Tilt-a-Whirl jc-1

by Chris Grabenstein

  “What? Having sex with factory girls?”

  “Or doing anything.”

  “Sure. He sets up shop there some nights. His own little drug store. I only go see him when I'm desperate, because lately the dude's been extremely cranky-ever since they canned his ass at the car wash on account of his thieving ways. He stole loose change from ashtrays. Groceries out of back seats. Shit, he even stole this little girl's stuffed dog from her car seat and then told everybody it was me who copped it.”

  “Why'd he steal so much,” Ceepak asks, “if he had the drug income like you say?”

  “Why does the devil keep on keepin’ on? Evil is writ large upon his soul. Squeegee is Beelzebub in disguise, telling dirty lies….”

  I have no idea whose lyrics Red's ripping off this time.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A week ago. I needed some shit, and he was already lit up and talking about righteous retribution. How the last were going to be first and the first would be last. You know-that Jesus shit. Said judgment day was nigh and all slumlords would soon be summoned forth to pay.”

  “Is that what he called Hart? A slumlord?”

  “No. Squeegee never called Hart a slumlord. Him he called a ‘fucking slumlord.’ Can I get another one of these?” Red slides his empty ice cream dish across the table.

  Ceepak pulls out a ten-dollar bill.

  “Get yourself two.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “What's your 10–38?” Ceepak asks the chief.

  “I'm at HQ. Ready to roll to Chesterfield's.”

  Ceepak tilts the radio microphone to check his Casio G-Shock. It's 10:32.

  “I thought the breakfast meet was set for 0-10 hundred?” Ceepak says, releasing the mike button to hear the chief's reply.

  “Roger that,” the chief growls back. “But I had to go home and put on a goddamn tie. They want me on TV in an hour. I have to give a statement. Stand up in front of all those goddamn cameras and give a progress report. We got any?”

  “Yes, sir. I think so.”

  “What?”

  “A witness.”

  “To the murder?”

  “No, sir. An acquaintance of Squeegee's who links him to Mendez. We need to go to Chesterfield's and Mendez needs to be there.”

  “He is,” the chief says, sounding excited. “I have Malloy and Santucci stationed out front. They saw him go in. Ms. Stone is registered upstairs. Neither one has come out.”

  “Excellent,” Ceepak says. “We'll meet there.”

  “Ceepak? The mayor is crawling up my butt. People are packing suitcases and leaving town. You see the beaches this morning? They're goddamn empty. We need to wrap this up quick. Now!”

  “Roger that. Just don't let Mendez leave the restaurant.”

  “10-4.”

  “Our ETA is five.”

  “Good. Move it!”

  Ceepak clicks off the radio and does one of those Hollywood “Cavalry, Ho!” hand gestures.

  I stomp on the gas.

  We proceed to haul some ass.

  We arrive three minutes later.

  Malloy is sitting out front in a cruiser with Tony Santucci. Santucci's behind the wheel, chomping more gum and looking like a total hardass. He wears those mirrored sunglasses like redneck sheriffs do in movies and rolls his short sleeves up so you can see more of his muscles.

  Chesterfield's is a big Victorian bed amp; breakfast with gables and peaks and gewgaws. It's the kind of place my mom would love and my dad would only enter with a gun pointed at his head.

  Or on Mother's Day.

  I double-park the Explorer near the cruiser.

  “You puke your breakfast again this morning?” Santucci asks, cracking his Dentyne.

  I'd say something witty in reply but Ceepak is bounding up the front steps and I'm right behind him.

  Two seconds later, I hear the Chief's big Expedition screech to a stop in the street.

  “Inside, Malloy. Santucci? Off your ass! Move it! Move it! Go, go, go!”

  The coach is sending in the whole team. Behind me, I hear the sound of heavy men thundering up the porch steps, jangling all the tinkley wind chimes hanging off the ceiling.

  Chesterfield's front foyer is stuffed with antique furniture. Doilies and little glass candy dishes sit on top of everything.

  Room number two features wingback chairs on oriental rugs in front of green-striped wallpaper and oil paintings of hounds and horses. Cozy.

