess I don’t,” I said.
Pilka glanced around the dining room. “Without the right protection, she’ll be behind bars before you know it.”
This was an interesting subject, and one I didn’t want to change too soon. So I played along. “We got that taken care of.”
“Is that so?” Pilka glared at me, as if to call my bluff again.
I just nodded.
“I find that hard to believe. Very hard to believe.”
I gave him nothing but an angry glare.
He folded and picked his fork up again. “Okay. So Angie doesn’t work for me anymore.”
“And whatever deal you had with Scalzo died with him,” I said.
Pilka smirked again. “Now, how convenient is that? Whatever deal I had with Scalzo died with him? You know, Porter, this girl here with you, in my humble opinion, she’s quite the troublemaker. You ever really consider the repercussions of what you’re saying? It sounds to me like she stood to benefit more than anyone else from Scalzo’s death. I’d keep a close eye on this one if I were you.”
“And I’d keep a close eye on the Scalzo family if I were you. Because I feel like they’re keeping a close one on you, too.”
His pasty skin managed to turn a shade whiter. He tried grinning, but it didn’t work. “And how would you know that?”
“I guess you could say I’m working for them now.” I didn’t mention the pro bono part. “Which reminds me, you owe me some money.”
“You never worked for me.”
“Wilcox hired me to find Scalzo’s killer. He was working on your case. The way I see it, you owe me for these.” I pulled out my expense receipts. “Not to mention Wilcox promised me six grand for my work this week.”
“Screw Wilcox,” Pilka hissed. “The little pansy runs away, falls off the face of the earth, and you expect me to pay his debts?”
I handed over the receipts. “This is your debt.”
He started skimming through the receipts. “Six-hundred ninety-seven dollars for a hotel?” he demanded incredulously.
“And parking,” I added.
“Eight hundred dollars for clothes?” his tone rose.
“I had to go undercover to find her in Miami.”
“Seventy-eight dollars for gas?”
“The Volvo likes high octane.”
“A receipt to Target for sixty-nine dollars?”
“Angie looks great in cheap clothes, doesn’t she?”
“You say you’re working for the Scalzo family now? Then why don’t they pay these for you?”
“Should I tell them you say so?”
“Do whatever you want.” He wiped his brow with a linen napkin. “Besides, the way I see it, Porter, you owe me, and big.”
“How so?”
“Well, Jace here has been pretty useless for two days now, as a result of you. You made fun of him the other day and threatened his manhood.”
“Please, Mr. Pilka,” Jace interrupted. “We don’t need to discuss this.”
Pilka waved him off. “So after you left the gym here the other day, Jace here wanted to show that he could do those squats you were going on about. He didn’t do so well. Look at him now.”
I frowned at Jace. “And I thought he walked that way because he fell a few rungs down the evolutionary ladder.”
Pilka frowned. “So, between chiropractor visits, and the time I’m having to wait for him to do anything, shit, even bring me my coffee, I’ll consider us even.”
“Doesn’t sound too appealing to me,” I said.
“We can write this off, I’ll let Angie go, and I won’t call the cops to turn you two in.”
“Turn us in?”
“Yeah, for harassing me and admitting your intent to conspire in prostitution.”
“You’re a piece of work, Pilka. You know that?”
He grinned over his double chin. “A one-of-a-kind masterpiece.”
“Throw in an hour in Alexi’s office with all access to his computer equipment, and we got a deal.”
Pilka shook his head. “Sorry, the police already have the good stuff. And I’m under a court order not to tamper with what they left behind.”
“Is that so? Let me guess, a detective named Chris Rodriguez?”
He glanced at Jace and nodded. Then someone across the dining room caught his attention, and he raised his hand and waved. “Perfect timing,” Pilka said.
A moment later, a tall man in a blue pinstriped suit appeared. His hair was as thick as a doormat; he looked like Clark Kent in his early fifties. He nodded at Pilka and set an attaché on the table.
Pilka turned to me. “Porter, meet Wilkes Donahue, our new attorney.”
I glanced at the lawyer as he pulled a document from the case and handed it to Pilka. “Wilkes has settled the McSwain case for us,” Pilka added.
“Is that so?” I asked.
Wilkes stood there like a statue. “This is the settlement for your signature. Then we can get the case dismissed in front of the judge tomorrow.”
Pilka was still glaring at me. “He was able to negotiate very favorable terms for us.”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “It’s a confidential settlement, sir.”
Pilka ignored him. “Even got me a release for your attempted extortion.”
“And I suppose McSwain gets all the copies of his special video,” I said.
“All that are within our custody, possession, and control.” Pilka looked to his attorney. “Isn’t that how we worded it?”
