BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  And now Justin had partnered with David. To say I had buyer’s regret was putting it mildly. But I’m still not sure if I would have made different decisions if I had another chance. That was how fucked up everything had become.

  “I did you that one favor only because it involved the life of a seven-year-old girl. But normally I don’t work for known felons. So unless you’re asking me to run to the grocery to buy skirt steak to help the guys prep tonight’s dinner for Fajita Rita’s, I’ll pass.”

  He paused just long enough to make it an awkward silence. Maybe the old man had keeled over, saving us all a lot of trouble. Finally, he sniffed. I knew I couldn’t be so lucky.

  “Quit playing games. I don’t have time. You don’t have time.”

  He put it on me. Why? I became even wearier of Sciafini’s call as I watched a squirrel scamper up a red oak. I couldn’t allow the Chicago mobster to think he had one on me.

  “I’m going to act like you didn’t just threaten me.”

  “Ha. Damn…”

  “What?” I could tell he had a racist comment clinging to his slithery tongue. The mob wasn’t exactly known for its inclusiveness.

  “Booker, your ego is blinding you. I need you to listen to me for three minutes. After that, you decide what you want to do.”

  “The clock has started.” I tapped the stopwatch app on my phone, and the seconds starting ticking.

  A quick growl of phlegm. “Carlos Marcello. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Watching another squirrel race up the same red oak, I searched my memory banks. “Familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “You might have heard his name in reference to some of those silly rumors about organized crime being involved in the Kennedy assassination in Dallas.”

  He had my attention. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Carlos died a few years back. God rest his soul. But he and I had done some business together.”

  “New Orleans. He was based out of New Orleans, right?”

  “That’s the one. He was a decent man,” Sciafini said.

  Probably considered a huge compliment in the Sciafini world.

  “Just before he died, Carlos and I had a conversation, and we made certain promises to each other. Promises to protect certain assets if either of us happened to pass.”

  He paused again, perhaps waiting to see if I would balk. Not yet.

  Sciafini continued. “There’s a guy down there in Dallas, name of Dominic Ferrigamo. One of Marcello’s old guys.”

  I jumped in. “Never heard of him.”

  “Not surprising. He’s been keeping a low profile for about twenty years.”

  That was a not-so-subtle code for Ferrigamo committing some heinous act and had to go underground to avoid the police, FBI, or retribution from some rival thugs.

  “As I told you before, I’m not doing any favors for known felons.”

  “Someone is planning to kill the man. Will you help stop a murder?”

  I stopped breathing, then forced air through my lungs. “Tell me what’s going on and why you called me.”

  “Ferrigamo has been living on the estate of the late Carlo Piranio in North Dallas. He’s one of the originals…from Sicily. He, uh…started operations in Dallas many years ago. I don’t have any love for him or his family. I’m more aligned with Marcello, if you know what I mean.”

  That could mean anything. “Why do you think someone is going to murder Ferrigamo?”

  “Sources tell me someone is targeting nice Italian businessmen with certain connections. I’m hoping there isn’t some vigilante out there trying to make a name for himself by killing law-abiding citizens. That’s just not the American way. But Ferrigamo is the name that keeps coming up.”

  Sounded like a win-win in some respects. But with my conscience, I couldn’t sit idle while I knowingly let a man die.

  “Who’s behind this?”

  “Not sure. Lots of hearsay and noise, though. It could happen today.”

  “Today?”

  “That’s what the sources said.”

  I had the media on one end and the mob on the other, both quoting anonymous sources. Not helpful.

  “I’m not sure where to start. And why are you putting this on me?”

  “Who else do I know in Dallas with your kind of skills?”

  “Your son is living down here.”

  “We already talked about him. He’s not equipped for this work, you know that. We don’t have much time.”

  Adrenaline flooded my veins. I started jogging back to my place. “I need more information.”

  “We don’t know for sure. Ferrigamo goes to lunch every Sunday at Campisi’s with his two bodyguards.”

