Damaged Goods

by Austin Camacho

  “So?”

  “So I might not get another chance at you,” Sheryl said, hiding her eyes for just a moment. “I know she’s prettier, but I know how to make you happy. I swear I do.”

  Her tongue flicked into his ear. He turned his head to avoid it and found himself kissing her again. Hannibal struggled to keep his mind clear. Had Rod instructed her to seduce him, to test him, sexually? If so, it might seem suspicious if he resisted her too well. Or she could be a gift from Rod, stressing his ownership of his girls in the way he did with Marquita. In that case, Sheryl might be punished if she failed to arouse him.

  She was panting now and somehow she was able to cling to him after he left her car. They managed to climb the stairs to Sheryl’s apartment while entwined like dates after the prom. Sheryl fumbled in her small purse, found the key, and got the door open. No yipping greeted them. He figured the dog was with Fay, that poor woman sitting across the street who must have hated Sheryl right then for bringing home a good time that she herself was interested in.

  Once inside, Sheryl backed toward one of the bedrooms, pulling Hannibal along like a dancer whose waltz partner had decided to lead. But he was quite sure that waltzing was not her objective. He followed with awkward movements, not really sure of the steps in this particular dance.

  The room, no more than twelve feet square, barely held the twin bed, dresser and vanity table. White walls and thin carpet made the space feel cheap, but the thick purple comforter on the bed told him that Sheryl wanted to brand the space as her own. He wondered if she had the same plan for him.

  “I am going to make you feel so good,” she said, mumbling into Hannibal’s chest while she struggled to pull his shirt up and off him. She nibbled at his exposed chest while one hand slid downward to cup his crotch. Only then did Hannibal realize that his body was not responding to her as she expected. Sheryl whimpered, a sound halfway between pleading and fear.

  “What?” she asked, staring up at him. He wasn’t sure if she was asking what was wrong, what she had done wrong, or what he wanted her to do next. Her worried eyes and half-open mouth said she was terrified that he might not find her desirable. Some part of him wanted to reassure her. Another part wanted to break away to reassert his loyalty to the woman he loved. Those circuits crossed in a way that caused his mind to conjure an image of Cindy. That image spurred his body to an instant response, and Sheryl felt the reassurance she needed swelling in her hand. Catching his breath, Hannibal pushed her gently away.

  “You a wildcat, Shorty,” he said, forcing a crooked smile. “No need to rush, baby. Let me get to the bathroom. Then you and me can have some fun.”

  Sheryl’s reluctance showed when she pulled her hands away from Hannibal’s body and dropped backward onto the bed. He stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

  This was very much a girl’s room. Not that it was overly clean, but the collection of products overwhelmed him. The small counter was covered with bottles and jars in every conceivable shape and color. The edge of the bathtub was equally littered with shampoos, conditioners, and cleansers of every stripe and a bewildering assortment of ways to remove hair from the human body.

  While considering his surroundings Hannibal shoved his hands into his back pockets. His right pocket, which he expected to be empty, was not. He pulled out a small slip of paper on which was written a telephone number. The 571 exchange told him it was a cell phone. Only Mariah had been close enough to slip something into his pocket. So, she wanted to risk Rod’s anger by having Smoke ring her number. This level of independence struck him as mysterious for a woman who played submissive.

  None of which helped him deal with his present situation. Hannibal stared at himself in the mirror. At least he assumed it was his own face. The character staring back at him, wearing a do rag and cheap sunglasses, reminded him that he needed to stay in character to get closer to Rod in order to separate him from the Cooper formula. But the man inside knew that this situation involved more than business. His love for Cindy was the cornerstone of his reality, the most authentic thing in his life. He could not imagine cheapening their relationship by having sex with a woman he just met, especially since he met at least two of her previous lovers on the same day. Actually, they would be concurrent lovers.

  On the other hand, his dedication to the case was absolute. And wasn’t maintaining his cover for the good of a client a sufficient excuse for anything he might do? Especially if no one ever had to know he had done it?

