by L H Thomson
I gave him a slow head shake. “Not today, Agent Belloche. Maybe tomorrow, huh? I’m sure you’ll be around.”
“Oh, you can count on that Mr. Quinn.”
CHAPTER 5
The police tape was gone on the club’s front doors when I pulled through the main gates the next morning. But when I drove a few more feet and saw the scrum of media in the parking lot, I realized why.
They were doubtless frenzied for the sad story of the promising young soccer player cut down by an unfortunate gas leak, which the morning radio report had already ironically declared “the second major natural gas-related blast in the city this week.” But if they saw the pre-existing police tape, from the forensic examination, they’d have been asking all sorts of other questions. So the police had simply taken it down.
Judging by the fact that four staff parking slots were filled, the small club’s handful of employees were back at their desks, too.
Crck was occupied with the scrum, so I headed inside to wait for him. The office secretary, a professional-looking middle-aged woman named Cheryl, made me a cup of watery coffee then went back to her computer. God only knows what type of business an elite amateur soccer club got into that needed so much tapping, but she sure was busy.
It took him a few more minutes, so I played with my new phone. It fetched the latest hockey scores – Davy is a bigger Flyers fan than me – and the forecast, so I can’t say modern technology is complete garbage.
When Crck did finally show up, he was moving quickly, and irritated as hell.
“Cheryl, did anyone call for me?”
She nodded. “Messages out the wazoo, I think all media. A couple of....” She stopped talking for a moment, suddenly aware again of my presence. “A couple of private business calls.”
Crck slumped into the chair behind his desk, a tired figure, rapidly aging. “I feel like perhaps I need a vacation,” he said. “Have you ever dealt with the media like that?”
I had to admit I hadn’t. “They want the kid’s life story, I guess.”
He nodded. “Sam was a nice boy.”
Time for another gamble. “But you were arguing with him the same night you said you heard David B. Davidson.”
Feint, duck, dodge. Crck was too tired to even consider whether I was bluffing. Me? I’d maybe had one coffee too many that morning already.
“Yes, yes. But it was nothing. I tell you, Mr. Quinn, it was nothing. He wanted more playing time, he came to chat with me after his physical.”
I’d followed the local amateur scene a little. “This isn’t an academy team and you’re not associated with a big club. So why didn’t he just leave, get more playing time somewhere else? I heard he had a partial ride next year?”
“He had offers in Texas and from Connecticut, yes. But he had been complaining since last season about losing some of his starting time here. Sam was good enough to play all the time at a club not so deep at left back, so I admit to being surprised he did not go before this season began.”
Crck seemed like a competitor to me. “You’re sure of that, that you’d let him go easily?”
“Like you said, Mr. Quinn, we can’t compel a player to stay with us. I even suggested to him that if he wanted more game time that another developmental club would definitely take him.”
It didn’t make sense. The kid stayed when he didn’t need to, but he didn’t start and he wasn’t, as far as I could tell, connected in any other way to Patrick Amapikwe.
But he was in the office on the night Junior was killed, and was killed himself by someone I knew worked for Johnny Terrasini. It added up to one thing: the late Sam Prince saw or knew something deadly important.
I headed back out into the lot. I needed to talk to Patrick and his agent again, see if they had heard or seen anything else on the night. Crck helped me out with Charity Amapikwe’s number. It was also a chance to see if they recognized Johnny’s name.
She picked up on the first ring and directed me to their apartment just off the Main Line, a second-floor two bedroom walkup with old fashioned radiators and neat old moldings, baroque or maybe even grotesque, complete with gargoyles and lions.
Charity directed me to an armchair in front of the coffee table, then took her place on one sofa, dressed more casually than at the club; she’d stowed the gold in favor of some nicely colorful junk jewelry and her hair was swept-back, pulled into a ponytail. Patrick was in jeans and a t-shirt on the opposite sofa.
“This whole thing is so upsetting, Mr. Quinn,” she said. She composed herself. “My apologies, I am being rude. Can I offer you something?”
“No, that’s fine Mrs. Amapikwe, thank you.” I got straight to the point. “Your manager thinks he heard Patrick’s agent arguing with someone the night Junior Flores was killed.”
Charity looked at the boy quizzically. “Do you know anything of this, Patrick?”
He nodded, looking distracted, the same world-weary maturity Crck had noticed in him. “D’accord, yeah. I mean, okay. It’s correct what he say, we had an argument.”
She looked concerned. “About what? Why did you not tell me of this?”
Patrick shrugged. “He was trying to get me to approach you again about taking the offers from the American clubs more seriously, plus serieux.”
I said, “You didn’t agree on signing options?”
“No. He was completely in favor of me signing a four-year deal here for more salary, because that meant more for him. But we do not want to lock into an American contract for that long and there are options in Europe with more upfront and fewer years.”
“And so you said what?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “I just told him we were in complete disagreement and that he should drop this.”
Charity said, “You should have come to me with this and let me handle it.”
He stared at his sneakers petulantly. “It was nothing.”
I asked how they left things. “What was he doing when you left?”