  The family-owned pizza place off Mockingbird. Rumors had swirled for years about the family’s connections to organized crime, but I never had the incentive to learn more. Now I wish I had.

  “Why can’t you ask the bodyguards to handle this? Isn’t that what they’re paid to do?”

  “Ferrigamo hasn’t spoken to a soul outside of those walls in years. The Piranio family and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. They think they’re better than everyone else. Fuck ’em.”

  “Any idea what time they go to lunch?”

  “High noon.”

  The time on my phone read eleven fifty-one. I took off in a sprint.

  15

  Fishing my condo key out of my shorts, I tried the deadbolt lock. It didn’t seem to fit.

  “Dammit!”

  I wiggled the key until it finally found the groove. Smacking the solid wooden door against the sheetrock when I opened it, I didn’t waste any time. I removed the cell phone holder from my biceps and tossed it on the floor. Without missing a beat, I pulled my shoulder holster out of the closet, looping my arms through and over my sweaty Dri-FIT shirt. I yanked a sweatshirt jacket off a hanger, then kneeled down. Shoving aside two boxes of clothes that needed to go to the Salvation Army, I flipped the dial on my small safe: 6-10-26, my daughter’s birthday followed by my age when she came into my life.

  Clutching the Sig Sauer P226 X-Five beavertail frame, I loaded the magazine with the maximum fourteen rounds, then shoved it in my holster and snapped the pistol in place. I slipped on my jacket as I jogged to the door.

  “So long, Booker. So long, Booker.” Then Big Al whistled.

  I slammed the door shut, and while turning the key to the deadbolt, I heard him release a sexy whistle. Can there be such a thing as a gay macaw? Imagining Big Al doing the big nasty with any living creature was like envisioning your own mom having sex. It was just wrong.

  Seconds later, I squealed out of the parking lot in my Saab 9-3, popped the clutch, and shifted into second gear, propelling the silver sedan up Bryan Street. A red light at Fizthugh, but just as I slowed I could see the perpendicular set of street lights turn yellow. Once green flashed in front of me, I shot out of the gate, passing a slower SUV while still in second gear. I caught the light at Greenville and scooted through without interference. Instead of staying on Greenville the entire trek north, I hooked a right onto Ross, then a quick left onto Matilda, where I found more lanes and less traffic.

  Attempting not to shatter speed records, which would likely draw untimely attention of my former comrades, I motored the Saab past Richmond Avenue, where I could see the roof to The Jewel off to my left. I think I even spotted the stained-glass window to my office. With no time to ponder if Justin would commit to keeping the bar open, I pushed away concerns of having to relocate to an office that actually required rent to be paid.

  I zipped by Goodwin, then Vanderbilt and Marquita, and I could see Mockingbird in the distance. I’d been in nothing more than reactionary mode up to now. My elbow clipped my side, and I felt the comfort of my Sig in its holster. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

  What the hell did I expect to take place once I arrived on the scene? I could imagine a few scenarios, most of which ending
with me or an innocent bystander on the sidewalk, bleeding out after taking two bullets to the chest. If there was someone out there with balls big enough to kill a guy in organized crime, one who’d essentially been in hiding for umpteen years, I had to believe he wouldn’t hesitate in murdering your average Joe, or Booker. I forced out a breath, ensuring oxygen would still reach my brain.

  I swerved around a dog dragging a leash behind him; then just before Marvel Avenue, I noticed the backside of the historic Granada Theatre on my left.

  Hearing Sciafini mention the Kennedy assassination, even as a side note, was disconcerting. He’d always scoffed at the notion that organized crime had been connected with the killing that put Dallas on the map for all the wrong reasons. I now recalled reading about Marcello, his connection to other mob figures, and various rumors and conspiracy theories that tied him to Kennedy. Was Ferrigamo somehow part of this? Was I rushing to save the life of a man who could have played a role in changing the world’s political landscape?

  I could hear my colorful Uncle Charlie offer me a piece of advice. “Put coulda in one hand and shoulda in the other, and you know what you got? You ain’t got shit.”