  Disappointed with what the man in the mirror was trying to convince him to do, Hannibal opened the medicine cabinet. Considering all the preparations scattered about the room, curiosity drove him to wonder if there was anything left that could be in the medicine cabinet. It was clogged with contents. Among the band-aids, dental floss and aspirin he spotted something that looked familiar. The small prescription bottle was half full of Rohypnol, the roofies Rod had fed to Marquita to dull her resistance. He remembered Dr. Roberts saying that one of them hit like ten Valium. Now here was a possible solution. If she was passed out or sedated enough, he could do anything and she would never know. This meant that he could do nothing at all, leave her sleeping, and tell her tomorrow that she had been a great time. He closed the medicine cabinet, winked at himself in the mirror, and slipped the little bottle into his pocket. He could pull this off, and in fact, it could be fun.

  Reaffixing Smoke’s arrogant swagger, Hannibal reentered the small bedroom. His smile never wavered at the sight of Sheryl on her back, topless, with the comforter pulled just high enough to reach her hipbones.

  “Damn you look yummy,” Sheryl said, her eyes gliding up and down his frame. “Climb in and I’ll give you the ride of your life.”

  “I think that’s going to be the other way around,” Hannibal replied. “But first, you got anything decent to drink around here?”

  Sheryl rolled away from him toward the end table on the other side of the bed. The comforter went with her, revealing her full nakedness. When she turned back one hand gripped the neck of a Jack Daniels bottle. The other balanced two glasses. Hannibal took the glasses first, setting them on the dresser before pouring each half full from the bottle. He was thinking of something else to ask for to prompt Sheryl to turn around again so that he could drop a pill into her glass, when he heard a thump from the front of the apartment.

  Derek had pushed the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall. His fists were clenched so hard that his knuckles were white. His chest seemed to expand to twice its size with each deep breath. His eyes flashed more with rage than surprise. The frozen tableau that greeted him was certainly self-evident. Sheryl sat naked on the bed while Hannibal poured whiskey into two glasses. She may have been the offender, but his focus was on Hannibal as if only the two men were in the room.

  “What the fuck?” Derek spat the words like venom.

  Hannibal deflected the verbal attack, turning to Sheryl. “What the hell’s he doing here? He got a key?”

  Torn between them, Sheryl stammered. “I didn’t lock it. Derek this isn’t…” her voice trailed off, as is she couldn’t think of just what this was not.

  Hannibal turned back to face the other man. It was Derek’s play. He had several options to choose from. His next move would determine how well he came out of this encounter.

  “You son of a bitch!” Derek stepped forward, cocking his right fist like an arrow he was about to launch. It was not the smart play, but it was the one Hannibal expected.

  “You don’t want none of this, boy,” Hannibal said in a low tone.

  “Like hell.” Derek’s left hand waved forward, sweeping away an attack Hannibal never launched. The instant before Derek fired his right fist forward Hannibal flipped a glass full of Jack Daniels into his face. Derek howled as much in anger as pain. Hannibal sidestepped Derek’s long loping right, planted his feet and snapped his own fist up into Derek’s solar plexus. The blonde’s mouth hung open for a second and he dropped to his
knees.

  Hannibal grabbed the boy by his hair and turned his face upward. When he pulled his other fist back to smash downward he heard Sheryl gasp. It was the sound of a woman who didn’t want to see someone she cared about get hurt. That made it easy for him to stop. Derek stared up through a haze of fear and Hannibal wondered if this was the way the boy felt when he looked at Rod.

  “We was just about to have a little fun, punk, and I didn’t see your name on the bitch anywhere,” Hannibal said. “I ought to break your face just for ruining the mood, but I think Rod likes you and I kind of like the idea of partying with his crew for a while so I’ll let you slide this time. But check it, you get in my way again and I will fuck you up serious.” He bent low to shove his face close to Derek’s. “You getting this white boy? Or do I have to stick my dick in your eye so you can see where I’m coming from?”

  Derek was panting and shaking like a recruit on the first day of basic training. “I get it. Really. I get it.”

