Hannibal had called ahead, knowing that he was likely to find Anthony Ronzini having an early lunch. Freddy, Ronzini’s personal protector, greeted Hannibal at the door. Hannibal knew that square head, thin sandy hair and broken nose. Freddy had the mass of a heavyweight fighter and the light tread one would expect a middleweight to have. Hannibal nodded a greeting and raised his arms for a pat down. They had not met under the best of circumstances.
“No need for that,” Freddy said. “You clean?”
“Of course. I won’t disrespect Mr. Ronzini at a meal.”
Freddy turned to lead Hannibal into the restaurant. On their way to Ronzini’s table they passed three or four familiar faces. Café Milano was one of those places that attracted Washington’s power elite. Hannibal had his coat back on by the time they reached the patio. Stepping into the glass-fronted area was a quick trip to Europe. Plants and flowers flanked two long rows of tables wearing white tablecloths. The blossoms and leaves looked as if they were catered to as much as the diners. Hannibal guessed the room’s capacity at around a hundred, and he was sure that it was ninety percent full that day.
When he reached Ronzini’s table, Hannibal looked around slowly, wondering how many of the men nearby were in Ronzini’s employ. While not a major force in the local crime scene, Ronzini was a player and was not without influence. His round Italian face turned toward Hannibal and offered a congenial smile.
“Sit, Mr. Jones. Have you had lunch? At least have an espresso with me.” Ronzini raised his left hand and a waiter stepped toward them.
Hannibal lowered himself into the seat facing Ronzini, who sat behind a huge salad filled with things Hannibal wasn’t sure he could name. He saw eggplant, peppers, tomatoes and the fake lettuce Cindy called arugula. The other stuff hardly looked like food, although some of it might be cheese of some sort.
“Thank you, Mr. Ronzini,” Hannibal said, more for Freddy’s benefit than his host’s. “I wasn’t expecting so warm a welcome.”
Ronzini stabbed the salad, raising the sour cheese odor. “Hey, you’ve held up your end of the deal. I wasn’t so sure.”
“I never doubted you,” Hannibal replied. “We had an understanding. I had less faith in your son, but there haven’t been any problems.” Ronzini’s son had been running a crack house until Hannibal was hired to chase the bad element out of that building. Hannibal declared the building and the neighbors on its block, to be under his personal protection. Ronzini had been drawn into the conflict and overstepped his son to end it by making an agreement with Hannibal. He would keep his son’s drug business out of Hannibal’s neighborhood, and Hannibal would take no further action against the young drug dealer. The agreement created a relationship between the two men based on honor and mutual respect. And after fighting for the building Hannibal decided to make it both his home and his place of business.
“And what brings you to see me now?” Ronzini asked between bites of his antipasto. “I’m thinking this isn’t a social call.”
Hannibal bit back his pride and forced a less arrogant expression onto his face. “Actually, I’m here to ask for a favor,” Hannibal said.
“Of course you are.”
“I have no idea how I might repay you for this favor.”
“We will not speak of such things,” Ronzini said. “I know what you will and will not do. At some time I may need a favor and you will do the right thing.” Then, to the waiter, “Please bring my friend here a cup of espresso, no lemon I think.” Then his eyes returned to Hannibal. They were the eyes of a fox, incisive, dissecting Hannibal as he spoke.
“I’m looking for a man,” Hannibal said, choosing his words with care. “This man has beaten and abused women. He also stole something important from one of these women. I need to get it back. I may also want this man to pay for his treatment of these women. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find out anything about this man through the normal avenues.”
“And you think I should know something of this man?”
“This man has a criminal history and I believe he may have connections, important connections you might know about.” Hannibal said. Two nearby diners’ eyes flicked toward him, and Hannibal knew they were Ronzini’s men. “The more I know about my quarry, the easier it will be to locate and deal with him. And before I take this man down, I’d like to know what kind of enemies I might be making. This man’s name is Rod Mantooth.”
