by Nick Vellis
“ ‘Whoever walks in integrity walks securely, but he who makes his ways crooked will be found out,’ Proverbs ten, verse nine,” he said. “You decided you weren’t so sure your orders were the right thing to do,” he replied.
He did get it. “Something like that,” I said.
This was an interesting man. After a long while, he gave a little chuckle. He extended his hand and this time the handshake was that of friend.
We spent the afternoon checking out scenarios. General Hunt had no clue what the notes were about, but he had his suspicions. He was a private man and he didn’t give anything up easily, especially about his family. It took a while to draw the whole dark truth out of him. He’d asked his son Cary, an investment banker, about the notes. The young man had turned white. Obviously, this was not a case of ‘like father like son.’
“Any idea what your son’s hiding?” I asked.
Pokin’ around a man’s family is touchy business especially if the man was used to getting his way like General Hunt. He just glared at me. I imagined him staring down his Vietnamese serial killer the same way. He pushed his sunglasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose as his tired eyes closed for a moment.
“I haven’t … but …”
“Sir, if I’m going to help, you have to trust me,” I said as kindly as I could. A man was entitled to his secrets, but no one could hide much from me.
After a few moments of tense silence he said, “I believe my son was having an affair.” He who commits adultery lacks sense; he who does it destroys himself,’ Proverbs six, verse thirty-two. I don’t know who she was, but all the signs were there. I’ve seen them before. I’m afraid I’ve got Van Gogh’s ear for music when it comes to my son. I’ve bailed him out for years. You don’t get to choose your family, but they’re not just important, family is everything.”
“That’s what parents do, isn’t it sir, protect their children. A good officer does the same thing. No shame in that,” I replied.
“Maybe… maybe it’s the right thing, maybe not. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man and smart as a whip, but when it comes to women, trouble has a knack for finding him. There’s nothing new in history. Churchill said. ‘Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it’. My son repeatedly shows lapses in judgment yet I keep bailing him out.”
The quote was actually from George Santayana, but I saw no point in antagonizing him. We're doomed to repeat the past no matter what. People are just plain stupid. “Has he been into anything serious?” I asked.
“He’s had a few scrapes with the law, DUI mostly. There were a couple fast women…well bred, but ambitious women I’d call social climbers. There was an underage one, but she looked and dressed like she was twenty-five,” he said.
“Nothing major?” I asked.
He shook his head no and said, “No big deals and there’s been nothing in the almost three years he’s been married, until recently that is.”
“What happened recently?”
“He…,” the general took a deep breath. “He and his wife had some troubles, but he said they patched things up,” he responded.
“An affair?”
“That’d be my guess,” the general replied. “I don’t know which one of them …”
“Or maybe both,” I added. “That’s a good reason for blackmail, don’t you think?”
“Why come after me? My son’s a wealthy man in his own right.”
“Deeper pockets, be my guess,” I replied, “deeper pockets and your well known aversion to publicity. Look, I don’t care why. You called me. Tell me what you want done and I’ll do my damndest to do it.”
“How would you start?” the general asked, knowing what I’d say. He was an experienced cop and knew how to work a case.
“I’d start with your son. I’d do some background then have a chat with him, I’d talk to his friends and coworkers, check out the places he frequents, that sort of stuff,” I replied. “I’d look for people who know his secrets. Isn’t that what you’d do?”
“Yeah, I suppose I would. I’d look at his wife too, but I’m betting you were just being gentlemanly. My son’s out of town; left this morning. He’ll be back late next week. You can do your background work, check out his contacts and haunts, and then talk to him when he gets back. I’ll square it with him. He’ll cooperate. Hold off on talking to his wife until I clear it with him.”
“I will fulfill my obligations, sir,” I said, quoting another Army core value - duty.
General Hunt, the meticulous military man, used to having things his own way sighed and said, “I need your help Captain. Can I count on you to find out who’s trying to hurt my family?”
“Yes, sir you can,” I replied. I meant it as I’d never meant it before. Still, he was holding something back. I wished I really could read minds, but I’d find out soon enough.
The drive back to Orlando gave me time to think. I hadn’t gotten much information from my new client other than his suspicion his son had an affair. I learned where the younger Hunt worked, his country club, but that was about it. The sun flamed orange in the rearview mirror and began to dip behind the downtown buildings as I swung off Interstate 4. It was about seven by the time I negotiated the traffic and got back to my office. I tried to call a source I use but had to leave a message. I’d find him in the morning. The promise of cold hard cash for information on the general’s son, Cary Hunt, and his wife Stephanie was sure to turn up something. With a big enough bankroll you can get information on anybody, and working for Hunt, money was no object.
My meeting with General Hunt got me thinking it was time to dry out or at least cut down. He hadn’t come right out and called me a lush, but it was plain what he thought. My army buddy Roscoe Black had been trying to get me in a program since I’d come to back to Orlando. He’d tried to get me squared away, but somehow, when the general pegged me in 3.3 seconds, it shook me up. Maybe it was time.
