Body Slam (The Touchstone Agency Mysteries)

by Rex Burns

  “What about a Salvador Pomarico?” Julie asked. “Did that name show up anywhere?”

  The line was silent and she could imagine Bernie’s pencil jotting the name. “Who’s he?”

  “Some mob guy killed in New York a couple weeks ago. Car bomb.”

  “Can’t remember seeing it. I can go back and look.”

  Julie hesitated. “What’s the tab now?”

  Bernie told them.

  Raiford gave a little whistle. “Let’s wait on that one,” he said. “See how much our client wants to spend.”

  “No problem.” Bernie added, “I saved the best for last: the Chertok name is not unknown in Chicago. Philip Chertok—a.k.a. ‘Dirty Shirt’—is doing time in Lewisburg on contempt charges. He refused to testify in a federal racketeering case.”

  “Oh, boy!” said Julie. “Now tell us this stand-up guy’s Sidney’s father.”

  “Nope. His uncle. Sidney’s father was killed in an automobile accident about thirty years ago. Apparently got drunk and parked his car on an unguarded railway crossing. Didn’t hear the whistle.”

  “No suspicion of foul play?”

  “All sorts of suspicion. No proof. Papa Chertok’s record wasn’t anything special—a couple of falls for burglary early on, and that’s about it. The suspicion was that he seldom drank and that he was a gang war victim. It was after Carmine Galante was shot. A lot of maneuvering went on in both the New York and Chicago organizations, and cops were picking up dead soldiers all over the place.”

  The information gave new dimension to the phrase “all in the family.” Julie said, “Thanks, Bernie. Send us your bill.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Raiford’s large fingers thoughtfully pinched one of his earlobes. “So Sid Chertok could be one of the boys.”

  “And Mammoth Productions, even if it’s legitimate, could be backed by the family. Could even be a conduit for laundering money.”

  “Denver’s been pretty clean of organized crime.” There had been some over the years, Raiford knew. But it had been localized, historically centered around one well-known family whose usual hustles had been gambling and fencing stolen goods. Of late, criminal gangs, usually Hispanic and black, had been imported from L.A. But they were active mostly in the drug trade and in fights over territory. Periodically the police ran a sting that brought some familiar faces to the front pages, but on the whole, Denver’s biggest crooks tended to be elected by the people. “But maybe times are a-changing.”

  Julie summed up what they had both been thinking. “And that throws a different light on Mr. Chertok.”

  “Don’t it though. And it calls for even more.”

  She didn’t answer right away. “We might want to think this over first, Dad.”

  Her father stopped tugging at his ear. “What’s to think? We have a client, Julie—this is where his case leads.”

  “Chertok swears he didn’t have anything to do with hassling Lidke.”

  “And now that you know his uncle’s a wiseguy, you’re convinced he’s telling the truth?”

  Julie sighed. There had been a time or two in the past when they’d reminded each other that Touchstone didn’t drop out of a case just because things got sticky or a client got cold feet. Still, successful agencies were known for discretion more than for valor. “Chertok seems to be doing all he can to distance himself from Lidke and there’s no evidence tying the two. Let’s just go slow until we know what we’re facing, OK?”

  Raiford studied the expression on his daughter’s face. Both the faint worry lines between her eyebrows and the reflexive caution reminded him of Heather and of the number of times when one of his decisions or actions had struck his wife as being too impetuous. “All right, Julie. But I bet you told Palombino’s widow that we’d do what we can to find her husband’s killer. Am I right?” He smiled. “Am I?”

  Another sigh. “You’re right. So—you have a plan?”

  In the absence of a flash of genius, Raiford suggested that Julie ask Detective Wager to lunch and bring up the organized crime angle. “He might be more willing to trade information with a lovely blonde than an ugly brunette like me.”

  “That’s what all the gentlemen prefer, Dad. But don’t count on it with Detective Wager. A, he’s all cop; and B, he’s very close with a city council woman.” She took a deep breath—now was the time: “But as you’re willing to throw me to the wolf, let me tell you my idea for you… .”