Ronzini continued through his antipasto. No hint of recognition showed on his face. Just before he finished his food, the waiter reappeared with espresso for Hannibal and pasta for Ronzini. Freddy, at the next table, didn’t seem to eat. Hannibal’s face showed his surprise at Ronzini’s food.
“You should have ordered.” Ronzini said.
“Not hungry. Just never seen ravioli in a cream sauce like that.”
“When it’s round we call it cappellacci,” Ronzini said, spreading a clean napkin across his lap to protect what had to be a two thousand dollar wool suit. “These are filled with spinach and ricotta. A wonderful flavor. And I know this man, Mantooth. At least, I know of him. He’s from the old neighborhood, Bensonhurst.”
“Really? I had the impression he was a low life,” Hannibal sipped his espresso. It was very hot, and maybe the strongest he had tasted. He smiled and took another sip before putting his cup down.
“Yeah, ten years ago he was busting into banks. Five or six years ago he got busted, but I think he’s on the streets again.”
“Can you tell me who he’s working for, or with?” Hannibal asked.
Ronzini chewed a pocket of pasta, shaking his head slowly, either at how good the food was or at how silly Hannibal’s question was. “What you really want to know is, who is this guy and what kind of friends does he make. Do you know where this man is?”
“I’ve tracked him to Virginia Beach,” Hannibal said. “I intend to confront him there. Our meeting could get messy.”
Ronzini laughed out loud. “Really? Well, wait twenty-four hours and let me check into Mantooth. It shouldn’t be hard to find out what you want to know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ronzini.” Hannibal said, swallowing the last of his espresso. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get on this bastard’s trail. I’ll wait until tomorrow and call you.”
“No,” Ronzini said, in a stern voice that made Hannibal stop half way to standing up. “You won’t contact me again. I’ll call you when I have information for you.”
The smell of fine Italian cuisine had accentuated the one lie Hannibal had told Ronzini. His stomach was growling for food. As soon as he reached his car he headed for the nearest Wendy’s drive through. The drive home was a lot more pleasant with a burger on his lap and a container of French fries in his door’s map pocket. By the time he pulled into his parking space lunch was a memory and Hannibal’s mind was focused on packing for a long drive south. His thoughts shifted only when Monte met him on the sidewalk.
“What’s up, Hannibal. Still working a hot case?”
“As a matter of fact, I still am,” Hannibal said, “and I have to take off for Virginia Beach this afternoon.”
“Hey, you gonna be catching up with Huge?” Monte asked, following Hannibal up the stairs.
Hannibal stopped just inside the door, sensing a variety of elements dropping into place. “Actually, Monte, I will be checking in with him. How’d you like to meet him?”
Monte took in a giant breath, and word rushed out of him like water over a cascade. “Are you for real? You think I could meet him, in person, like shake his hand and actually talk to him? Man I’d give anything for a chance like that.”
“Maybe,” Hannibal said, unlocking his apartment door. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Huh?”
“I’m ready to make you a deal.”
Monte backed off as Hannibal entered his place, perhaps sensing that he was about to step into a trap. “What kind of a deal.”
“A book every two weeks.”
“
What?” Monte said, his voice rising higher.
“Like I said, you read a book every two weeks for the rest of the summer, you bring me a nicely written report of said book, and I’ll see if your grandmother will let me take you with me to spend some time at Huge’s studio.”
Monte stomped in a small circle in the hall, and Hannibal wondered what kept his pants from falling down. They were already several inches below his waist. “That’s the deal,” Hannibal said. “Take it or leave it. I have to get packed right now. It’s a three and a half hour drive and I’d like to be there before sundown.”
Marquita greeted Hannibal at the door with a strong hug. Although caught by surprise, Hannibal returned the embrace before guiding her to the sofa.
“Hey, little bro,” Sarge said to Monte while pouring four sodas. “Didn’t expect you to be coming along.”
“It was a last minute decision,” Hannibal said. “I filled him in on the bare bones of the case on the way down.”
“Well, Hannibal, I’m damned glad to see you, brother,” Sarge said. “Markie has been a wreck since this morning, but I knew you getting here would make her feel better.”
