Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  Lila’s jaw worked for several moments as she tried to think of something to say. After a few moments, she made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a yip, and then folded her hands across her chest.

  “So, Eliot works for the FBI,” she managed to spit out.

  “We think his real name is Warren Palombo,” I said.

  “And all this time, he’s been telling them all about us,” she added. “What the hell?”

  “I think that was the plan,” I agreed. “At least as far as the FBI was concerned. I think Palombo had his own plans once he got here and got the lay of the land.”

  “Meaning what?” she demanded.

  “Meaning he may have been part of the racket that Hup and Shifty were running,” I replied. “He was probably trading information for cash.”

  “Information about us?” she asked. “But the Sheriff already knows pretty much everything. Although, I guess that explains the meetings…”

  “I think that was a part of it,” I explained. “But I think Eliot was also getting information from people back in New York that would help Hup and Shifty. He’s the one who told Hup and Shifty who was buying the mine, and I think that Eliot’s bosses in New York told him to stop the deal. So Eliot told Hup and Shifty to kill the deal, but once they saw how much money was involved, they decided to go ahead with the deal and charge their taxes.”

  Lila tried to work through my explanation for a moment, then shook her head.

  “Why would someone in the FBI in New York care about a company that makes olive oil?” she asked, and I realized she still hadn’t heard the news about the new buyer.

  “It’s not so much the company,” I said carefully, “as the person who owns it.”

  “And who owns it?” she asked.

  “A man named Salvatore Febbo,” I replied.

  “Who’s he?” she asked.

  “He has been, for many years, a mob boss,” I said. “He was the one who started the deal. But he was shot a few months ago, and now his son is trying to finish the deal. That’s why I’m here.”

  “So, they won’t be making balsamic vinegar?” she said in disappointment.

  I started to laugh so hard that I nearly steered us off the road. I managed to keep us heading in the right direction though, and soon I turned onto the leafy road that led to the farm.

  “That’s the best part,” I finally said. “Salvatore was trying to go legitimate. He wanted out of the mob business and he wanted his family out as well. The company, Campania Olio, does nothing but import olive oil, and the balsamic vinegar production is a real extension of that. There’s no drugs, no illegal arms, nothing like that. In fact, if Salvatore hadn’t been shot, he and his wife Gulia would be living a quiet life somewhere while Salvatore kept an eye on the company, his son Anthony would be working at a brewery in Queens, and a man named Ben Kroger would have taken over the Febbo mob operations. And Folsom, West Virginia would be producing balsamic vinegar.”

  “But Salvatore was shot,” she murmured.

  “And everything fell apart,” I sighed. “He’s still in a coma, Anthony is trying to keep the businesses running until his father wakes up, and Kroger was killed in a shootout. The deal was put on hold, and Crenshaw’s bosses must have thought he had succeeded in shutting it down. But then Anthony decided he needed to do this thing for this father, so that when he woke up, he’d at least be able to have a legitimate business to call his own.”

  “And that’s why you’re here,” she replied.

  “And that’s why I’m here,” I sighed. “But now I’ve discovered that the Sheriff and the Property Appraiser were running their own redneck mafia, and the FBI had an undercover agent among the local environmentalists who decided he could make some money while he was here. What was supposed to be a short trip to sign some paperwork has become a lot more complicated.”

  We were at the picnic table by then, and I stopped the truck and studied the farm through the windshield. A few stray rain clouds were still in the area, and heavy drops pattered off the truck as we sat and watched.

  “So what do you need from the commune?” she finally asked. She hadn’t looked at me since I’d admitted to being a mafia lawyer, but she hadn’t leapt from the truck either, so I figured she wasn’t completely repulsed by my presence.

  “I think Eliot stole Hup’s file,” I explained. “It has all the paperwork that Hup wanted done in order to allow the deal to go through. Without it, we’d have to wait for another property appraiser to be elected, and we’d have to go through the whole process again. In the meantime, the Febbos would lose a lot of money and probably wouldn’t be able to make another bid on the mine until next year, if even then. That leaves it open for someone else to come in and make an offer, and maybe reopen the mine or build a bunker for rich people.”