  The Tap Out Lounge was on South Federal Boulevard in a strip of businesses that looked huddled and grimy in the hard afternoon sunlight. In the middle of a block where four lanes of heat-shimmering cars surged between traffic lights, the bar was flanked by storefronts touting discount carpets, check cashing, auto parts, unpainted furniture, and something called “Wear ’Em Again Sam.” The latter advertised Recycled Apparel for Caballeros y Damas. The open door to the Tap Out had windows on each side that started at shoulder height and went up to the eaves; a dusty sign in one said plenty parking around back underlined by an arrow pointing left. Raiford turned right at the next corner and saw a similar arrow pointing down an alley fenced by sagging wire and sun-warped boards. He drove past rusty trash barrels and garage doors whose paint seemed to be varying shades of the same basic mud color. A third arrow marked a dusty recess of gravel holding a half-dozen cars and pickups. Here, half a block from busy Federal Avenue, the residential section of the Barnum neighborhood started. Rows of single-story apartments were interrupted by occasional three- and four-story apartment blocks. Farther away from Federal, the apartments gave way to small brick bungalows that tended to have motorcycles, pickup trucks, and vans parked in the driveways and along the curbs.

  He parked and stood a few moments beside his car, wondering if Julie was right: that he did not look too old to do this. In fact, she had said, he looked so young that some of her acquaintances had mistaken him for her boyfriend. A sugar-daddy boyfriend, perhaps, but not impossibly old for a professional wrestler. And, he modestly admitted to himself, he was in good shape. Those evening sessions in the gym and sparring with Julie had kept him that way. So it just might work, and she was right: it was worth trying.

  The rear entrance led down a narrow hall paneled with dark-stained plywood and past the restrooms—Pointers and Setters—to three currently empty pool tables. Beyond a waist-high partition was a dim cavern filled with heavy wooden tables and sturdy wooden chairs. Against one wall ran the bar, backed by rows of bottles and a full mirror. Above the bar in a corner, the television held a picture with the sound turned down and script running across the screen’s bottom. From a speaker somewhere else, a steel guitar and an equally twangy voice lamented the bad luck of losing, in ascending importance, a woman, a pickup truck, and a dog. There weren’t many people in the larger dining area, but the three who were sitting at a corner table took up a lot of space.

  Raiford lowered one hip to a barstool whose brass seat was shaped like a saddle. The woman behind the shelf dried her hands as she left a sink of dirty glasses. “Afternoon—what’ll you have?” A flick of her wrist, and a small fiber coaster advertising Coors settled expectantly on the dark wood in front of him.

  “Draw.” He nodded at the row of keg pulls. “Buffalo Gold. And a round for those guys—whatever they’re drinking.”

  She nodded, long black hair spiraling down the front of a very full red-and-white gingham shirt. Raiford watched as she carried a loaded tray to the table where the three sat with that spraddle-legged heaviness of bulky men. The one with his back to the bar looked over his shoulder to study Raiford and then shrugged and nodded thanks. Raiford lifted his beer in reply, left a bill on the bar, and strolled over. The men sized him up as he approached.

  “Can I join you for a few minutes?”

  Under the table, someone’s foot pushed back the empty chair, and the largest of the three lifted his glass and drawled, �
�In haste we turn, on hospitable thoughts intent.”

  “That means yes?”

  The man grunted. “It means you bought. Sit down.” His black beard was woven into dreadlocks held at the ends by small, brightly colored beads. On his left sat a man with a stiffly erect, blond crew cut. The hair of the third man was trimmed to look like an upside-down bowl above his shaved temples and nape.

  Raiford nodded to him. “Oromond the Ogre—I saw you wrestle last month at the Coliseum.” He hadn’t seen the wrestler; he’d only read about it in one of the wrestling magazines he’d been leafing through as research. But he didn’t want to tell the Ogre that he’d missed the wrestler’s big break. “You put on a good show.”

  “Thanks.” There was an awkward silence while everyone drank. Oromond finally said, “You thinking about being a wrestler?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  The crew cut snorted a laugh and nudged the beaded beard. “What I tell you, Donald? Everybody’s got the dream.”