Sarge had splurged on a comfortable condo within sight of the ocean in the city’s resort area. The great room was set up for entertaining. The kitchenette had everything they could need for meals, the table would seat six, and the living room area held a television, stereo, a comfortable wicker love seat and two chairs. Fresh flowers dotted the whole space and, even at six o’clock, sunlight flooded the room through the sliding glass doors. The balcony beyond them offered a wide view of the Atlantic, but watching the waves was not Hannibal’s priority.
“I’m sure Marquita feels quite safe with you around, Sarge,” Hannibal said, settling into one of the wicker chairs.
“Sarge will never leave my side,” Marquita said, her feet tucked beneath her on the couch as if she wanted to protect them. “I know he will look after me, but you, Mr. Jones, you can go out and find this man and do something.”
“You gonna hunt this guy down and terminate him?” Monte asked with a grin.
“I’m not terminating anybody,” Hannibal said with a stern look in Monte’s direction. Then he turned to Marquita. The air conditioner was blowing hard and must have been for quite a while. It gave Hannibal a slight chill and made Marquita’s nipples press into her lightweight tank top in a way that seemed somehow inappropriate to Hannibal. “Now, Marquita, tell me what you saw.”
“I saw him,” she all but shouted. “It was Rod, right out there on the beach.”
“Alone?” Hannibal asked. “Just walking down the beach in his flip flops?”
Marquita ran fingers through her long platinum hair and curled her lips inward. Sarge sat beside her and stretched out an arm to wrap around her but she shrugged it away. Her thin form shook with ragged breaths and her hands covered her eyes. After a few seconds of silence she was able to look at Hannibal.
“I’m sorry. We were down the beach from here, maybe a mile or so. There is this lovely boardwalk with cute little shops full of useless trinkets and soft ice cream cones.”
“We were just walking along,” Sarge said. “Not really paying attention to where we were, you know? We turned off from the beach on a whim and wandered a block or two up a lane of houses.”
“That’s when they went by,” Marquita said.
“They?” Hannibal asked, prompting her on.
“It was a red Jeep, or one of those four wheel drive things,” Marquita said. “The top was off and it was just open. And there he sat in the front passenger seat. I swear he looked right through me without seeing me. I just screamed.”
“You’re sure it was him?” Hannibal asked.
Marquita sat forward, her fawn eyes locking onto Hannibal’s. “I could never forget that face.”
“Sarge, what did you do?” Hannibal glanced at Monte, who sat with eyes wide. He could see that the lady was badly shaken but he had sense enough to stay quiet. Sarge was quiet at first too, but not for the same reason.
“Worthless,” Sarge said under his breath. “Never even saw the man. All I knew was, Markie was screaming. By the time I knew why, the car was long gone.”
“But you know what this guy looks like, right?” Monte sounded anxious to help. “We can just hit the street and cover the area. Nobody ever notices me so I could follow him and come get you.”
“Appreciate the offer, Monte,” Hannibal said. “But let’s collect a little more data first. Marquita, you said Rod was in the passenger seat. Who was driving?”
Marquita’s brows closed together, as if she had never considered the question before. “He wasn’t alone,” she said as if surprised by the revelation. “There was a younger man driving. Tall, beach boy type, blonde, like a body builder. And the three girls crammed into the back seat. Wait, one of them I had seen before. Yes. It was the witch called Mariah.”
“Wearing?”
“Who knows?” Marquita said, waving a hand.
“You do,” Hannibal said in a harder voice. “Just recall the scene. Picture it in your mind.”
Marquita closed her eyes and despite the cool breeze in the room perspiration broke through the skin on her face. “The boy was bare-chested. Rod wore a Hawaiian shirt. The girls wore bikinis, all three. Solid colors, like three Italian icees. Cherry, lemon and lime.”
Hannibal broke into a grin. “Now that’s a picture that will be hard to miss. I’ve also got a couple of other leads to follow up on. But it’s getting late and I feel like I spent the whole day in the car. How about I take everyone to dinner?”
