by Alan Lee
“Ay caramba.”
“He’s on your case load, I deduce.”
Manny nodded around his coffee. “Sí.”
“Going to bust him?”
“No. I like Scrambled. Need to maintain the relationship.”
“But you’re a US Marshal,” I said.
“Not a good one.”
“Yes you are.”
“Yes I am,” he agreed. “But I’m ahead of the others. Jefe thinks I work too hard.”
“It’s that Hispanic industriousness.”
“So,” he said. “Your girlfriend’s papí is an ex-con.”
“Ronnie and I are not dating. But yes.”
“Someone snitched on him.”
“Someone snitched on him,” I agreed. “Calvin believes it’s an employee. So far he hasn’t mentioned family. Or past business associates. Or enemies.”
“And you, Señor Detective, will find the person.”
“I will.”
“But you won’t tell Calvin Summers,” he said. “Even though that’s what he’s paying you to do.”
“Probably not. Hard to tell, at this stage.”
“Seems like a bad way to do business, amigo.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “He belittles Ronnie. Abuses her in multiple ways, I’d guess. I hate him.”
“Ese coño.”
“Assuming coño means something bad, I agree.”
“Any leads?”
“Just getting started. I need to visit his dairy farm next.”
Manny’s eyebrows rose a half inch. “Tienes un trabajo loco. Need backup at the dairy farm? Could be cows.”
“I’ll manage.”
* * *
Bill Osborne met me for lunch at Tucos Taqueira, a new margarita bar near the jail. We ordered tacos and looked longingly at the liquor shelf, but abstained. Because we were stalwarts. Bill was a US attorney operating out of the Roanoke office; he wore a white button-up which needed replacing, sleeves rolled, and frayed at the seams. He had a kind of nervous twitch in his shoulders.
“Brad Thompson called me,” Bill said. “Said I should meet you but didn’t tell me what for.”
“I need a drinking buddy,” I said.
“Yeah, he told me you’re quirky.”
“He said quirky?”
“You know Brad. Too classy to call you a weird motherfucker. Also, he told me about that pistol thing. The revolver was single-action, or whatever, and that will discredit the witness. Pretty slick.”
I held up my hands — all in a day’s work. “Any officer could have done that. It’s you attorneys who don’t know anything.”
“That’s what my wife says. You were a police officer?” he asked and he glanced at his phone. He struck me as the kinda guy who did that a lot. Power player, full of his own importance — the world would end if he ignored it too long.
“Detective in Los Angeles.”
“Now a private investigator in Virginia?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Maybe your career’s going the wrong direction.”
“You’re a terrible drinking buddy.”
He laughed. I’m a riot. Our food came and we tucked in.
“Are you the PI made the news last year? Helped with the Sergeant Sanders thing?”
“That was me,” I said.
“You were there? At the shootout?”
“I was there.”
“Jesus,” he said and he twitched his shoulders. “Awful night, right? I heard about some of it. The parts that didn’t make the papers. You the guy got stabbed?”
“Under my left arm. KA-BAR. I don’t recommend it. Putting on a shirt is still an adventure.”
“I knew Sanders. Shame about that. Good guy.” He checked his phone.
“Perhaps we’ve digressed,” I said. “I’ve been hired by Calvin Summers.”
He coughed around his taco. “Bullshit.”
I did my best to appear sheepish. Which wasn’t easy.
“He really hired you?”
I nodded.
“Calvin wants revenge, I bet. He wants to know what tipped us off,” Bill said.
“Who.”
“Yeah, who. That’s what I meant. Can’t believe you took that asshole’s money.”
“Mainly because I thought he should be parted with as much of it as possible,” I said.
“Got that right.”
“I’ll figure it out. Shouldn’t take me long. But I’m unsure what to do afterwards.”
Bill twitched his shoulders. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t plan on telling him.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m not sure yet. He angered me,” I said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s the easiest version.”
“Sure, I get that. He’s a dick. But, Mack, some advice. He’s not a man you want to be enemies with.”