The pigsty I lived in reflected my train wreck of a life. As a gesture to my newfound inspiration, instead of grabbing a cold one, I spent a couple hours mucking out my apartment. I ditched dozens of empty pizza boxes, even more beer bottles, and close to a case of empty Old Overholt fifths. The recycle bin behind the Drunk Monk overflowed with dead soldiers from months of my benders. By ten, I had the place spic and span, good enough for a boot camp inspection.
I spent the rest of the evening at the computer researching my client, his son Cary and trying to find anything that might sniff out who was trying to blackmail the general. There was a lot of dope on the Hunt family, but nothing you could call a lead. I was feeling rough so when I started to get the shakes I called it a night and hoped it would be a calm night.
Next morning I woke feeling like crap. It wasn’t the DTs, but damn close. My hands shook so bad I thought I’d slit my throat with my safety razor. I tossed on some mostly clean clothes then hit the bricks. I headed over to the Embassy Suites on East Pine where I know the manager and a certain guy in the kitchen.
Ted Graves, the day manager was just finishing his count of the previous night’s receipts when I breezed through the door. Ted and I went through OCS together and our paths crossed in Iraq. He’d helped me out a time or two since we’d come home.
“Oh crap,” he said when he looked up. “Look what the cat dragged in. I think you look worse every time I see you.”
“Good to see you too, Ted. You know that little gold name tag on your chest is bigger than your…”
“At ease, at ease,” he said. He broke out into a big smile and reached over the reception desk to shake my hand. “You come for some of Marco’s eggs?”
“That and to see you,” I shot back as I shook his hand. “Is Marco here?”
Marco Lima worked as the night prep chef and did the breakfast line in the morning. He’d been a cook at the Orange County jail until he retired. He knew everyone at the jail, in uniform or an orange jump suit. He had more snitches than the cops did. I never did under
stand how a clean guy like Marco could get so much intel, but he did. He was a good guy and people talked to him. He could keep his mouth shut when it counted and he could root out reliable information, for a reasonable price.
“Got a case on someone in the can?” Ted asked.
“Naw, just a garden variety shake down on some swell. You know these country club cowboys,” I replied. I’m always careful to protect my client’s name and steer people away from their identity. “Is Marco here today?”
“Yeah, he’s in the back. Come on. We’ll get some breakfast and you can let Marco know what you want.”
Ted took me to the cook line. Marco acknowledged me with a nod, always the circumspect fixer. I asked for a western omelet and a waffle and gave him a knowing nod. Ten minutes later, I was sitting down to a full breakfast and coffee while my buddy Ted had some bacon and Danish with his coffee.
“So what are you up to, Mac?” Ted asked, as we got ready to dig in. He gave me a casual look and smiled.
“Just a job,” I replied. I hadn’t had a decent meal in a while and my night off from booze had left me starving. “Someone’s trying to put the squeeze on someone else. You know, the usual.”
“You look different. You take your razor out of retirement?”
“Very funny,” I replied. “Ah, I’m going to be interviewing some hot shots, so I thought I’d go conventional for a while.”
“No good can come of you mixing with the rich and famous,” he laughed.
I chuckled too. He was probably right.
“If you’re serious about cleaning up your act though, you should get some clean clothes and a haircut. No self-respecting businessman will talk to a rumpled, ponytailed, dirt bag like you. You look like a crack head.”
“Thanks. I love you too.” He was right. I looked like Fido’s ass. You don’t know a good barber do you?” I asked sheepishly. It had been a long time between trips to the barber pole.
Ted gave me the name of his barbershop on East Colonial. We traded barbs between idle chatter, and eating until Marco appeared from the back.
“You two have some business,” Ted said. “I need to get back to work anyway. Good to see you, Mac. Check with me before you leave, oh, and the breakfast is on me.”
I thanked my friend after an attempt to refuse his freebie, but I knew it wouldn’t work. Ted excused himself while Marco got a cup of coffee. He came back with a cup and sat down.
“So how’s it hangin’ Mac?” Marco asked.
“Good Marco. You?”
“I’m happy. Working too much, but happy. What I make here and my county pension, I’m able to help my grandson with school. He’s going to be a doctor and he’s going to graduate without being in debt.”
Having his grandson make something of himself was a source of pride for Marco. The kid being debt free was a matter of honor. Honor was important. It didn’t hurt that Marco made a bundle dealing in information.
“That’s great, Marco. Where’s he going to school?”
“He’s at the University of Miami, first year medical student. His mother and I couldn’t be more proud.”
“UM! That’s my school. I’m so glad for you. That’s great.”
“Did you come for the food or a social call?” he asked.
Both unfortunately,” I replied. “I need some…”
“You need some information on a big wig… some high roller got himself in some trouble. What’s the scam?”
“Blackmail, but how did you know?”
“It’s my business to know.”
“Yeah, but I just got the gig late yesterday. How did…”
“The busboy heard you talking to Mr. Graves about a shake down on some rich guy. You know I hear everything.”
He was smiling. He liked to show off, but never rubbed it in, at least not with me. Note to self, shut your damn mouth, I thought to myself.