  “So we have to find this file,” she said.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” I replied.

  A few commune members had finally spotted the truck, and I could see movement in the fields as people waited to see what we would do. I saw someone start to walk towards the main hall, and I hoped they wouldn’t alert Crenshaw to our arrival.

  “Go ahead and pull up to the dining hall,” Lila said. “We can slip inside and find some people to help us before Richard or Eliot even knows we’re there.”

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I said as I eased the truck forward.

  She didn’t say anything until we had parked and stepped out of the truck. She waved to some of the other farmers, a smile plastered on her face, and then started to walk towards the door. She stopped for a moment to let me catch up, then turned towards me with a serious expression.

  “Why do you work for them?” she asked.

  “Who?” I asked in confusion.

  “The mob,” she said. “Why do you work for them?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “I work for Anthony. When I first met him, he wasn’t even using the name Febbo because he wanted to distance himself from his father and what his father did. In fact, that was one of the reasons Salvatore decided to become a legitimate businessman. And now Anthony is just trying to help that dream along.”

  “So Folsom isn’t about to be overrun with a bunch of guys with Italian names and big guns?” Lila asked.

  “No, no,” I quickly assured her. “Well, the vinegar guy is Italian, but as far as I know he doesn’t carry a big gun. I’m not sure how much English he even speaks.”

  Lila tried very hard to keep a serious expression on her face, but my last admission broke her resolve, and she started to giggle, then laugh out loud. She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside the dining hall with more enthusiasm than I had seen from her since I’d told her about Crenshaw.

  I noticed that most of the tables had been pushed against the walls, and various plastic buckets had been filled with feed had been lined up neatly in the middle of the room. There was also another neat line of what looked like cleaning solutions and scrub brushes nearby, and a stack of empty mason jars on one of the tables. The room was otherwise empty though I could hear voices in the kitchen. Lila tugged on my hand once more and we crossed the large, empty space to the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.

  “Honey, I’m home!” Lila called out as she stepped into the kitchen.

  “Lila!” Patrice cried out when she spotted the brown-haired woman.

  Patrice scurried over, despite the flour on her hands, and wrapped Lila in a hug.

  “We were wondering where you were,” an Asian woman asked as she studied me. “But we’re glad to see you back safe.”

  “Oh, Hunter’s taken good care of me,” she replied airily. “But there’s something I need help with.”

  “Of course,” a man with a gray beard called out from his spot at the stove.

  “I’m looking for a file,” she said. “It has all sorts of papers related to the sale of the mine, and if the deal is going to go through, Hunter needs the documents. But we’re not sure where it is exa
ctly.”

  “Oh, did you lose it when you came out for dinner?” Patrice asked in a sympathetic tone.

  I glanced at Lila, not sure if she wanted to explain that the file had been Hup’s and that it had been stolen to prevent the deal from going through.

  “Yes, he must have set it down somewhere when he was here,” Lila agreed.

  Patrice had a thoughtful look on her face, and she shook her head.

  “Are you sure you had it here?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing you with a folder.”

  “It was on top of the ice chest,” I suggested.

  “Maybe it fell on the ground then,” Patrice said.

  “Maybe someone found it and took it to Eliot or Richard,” I suggested. “Maybe they put it somewhere for safekeeping.”

  “Eliot has an office of sorts,” Lila said brightly. “It could be there.”

  “Let’s go check,” Patrice suggested.

  “And I’ll check the coat closet,” the Asian woman offered.

  “We use it as a lost and found of sorts,” Lila explained when she saw my expression. “Everything gets tossed in there, not just coats.”

