by Scott Cook
If Big Daddy wanted to whack Sharon in some sort of reprisal, he’d do it in a way that wouldn’t immediately finger him. In spite of what you see on TV, well-known bad guys didn’t go around killing cops. Should that happen, especially on purpose, then you’d have the entire weight of the local police force come down on you like a ten-ton weight. They’d rip into your business, harass you and lock you up just for good measure. Then the FBI would start digging into your records, etc. Very bad for business.
I picked up my soft-sided suitcase and retrieved an already packed duffel from my bedroom closet as well and went out to the jeep. Perhaps relaxing at home wasn’t yet in the cards.
I drove downtown and to my office. It was nearly ten at night and the Richardson building was dark and empty or at least felt so when I entered the lobby. Once in my inner office and once having patted Ferny the fern on her… head? I opened up my trusty lappy and went to work.
There were several tiers of people-search websites that you could use to find out quite a lot of information on folks. As a licensed private investigator, I had access to a few that weren’t open to the general public. Further, thanks to a little winky, winky agreement with a few of my Orlando PD friends, I also had access to their software. At an even higher level now, I also could access ICE’s software or even some of our savvier tech people and plug into information and even direct control over, a great many things that not even the FBI could venture to dream about.
I didn’t have to go nearly that far to find the address of Derrick Walker’s home out in Windermere, however. That was the easy part. Next, I sent a message off to a man in the International Counter-criminal Enforcement agency named Richard Kelly. Kelly was the head of ICE’s intelligence division, a very broad umbrella and a position that gave him access to a dizzying array of technologies.
“What’re you up to, Scott?” Richard asked when I answered his call a few minutes later.
“Playing a hunch, Richard,” I said. “This guy has been implicated in an attempted cop-killing. I wish to… press the issue and see what I can learn.”
There was a pause while Richard was no doubt considering how this could, would or should affect ICE. Finally he asked: “Is this something that could even in the loosest possible context, be under our purview?”
“He’s a known drug dealer and is no doubt connected to international smuggling and who knows what else,” I explained. “Orlando PD and the Orange County Sheriff’s department haven’t been able to nail him for anything in over a decade. He’s very good at covering his tracks… at least insofar as what local law enforcement is able to dig away at. Not even the FBI has been able to penetrate his organization. Anytime one of his small-time pushers or enforcers is pinched and rolls on him, it comes to nothing.”
Richard groaned, “Because his lawyers are better at building walls around him than these small-fry are at pointing the finger, right?”“Exactly. Of course they blame Big Daddy. Who else would they, the lawyers claim… you see the problem. No leverage.”
“And you want to apply a really big lever with ICE as the fulcrum.”
“Precisely… I want to crush him like a bug honestly. Yet I think that when I show up at his house shortly to speak with him, if certain things have already been managed… well… he won’t be able to refuse me a little pow-wow.”
Richard chuckled irreverently, “I like it. What do you need?”
Windermere was one of those outlying communities in the Orlando metro area that attracted celebrities and the wealthy. Located among the Butler chain of lakes, the small village featured a quaint old-timey main street area surrounded by large and expensive homes. Not quite as wealthy as neighboring Isleworth, Windermere still boasted notables such as Ken Griffey, Jr., Trevor Siemian and Philip Michael Thomas of Miami Vice fame.
Derrick Walker’s retiring five thousand square foot doghouse was located along one of the aforementioned lakes. The three-acre property was separated from its neighbors by eight-foot concrete walls carefully concealed behind thick hedges manicured to geometric perfection. The front of the house, although fenced with decorative wrought iron, was not gated. Instead, a double-wide portcullis with an arch at least twenty feet high gave one access to the curving drive.
The drive led to a three-car garage and angled off into a parking loop that met itself halfway to the street. Enough room for half a dozen cars, although my Rubicon was the only occupant at present.
