Rob Cornell - Ridley Brone 02 - The Hustle

by Rob Cornell

  And when it didn’t work out, and Mort got hit with cancer, he had decided he couldn’t trust Bobby to run the business and willed it to someone else. Me.

  “Thank you, Wanda. I think this will help a lot.”

  “Do you mind if I ask, help you with what?”

  “Finding Bobby.”

  Chapter 28

  I must like long shots. I had gone and sniffed me out another one.

  Which is probably why Palmer looked at me like a two-headed monster. (I was getting used to that, though.) “Bit of a stretched, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “It’s my time to waste.”

  He went to rub his head, halted with his hand halfway there, then rested his hand on the bar. I had taken Palmer into the bar during off hours like I used to with my old friend, Tom Fortier. Sharing beers in a quiet bar seemed to help smooth difficult requests from law enforcement professionals.

  He sipped at his beer, an Indian Pale Ale from a micro brewery in Battle Creek. His face scrunched up. “What is this?”

  “Something with actual flavor.”

  He curled a lip. “You’re one of those beer snobs. We got one on the force. Drives me fucking crazy listening to him talk about beer. In my world, the most complicated thing about a beer is pulling back the tab to open the can.”

  “That’s very refined, Palmer.”

  He slid that perfectly good beer aside, turned on his bar stool, and looked me straight in the eye, as if ready to tell me the secret to life. “Don’t you have any Budweiser?”

  I rolled my eyes back in my head. “Heathen.” I reached past him and took his beer, set it next to mine. “You’ll get your Bud after you agree to give me those names.”

  This time he couldn’t stop himself. He sailed a hand over the stubble on his head. “Do you even know what you’re asking?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I want the names of all the convicted drug dealers currently out of jail and operating in Hawthorne.”

  “You know you can look that kind of thing up on the internet?”

  “The key phrase is ‘currently operating.’ Most dealers don’t advertise on the net.”

  Palmer huffed. “Some of them use Facebook.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’ve seen it. Dealers aren’t usually the smartest of criminals. They sit right next to bank robbers as the dumbest of the crowd.”

  “You’re ruining my romanticized view of the underworld, taught to me by classic films such as Scarface, and Ocean’s Eleven.”

  “I didn’t say anything about kingpins. As far as Ocean’s Eleven? Guys smart enough to pull off a heist like that don’t rob banks, they work on Wall Street.”

  “Another classic. ‘Greed is good.’”

  “Are you done with the Film 101 crap?”

  “I’ve had a long week and my life is coming apart at the seams—”

  “Again.”

  “—and I’m just trying to lighten things up before my nervous breakdown kicks in.”

  “Three days ago you gave me a heads up that shit might go down with this con man you were dealing with. The very next day, you call me and tell me your client slipped and fell in the tub, only you think it’s a homicide. Have I got all this so far?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Now you want names of dealers possibly back to work in the city after serving time, lowlifes that might be dumb, but are all the more dangerous because of it.”

  “On the money.”

  “Because the con man is an old friend of yours, and he has a drug problem, so you think you can track him down through his dealer.”

  “I don’t care what they say about you, Palmer. You’re a bright cop.”

  He glared at me over the tops of his glasses. “You know, Shanks could be your new cop friend so you can leave me alone. I think she actually likes you.”

  “She does?”

  He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and smiled. “Oh, you like her, too, huh? But you like her like her.”

  “Really? We’re going to do the whole junior high routine?”

  “I have to admit, she’s pretty hot for a black girl.”

  I squeezed my beer bottle. “Never took you for a racist.”

  He leaned back, brow creased. “How is that racist? I said she was hot.”

  You had to choose your battles, and I was neither an activist nor a proselytizer. But Palmer must have sensed my continued distaste.

  “Seriously. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Can you get me those names or not?”

  He huffed. “I can get them. But giving them to you worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “Messing with these types can get you killed.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the bar and heaved a sigh. “Fine. Give me that Bud.”

  Once again, I had to shift through what I knew about Bobby. Palmer had fetched me a list of five names. He said there were some smaller fish, but these five were known to pass along the highest volume. Three of them were meth dealers.

  I scratched those off the list.

  One of the remaining two had specialized in marijuana he’d been growing on his grandfather’s farm south of Hawthorne. Palmer said there were rumors that he’d found a new place to grow and he had a huge deal in the works that the vice squad was prepping to bust. If I was looking for Eddie’s dealer, I might have checked him out. But weed wasn’t Bobby’s style.

  Off the list he went.

  The last name, a Miss Angie Maroni, had actually not been arrested for dealing. But her boyfriend had, and he had tried to throw her under the bus when he got popped, thinking he could save himself from doing time. Cops couldn’t gather anything else besides his word that she was part of his operation, so they had to leave her alone. But vice was keeping an eye on her, waiting for her to slip up.

  When I’d asked what kind of drugs the boyfriend had been peddling, Palmer said the guy had taken the shmorgishborg approach. Everything from mescaline, uppers, downers, weed, a little meth, and even some crack.