“He said there were things he needed to take care of and that he’d leave a little later.”
“What time?”
Patrick pondered the question for a few seconds. “Perhaps eight-forty five?”
“And where was Junior?” He would have been at work for nearly three hours by then. If he had the same work ethic as a custodian as he did boxing, he’d have been pretty visible.”
Again a shrug. “I am sorry. It is bad for me to not know, I realize, but I did not really notice him. I guess he could have been there?” he offered, trying to help.
“Do you remember anything else?”
“I played some games, and I had a snack.” He pondered for a few more seconds before shaking his head. “I walked out to the parking lot, and Francois was waiting with the car.”
Sometimes painting a mental picture helps people recall small details. “Picture the parking lot,” I said. “Were there other cars?”
He closed his eyes and thought about it for a second. “Yes. Coach’s car was parked next to us. Sam Prince’s scooter was there, too. A small Toyota, and ... “ He squinted hard, trying to hold the image, “... .and that’s it. I think.”
I leaned forward and we fist bumped. “Don’t sweat it kid; you done good.” At least I knew pretty much everyone was still there around the time Junior was murdered. It didn’t narrow things down much, but it seemed a little like progress. “This must all be pretty shocking for you.”
The kid frowned. “Yes, but I would be lying if I did not admit I saw many, many bad things when I was a boy in Chad. It does not make it any happier, but there is not the horror at these things that there once was.”
“You heard about Sam Prince?”
His head slumped and his eyes teared. “Sometimes … some things are just difficult to understand.”
Charity said, “Sam and Patrick were close. He was the first boy to be nice to Patrick and talk to him as a friend after he joined the club.”
“Can you think of any rea
son why someone might want to hurt Sam?” I asked. “In case the explosion turns out to not be an accident.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed and he studied me bloodlessly for a moment, like a lizard staring down a fly. “Have you heard something we should know, Monsieur Quinn? As my mother says, Sam and I were close.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
He smiled briefly. “I believe I asked you first.”
“I’ve heard the same official line as you,” I said, which was technically true.
He looked morose again. “On the weekend, at assessments. He really wanted to play pro, you know?”
“You can relate.”
“I just love the game, Monsieur Quinn. The fact that they want pay me?” he smiled a little again. “That is still amazing to me.”
“Did he say anything? Anything that might have indicated he was having problems?”
He shook his head again. “Non … I mean, no. Again, I cannot understand why anyone…”
Charity intervened. “Mr. Quinn, this is all quite hard for my son, of course. Perhaps we can continue at another time?”
I could hardly say no, although the kid hadn’t told me much. “Another time then, Mrs. Amapikwe.”
I was down the first flight of steps and almost out of the building when Francois Mpenge walked in through the front door, blocking the way. I kept my head down and tried to walk by him, but he leaned into my path, clipping me hard with his shoulder.
We both spun around from the impact so that I had my back to the door and he to the stairs. “You want to watch yourself,” he said through a thick accent. “You don’t, you maybe get ‘urt real bad, eh?”
I smiled and half-turned to leave. “My apologies. I’ll just be....”
His friend was blocking the doorway, holding the door ajar.
“I don’t think you ‘eard me,” Mpenge said. “I don’t think you’re going nowhere until I get an apology.”
This wasn’t going to go well if I let them keep the initiative. Both guys were huge.
“Is that why he’s blocking the doorway?” I said.
He nodded, and both men chuckled maliciously.
So I kicked the door closed. Hard.
Unfortunately for the guy in the doorway, he was between it and closure, and the force of the kick. He went down with a sense of Newtonian certainty.
“Ok,” I said to Mpenge, trying to dissuade any more stupidity, “that’s one problem taken care of.”
I moved to leave but he made for me like a bull chasing a matador.
As a long-time boxer, I benefit from a decent sixth-sense for danger, and I ducked backwards in just about perfect time, his fist flashing past where my head had just been. My position was poor, off balance; so I turned into his range of motion, swinging hard for his midsection.
Most guys don’t expect you to try and punch them in the gut or the solar plexus, so they’re not braced for the blow. And if you knock the wind right out of a guy, there’s not a whole lot he can do. Even a pro fighter can only take so many hard body shots before his legs get a little weak.
And if he’s really unlucky?
Well, then he does what Francois Mpenge did. He drops to his knees and vomits.
“I’m going to be going now,” I told the prone man. “But like you said, people should watch themselves.”
He grunted. “I’m just... looking out for ‘im, eh?”
“You might want to reconsider your chosen vocation,” I told him.
I caught up with my old friends Walter Beck and Danny Saint for lunch downtown. Walter is one of the city’s most successful – and law-enforcement reviled – defense attorneys, while Danny was once a pitcher in the Phillies system and now spent most of his time hustling people for money.
That sort of behavior, I had to figure, had a whole lot to do with why he was no longer a prospect in the Phillies system. That and his inability to throw decent breaking stuff.
He had a second-rate fastball, but was a first-grade grifter, which made him better at it than most; but if he’d had the same work ethic in double-A, he’d have developed a cut fastball or decent slider, and maybe made the bigs.