  Ceepak looks completely out of place, making his way to the main dining room, his pistol hanging by his hip in his hand.

  He reaches the hostess at the double doors. Do we have a reservation? She studies her big burgundy binder while Ceepak looks over her head, trying to locate Mendez.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  She's wearing some kind of costume with a frilly shower cap, like she just came inside from churning butter.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says firmly, yet politely. “Please vacate these premises immediately.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Danny?”

  “Out here, ma'am,” I say.

  “Ceepak?” The chief is lumbering up the hall behind us. Malloy and Santucci are with him. They all have their weapons in their hands.

  “Mendez and Stone are the only diners,” Ceepak says. “I'm going in. Cover me.”

  “Roger that,” the chief whispers.

  Ceepak makes a swing move into the dining room.

  We swarm in after him like we're on military maneuvers. A waiter sees us and drops his tray. Muffins go tumbling everywhere.

  “Upstairs,” Ceepak yells to the waiter. “Now. Go!”

  The guy thinks about picking up his muffins for a second and then hightails it out of the room.

  Cynthia Stone and her companion are sitting at a corner table under a brass wall sconce with a flickering glass globe that's lit kind of low to set a more romantic mood. They were both sipping mimosas before we so rudely interrupted.

  “Mr. Virgilio Mendez?” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep your hands on the table, where I can see them.”

  “Yo. Why you actin’ like G.I. Joe all of a sudden? Take it easy, son.”

  “Officer?” Ms. Stone swivels around to face Ceepak. She sees the small army assembled behind him. “I hope you gentlemen have an explanation for this unwarranted intrusion.”

  Ceepak ignores her. His beef is with Mendez.

  “Mr. Mendez, in my book, a man's word is good as gold-until he breaks it.”

  “You got that right.”

  “You were dishonest in your dealings with me this morning.”

  Mendez looks insulted.

  “I will not tolerate a liar.”

  “Say what?”

  “You stated you had never met nor had any contact with the man we are searching for, the street person known as Squeegee.”

  “I say I might, you know, see him around, here and there, maybe over to the car wash. But, yo-I do not know the dude….”

  “You two never had discussions concerning his need to vacate The Palace Hotel?”

  “You tellin’ me he's one of those skanks squatting up there?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Damn, they all be lookin’ the same to me. Every shaggy-assed crackhead junkie one of them.”

  The chief bulls forward.

  “What's the story here, Ceepak?”

  “At the car wash, Danny and I interviewed a witness who stated Mr. Mendez here had several conversations with our suspect.”

  Ms. Stone started to say something, then thought better of it.

  “Mr. Mendez was working for Mr. Hart,” Ceepak continues.

  “Removing unwanted tenants from an abandoned property….”

  “Nah-uh, I was, you know-measuring the windows for curtains and shit….”

  “This witness went on to state that Squeegee was attempting to work a deal with Mr. Mendez. Some way he and his girlfrien
d could remain in The Palace Hotel. They were negotiating.”

  “Say what?”

  “Did you work out a deal, Mr. Mendez? A way for this junkie, as you call him, to pay his rent? Was Squeegee your hired assassin? Your hitman? Did he murder Mr. Hart for you?”

  “What? What's a deal like that gonna do for me?”

  “Maybe allow you to sell me a time-share.” Ceepak pulls the Sea Palace brochure out of his back pocket. “When did Mendez Enterprises take possession of this property? Yesterday? Sometime shortly after 7:15 A.M.?”

  Mendez almost leaps out of his chair to go nose to nose with Ceepak.

  “Don't answer that,” Ms. Stone now says. “In fact, don't say another word.”

  “Mr. Mendez?” Ceepak and Mendez are both about the same size. Same height. Same build. They stare into each other's eyes. Mendez blinks first.

  “She don't want me talkin’ to you ’cause she the one who call me. That's right. Yesterday morning. Say she got the damn power of attorney. Until they pro-rate the dead dude's will and all, she in charge of every damn thing Hart owns. His whole damn empire. You want you a casino or some shit like that? Maybe a shopping mall? She'll cut you a deal, bro … cheap too.”