  Derek’s head snapped forward when Hannibal released his hair. Hannibal stepped backward, pointing at Sheryl. “This moron just cost you the best ride of your life, bitch. Maybe I’ll catch you at the party, although I got my eye on the Island girl.” He was out the door and down the stairs before either of the others could gather an appropriate comment. Good. Derek was scared of him, and Sheryl believed he was ready to bed any willing woman. If the set up had been a test of some sort, they would both report back to Rod with exactly what Hannibal wanted him to hear.

  Hannibal was already reaching for his car door handle when he realized how close his bumper was to the big black Cadillac Escalade parked in front of him. Plenty of adrenaline was already pumping through his system and if some clown had so much as dusted the white tornado’s bumper there would be hell to pay. He stepped forward and looked down. The SUV was backed to within an inch of his car. He looked up, casting a nasty glare at the tinted windows. When the well-dressed drive stepped down to the street Hannibal felt encouraged. He was big enough to hit. He had the black hair and uneven complexion of a Sicilian and his suit and shoes proclaimed his loyalty to his Italian brothers.

  “You got a problem?” Hannibal asked. “Move this piece of shit.”

  As if he hadn’t heard Hannibal’s words, the driver said, “Get in. Boss wants to talk to you.”

  “Why don’t you put me in the car, dickhead?” Hannibal said, taking a step back to firm his stance. The driver remained still, and the back door popped open. The occupant looked back at Hannibal, scanning him up and down.

  “I hardly recognized you, stud. But if you’re still on that case, I got something you want.” Anthony Ronzini leaned out of the car. “Come take a ride with me, and let me tell you something about your prey.”

  -18-

  “You packing?” the driver asked. His arms were folded in such a way that his right hand could have been resting on the butt of a gun in a shoulder holster.

  “And you are?”

  “They call me Wheels. You packing?”

  “Right ankle,” Hannibal said. The driver nodded, and Hannibal bent to raise his pants and slowly pull the Smith and Wesson Model 42 Centennial Airweight revolver from its holster. He took the gun by its two-inch barrel and tossed it to the driver. “I’ll need that back.”

  “Who else would want it?” Wheels asked, pocketing the piece. “Cell phone?” Hannibal tossed his phone too. Wheels sneered at it. “Pager?” Hannibal shook his head. “Blackberry?” Again, Hannibal shook his head. Wheels gave him a dismissive puff of air, pocketed the phone and got back in the driver’s seat. Hannibal stepped up into the back seat beside Ronzini.

  Hannibal was not comfortable getting into Ronzini’s vehicle without backup. He didn’t like the look of the driver, or the expression on the face of the bruiser in the shotgun seat, whom he knew as Freddy. They both remembered how Hannibal had taken Ronzini out of a car at gunpoint with Freddy helpless to interfere. He especially didn’t like going anywhere with Ronzini without someone else knowing where he would be. But he understood the rules of this game. Now that Ronzini appeared to have come through for him, he knew he would just have to play it out and trust to the old gangster’s honor.

  “Can I ask where we’re going?”

  “Sure, sure,” Ronzini said in a manner that seemed a bit too gracious. “A friend of mine has a nice little place down at the south end of the beach. We’ll talk there.”

  They rode in silence for twenty minutes or so before turning into a driveway at the edge of the coast. A breeze blew in off the ocean and the air was crisp with salt and that odd electricity that seems to blow in off the Atlantic. The sky was just beginning to darken and Hannibal stood for a moment staring out to infinity where the ocean seemed to merge with the firmament. He thought he saw a dolphin break the surface but he might have been mistaken. If not, then the ocean itself was laughing at him from far away. Cool, damp air whipped around him, energizing him. He was still until Wheel’s waved him inside.

  In Hannibal’s eyes the beach house was a transplanted mansion. He followed Ronzini and Wheels through a vast living room to a formal dining room, aware of Freddie behind him but not turning to look at him. Wheels kept on to the kitchen, but Ronzini turned off at a formal dining room. He settled in to the chair at the head of the table, so Hannibal dropped onto the one at the other end. While Freddie placed an ashtray and cigar at Ronzini’s elbow, Hannibal heard an espresso machine making its locomotive sounds in the kitchen. He sat patiently, because to do otherwise would be disrespectful.