  While he hadn’t said cocaine specifically, what was crack but cooked down coke to make a rock? If Angie had taken over for her boyfriend, she might be cooking the crack herself. Or maybe they dealt the coke along with the crack.

  It was my best lead out of all the others.

  Palmer gave me names, but he wouldn’t give me addresses or any personal information. He was willing to bend some rules to help me out, but he wouldn’t stomp them into the mud.

  No problem, though. That’s the kind of thing private eyes can get themselves. Angie Maroni was no exception. A criminal background check landed me a hit for possession. The drug in question? Cocaine.

  The background check came with last known address, which I double checked against another online service I subscribed to that could look up details on anyone with a social security number.

  The address matched and I was on my way.

  Irony can fuck with you sometimes.

  Angie Maroni lived in the same trailer park as Sam Jawhar, who had been part of my investigation into the death of Autumn’s husband. Pulling into the park pulled me into a swarm of memories at the same time. They harried me like hungry mosquitoes. I mentally swatted them away, and when that didn’t work, I mentally hosed them down with insecticide.

  Angie’s trailer was one of the nicer ones in the park. Nicely trimmed shrubs. A pristine statue of the Virgin Mary tucked in with the lush landscaping. Homey. Not the kind of place you imagined belonged to a drug dealer.

  When she answered my knock, I nearly dropped to all fours and started panting. Angie Maroni was an Italian goddess. Tall, slim, with a caramel complexion that begged to be tasted, she flaunted her beauty with a low cut and tight fitting shirt. The shirt didn’t bother trying to cover her midriff, allowed a perfect view her pierced navel. But none of that mattered as much as the lack of pants. All she wore downstairs was a pink thong.
>
  “What is it?” she asked, sounding hurried.

  I peeled my eyes up and up until I could see her face. But her face was as flawless as her body, and no less enjoyable to look at. “I…uh…” See what happens when you go without sex for too long? You turn into an ape. I had to fight hard to keep from thumping my chest.

  The cold air started turning her flawless skin to gooseflesh, but she didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t even shiver. “Either speak up or get a door slammed in your face, hon.”

  “You’re Angie Maroni.”

  “The one and only.” She waved her hands down along either side of her body like one of the models on a game show waved at the new car the contestants could win. “Put your tongue back in your mouth so you can talk.”

  You’re the one answered the door without any damn pants on. “I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?”

  “About what?”

  “About you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Wondering what you have for sale.”

  Her full lips curled into a Mona Lisa smile. She scratched absently at her belly, the movement drawing my gaze down to the Promised Land. “You’re cute. But I don’t have a lot of time. You a cop or something?”

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. “But I am looking for someone.”

  “I’m not in the business of finding people.”

  Bullying my way into this wouldn’t work. I’d known that from the start. That’s why I had loaded up my wallet before leaving the office. I pulled out the walled, opened it, and fanned out the cash inside for Angie to see. “What difference does it make what business you’re in, so long as you make some money.”

  “Well, you’re definitely not a cop. But you got the wrong girl. I’m not a prostitute.”

  Oops. Hadn’t meant to give that impression. “That’s not what I want.”

  That hint of a smile again. “Don’t fib to Angie. I know exactly what you want.”

  My skin shrunk against my muscle and bones. I shivered at the idea of taking this woman to bed. I could practically feel her warm skin against my hands. But if I wanted to get anywhere with my investigation I had to tie myself to the mast and resist this Siren’s call. “Be that as it may,” I said, “I came here for information. Nothing else.”

  She stepped back. “Come on in before you give me frostbite.”

  I didn’t argue. Stepped in out of the cold and into a surprising heat. I went from freezing to sweating in under a minute.

  Angie sauntered into the trailer’s main living space, giving me an eyeful of what her thong did not leave to the imagination. “This isn’t about Doolie, is it?” she asked.

  “Doolie?”

  “David.” She picked up a pair of jeans folded neatly on her sofa. She pulled them one while she spoke. “My ex-boyfriend now in prison for being a colossal fuck-up.”

  “He’s your ex now?”

  She zipped up her jeans and buttoned them. “Kinda hard to screw a guy behind bars.”

  A valid point. Moving on… “I’m less interested in Doolie than I am the person who stepped in to fill his shoes after he want to jail.”

  “So that,” she nodded at my wallet still in my hands, “isn’t a proposition, it’s a bribe.”

  “It’s a token of my good faith.”

  She glanced at her wrist and the lighter band of skin left from wearing a watch. Only she wasn’t wearing it now and she scowled when she realized it. “I have to go, hon. I’ve got a date.”

  I pulled a hundred from my wallet and held it up in the light. “Ben Franklin wants you to cancel.”

  “Old Ben isn’t going to fuck me through the night.”

  My mouth got ahead of my brain. “You sure you’re not a prostitute?”

  Her caramel colored face turned a darker shade. “You did not just say that.”

  “If my offer of a hundred bucks isn’t enough, tell me what I have to match.”