  I hear the chief start breathing real loud, his nose hairs whistling like he's a lobster in a pot about to boil.

  “All right,” he says. “That's enough. Ceepak?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good work. Malloy?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “You and Santucci-run these two clowns down to the station.”

  “Don't be preposterous.” Ms. Stone smoothes out her skirt like she's ready to order her eggs benedict and skim the Sunday funnies. “On what possible charge?”

  “I don't know,” the chief grumbles. He looks like one of those guys in the antacid commercials, like his stomach is ballooning up with gas and his face is going to turn green, then explode. “I'll think of something later. Haul them out of here. Hustle! Move it!”

  “Yes, sir.” Malloy and Santucci go to the table. “Sir? Ma'am?”

  Ms. Stone stands.

  “Chief Cosgrove, I am going to sue your ass and nail it to a cross-”

  “Get them out of here!” the chief hollers.

  Malloy and Santucci escort Ms. Stone and Mendez to the front door.

  “Ceepak?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Check out this hotel. This Sea Palace place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Chances are, Squeegee is holed up nearby. See if there's a dock up there, too. Find the goddamn boat he used.”

  “Will do.”

  “Move it. Go.”

  The three of us stomp out, rattling curio cabinets and shaking Hummel figurines as we go. When we hit the porch, Malloy waves for the chief to come over. Quick.

  “What?” The chief stomps down the steps. “What is it now?”

  “Dispatch,” says Malloy. “You just received a fax at the house.”

  “What? Another damn newspaper reporter?”

  “No, sir. It's from Squeegee. It's a ransom note.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I was simply carrying out Mr. Hart's wishes,” Ms. Stone is saying. “It's what Reginald would have wanted.”

  “The ex-Mrs. Hart just smiles.

  “Were you sleeping with him?”

  “I don't see how that is relevant.”

  Lucky me.

  I'm stuck in the chief's office with the two of them.

  Ms. Stone is waiting to be processed on whatever charges the chief cooks up.

  Betty came to hear what the ransom note says.

  “Ladies?” I say. “Would either of you like some more coffee?”

  Trust me-caffeine is the last thing these two women need right now. They're pacing around, twisting the chief's paper clips, rubbing their arms, doing all kinds of itchy, twitchy stuff. But this is my assignment. Stay with the ladies. Get them what they need, keep them comfortable, and keep them away from everybody else while the chief and Ceepak and this guy from the state police study the ransom fax.

  “When will we see the ransom note?” Betty asks. “Hear this man's demands?”

  “Soon. I promise. They just want to have a few experts, you know, comb over it for clues….”

  “I see.” She smiles. Her eyes twinkle.

  “Experts?” Ms. Stone chuffs. Her eyes never twinkle. They burn like flares at a car wreck. “Hah! Who? That idiot from the state police? The slob on TV yesterday?”

  “No, ma'am. Mr. Slominsky went back to-”

  “Who then? That goody-two-shoes Ceepak?”

  Stone sits. Betty paces to the window.

  “Tell me, Ms. Stone,” she says while she stares out at the ocean, “did Reggie actually say he was going to marry you?”

  “Again, I refuse to answer any questions-”

  “He would've left you, you know. Eventually. It would only be a matter of time.” She's staring out the window like she sees herself a few years back. “Reggie was always looking for someone younger. He liked his girls young. Did you know that? The younger the better….”

  “Well then, if I were interested, that would certainly give me an advantage over you, wouldn't it?”

  Meow. Hiss.

  “Ladies? Let's try to remember why we're here, okay?”

  “Why we're here?” Ms. Stone snorts at me. “I am only here because you and your friends stormed into a restaurant where I was simply attempting to-”

  The door opens.

  The chief and Ceepak march in. The chief has a xerox of the fax.

  “It's Squeegee,” the chief says. “Please sit down.”

  Betty slips demurely into the chief's big rolling chair. She has one of those Sally Field attempting-to-be-brave looks on her face.