  I nodded as some of the others offered ideas on where to check, and two more strolled from the kitchen behind the Asian woman, all determined to find the file. Patrice and Lila both looked at me expectantly until I suggested that the three of us investigate Eliot’s office. Patrice charged ahead with Lila right behind her while I followed more slowly. I tried to check for the agent as I followed the two women out a side door and along a covered walkway to a smaller building, but if he was nearby, I didn’t see him.

  The building we walked into was apparently one of the dorms, with a long hall lined with large rooms filled with bunk beds and a bathroom at either end. The rooms were empty at the moment, though scattered clothes and rumpled sheets were evidence that people did live here. The office was at the far end of the building, behind the only door that was closed. Patrice knocked politely, then opened the door and stuck her head around the edge.

  “Oh, he’s not here,” she said in disappointment.

  “Maybe we can just take a quick look,” Lila suggested. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  “Um,” Patrice hesitated as she peered around the room. “I guess. Although you know how touchy Eliot can be about his office.”

  “It’s not like he’s got anything top secret in there,” Lila laughed.

  “We’ll just take a quick look,” I added. “I know you don’t want to disturb anything, but I really need that file.”

  I gave Patrice my best hang-dog look, and that seemed to settle it in her mind. She stepped cautiously inside the room, and when no alarms sounded, she opened the door wide and beckoned us inside.

  “What does it look like?” Patrice asked as she stepped towards a filing cabinet.

  I glanced at Lila and wished I’d thought to ask the Sheriff the same question.

  “It’s just a folder,” I said. “It has maps and reports and such in it.”

  Patrice seemed satisfied with that as she opened the top drawer and started to pick through the files. I glanced around the room, which looked like the dusty office at any small business, complete with filing cabinets, a multipurpose printer on a wobbly table, a Keurig coffee maker and an inspirational poster featuring a man climbing a mountain. There was also a metal desk with several drawers, and I moved to that as Lila tackled the other cabinet.

  Most of the desk drawers were filled with supplies and one seemed to hold a collection of paper clips that it must have taken decades to amass. There were two large file drawers, but only one was unlocked. I went through that one first, but all I found were the balance sheets for the farm. It was mildly interesting and basically confirmed that Richard’s dot com wealth kept the farm alive, but there was no sign of the file I needed wedged among the pages.

  I turned my attention to the locked drawer, but another perusal of the desk’s contents did not produce the key. I glanced towards the two women, who chatted as they skimmed through the files, then went to work on the lock using a penknife I found in the desk.

  These things always look easy in the movies or TV, but there’s some talent involved in picking a lock, even a simple one like the one on the desk drawer. In the movies, the act is always completed quickly, even if the hero is forced to use a hanger. In real life, it takes patience, especially if you don’t happen to have a lockpick set handy.

  Luckily, neither Patrice nor Lila seemed all that concerned about what I was doing as their conversation turned to a review of their favorite boy bands. I tuned them out and focused on the drawer, and after several long minutes, I finally managed to pull the drawer open.

  There was a laptop inside, far nicer than any of the other equipment I had seen so far. It was tempting to take a peek, but I couldn’t even begin to guess what Eliot’s password might be. So I set it on top of the desk and looked through the files that were stored beneath it. There was plenty of interesting material, mostly related to the activities of various environmental extremists, but no sign of the file I needed. With a sigh, I tucked the laptop back in its place and closed the drawer.

  I noticed that Patrice and Lila were nearly done as well, and I was going to suggest that we look elsewhere when I heard a familiar coughing sound. I jumped from the chair I had been sitting in and crossed to the window in two long strides. Sure enough, the old truck had wheezed to life and I saw Eliot at the wheel.

  “He’s stealing my truck!” I yelled as I patted my pockets. Yep, I still had the key so Eliot must have hotwired the Ford.

  “Who?” Patrice asked in confusion.

  “Eliot!” I replied as the truck started to sink into a patch of mud.

  The wheels spun and a spray of mud plastered the surrounding area. I thought for sure he was stuck, but Eliot knew enough to ease the truck from the mud.