  He full lips thinned as she pressed them together. She turned on her heel and down a short hall that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom. Doubtful much else based on the size of the trailer. When she came back out, she had a gun pointed my way.

  “Whoa.” I held up my hands, wallet in one, hundred dollar bill in the other. “Not really necessary.”

  “He tried to rape me, officer,” she said in exaggerated act of innocence. “It was self-defense.”

  “You’re really going to shoot me and ruin your nice carpet?”

  “Get the fuck out.”

  I slowly brought my hands together over my head and pulled out all the cash from my wallet, which added up to four grand. Lucky for me, I could afford it, and was highly motivated to spend it. “Put down the gun and all this can be yours.”

  Her gaze flicked up to the cash, then back to my face. “What do you want?”

  “Like I said, I need to find someone and I’m hoping you’ve met that someone recently.”

  “Whatever idea you have about me, it’s wrong.”

  “That why vice keeps tabs on you now that Doolie’s out of the picture.”

  “So you are a cop.” She glanced at the money again. “No. You can’t be. Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator, and I don’t give a damn what kind of operation you run. I’m here for one reason only…to track down a potential client.”

  “You think I run some kind of business?”

  My arms were getting tired, but I kept them up. Now that the threat of death had washed clean my blinding horniness, I could see Angie for what she was—a shrewd and cunning woman who would have no trouble putting a hole through my chest. The whole hungry vixen thing was a disarming act. And it had worked on me.

  “I think Doolie wasn’t the brains of his operation. Someone smarter backed him up and I’m looking at that someone smarter.”

  “A girl likes flattery, but you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not so smart.”

  I shook the cash above my head like a pompom. “I’ll believe that if you don’t take this money. Free money, Angie. Right here.”

  “Nothing’s free.” She lowered the gun. “Put your hands down, leave the bills on the kitchen counter, then come sit on my couch where I can watch you.”

  I put the cash where she asked, then took a seat, watching the gun she held at her side in case she changed her mind. I had my own piece under my coat, but it didn’t do me much good. I was no quick draw. “What about your date?”

  “He’ll wait all night if I want him to. Have you not seen the merchandise?”

  I gave her the once over. Even with her pants on, I didn’t see anything to complain about. “Good point.”

  She padded toward me like a preening cat, stood so close her knees touched mine. Then she lifted her gun, putting the barrel about six inches from my forehead. “Talk fast, cutie.”

  “I’m trying to find a friend,” I said, “who has a certain proclivity for a product you may or may not provide.”

  “This friend have a name?”

  “I doubt I know the one he gave you.”

  “Gonna make it hard to know if he came to visit me.”

  “Can I reach into my pocket?”

  She tilted her head to one side, a sort of lazy shrug.

  I slowly put my hand under my coat and to the pocket right next to my holstered gun. I left the gun alone and pulled out the copy of Bobby’s portrait. I unfolded the paper and showed Angie the picture.

  Her smile this time turned full on, showing teeth and all. “Mr. Charming.”

  “You know him.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know him. But he’s come by to visit.”

  “He say anything about where he came from, maybe where he’s staying?”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t have a mailing list. Don’t send out a newsletter. I don’t care where he came from or where he’s going.”

  “Why’d you call him Mr. Charming?”

  “Because he is all charm. And he�
��s hot. And I know he’s going to make me scream between the sheets.”

  It took me a second to process what she was saying. Having a gun in your face makes thinking a little less natural. “Wait. I thought you said you didn’t know where to find him.”

  “I don’t. But he knows where to find me. And he’s going to find me at the Blue Lion in a half-hour or so.”

  “He’s your date?”

  “I don’t know what your thing is with him, but I want the night. You leave him alone until morning and you can have him after that.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot high on my face. “Really? You’d set him up like that?”

  “I’m on the rebound. I’m not looking for a relationship. But guys always come back begging for something more. This way I make sure I don’t have to see him again.” She moved out of my personal space and lowered her gun. “Besides, for four grand, you deserve your money’s worth.”

  A break. Finally. I thought of Mort again. About his lesson on persistence. Good detective work doesn’t mean having all the answers. It means pushing until you trip over the answer you’re looking for.

  I gave Angie a nod. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t even remember you.”

  “That would be a neat trick.”

  “I’m full of tricks. You won’t see him again.”

  Chapter 29

  That night, I felt too wired to sit still, especially in the back booth of a karaoke bar on a Monday. I wouldn’t even have many voice-crackers to keep me entertained. But I went anyway, because I had a favor to ask.

  “I know I told you I wanted to keep you out of trouble,” I said.

  Paul was organizing the liquor on the shelf behind the bar. He stopped and turned when he heard me.

  I sat at the bar, something I rarely do during operating hours. I tried to read Paul without much success. “I need your help.”

  “Wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t meant it. What do you need?”

  I told him.

  Next morning, I sat in my car one block over from Angie’s trailer. On the seat beside me I had one of a pair of two-way radios lying next to my gun. I listened to Sarah MacLauchlan on the satellite radio, her soft voice soothing, but not quite soothing enough to straighten my curled nerves.