“It’s confidential,” Wilkes said uneasily.
Pilka shrugged. “Sorry, Porter, it’s confidential. And you don’t work for me no more.”
I glanced at Angie and back to Pilka. “You say the case is being dismissed tomorrow?”
Pilka nodded. “That’s the plan. Right, Wilkes?”
Wilkes nodded reluctantly. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Pilka whispered. “But Wilkes knows the judge pretty well.”
Wilkes cleared his throat again.
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I asked Wilkes.
“The judge doesn’t have to rule on anything. The parties are stipulating to dismissal. But yes, he’d have to recuse himself if the case went forward.”
“How convenient,” I said.
“Yes, how convenient,” Pilka said. Then he took the papers f
rom his attorney and pulled a silver Mont Blanc pen from inside his jacket. He began reviewing the papers in front of him, and a moment later he scribbled his signature on the last page. Once the ink was drying, Pilka looked up at me. “It says here I need a witness.” He pointed the pen at me. “Would you do me the honor, Mr. Porter?”
“I’ll pass,” I said.
He shrugged and handed the pen over to Jace. I watched him closely to try and gauge whether he could actually read and write. It seemed he could, at least enough to sign the settlement agreement. Wilkes took the settlement agreement, and a wave of relief seemed to flush over him.
After the lawyer left, Pilka put on a conciliatory face and looked me right in the eyes. “So what’s it going to take, Porter?”
“Answer a few questions for me, and we can settle my expenses for a grand.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“For starters, why don’t you tell me the real reason you had a fallout with Scalzo?”
For the first time that day, Pilka looked to Angie before he answered. “You already know why, Porter. He was double-dealing.”
“But there was more to it, wasn’t there?”
Pilka chewed on his chapped lips and said, “You tell me.”
“He was blackmailing your clients, wasn’t he? News of that had gotten back to you, hadn’t it?”
Pilka shrugged. “Let’s assume that’s right. What difference does it make?”
“I think he blackmailed the wrong person. Maybe someone who provided you with protection, as you call it.”
“Interesting theory,” Pilka said. “But you’re making some assumptions.”
“About what?”
“Maybe Scalzo was my protection. You ever think about that?”
“That’d put you in quite a bind now, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Porter, and I don’t have time to listen to you pissing around in the dark. Now tell me, what’s it going to cost to end this with you?
“Like I said, a grand for the expenses and we’re even.”
Pilka nodded at Jace, who was already flipping through a wad of cash. Jace handed it over, and I quickly counted the ten Benjamins he’d handed me.
Pilka’s voice turned raspy. “With this, we’re done, you hear me? I don’t want to see you again, and I don’t want to hear from you.”
I put the folded bills in my pocket and stood. Angie followed suit. “We’ll see you tomorrow in court,” I said as we left the dining room.
“So what do you think?” I turned the laptop around so Angie could view it from her side of the booth. We’d stopped for lunch at Arzo, and I’d wasted no time putting her first advertisement together.
She read it aloud. “Evie, formerly of Erotic Encounters, is visiting for a few days. Available only for prior clients. Light screening required. Again, prior clients only!” She looked up from the screen. “Sounds a little harsh, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I wanted to get the point across.”
“You really think this is a good idea?”
“I don’t think the alternative of going back to Giuseppe empty-handed is any better.”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
“What do you mean, whatever? This is important, Angie. Don’t you get that?”
“I don’t really care anymore.”
“Then why are we doing this? Why don’t we just throw in the towel now? I’ll tell Scalzo’s henchmen to come pick you up this afternoon.”
She looked at me like I didn’t get it, and I felt the same way.
“I’m trusting you, Milo. Whatever you think is best.”
“It won’t even get that far.”
“I’m telling you, though, unless I see them in person, there’s no way for me to identify him as Mr. Silver.”
“We can do that, but it’ll be dangerous.”
She shook her head as she mulled it over for a moment. “So you’re going to place this ad online, and then what?”
“They’ll email us at a new email address I made up. We’ll ask some questions about their last visit with you so we can confirm.”
“And you think whoever had the appointment Sunday night will admit that?”
“Maybe. For one thing, it’s possible they had nothing to do with his death. They could have sat around for hours waiting for him to call. If so, at least we’ll know that and we can scratch another suspect off the list. Or they could have been a witness to something helpful. I don’t know. I just know my gut tells me we have to find out who your date was Sunday night.”
“And you always listen to your gut.”
“That’s right.”
She turned the laptop back to me. “It’s fine. Let ‘er rip.”