  “Is there a car or truck around here that I can borrow?” I asked.

  “They’re doing deliveries today,” Lila replied. “So most of our vehicles are gone.”

  “The bus is still here,” Patrice said as she moved towards a row of hooks by the door. I spotted a lone keychain on one of the hooks and I sprinted towards it before Patrice could reach it.

  “Where’s the bus?” I asked frantically.

  “Come on,” Lila said as she ran down the hall.

  I ran after her as she sprinted from the building and then ran behind the building. We ducked between another pair of dorms, and then we were in a large, muddy lot. There were tire tracks everywhere, as well as a recharging station for electric cars and a large barrel labeled ‘Used Cooking Oil’. But the lot was mostly empty of vehicles, except for an old VW bus. It was probably twenty years younger than the truck, which wasn’t saying much, and it looked like someone had welded solar panels to the top.

  “There,” Lila said triumphantly as she pointed to the yellow bus.

  “Of course,” I sighed.

  But the sounds of the old truck engine were fading, and this was the only chance I had of catching Eliot and maybe retrieving the truck before he damaged it. Oh, and maybe I could get him to tell me where he’d hidden the file. If I caught him. With a sigh, I ran towards the bus and climbed inside. It was as basic as they come, though the engine sprang to life as soon as I turned the key.

  The old bus rumbled out of the lot, and I managed to avoid the worst of the mud by driving on the grass. Bizarrely, the smell of old french fries seemed to follow me as I set off in pursuit, and then I realized that someone had converted the old bus to run on used cooking oil. I had no idea if that would affect the power of the engine, but then VW mini buses weren’t famous for their speed anyway.

  Back beneath the leafy tunnel, I could see the smokey black trail and less pleasant smell that indicated the truck had recently passed though and I gave the old VW as much power as it could take. I picked up speed, slightly, though I certainly wasn’t sending rocks slicing through the air the way the Sheriff’s cruise
r had.

  At the intersection, I stopped and peered in both directions. I spotted the tail end of the truck heading away from the town and towards the next steep climb. I made the right hand turn and set off in pursuit although the bus didn’t seem to have a next gear.

  I managed to make up some distance when the old truck hit the hill and slowed down considerably. I could hear the gears grinding as Eliot tried to shift, and I shook my head at his apparent inability to understand how to navigate a steep climb in a stick shift. I hit the bottom of the hill as the truck passed the halfway mark, and I noticed that there was a great deal more smoke than usual.

  I tried to urge a little more pace from my own ride, but the VW only had one speed, so I puttered up the hill in very slow pursuit, even as Eliot finally found the right gear and managed to pick up his own pace a few more miles per hour. Near the top, however, the road curved towards the right and Eliot nearly drove the truck into a line of trees when he turned the wheel too slowly. The agent overcompensated, the truck slid sideways, and then started to roll backwards down the hill.

  “Crap,” I muttered as I watched the truck’s approach.

  I tapped the brakes on the bus as I tried to decide which side to move to, but Eliot managed to regain control of the truck before we collided. There was another plume of smoke as the tires struggled to grab the road, and then the truck started up the hillside once again.

  Eliot eased the old truck around the curve while I lumbered along behind. I managed to make it around the turn without threatening any of the plant life, but I was surprised to see that the old truck had stopped at the top of the hill. I glanced in the rearview mirror and decided that stopping along the edge of the hill behind the truck wasn’t a good idea since I would probably end up rolling backwards unless I pulled the parking brake. But then I would have to try to get the old bus moving upwards and forwards again once I released the brake, and I wasn’t sure there was enough power to do that.

  So I plotted a path around the truck and tried to gage the best way to park the bus so I could block the truck. As the bus drew even with the truck, I glanced into the cab and saw Eliot’s pasty face glaring back at me. He was hunched over the wheel, much like did when he walked, and for a moment, I wondered if he had stalled the truck. If he had, that would certainly make things easier for me.