  Donald’s teeth flashed white. “Each age is a dream that is dying or one that is coming to birth. You do look a bit old for starting the game, but you’ve got the size. How much do you weigh, my man?”

  “About two-fifty.”

  “That’s the size.”

  The crew cut nodded. “Sure is. Hell, I bet a big boy like him could get right up there on the national circuit in no time at all. Get him some franchise spin-offs—nothing to it!”

  Raiford kept his voice pleasant and his eyes on the Ogre. “How’d you get started?”

  The Ogre shrugged; it was a familiar question and he rattled off the facts. “Wrestled NCAA heavyweight. Penn State. Agent saw me and said he could get me a tryout with the National Wrestling Alliance. Paid a hell of a lot better than coaching middle-school sports.”

  “How’d you get to the FWO?”

  “New manager—one with contacts. Changed my style, too. I started out the good guy. Handsome Henry, the Dutch Destroyer. That’s my real name, Henry. Henry Van Dam. But the Dutch Destroyer didn’t fill seats so I changed to the Ogre, and,” he said, tired of telling a familiar story, “here I am.” He asked Raiford, “You got any experience?”

  “A little.”

  “Oh, man!” The crew cut sounded awed. “A little experience, too! I bet we got us another Randy Savage here. Couple months, you’ll be with WWE and doing goddamn Viagra commercials.”

  Raiford looked past the crew cut to the beard. “How about you? How’d you get in the game?”

  The biggest man kept his voice neutral, neither siding with the crew cut nor against him. “About like you’re trying to do—hung around, asked some questions, found out who to go see.” A shrug. “But I was a lot younger than you. I had the time to spend a few years on the tank circuit. First year, I made all of two hundred dollars for a six-night week. And around here, it’s even harder to get started. What you have to remember is to ‘render therefore to all their dues; tribute to whom tribute is due.’ ” He leaned back to drink. His large black thumb and fingers almost touched around the beer mug. “You know what I mean?”

  Raiford smiled and gestured for another round.

  Crew cut shoved his empty beer mug across the table to get Raiford’s attention. “You want to know how I got started, too? It sure as hell wasn’t by wimping around buying drinks and sucking ass, old man!”

  Raiford studied the man’s half-closed blue eyes and the challenging sneer. The two other wrestlers studied Raiford. It was bound to come sooner or later, but he didn’t think it would be this fast. “Anything I want to know about you, I can read on the shithouse wall.” It wasn’t great wit, but it fit the audience.

  “Well, goddamn you—”

  “Settle down, Billy.”

  “Settle down my ass! I’m not letting no son of a bitch come in here and—”

  “Gentlemen!” The woman’s voice carried sharply from the bar. “Not in here, you ain’t. You know the rules: outside and out back!”

  The crew cut, eyes now stretched wide and suddenly bloodshot, half stood to lean over the table. “Come on, fuckhead! Come on out back, goddamn you—I’ll rip your goddamned head off!”

  Raiford, too, stood. “That’s just where I was going.”

  Crew cut stepped back eagerly, clattering his heavy chair over onto the wooden floor. The beard rose more slowly, growing taller and taller until even Raiford had to tilt his head to look up at a man who was close to seven feet tall. “You don’t have to do this, my man. Billy’s drunk, that’s all. And half your age. You come back in a couple days—I’ll tell you all about the game.”

  Raiford didn’t answer. Billy’s shoulder slammed against the doorframe of the poolroom as he rushed toward the exit. The back door thudded open and he spun around in the hot glare of the graveled lot. Tugging his shirt free of his belt, he rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles and began sidling toward Raiford, hands ready to grapple. “Come on, shithead!” He crouched, arms working in slow circles, and glided to his right.

  Raiford took a deep breath and forced it out to clear his lungs and mind and to concentrate on the figure moving obliquely toward him. Then he settled into the open-legged stance.

  “Well, come on, big mouth! Show us what you can do!”