  Wiping my face, I tried to clear my mind. From what evidence I’d been exposed to, I couldn’t help but make a couple of leaps. Kennedy’s vice president and successor once he died was LBJ, whose top aide while in office was Hank Fitzwater. As of yesterday afternoon, I was aware that Fitzwater’s daughter, Nancy, had been viciously murdered while working at the public library in the northern suburb of Richardson.

  I’d spent all morning reading a novel about the Spanish-American War and trying to get inside the killer’s head, wondering if he’d meant anything by the placement of two books by Nancy’s body. It sounded more ridiculous as the idea danced in my brain.

  I shifted the Saab into third gear, then quickly crunched down on the brake to avoid a slow-moving Cadillac that had just turned onto Matilda.

  “Old drivers!” I yelled to no one, while trying to find a way around him.

  “Now,” I said to no one again, downshifting into second gear, then jerking the car left and right to move beyond the sedan the size of an oil tanker drifting along at about fifteen miles per hour. Glancing right as I passed, I saw a lady who looked thirty years older than Momma. Her eyes barely peeked over the steering wheel. At least her hands were at ten and two, although they had the appearance of a white, veiny prune, if those existed.

  Her wrinkles brought me back to Sciafini. We both loathed each other, but for a myriad of reasons, we’d maintained a shaky truce. Now he was leaning on me…again, after I’d helped bring his seven-year-old daughter to safety. But why? I was skeptical that his version of this scene was completely true. He always had an angle, and I knew he’d throw me under the bus—or into the sights of a sniper—if it improved his position, especially his bottom line.

  Looking left while sitting at a red light at Mockingbird, I craned my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the scene in front of the sixty-year-old strip center that was home to Campisi’s. Modest traffic, spotty clouds now drifting overhead, but no commotion. Yet.

  I turned to move west on Mockingbird, then hooked a left at the first opportunity, finding an open space in front of a tailoring business. Glancing through the dark windows, I saw a male mannequin dressed in a leisure suit with shaggy blond hair, smiling, pointing a finger at a plastic water feature in the shape of a Longhorn, liquid bubbling out of its steers. This crap predated the original Dallas program, the one that threw a stereotypical noose around every person born in Texas.

  Walking past a frame store, I saw a couple of employees milling about, one settling behind the counter messing with the register. The business appeared to have just opened. I checked the time on my phone: 12:04 p.m. Moving past a closed Radio Shack, I crossed the Campisi’s east parking lot, no more than eight total spaces. A pickup and two cars took up three of the angled spots, and I noticed overgrown weeds and small trees creating a barrier at the back of the small area, a perfect place to hide. I stopped and peered into the sea of greenery, but saw no movement. I kept walking and hopped onto the next sidewalk, a bank of cars parked in front of the businesses.

  Glancing across the street, a couple of bushy trees in the median obstructed my vision somewhat. Between branches, I saw the outline of a gas station on the right, a burger place on the left, and much farther back, a chain grocery store, the parking lot less than half full with vehicles. I’d been to this area hundreds of times, but I’d never noticed so many trees planted in pockets of green across the large lot. I found it annoying not being able to easily scan the lot and find anyone who looked suspicious. Then again, did I expect to see a man lying horizontally in the parking lot or on top of a car, resting his rifle on a tripod, his eye pressed against the scope?

  Recalling the DC snipers, how they used the trunk of their car as a cover to terrorize the DC area for weeks, I took another scan of the lot, looking for an open trunk or even a lowered window. Nothing stood out on my second sweep.

  Turning to face the restaurant, I stepped aside as a couple and their two young kids ambled past me. I stood just in front of a wall of windows on the newer east side of the restaurant. An uneasy feeling came over me, knowing this might be the only area to reach someone sitting inside.

  A brown and white sign affixed to a space of tan brick read “Egyptian Restaurant.” I’d heard years ago that the Campisi family didn’t want to pay for a new sign, so they replaced Lounge with Restaurant.