“That isn’t a problem which concerns me.”
Bill checked his phone.
“Okay. Well. I can’t really help you,” he said.
“I know this. I also know he’s into more than tax evasion. Professional instincts. What I want to know is, why such a light sentence?”
“Wasn’t so light. Hefty fine, two years in prison, reduced to six months. But yeah could’ve been worse. Hell, you know how it is. All I do are plea deals.”
“He settled quickly,” I said.
“Too quickly. But listen. I should say this again.” He learned forward conspiratorially. “He’s not a simple selfish old man with dubious business ventures. Calvin Summers is connected. Powerful. Rich. Don’t piss him off. I mean it.”
“I quake.”
“You don’t scare easily, huh. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“What else is he into?” I asked.
“Don’t know. We didn’t do a thorough investigation. Got him on the taxes and quickly processed it. Our office is understaffed. You going to share with me everything you uncover?”
“I don’t betray clients. At least not to that extent.”
“What’d he do to piss you off?”
“Long story. Does he have any priors?” I asked.
“Nope. Squeaky clean.”
“And your informant arrived out of the blue?”
“The informant was referred to me by a Roanoke City commonwealth attorney, who said the informant arrived out of thin air. Calvin’s a big deal but we run in different circles. I’d never heard of him. His daughter, on the other hand…” He grinned. They all did that.
“You’ve met Ronnie.”
“Of course, she was the dependent’s attorney. But everyone knows Ronnie. Very sharp. Good at her job. She’s also what I see at night when I close my eyes.”
“She has a good reputation?”
“Shit yeah. She’s sort of a general practitioner of law. I’ve seen her in both the state and federal courts. Handles criminal stuff. Employment and corporate too. Only works with the wealthy. Sort of like a concierge service. Rich people love Ronnie. Can’t blame her for picking the clients who pay more.”
“Any chance she ratted out her old man?”
“No. None.” He glanced at his phone and during the interval he realized he’d said too much. He’d eliminated one of my suspects. His shoulders twitched.
So it wasn’t Ronnie. On top of that, she’d seen the evidence and still didn’t know who it was. That narrowed my search.
…somehow.
I was super good at my job.
“What evidence did the informant present,” I asked, “which convinced you to pursue Calvin Summers?”
He shook his head. “Won’t tell you that. But it was black and white. A no-doubter.”
“Would your informant have testified?”
“Probably. But we didn’t get that far. Ronnie pressed for a plea deal immediately.”
“She can be convincing,” I said.
“Politely phrased. I’d leave my wife for Ronnie.”
“Ah, but then you wouldn’t be worth her.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Chapter Seven
Timothy August, the patriarch of our crew, watched Kix that evening while Manny and I graced the local karate dojo. After-hours it transformed into a mixed martial arts gym. Local fighters practicing for Titans of the Cage. Sweat and blood and testosterone in the air, mats on the floor. That kind of thing.
We worked the heavy bags, the speed bags, the jump rope, and took one of the smaller rings to work with our gloves. Some of the older guys acted as coaches, growling instructions like, “Close the distance, then punch,” and, “With your knuckles, jackass, not your fingers.” They yelled at me more than at Manny.
Manny was more of a natural fighter. He grew up doing it; his arms thundered like pistons, his legs uncoiled like springs. If boxing was soccer, he’d be a quick striker and me the thicker goalie. He resembled Cristiano Ronaldo, which helped my brilliant analogy — he’d even had his teeth done in his early twenties, giving him further arresting powers. He wore a black Armani T-shirt and it galled me to be outmatched by such a twit. I hoped my Nike outfit was ashamed of itself.
At the end we toweled off and took water. One of the spectators clapped from his metal chair and said, “You two motherfuckers look like a CHiPs rerun.”
Our spectator was a man named Big Will, a local gangster. Short guy, thick muscles, heavy beard, shaved head. I’d run into him a couple times last year, chasing down his employer. His sweatshirt had one of those sweat rings around the neck.