An intensely peaceful evening met me when I stepped out of my Jeep. The night air was crisp, the temperature hovering in the low-fifties. A very light breeze blew off the large lake behind the house and carried with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the chattering of whip-poor-wills, night hawks and the occasional chittering insect. In a sudden pause, as if the nocturnal life were giving him center stage, the distant and haunting hoo… hoo… hooooot… of a great horned owl floated ghostly to my ears from somewhere across the water.
I smiled, the pleasant evening sounds and smells mingling with a night whose stars were outshined by a brilliant moon. Then I remembered that all of this was probably being enjoyed by a scum-sucking dope peddler and my mood darkened. It was time to go to work.
I stepped up to the mahogany front doors with the three, diamond-pane inserts and rang the doorbell. A musical chime sounded within a few seconds before an intercom unit snicked on.
“Who is it?” A voice, still deep over the tinny speaker and carrying with it the sound of hard urban streets demanded.
“Derrick Walker?” I inquired politely.
“Yeah. Who are you?” The man’s tone was jarringly incongruous in the almost pastoral setting.
“Name’s Scott Jarvis and you and I need to talk,” I said.
“I don’t know no Scott Jarvis, so why don’t you get the fuck off my property and stop botherin’ me.”
“Oh, come now, Derrick,” I continued. “I’m your neighbor and was just coming to borrow a cup of sugar.”
“Bullshit! I ain’t got time for bullshit, white man. Why don’t you bounce for I get pissed and do somethin’ unpleasant.”
“Derrick,” I said with far less good humor. “You’re gonna talk to me. We can do this easy, or we can do this hard. I suggest option one.”
A pause and then: “Cop?”
“No, private investigator.”
He laughed scornfully, “Get yo’ sorry Monk ass off my stoop fo I— “
“Open this door, Walker,” I growled. “Now.”
“Mothuhfuckuh! I open that door, and it’s gonna be to break my foot off in yo cracker ass!”
“Let’s not be icky,” I chastised. “I’m giving you five-seconds and then we’re gonna do this the fun way.”
There was no response. At least, no audio response. However, just before my ultimatum ran out, the heavy front door was yanked open and a large man stood framed in the inside light, holding something shiny and lethal in his right hand.
“Okay, you fuckin…” He paused, momentarily confused by the fact that his adversary wasn’t directly in front of him.
His confusion was short-lived however, because I lunged at him from the side, burying the point of my right shoulder into his chest and snatching the big chrome revolver out of his hand as he toppled backward onto a substantial rump.
22
Derrick “Big Daddy” Walker was in his mid-thirties. His jet-black head was shaved, and he sported a close-cropped goatee that framed a wide mouth and drew attention to his over-abundant chin. Walker was perhaps five-foot ten and as wide as a barrel and couldn’t have weighed less than two-hundred and sixty pounds, much of it softness.
His unceremonious plop onto his backside, therefore, was probably well-cushioned. I stepped inside and kicked the door closed, casting a wary glance at what I could see of the house.
To my left, a hallway angled into darkness after passing a wide set of hardwood stairs. To my right, a huge sunken living room sat empty and quiet and a huge kitchen and dining area stretched out
before me. Standing at one of the granite counters in the big kitchen was a small Asian woman who stared at me with wide and frightened eyes. Her slim body was wrapped tightly in a short Kimono robe and in one hand she held a corkscrew.
I noticed then that Big Daddy was also clad only in a robe. His, though, was royal purple and sported snowy white fleece at the cuffs and collar.
I slid Walker’s gun into my waistband and pointed my own Colt 1911 at him, “Get up.”
“Miko, call the cops!” Walker shouted to the Asian woman, who stood frozen in place twenty feet from me, her pie-eyes locked onto my right hand. She didn’t so much as twitch.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “Your phone doesn’t work. Your cable and internet aren’t functioning. The only reason you still have power is because I wanted it that way. And believe me, Walker, that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about!?” Walker raged as he struggled to his big feet. “This a hit?”
“Who else is in the house?” I asked.
He flipped me off.