  Wheels placed huge cups of cappuccino in front of Ronzini and Hannibal. Freddie laid a folder full of loose papers at Ronzini’s left. Then both men left the room. This, from Ronzini, was a conspicuous show of respect in return. Respect, and trust.

  Hannibal sipped from his cup, smiled as the rich flavor filled his mouth, and then sat up straight. “Okay, so I’ve met our boy, and he’s everything I expected. Now, what else do I need to know?”

  “You need to know who this man is,” Ronzini said, using a penknife blade to snip the end of his cigar. “You need to know the path this Roderick Mantooth is on, so you can see how your path intersects it.”

  Hannibal settled back in the wooden chair, crossing his ankles under the table. “He’s on the fast track to hell. He’s just a mean, tough street punk. Like you.”

  Ronzini struck a wooden match and lit his cigar. “Well, same streets anyway. Brooklyn. Dyker Heights. Bensonhurst. But he’s really an ambitious tough guy with tunnel vision, who can’t see his real part in the big picture. Like you.”

  “So it all starts in your old neighborhood,” Hannibal said. The dense cloud of smoke made him crinkle his nose.

  Ronzini didn’t seem to notice. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from an inside jacket pocket and opened the folder. “It starts in 1989, the first time cops pinch a sixteen year old named Rodney Johannsen for stealing a car. He pleads guilty to a reduced charge and…” Ronzini raised his eyebrows toward Hannibal.

  “His record is wiped clean,” Hannibal said in disgust. “This is how the justice systems gets petty thieves off to a good start.”

  “Right,” Ronzini said, puffing his cigar again. “Two years later he gets busted for assault. The guy he beat half to death was an off duty cop. Then he starts getting big ideas. By 1992 he caught my attention by stealing a couple of ATM machines.”

  “Robbing,” Hannibal said, correcting Ronzini by reflex.

  “No, stealing. He got a bulldozer and some chains and yanked them right out of the walls.”

  Hannibal’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. Nobody’s that arrogant, not that young.”

  “Hell, that’s just the part the cops know. I know he spent a year up in the Bronx. Friends told me he sold a hundred pounds of weed to some drug dealer, then turned around and stole it back. Hell of a way to raise starter capital. And when he comes back to Brooklyn in ’94 he’s Roderick Mantooth. He’s what, twenty at this point, and we get word he robbed
a guy by bashing his head in with a baseball bat.”

  “Still a punk,” Hannibal said in a thoughtful tone, “But you can see he kept on chasing the big score.” Hannibal had resented the lecture form of Ronzini’s presentation at the start. Now he was starting to see patterns and gain new understanding of the man he had spent the afternoon with. Ronzini shuffled sheets of paper, his glasses sliding low on his nose. Sometimes Hannibal saw him as a gangster, but other times he looked like a businessman. Right then, he looked a bit scholarly. A senior professor, tenured in the crime department, Hannibal thought.

  “Now we’re up to ’94,” Ronzini continued, “and our boy Mantooth has a gang together. They’re doing the usual petty break-ins, mostly up in the Bronx and out in Staten Island. Then they decide to rob a bank in a mall. They do it Mantooth style, busting in the door with sledgehammers.”

  “Tell me they caught him.”

  “Boy lives a charmed life,” Ronzini said. “Bank reported a loss of three hundred grand. I figure they padded by about a third. You’d think that was the big score for this jamoke, but his crew stayed in business, stealing cars, shaking people down, doing odd jobs for the local mob. Then a couple months later he’s driving the getaway car for more home invasions out on the island. That seems to have stopped after they found someone home. A woman was shot in the head. Not sure if it was him or one of his crew. Anyway, I think the crew fell apart after that.”

  “Even the bad guys don’t want to hang with this wacko,” Hannibal said. He and Ronzini lifted their cups at the same time, sipped, and put them down. Something about that made Hannibal uncomfortable.

  “Don’t know much about 1995. He got busted for beating up a guy, so maybe he was working protection or enforcement for somebody. Anyhow, he pleads guilty to lesser charges again, but now the cops are watching him. Less than six months later he whips up on a club bouncer.”

  “Isn’t it usually the other way around?” Hannibal asked.