Manny asked, “Don’t know CHiPs. Is that an insult?”
“Not for you,” I said.
“You want me to shoot him?”
“Can try,” Big Will said. “Lot more of us in here than you two honkies.”
Our conversation was being monitored with interest by men sitting in adjacent metal chairs and possibly by onlookers behind us. Friends of Big Will’s. And probably of mine, once they got to know me.
Manny noted, “He called me a honky.”
Big Will inclined his head toward Manny. “Hey Ponch, thanks for letting my brother slide. Big of you.”
Manny waved it off. “Figured he didn’t pay taxes so hombre doesn’t deserve my services.”
For my benefit, Big Will explained, “My brother’s a wanted negro. Couple bullshit charges. Ponch here tracked him down. Like he’s a fucking drug dog.”
“Ah,” I said. “Manny the drug dog.”
“Named Ponch?” Manny asked.
“It’s an old television show.”
“Ponch and me, we cut a deal,” Big Will said.
“Financial?”
Manny shook his head. “Big Will, now he owes me. I like getting these negroes in debt.”
“I’m not sure you’re allowed to call them that,” I said. “You know. Proprietary discretion.”
“How’s the arm, white man?” Big Will asked me.
“Silva stabbed me in the left latissimi dorsi, not the arm. My fastball remains in the upper nineties. Sweet of you to ask.”
“Coulda been worse, honky. A lot worse. Shoulda been. Don’t know why Marcus went easy on you.”
“I have excellent teeth. Rigorous dental regimen. Floss every night. That’s probably it,” I said.
Big Will didn’t seem amused, which was odd. “You’re lucky Marcus got pull, you get it? You don’t know the half of it. Not the fucking half.”
One of Big Will’s compatriots, a giant fellow, all mass and no definition, said, “Hey marshal. You’re that marshal.”
Manny nodded. “Sí. That one.”
The giant said, “You’re the marshal took down Chilly.”
“Chilly the Kid.” Manny laughed quietly and drank more water. “Sí. I liked Chilly the Kid. That was a good fight.”
“Taking down Chilly ain’t easy,” Big Will said.
Manny said, “Depends. Didn’t seem so hard.”
“Heard you holstered your gun, Marshal,” the giant said. “Heard you fought him with your fists.”
Manny shrugged. “I needed a workout.”
“You fucking fought Chilly?” Big Will asked. “The hell’s wrong with you. Next time just shoot the nigger in his foot. Chilly the Kid’s been hired muscle for Marcus before. He’ll kill you next time, Marshal. I’ve seen Chilly break a man’s teeth with a backhand.”
“Didn’t say he hit lightly. Just say he lost.”
“Crazy Mexican.”
Manny said, “Earlier you said Marcus got pull, amigo. The Mafioso?”
Big Will nodded. A slow and meaningful motion. “With the fucking Mafioso. Up in DC. District Kings.”
“Marcus Morgan works with the District Kings?” I asked. Even lowly Mackenzie August, humble and handsome private detective, had heard of them. They were the brains behind the money behind the muscle.
“Marcus works with everyone. Especially the Mafioso. The District guys, they work directly with Miami. They work with New York too. And Marcus keeps it flowing smooth.”
I didn’t know much about the criminal underworld on the East Coast. The bigger cities were divided up and shared by bosses and families and they controlled the drugs, the prostitution, the gangs, stuff like that. Roanoke, a modest city by comparison, drew an inordinate amount of attention because of its strategic location on the map. Marcus Morgan was the big local player.
“They came here to kill you, honky.”
“Who?”
Big Will said, “Them. The Kings weren’t so happy about losing the white cop. Sanders. Not so happy about losing Silva either. Not so happy about finding a new transfer station. All your fucking fault, August.”
I shrugged, the way Superman does after catching beautiful women falling from burning buildings. “Just so stories about my heroism don’t inflate beyond credibility, let’s set the record straight. I didn’t kill either those two.”