I looked to the small woman who still stood rigid near the curving bar. She opened her mouth, closed it and then opened it again.
“WHO!?” I roared, my voice rattling some glasses in a cabinet somewhere.
“Shantel is upstairs,” Miko said in little more than a whisper.
I grinned at Walker, “Little party, eh? I hope I interrupted something interesting. Call her down.”
“Suck my dick,” Walker spat.
“The language!” I chided. “Don’t you know there’s a lady present, Derrick? Shantel, get down here right now!”
This last I hollered upward in the general direction of whatever was upstairs. I thought I heard something and maybe footsteps on hardwood floors above me. A moment later, a woman’s voice called down the stairs.
“What’s goin’ on, D?”
“Shan, call M.L.!” Walker shouted. “Tell him we got trouble!”
I only laughed and waited.
“I can’t! My phone ain’t workin’!” The woman’s distressed voice replied after a time. “I done tried a few minutes ago too, and nothin’…”
“Your other girlfriend?” I asked.
“Wife,” Walker growled. “You gonna fuckin’ pay for this, nigga.”
I chuckled, “That’s been happening a lot lately. Me being called ‘nigga I’ mean. Kind of a nice change from ofey or blue-eyed devil I guess. Although this keeps up and I’m gonna start feeling like I’m in a gangsta rap video. Maybe go out to the pool and pour some booze on some half-naked hoochies? Sounds kinda fun, really.”
“You crazy or somethin’?” Walker asked.
“Perhaps… get your wife down here now,” I said. “Because if I have to go up after her… it’s going to be… unpleasant…”
Either Shantel heard that or just decided to see what was going on of her own volition. Because she bounded down the stairs. They were curved and the curve took them out of sight of the first floor halfway down. That’s why she wasn’t prepared for what awaited her when she hit the ground floor.
Walker tried to warn her as her steps began to pound on the treads, but a swift kick into his bulging belly doubled him over and effectively clapped a stopper over whatever he was going to say. Miko, for her part, simply stood by the still unopened bottle of wine and watched silently.
What was your gallant hero doing all this time? Well, after kicking the drug dealer, I scooted sideways and into the darkened hallway. So when the slender medium-tall woman appeared before me, brandishing another of the big chrome revolvers, she was surprised to find only her husband gasping for air, her Asian houseguest standing like a statue and no intruder.
The woman was very pretty and a main of thick black hair fell down her back nearly to a very round and firm-looking backside. This was confirmed when I slashed out with my .45, hitting her gun with my barrel and knocking it free to slide across the marble tile nearly to the front door. I then wrapped my left arm around her upper chest and drew her close to me. I pressed the barrel of my gun up to one of two breasts that seemed far too large for her frame.
She struggled for a moment, anger momentarily blinding her to the situation until I pressed my 1911 harder into her enormous right breast. She stopped struggling then and settled down to a minor but noticeable shiver.
“Take it easy,” I said calmly to her. “You behave and I won’t hurt you.”
“Fuck you, fuckin’ crackuh!” She snapped, but it lacked total resolution.
“Now where’d a nice girl like you learn a nasty word like that?” I asked. “Why all this ethnic strife? Can’t we just be the brothers and sisters we truly are?”
That actually stopped her shaking and she cocked her head to try and look up at me, “What? Who the hell are you?”
“You with Franco?” Walker managed to croak as he straightened.
“Paul Franco?” I asked. “Nah… although we are slumber party besties now, in spite of the fact that he tried to whack me a year or two back. But no, kids, I’m not with Franco. I’m here on an entirely different matter. Miko, why don’t you open that bottle of wine and let’s have ourselves a wonderful tongue-wag, shall we?”
“Crazy mothuhfuckuh…” Walker groaned. “This ain’t a hit, then? You ain’t here to kill me and Shantel?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’d sooner shatter a stained-glass window than deprive the world of such a gorgeous, spirited and truly courageous woman. You, on the other hand, I’d take out for a ham sangwich… and I hate ham sangwiches.”