  “Does she need to hear this?” Ashley's mother pulls rank. You can tell she considers this matter a private, family-members-only type deal. I think Betty also regards Ms. Stone as a nympho-floozy, law degree or no.

  “We might need her assistance as chief counsel of Hart Enterprises … to help us meet the kidnapper's financial demands,” Ceepak says. “However, if you'd be more comfortable….”

  “No. Fine. Let her stay. Read it.”

  The chief has on these reading glasses he's never let anybody see him wear before.

  “Okay. It's words he cut out of old magazines … pieced together….”

  “Like in the movies?” Ms. Stone sighs, unable to not butt in.

  The chief ignores her and reads.

  “I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. YOU WILL PAY ME TEN MILLION DOLLARS AT NOON TOMORROW OR I WILL KILL ASHLEY WITH THE SAME GUN I USED TO KILL HER FATHER.”

  Ashley's mother gasps.

  “He's confessing to the murder?” Ms. Stone sounds amazed. “I don't believe it. What an imbecile. Who's giving him his legal advice?”

  “I … I don't have ten million dollars,” Betty says. Her voice is faint. “Reginald only paid me an allowance … ten million dollars … I don't have ten million dollars….” She closes her eyes.

  The chief turns to Stone. “Harriet Ashley Hart, however, does. You told us her father left her everything? In his will?”

  “Yes, but….”

  “We need to probate that will. Immediately.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Judge Erickson is standing by.”

  I know that probate is something a court does to prove a will is valid. But when the will involves billions and billions of dollars, dozens of companies, tons of real estate and airlines and shopping malls-I guess they usually like to take their time.

  “We don't have much time,” Ceepak says. “Noon tomorrow. A little over twenty-four hours.”

  “I'm sorry,” Ms. Stone says, “but-”

  “The bank is going to help,” Ceepak says to Betty. “We contacted Don Nelson from First Federal. He's helping us pull together the actual cash.”

  Ashley's mom nods.

  “Thank you,” she says. />
  I'm wondering if we're going to use a suitcase stuffed with twenty-dollar bills like you always see when someone gets kidnapped on TV. If we do, I hope the suitcase has wheels. Ten million dollars probably weighs a ton. We might need a truck, like Saddam Hussein's kids did when they robbed the Iraqi Central Bank.

  “Mr. Hart's executor is Arnold Bloomfield,” Ms. Stone says, still stuck on the will. “I don't know if….”

  “We've already contacted Mr. Bloomfield,” the chief says. “He's on his way. Corporate jet.”

  “I see. But surely you don't intend to give this criminal, this murderer ten million dollars-”

  “We intend to do whatever it takes to ensure Ashley's safety,” Ceepak says.

  “You just make sure Ashley has complete access to her entire inheritance,” the chief instructs her. “Understood? Or do you want another Hart to die this weekend?”

  “No. Of course not.” Sounds like our reluctant attorney is finally on board. “We'll make the necessary transfers.”

  “We've called the FBI,” the chief says.

  Betty nods.

  “Of course.”

  “Kidnapping is a federal crime.”

  “I know.”

  “They'll help us figure out how to handle the ransom drop.”

  “Do we know if this man has … hurt Ashley?”

  “No, ma'am,” Ceepak says. “We do not. But, ma'am?”

  “Yes?”

  “I won't let him.”

  Ceepak doesn't say how he's going to stop Squeegee from hurting Ashley. But no one doubts him.

  “Chief Cosgrove?”

  One of the State CSI guys sticks his head in the door. I recognize him from the crime scene, even though he's not wearing his hairnet today.

  “What've you got?”

  “This fax? We tracked down the number.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Came from the Sea Spray Hotel.”

  “The front desk?”

  “No, sir. One of their in-room fax machines.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I'm starting to think our friend Squeegee has fried one too many brain cells. He's not being too savvy about this whole ransom demand deal.

  The Sea Spray Hotel is like only six blocks up the street from police headquarters-right on Beach Lane.

  And doesn't he know every fax machine in the world prints the sender's phone number up on the top of the page in what they call a header, unless you program it not to?