by David Wind
“Every day?”
“Every day. He’s got a piece of it.”
“Thank you, Carlo.” I wasn’t being sarcastic.
He drained the scotch and milk and favored me with a long stare. “Don’t thank me. I don’t want you coming into my place, you and your FBI broad, but I always pay my debts. Thanks for the drink.”
He left me staring at the ceiling. Calling a spade a spade, Santucchi wasn’t just paying me back for the information I’d given him, he was taking care of something for himself. Joey was the proverbial thorn in his side. A relative from a different crime family wasn’t the ideal flunky. By tossing Joey to me, he was looking to get his problems solved.
Maybe I would take care of it, maybe not. Santucchi wasn’t my friend.
<><><>
My apartment was quiet, too quiet. Gina had gone home, and for the first time in a long while, I was lonely. I’ve never minded being alone, in fact there were many times I preferred it, but alone and lonely are two different things.
I poured another scotch and went into my office bedroom, turned on Scotty’s computer and navigated to the section prior to the where he’d started writing about the play and Lia Thornton. I searched backwards, seeking a hint as to whom he’d been involved with.
Then I decided to call Femalé before delving back into the journal. She answered her home phone, already knowing it was me. Sometimes I liked caller ID, sometimes I didn’t. “What’s up, Boss?”
“I picked up a lead.”
“From Santucchi?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll need you on it.”
“No problem,” she said, her voice tinged with anticipation. “What is it?”
I outlined what I needed, when, and where. I described Joey to her and said, “Bring your piece.”
“Will do. See you then.”
“Get some sleep. I want you alert and ready.”
“When have you ever not seen me alert and ready?” she flung back turning the question into a challenge.
“This is for real,” I said before hanging up. The excitement in her voice told me she wouldn’t sleep. Femalé was good, and she was due to be on the street. One day she would be the best PI around, except for me, of course.
I took another taste of Scotch. There was one more call to make before renewing my descent into Scotty’s life.
Gina answered on the third ring. Her voice was sleepy. “Did I wake you?”
“I was watching TV and dozed off. What happened with Santucchi?”
I gave her the synopsis but not my plans. When I finished, her voice had come alive again. “The Conte Family, now that’s interesting.”
“In what way?”
“There’s an investigation into some political maneuverings by the family. We’ve got information they have some big names in Washington in their pocket.”
“It ties in to what happened to you.”
“It’s worth looking into to,” she said.
“You’re not in the best position to be looking.”
“I know how to do it.”
“I bet you do.” She did, but I was worried. I had already brought the wrong kind of heat onto her, which bothered me a lot.
“Gabe, things have been moving fast with us. Is it too fast?”
“it’s okay, Gina,” I said truthfully.
“That’s good.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.” Her throaty words made me want to be there with her.
“‘Night.” Things were moving in a whirlwind. Scotty’s death and the rekindling of my feelings for Gina were connected; there was too much emotion involved in finding Scotty’s killer and in keeping my own life on some sort of a balance to ignore what was happening.
Had Scotty’s death pushed me to Gina or was there more to it? Was Gina right? Was I afraid if I loved her something bad would happen to her because I couldn’t protect her? I tried to deny it, but couldn’t. I knew if I closed my eyes, I would see Elaine lying on the bed in her bloodstained white negligee because I’d come home late.
And Scotty? Would he still be alive today if I had heard my cell phone ring that night? I pushed aside the thoughts and looked at the monitor. “Talk to me, Scotty, talk to me.”
<><><>
At twenty after four, I was on the corner of Broadway and Fifty-first Street, waiting to meet Femalé. I’d been in the area for a half an hour, watching from the shadows. Five minutes ago, Joey had walked into Chips.
From behind me came the tap of heels on cement and I turned to watch Femalé’s approach. Her walk was graceful, even in high heels. The black skirt clung to the outside of her thighs like a second skin and reached to five inches above her knees. Her top was an invitation to stare. A deep scoop neck aqua blouse showed plenty of cleavage before draping down in loose folds. The front ended in an inverted scoop, which exposed a flash of the mocha-shaded skin of her stomach before growing longer on the sides and back.