I was about to hit send, when I said, “You know, I looked at a lot of these ads. It’s pretty sad, Angie.”
“Milo, please.”
“Just the number of girls—and that’s what you all are. Girls.”
“It’s just a stepping stone for me. I don’t use drugs. I’m safe and healthy. I’m not hurting anyone. I’m actually providing a valuable service to society.” She stood up and excused herself to the restroom.
I thought about what she’d just said, and wondered how many times she’d told herself that. Without thinking, I hit the button to post the ad. I was clinging to the hope that she’d recognize McSwain, and I’d never have to respond to any of the emails that were about to find their way to my new pimp email account.
I also had a hunch that was merely wishful thinking.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Bayshore Beautiful
Tim McSwain lived on Bayshore Boulevard, an opulent road lined with mansions facing the newer but equally wealthy views of Harbor Island and, farther south, the dreary industrial scenery of Hillsborough Bay. Bayshore formed the eastern edge of South Tampa’s most prestigious neighborhoods, Hyde Park and Palma Ceia, with their array of Craftsmen bungalows, Mediterranean stucco homes, as well as gaudy McMansions more recently built on lots where quaint ranch homes once stood. Other than a few odd high-rise condos, the meandering lots on Bayshore were reserved mainly for pretentious homes set too close to the four-lane road that served as a makeshift highway for the thousands of people who lived in South Tampa and worked downtown. McSwain’s abode was a red-brick fortress with a circular drive in front. The three cars parked in the drive—a Lexus crossover, a BMW sedan, and a Toyota Prius—told me there was a good chance the man of the house was home.
“Should I wait in the car?” Angie asked when I parked behind the hybrid.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
Thirty seconds later I rang the doorbell. A succession of rings and dongs echoed throughout the mansion, and two dogs competed to see who could yelp the loudest.
The door opened, revealing an elegant woman in her mid-fifties. She wore tight cream Capri pants. Her toes glowed with maroon-painted nails, her feet wrapped in sandals of soft chocolate leather. Her blouse was sleeveless, a vibrant shade of tropical green. The pearls hanging from her neck matched the pants, like cream icing over the key lime shirt.
“Can I help you?” Her eyes and brow said she didn’t like the looks of us, but her smile was too refined to show it. One of the tiny terriers broke her barricade and darted at me, but stopped short of an attack. All bark, no bite. I knew the type too well.
“Good day, ma’am. We’re here to see Mr. McSwain. Are you Mrs. McSwain?”
She nodded. “I’m Gayle Smith-McSwain. Is my husband expecting you?” The smile had slipped, and a snarl flashed on her upper lip.
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Because he’s actually in a meeting now,” she added.
“Let me guess, his lawyer is here and drives that Lexus in your driveway?”
“You work for him?”
I shook my head. “I know Mr. Tim McSwain owns only a BMW 750 and a Toyota Prius. He drives the former. You drive the latter, presumably to your Rotary meetings and chari
table fundraisers.”
“Can I help you?” Her tone no longer hid her frustration.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot.” I handed her my card. “I’m Milo Porter. I’m a private investigator, and I’d really like to talk to Mr. McSwain. I’m sure he’ll agree it’s a rather important subject.”
She glanced at the card and then took a longer look at Angie. “And who is she?”
“She’s under my care. There are bad guys out there who want to kill her.”
Her eyes flickered for a moment before she pushed the door just short of closed.
Angie tugged at my belt and said, “Let’s go.”
“Give it a minute.”
It wasn’t that long before the door opened again, and Mr. McSwain asked us what the hell we wanted with a confounded glare. His hair was parted perfectly, and glossy from a residual sweat. He wore tennis clothes, probably following a late morning at the club before his lunch meeting with the attorney. He leered at me for a moment, and then the anger in his eyes reached its zenith when they saw Angie. “What the hell is she doing here?”
I looked to Angie.
“He’s Black,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“I know him all right, but he’s Black. Mr. Black. Not Silver.”
“You’re sure it’s not him?”
She nodded.
McSwain stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “You have some nerve, you know that?”
“Actually, what we have is some questions,” I said. “And it’s about time we get some answers.”
“We had a deal. If Pilka thinks he can—”
“I don’t work for Pilka anymore. He fired me.”
“Then who do you work for?”
“I guess you could say I work for the Scalzo family.”
He took a deep breath and kept his eyes closed for a moment. He opened them and asked, “What do you want?”
“We want the truth, justice, all that jazz.” He didn’t believe me. I didn’t blame him, but still, it sounded cute. “That’s all. The truth.”
“The truth is, Don Alexi killed Chad Scalzo. And Alexi couldn’t face the heat.”