“They still blame you. So they sent a couple shooters. I rode along. Professional interest. Nothing personal. Last minute, Marcus talked them out of it.”
“Why.”
“Marcus say he owed you. Said probably they couldn’t kill both you two honkies and the other would come back and bite them in the ass. More fucking trouble than you’re worth, two amateurs.”
“Sounds like I owe Marcus a cake,” I said.
“You’re in deep, white man. Deeper than you know. You owe Marcus more than a damn cake.”
Manny frowned. “Amateurs? Us?”
* * *
On the drive home, I told Manny, “Second time today I’ve been told to watch my step.”
“Who else?”
“Federal attorney warned me about Calvin Summers. Said Calvin’s connected. Not to piss him off.”
“You make friends everywhere you go, amigo.”
“You cut a deal with Big Will to let his brother go?” I asked.
“Sí.”
“That’s not how Roanoke marshals usually do things.”
“Sí.”
“But you’re not a typical Roanoke marshal,” I said.
“Gonna be here a while. Doing things my way.”
“Does Big Will worry you?”
“Big Will, no. Marcus, maybe. The Mafioso, un poco.”
“The Mafioso strikes me as overly sensitive,” I said. “In reality, we’re very likable.”
“We? Dios mío. It’s you they after, honky.”
Chapter Eight
I found Calvin Summer’s dairy farm on Google Maps. Just like Philip Marlowe used to do in the fifties. The land was buried in the vast expanse of rolling farm country south and west of Rocky Mount. There were dairy giants nearby but this wasn’t one of them. This was a smaller operation.
It struck me as odd. Why would he purchase a dairy farm? It wasn’t exactly a classic investment. Staring at the screen, I followed fence lines and small roads which circumnavigated the farm. Memorized the blueprint. Fixed the layout in my mind, especially the partially hidden fac
ility in the back, which caught my eye as being out of place. However, the trip took an hour and as soon as I showed up on site I forgot everything. Google failed to convey the disorienting odor of bovine and I’d misjudged distances. Later on I would circle the lot and probably get lost looking for the odd facility.
The farm’s manager, Boyd Hunt, sauntered out to meet me after I’d parked under a maple near the white farmhouse. Probably sixty, wearing overalls, muddy boots, open face, body appeared made from oak.
He shook my hand. “Boyd Hunt.”
“Mackenzie,” I said. “Nice place.”
“Well sir, it’s not mine.” He chuckled good-naturedly. Aw shucks. “Not any longer. Mr. Summers, as you know, purchased it almost five years ago. But thank you. Take a great deal of pride in it.”
The house was surrounded by various sheds and barns, which in turn were surrounded by fenced grassland as far as I could see. Cows dotted all the hills. A collie barked once at me and sat. We walked away from my car and deeper into the complex and into the rich smells of dung.
“Why’d you sell it?” I asked. “Not profitable?”
“Plenty profitable,” he said. “But Mr. Summers made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so to speak. Asked the wife and me to stay on as the managers, to live in the same house and keep things running. Paid enough for us to retire but we enjoy the work. The farmhands are like family, you know.”
“You didn’t want to pass the farm down to family?”
“Was the original plan, yes sir, but we had two daughters. They’ve both got off to college and moved to cities. Got no interest in taking it over. My grandchildren stare at video game screens all day, no common sense, no work ethic, so…Mr. Summers’s offer was a godsend. What’s your interest in it?”
“Summers is thinking of expanding,” I said. “I’m a consultant.”
“Big consultant.”
“The boots give me good posture. If I take them off, I’m only five-six.”
Boyd Hunt laughed. He probably thought of me as family now too. I couldn’t blame him. Everyone wished their son was hilarious.
I said, “Mr. Summers never told me why he bought the farm in the first place. Any idea?”
He paused and took his time answering. “Well, no, not exactly. He grew up around here, so did his daughter, and he said he always wanted a farm. Makes sense but he never comes to visit or work. So who knows.”