I gave her a low whistle of appreciation and she winked. “I guess you approve?”
“You could say that. Where is it?”
She looked around and, when she saw there was no one on the street at this hour, she turned and lifted the long rear drape of her blouse to expose the holstered Sig Suer P232 set in the small of her back. The lightweight personal-size black anodized aluminum automatic had been my gift to her when she’d gotten her PI license.
“Nice.”
She dropped the material. “How do you want to work this?”
“Joey Parodi is in the bar just off the next corner. We need to talk to him.”
“I think I could convince him to spend some ‘alone’ time with me.”
“You set up the room?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Room five-one-one at the Stilemore Hotel—Fortieth and Park.” She slipped the small shoulder bag off, opened it, pulled out a key, and handed it to me.
“When you come out, I’ll be in a cab across the way. As soon as you’re in the cab, I’ll get my driver moving and get to the hotel before you. If you aren’t going to the hotel, stumble and drop your purse.”
“No problem.”
“Who are you?”
“Aisha Campbell, from North Carolina,” she said in a sweet southern accent. “And my bastard of a boyfriend and I had a fight because he went out screwing around on me. Now it’s my turn to get even!”
“Don’t lay it on too heavy. He’ll smell it. He’s been working those clubs for a few years. He’s six-two, two-thirty with wide set eyes, small. Long hair pulled into a ‘tail and is wearing a blue blazer with a pale blue silk T-shirt. You can’t miss him.”
“I won’t.” She started away, but I caught her arm. “Listen to me. This man is mean, but he’s street smart. Don’t let his hands get to your back.”
“They won’t, boss; there are plenty of other places for his hands.”
“Be careful.” With my warning words fading, she walked toward Fiftieth Street. I gave her a quarter-block lead. When she turned off Broadway and onto Fiftieth, I hung at the corner until she entered the bar.
When she disappeared inside, I started forward again, slowing when I reached the place but not stopping. The front window was clear and I saw Femalé go to the center of the bar and move into an open space next to Parodi.
I grinned at the way every head, male and female, turned to watch her. Moving on, I crossed the street, returned to Broadway, and hailed a cab. I had him pull to the curb, a quarter of a block beyond the club, handed him a new fifty, and told him to turn the meter on and relax.
He was more than happy to oblige.
I shifted in the seat to look out the back window. Now all I had to do was wait and pray I hadn’t put Femalé into a situation she couldn’t handle.
Twenty-two dollars later, according to the meter, Joey Parodi and Femalé came out of the bar. They stood on the sidewalk, his gorilla arm around her shoulders in a preemptory way, Femalé leaning into him with her hand on his chest. At the curb, he
spun her around and kissed her hard. My stomach knotted.
They separated and he stepped into the street and looked west. A half-minute later, a cab turned the corner and he flagged it down. He opened the door for her and, before she got in, she spoke to the driver.
As soon as Parodi started into the cab, I told the driver to get moving. I’d given him the address and the instructions to get there fast. With half the fifty I’d given him used up, he knew there would be more and did as instructed.
We made the hotel in five minutes flat and I handed him a twenty and another fifty and got out. The hotel was an older one, with a small lobby and a sleepy desk clerk who I waved to as if I was a guest.
The readouts above the elevator doors showed one elevator on the tenth floor and the other on the seventh. I hit the button and looked over my shoulder. A yellow cab was pulling up and I knew there wouldn’t be enough time to wait for the elevator before they came in: I spotted the stairway door to my left and got through it before Femalé and Parodi reached into the lobby.
I took the stairs on a run. There was no way I would beat the elevator to the fifth floor and get to the room before them. On the fifth floor, I cracked the door and waited. It took a dragged out half-minute for the elevator to stop and the door to hiss open. I pulled the stairway door closed when the first shape emerged.
Counting to thirty to make sure they would be inside, I slid into the hallway and went to room five-eleven, pressed my ear to the door and fished out the room key.
Their voices were muffled. The adrenalin pumping into my blood since I’d hit the stairs pounded through me while I listened to the voices for a signal to cue me in.