That actually produced a smile from Miko, who started applying her opener. Even Shantel didn’t succeed in suppressing a snicker. Walker only glared.
“You gonna let her go?” he finally asked.
I sighed, “I suppose. I am rather enjoying this, though. On the other hand, if I loosen my grip the poor lady might topple over. Little top heavy.”
She scoffed, “Best titties money can buy.”
I chuckled and lowered my weapon and my left arm from around Shantel’s chest, “Everybody sit down at the table. Only three glasses, Miko. Gotta keep my wits about me. You all play nice and you can go back to your little threesome or whatever the Christ this is.”
“So if you ain’t with Franco, then who you with and what’s this about, asshole?” Walker asked snidely.
“I’ll ask the questions, honey,” I said, leaning up against the counter and trying not to gawk at Shantel’s enormous mammaries. The things had to be the size of big ripe cantaloups and although they were perfectly shaped… too perfectly shaped to be real… they gave her the appearance of an over-masted ship flying far too much canvas just begging for a knock down. “Why’d you send those two shit for brains over to shoot up the cop’s house the other night?”
“That what this is about?” Walker asked, sipping his wine. “You think I had somethin’ to do wit dat? Shit…I ain’t into all that, dawg. I don’t go round poppin’ cops n’shit.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said with an eye roll. I looked at Shantel. “You married this fuckin’ guy?”
She only sipped from her glass and shrugged. I swear I saw a grin flash across Miko’s small pretty face, but she said nothing else.
“One of your boys ratted you out, Big Daddy,” I explained. “Why the fuck else do you think I or anybody else would show up here?”
He scoffed, “Cuz’ everybody know Big Daddy a bad mothuhfuckuh, that’s why. I get blamed for all kinda shit goes on in O-town.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what…? That fine bit of OPD tail your bitch or some shit?” Walker jeered.
“Yeah, and that’s exactly how I’d refer to any woman of mine, as a bitch,” I mocked him. I looked at Shantel again. “Please tell me you’re in this for the money?”
“Why you keep talkin’ to her?” Big Daddy snapped. “You tryin’ to start trouble or git you some o’that? Like to get you some fine nigga pussy, right, crackuh? Get your hands on them tig ole bi
tties?”
Shantel’s face darkened and a scowl settled on her pretty face.
I laughed at Walker, “God damn… you’re a friggin’ idiot. Why’d you hit Nolen and who hired you to do it?”
“If I wanted that bitch dead, she’d be dead, crackuh,” Walker said proudly.
“Sure she would, Derrick. Sure she would. And since you don’t go round poppin’ no cops, then somebody hired you. Making you… somebody else’s bitch. Now you’re gonna tell me who that was, or I’m going to drop my sunny disposition and this conversation is going to be decidedly less amiable,” I explained as I bent down, slid the hem of my jeans up and unsnapped the leather strap holding my KA-bar in its inverted sheath against my left calf. When I stood up, I held up the eight-inch combat blade so everyone could see it clearly.
“Derrick…” Shantel urged through clenched teeth.
Walker chuckled sardonically and waved his free hand dismissively. Yet when he spoke, the look in his amber eyes wasn’t one of confidence but of fear, “you ain’t gonna do shit. Let’s just break it down, homey. I got plenty to go around. How much it take to get you to turn your white ass around and forget you ever came here.”
“You got any cash?” I inquired.
“Not much in the house right now, maybe ten grand,” Walker said, puffing his chest out and trying to reestablish his machismo. “That enough to seal the deal?”
I laughed, “Ten grand? A drop in the bucket, babe. How much you got otherwise?”
“You said your name was Jarvis,” Walker was now going to try intimidation. “I can find out who you are and where you live. I got plenty of talent, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah, and good luck keeping them on the payroll,” I replied. “I happen to know that between stocks, savings and checking accounts and safe deposit boxes, you’ve got access to more than two million dollars, Derrick.”
He laughed, “So what? You want all of it.”