Marquita showed a sudden burst of energy, bouncing to her feet and heading for the refrigerator. “Oh, I was going to make my special Jambalaya for Archie. See, I bought everything I need. I’m sure I can make enough for the four of us. Believe me, it will be better than anything you could get at a restaurant.”
She ended with a nervous laugh. The men sat quiet. After a moment she turned toward them, one side of her smile gone but the other side still bravely holding up.
“I really just don’t want to go outside again so soon,” she said. “If we can just stay inside this one evening?”
“Of course,” Hannibal said. “It sounds wonderful.”
“Sure,” Sarge added. “We can rent a movie or something. Make an evening of it. You guys know how to play tonk?”
Monte gave Sarge a sidelong look and raised a tentative eyebrow. “Archie?”
-15-
Wednesday
Hannibal took a deep breath as he stepped out of his motel, for no other reason than that he loved the salty fresh smell of the ocean. He had booked a room in the Best Western Oceanfront. True to the name, his room did have a pleasant oceanfront view, despite the fact that the motel faced the even less impressive Budget Lodge and stood practically in the shadow of an Econolodge. But the view didn’t move him, in either direction. It was the smell of the seashore that made him smile.
It was clear that location meant nothing to Monte. He was hopping around like the dancing hamsters on the internet as they stepped out into the flashbulb-bright early morning sunshine. Hannibal wondered if he would be bouncing off the ceiling in the car.
“You know where you’re going, right?” Monte asked as they got underway.
“I have the address and the streets are numbered sequentially. I think I can find it.”
From 11th to 21st street was not far, but it would take them a while. Traffic wasn’t the only reason for their slow progress, although the streets were packed with both cars and foot traffic. Hannibal reflected that, geography aside, Washington D.C. was at heart a northern town, at least from a cultural perspective. The vast variety of restaurants, museums, and theater options hinted at that fact, but the true giveaway was the pace. People in The District had someplace to go and wanted to get there.
Virginia Beach, on the other hand, was a true Southern city. It was the biggest city in the state, but it still behaved and thought like
a small town. That made the traffic very similar to driving conditions in Miami. Drivers were too busy looking at the people and shops they passed, and of course watching the ocean when they could spot it between the towering hotels, to be concerned with speed. It was as if there were no local residents, and everyone in town was on vacation.
As he headed up 21st it occurred to Hannibal that every seaside city must have been designed by a New Englander. The style of the buildings never changed. Then he passed Peabody’s, which had “the biggest dance floor in Virginia Beach” if their sign was to be believed. This was a bit more modern than the rest of its surroundings, but still had an air of that quaint small town feeling.
A few blocks later he pulled into a small parking lot behind a squat, unassuming building that could have been a residence that was just a little bigger than its neighbors. When they left the car Monte raced to the door, back to Hannibal and back to the door. Hannibal tried to remember what it was like to be a pre-teen boy. His memory failed him.
A tap at the door brought a very large, well-tattooed fellow to the door. He was perhaps twenty years old, with a huge forehead, dreadlocks and a questioning expression on his face.
“Hannibal Jones to see Huge Wilson. He’s expecting me.”
The doorman’s head moved backward on his neck. “You the nigger laid out Hard Dog?” Hannibal nodded. “Dayum!” He offered Hannibal a handshake that jumped into a series of movements, a more complex process than Hannibal could follow. It ended with the doorman pressing a fist forward. That part Hannibal recognized. He punched into the man’s fist and they all went inside.
Dim lights, dark carpet and plentiful mirrors promoted the illusion that the building was bigger inside than it was outside. The doorman led them through a narrow hall to a wider control room area. Hannibal recognized the large mixing boards that lined one side of the room and wondered how anyone could master the vast array of switches, knobs and slider pots. The board faced a glass wall, beyond which a solitary Black woman in a jogging suit and headphones stood speaking into a hanging microphone, reading from a sheaf of paper.
Damaged Goods Page 16