  The first move was basic. It was as much to loosen up and feel Billy out as to make contact: a quick step into the gyaku-zuki. Raiford’s fist leaped forward and back like a snake’s tongue as Billy blinked with surprise and tried to grab the flashing wrist. Then a quick half-step to the mae-geri-keage, a front kick that snapped hard against Billy’s chest to make the man grunt and stumble back. Followed by a mawashi-geri that swung Raiford’s leg in a wide arc to thud the point of his shoe against Billy’s ribs.

  The man gasped, eyes and mouth rounding with hurt as he sagged back. Then the alcohol was seared away by pain and anger. He roared—meaty fists pummeling the air—and swung for Raiford’s head.

  Billy may have been a good wrestler, but any training he had was lost in mindless rage. Still, he was young and in shape; he was strong; he was big enough to fight through a heavy hit. And he was fast. A wild fist glanced off Raiford’s shoulder and numbed it as the man lunged forward. Raiford knocked away the second fist with his forearm and stepped forward to dig the tips of his fingers deep under the man’s lowest rib. Reflexively, Raiford glided into a familiar rhythm of moves—thrust, kick, thrust, chop, swinging kick, and straight punch. For a long moment during the flow of kicks and punches, he did not even see Billy—his focus was on the air in front of his own body, striking through the imaginary spot and feeling the contact with Billy’s flesh only as a momentary slowing of his hand or foot. In his ears was the controlled pace of his own breathing and the crisp, level voice of the sensei counting off the series again and again in the repeated forty-second drills. After the last gayaku-zuki, the blurry shadow that was Billy dropped out of his vision and Raiford stepped back, ready to block and to re-center himself for another series. But Billy, facedown on hands and knees with his head swinging loosely, gasped something unclear and then vomited.

  “Jesus Christ!” Oromond the Ogre still had his hand in the air where he’d lifted it in a gesture to ask Billy to take it easy.

  The bearded man looked down at the clenched, sickly heaving man and then at Raiford. “ ‘Who is this happy warrior? Who is he that every man in arms should wish to be?’ You’re black belt, aren’t you?” There was mild accusation in his voice. “This is the way you get your jollies? Fight a drunk who doesn’t even know karate? Is that why you wanted to come out back?”

  Raiford cleared the tension from his chest and back with another long, deep breath before he answered. “No.” He nodded at his SUV. “My car’s here. I wanted to leave before things got ugly.”

  The man studied first Raiford and then the vehicle and finally made up his mind. Then he held out a hand almost the size
of a tennis racket. “Well, my name’s Donald Bausley. My ring name’s Doctor Witch. My man, if you are serious—really serious, I mean—about being a wrestler, and if you can afford the fees, maybe I can help you out.”

  11

  Wager had been out of the office when Julie telephoned and left a message. When her own phone rang, she thought it was the homicide detective returning her call, but a secretary for Wampler Agency asked briskly if she would hold for an important communication from Mr. Edwin M. Welch. The line clicked before Julie could ask “Who?” After a few seconds, a man’s voice said, “Um—Edwin M. Welch here.” The voice took time to caress each syllable of its name. “I am the regional representative for the Wampler Security Agency. Whom am I addressing, please?”

  “Julie Campbell—Touchstone Agency.”

  “Ah—yes. I understand we are submitting, um, competitive bids for a project involving the Technitron Corporation.”

  “We’re bidding on work there, yes.”

  “Yes. And I assume that you do not know that Technitron is an old and, um, highly valued client of our agency.”

  “Why do you assume that, Mr. Welch?”

  “It is our usual custom, Miss Campbell, not to infringe upon the proprietary activities of local security agencies. We’ve come to expect the same courtesy. Especially by those smaller agencies such as yourself that might be, um, struggling to establish themselves.” He added, “Wampler Agency feels that a variety of security options best serves the public interest.” He paused but Julie said nothing. “We also are protective of those areas we rightly feel to be ours by virtue of established practice and or superior expertise and range of service.” He paused again. This time she did say something.

  “We were invited to bid, Mr. Welch. And we did.”