  I zipped up my jacket to ensure my pistol wasn’t visible, then moved through two doors and entered the dimly lit restaurant. If it wasn’t for the opening into the eastern, sun-filled space off to the left, a patron would have a difficult time telling if it was night or day. The older section appeared to be completely full, wait staff moving briskly carrying trays of beer, their trademark pizza sliced in thin rectangles, and small side salads with iceberg lettuce and a large, pitted green olive in cheap plastic bowls.

  Surveying the room, I paused at every individual, at least the males, trying to get a read on whether they had the eye of a killer.

  “How many are in your party?”

  A fifty-something man with thinning hair pasted against his forehead had little energy behind his question.

  Part of me simply wanted to ask if he could point out Dominic Ferrigamo, but something told me that question would not be well received. “I’m just looking for a friend I’m supposed to meet up here.”

  “Fine. Look around.”

  He vanished, and I walked down the aisle, my head moving left and right, looking for a killer as well as anyone who might be sitting with two guys who could pass as bodyguards. Menacing and stupid-looking were my new keywords.

  A waiter bumped my shoulder, causing my arm to catch against my holstered gun.

  “Sorry,” he said, balancing an enormous tray of about twelve salads.

  I realized I couldn’t eliminate the employees, so I kept them in my scope-and-review session. Walking by the smallish bar, the bartender gave me one of those what’s-up nods. His eyes averted momentarily, then he returned to watching a baseball game.

  I got to the edge of the east side, a square, open room, with much less character but far more space. I only noticed one empty table. Wait. Was that…?

  Feeling a bit underdressed in my workout gear as I padded across the carpeted flooring, I made my way to the other side, my eyes searching for an old mobster flanked by two thugs and a killer, still unsure of gender, ethnicity, and age—all key factors when trying to stop a murder.

  “How are you doing, boys?”

  Taking a free chair from a neighboring table, I sat down almost right next to Justin, giving me a clearer view of the room while David sat across the two-person table.

  “Hey, Booker,” Justin said.

  “Do you think I bite?” The original bullshitter, David had a sardonic wit. But I knew he was referencing the fact he was gay.

  I coul
d have cared less. Frankly, besides wondering what the two entrepreneurs were cooking up, I was more concerned about their safety.

  “You guys almost done?”

  Looking for a spot to plant my elbow, I finally leaned it awkwardly against the table, just next to Justin’s bowl of salad. He shifted it to the right side of the table.

  “Sorry if I’m in your way,” he said.

  “Oh, did I interrupt?”

  “You’re welcome to stay, but this is a working lunch. We’re discussing expansion ideas for Fajita Rita’s,” David said.

  “Actually, we’re looking at the whole food truck business. Always good to be planning for the next big thing.”

  I could see Justin was in the zone, his mind a million miles from The Jewel, even though it sat, seemingly unmanaged, about four miles due south from where we were situated.

  I was torn. I’d been Justin’s number one supporter since he went down this entrepreneurial path years ago. And watching him turn nothing into something had made me feel proud, not just because he’d been my best friend, but also because he showed that someone out of the old hood could make it. But I also knew Alisa relied on the bar to pay her bills every month. In addition, whether Justin realized it or not, under his guidance The Jewel had woven itself into the fabric of the eclectic Lower Greenville night scene.

  Words hung at the edge of my lips, but I could sense this wasn’t the right setting, certainly not the right time.

  Scanning the room once again, I spotted an older man with dark sunglasses sitting at a round table with one other man. They both ate pasta, and I could feel my body inch up in my seat, my eyes glancing around to see if anyone was staring at the pair. Neither said a word to each other. They both continued cramming pasta and meatballs into their mouths.

  “So what brings you to Campisi’s on a Sunday? Are you by yourself?” David asked.

  Swinging my head back around, I caught David’s glare, the one that questioned everything. If he wasn’t one of the city’s best chefs, and a financial wizard with a pedigree for breaking the law, he might make a good PI. Then again…