“Right I’ll have to remember that.”
“Who’s the mark?” He asked as he took a sip of coffee.
“General Martin Hunt and his son Cary,” I replied. “You did not hear that from me.”
For a minute, I thought he was going to choke. He sputtered and coughed. When he caught his breath, he blew out a long low whistle and shook his head from side to side in disbelief. “You hit the big time my friend. Wow, you never hear nothing about that family. What’s the play? What do you need?”
“It’s a blackmail scam. I need the usual. What are they into, and are there any dealings they’re trying to keep under wraps. The son might be into some extracurricular stuff. See if you can get a name for his designated squeeze de jour. I can pay top dollar on this one. Don’t spare the horses. Put everyone you can on it, but keep it low key.”
“I know about the old man. What about the son, what’s he do, where does the he live?”
“Cary Hunt, he’s an investment banker of some kind. He and his wife live in Dover Shores and hang out at the Steeple Chase Country Club.”
Marco made a couple notes on a napkin and scratched behind his right ear. He took a deep breath. He thought for a few moments then nodded twice, “I can get some information on background in a few days. Getting the name of the mistress might take longer. What’s the wife’s name?”
“Stephanie,” I replied.
“I’ll check her out too. This is going to be expensive,” he said apologetically.
He didn’t really regret it, but it was a good business to try to look sorry. I did the same thing myself.
“It’s always expensive. Don’t soak me, but I can pay on this one. I figured you’d want something up front.”
I took a white business envelope out of my hip pocket and tossed it on the table in front of him. The general had given me an advance to grease the treads.
“That’s very considerate,” he said as he scooped up the envelope. He slipped it inside his chef’s coat. “Your credit is good with me, but I appreciate the thought. Can I reach you at the usual number?”
“Yep, same number, call me as soon as you get something.”
“Will do, Mac. I should get back to work,” he said. He looked around, but there was no one in the place. That was his excuse to scoot.
He stood, shook my hand, and then disappeared into the kitchen.
I had a second cup of coffee while I made some notes on my phone. I’d laid out a wad of the general’s green; I just had to get some results. With my irregular intel team on the job, I decided I could go ahead and try out Ted’s barber.
Chapter 3
I stayed dry all week and even started back on my morning runs. It was torture, but I could feel the booze seep out of my soul. Each day I felt and slept a little better, but it didn’t help the case any. I worked the case hard. I had a lot to prove to my new client, and myself. A week’s worth of shoe leather had netted me a big fat zero. I had nothing, nada, not one lead on who was blackmailing General Hunt.
Marco came through with some information on Cary Hunt for me. A few months back the younger Hunt had been frequenting a timeshare off International Drive on a regular basis. He’d get an apartment for a week then stay one or two nights. The staff thought it was strange until they noticed a woman coming and going with him. She was a pretty brunette, no name or car description to go with the sightings, but it confirmed what the general suspected.
He mentioned Cary had a twin sister, a hotshot New York lawyer, who handled some of her old man’s contracts. I didn’t pay any attention.
I hung out at a downtown pub Hunt’s coworkers frequented, nursing one beer while I talked to the guy’s coworkers, some waitresses, and bartenders, even a valet or two, but got a bunch of nothing. My empty-handed time at the bar was misery, but I had a case. Everyone seemed to like Cary Hunt. A couple waitresses mentioned he was a good-looking guy, who liked to flirt and came off as a player, but he never followed through. They put it down to him being the friendly type. I did too.
The country club set didn’t give me any more information. Hunt didn’t
spend much time at Steeple Chase, but Mrs. Hunt was a regular, a fixture on the tennis courts, around the pool and in the clubhouse. She spent a couple evenings a week there, drinking with friends. Stephanie was drop dead gorgeous and popular too, but not in a good way. I got the vibe she slept around, maybe a lot, but I couldn’t get any straight dope. I heard she sat on a lot of laps. A loose wife was always a ripe target for blackmail.
When I completed an observation or an interview, I jotted down a few notes. At the end of the day, I typed the information up and reported to the general by phone early the next morning. He never asked me how or where I got the information. I reported in every day. He kept me on a tight leash. On the seventh day, the general told me he’d decided to drop the whole thing even though his son was still out of town. He asked me to drive out to Live Oak House the next morning to give him a ‘briefing’. I was about to lose the goose and the golden egg.
I tossed and turned all night fretting. Had I’d missed something? I was sure I hadn’t. I got up early, showered, shaved, and got dressed. I wore new Dockers, a clean polo shirt and new shoes.
It took me no time to get to the general’s place. I rang the buzzer and the butler opened the gate. I parked in the entrance court.
“Nice to see you again Captain Everett,” Norris said as he opened the door before I even rang the bell. He might be overly formal, but he treated me with respect. I appreciated that.
“Hello Norris,” I said as I came through the door.
“The general is by the pool, if you will follow me please.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Ah, is he all right?”
“All right?”
“You know, upset or anything.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Norris led me out to the pool were the old man was indeed doing laps. The guy exercised like an old Olympic athlete looking to make a comeback.