“So what’s with you?” asked Danny. “We haven’t heard from you in a week. So what’s keeping you so busy?”
I smiled and took a sip of my beer. “It’s a stumper, that’s for sure, a real puzzler.”
Walter’s eyes lit up a little, like the top of a low-rent Christmas tree. Good insurance cases often led to good clients and big payouts. “Do tell, my boy.”
“Old friend of mine was murdered a week ago. No real reason for anyone connected to the case to kill him.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Walter said.
“He was good people. Danny, you ever meet Junior Flores?”
Danny said no, he hadn’t. “But he was a legend inside. He was challenged three times his first day, each bigger than the one before, each going down harder and faster.” He drained his beer. “But youse didn’t call about lunch for nothing, Quinn; you always want something.”
Walter took a bite of quiche. “Hmm. He knows you too well, my boy.”
I didn’t waste Danny’s time. “Okay, I’m a selfish jerk. But I need you to keep an eye on a guy for me. Tall drink of water, from Africa. He’s playing soccer for a feeder club just outside the city.”
I passed him Francois’ picture and address. “Pick up a tail on him each morning, tell me what he gets up to for the next week.”
Walter said, “You’re figuring this guy for your friend’s murder?”
“I don’t know, Walter, I really don’t. But he’s big and mean, and as far as I can tell not much of a soccer player.”
Danny said, “You said he’s from Africa?”
“Chad. It’s a ....”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard of it,” Danny said. “My cousin’s an agent in Florida. He’s always going over there to pick up college prospects. You want I should see if they got any info on this guy or what?”
Couldn’t hurt. “Sure. All I know about him right now is he’s supposed to be thirty four; but his coach thinks he’s older, and he played in Sierra Leone for a while. I’ll mail you his picture.”
I filled them in on Patrick Amapikwe and his mother, Charity. “They seem to have brought Mpenge along as muscle, but the coach thinks the mom might have a fling going with him as well.”
We chatted about the case for a few more minutes and finished up our lunch as the sun drenched the umbrella-dotted patio. Eventually, Walter asked, “Well that explains why you invited Danny today, my boy. But where does your humble servant figure into all of this?”
I shrugged. “This place is expensive and you’re the most popular defense lawyer in town. We need you to pick up the check.”
Walter did not look impressed.
I’d promised Karen Flores I’d fill her in on my investigation, and as I drove over to their house — or just her house now, I guess — it occurred to me that I didn’t have much definitive to tell her.
I liked the big African guy for a suspect, but I knew that was just bias; he was a mean bastard, but there was no suggestion so far he’d been inside the clubhouse on the night in question.
Plus, I knew there had been at least two major arguments heard in the hallway that night, maybe three. Add that to the fact that almost everyone involved in the arguments had a stake in Patrick Amapikwe’s success, it seemed a little convenient and easy to just target Francois Mpenge.
I was a few blocks from her house, the neighborhood barely lit by the evening street lights, when I realized the same headlights had been behind me for a little too long.
That pretty much ruled out the cops or another investigator; professionals weren’t usually that sloppy, my father had often told me. On my lengthy list of not-so-friendly detractors, Johnny Terrasini unnerved me the most. I could usually handle myself in a scrap; but as I’ve mentioned a time or two before, bullets are indiscriminately difficult to avoid.
I pulled over immediately and cut the engine and headlights. The car rolled past slowly, cruising uncertainly to the stop sign at the corner then putting on a turn signal at the last second. I figured he’d go around the block then find somewhere to park and watch.
Police?
Didn’t seem likely. The boys in blue were even less likely to be made by someone they were tailing than a PI, and as much as they disliked me, I obviously had nothing to do with the case other than helping out Karen.
She was grim at the door, and extra sleep hadn’t helped her look less tired and worn down. She held the door open until I’d passed then closed it softly behind me.
“How are you?” I asked her. “You holding together?”
She nodded. “Sure. I mean, yeah, sure. You know. Junior’s funeral is tomorrow. His mother’s coming in from Merida.”
Junior’s mother had stopped talking to him years ago, when he’d first accused his father of abusing him. But mothers don’t stop loving their kids, even when they stop seeing them.
“Little late,” I said.
She nodded. “You got that right. But what can I say to her, you know? She’s a mother.”
Karen tossed back the tail end of a drink. “I’m having another. You want?” she said.
I knew it wasn’t a good idea for an ex-junkie to be calming her nerves with cheap scotch, but I also understood.
“Sure, just a couple of fingers, some ice.”
After she’d settled down, she put her feet up under her on the couch and took a strong swallow then sighed deeply, releasing some of the weight of her grief, if only for a moment. “Junior always wanted kids, you know?” she said. “He just wanted to be sure he could support them properly before we went ahead. We still had a few good years.”
She reached forward and grabbed her cigarettes of the table, offering me one, which I waved off, before lighting her own. “I don’t know now, you know Liam? Before this happened, we were both at a stable place for the first time in our lives. We had predictable income, a little savings. We were both working too hard, but it was going to be worth it. He even talked about opening a gym, you know?”