It didn’t take long before there was a startled curse. Femalé’s voice came high and clear through the door. I put the key in, turned it and pushed the door open, drawing the Sig from the oiled leather at the same time.
I took two strides inside, and found Femalé fending off the gorilla, her blouse torn from one shoulder.
Chapter 42
Time stopped. Joey Parodi’s back was to me, holding a piece of Femalés’ blouse in his large-ham-like right hand. His left hand was in her hair, forcing her head to the side. From over his shoulder, Femalé’s eyes flicked to me as she reached behind her back.
Parodi caught the movement of her eyes and half turned toward me, his hand still in her hair. “Fuck!” His eyes were dark and mean, the set of his mouth was taut. But his eyes warned me of his next move.
“Not tonight.” I motioned with the automatic for him to raise his hands. “Don’t think...just do.”
He didn’t listen; instead, he smiled and yanked hard on Femalé’s hair. She went with the tug, letting herself fall to the side even as she pulled the Sig free. He had two choices: go down with Femalé or release her and go for me.
He did the latter. Releasing Femalé, he lowered his head and charged me. The instant he did, Femalé was on her feet, bracing the Sig in a two handed firing stance. “Don’t move!” she shouted.
Stumble-stepping, Parodi looked at me, at Femalé, and back again, his chest heaving with anger. “You’re makin’ a big mistake, asshole. You ain’t getting’ away with sometin’ like this.”
I took a step back and closed the door. “Not as big as the one you made when you set me up last week.”
“You’re talking through your ass, which ain’t gonna be around much longer.”
“Whatever.” I said, as Femalé side stepped around Parodi and came next to me. “Take the piece and lay it on the bed.”
“And if I don’t?”
I blew out a sharp stream of air. “You don’t think the cops will hassle me when I tell them I heard her screaming, and when I tried to stop you from raping her, you came after me.”
“You’re messing with the wrong people, Storm.”
“You know, I’m getting tired of hearing that phrase. Put your piece on the bed.”
He opened his jacket, pulled a Heckler & Koch Forty-five from a belt clip, and tossed it on the bed. “Whadya want? You after revenge? You pissed about what happened?”
“Yeah Joey, I’m pissed, and a whole lot more. That’s why I’m here. You see, I’ve been working things out and what I came up with is Santucchi had no reason to be playing games with me so I knew it had to be someone else. Then some other stuff happened yesterday, and I did some more checking and guess what?”
“I ain’t playing your game Storm.”
“That’s okay, because then I don’t need to tell you why I know it was you. You can take it for granted, but you know I’m right.” He did: It showed in his eyes. “Who shot at me in the club? Who put the round into Rabbit?”
“Get fucked.”
“Joey, I don’t want to do it the hard way, but I will.”
“I ain’t afraid of you.”
“You got him?” I asked Femalé without looking at her.
“Dead center.”
“She’s very good with that little piece.” I slid my Sig into its harness, shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it to her. When she had the jacket, I drew the automatic again. “Keep an eye on the door… from the outside.”
“Boss-”
“Go.” My voice was low and my eyes stayed locked on Joey Parodi. I heard the rustle of fabric as she put my jacket over the remains of her blouse. A few seconds later, the door clicked behind her.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this, Joey?”
He didn’t say a word. He was working hard to keep up his tough persona. Before he could react, I took three steps and slammed my fist into the side of his face. The shock of contact ran up my arm and into my shoulder. Joey Parodi landed on the carpet with a loud thump, bounced, and his head hit the wooden nightstand. Blood welled along a two-inch gash where his ear joined his face. He stayed still: like most bullies, he was all talk and no fight.
I cocked the Sig and pointed it at his knee. “Jesus,” he whispered, raising his hand palm forward.
“You’re crazy!”
“No, like I already told you, I’m pissed. I’m so fucking mad I don’t give a damn whether you walk out under your own power or you get carried out. But, if you give me what I need, no one will know it came from you. If you don’t, no one will know you didn’t tell me, because you won’t be able to tell them.”
I grabbed a foam pillow from the bed and stood above him again. “I’m going to start with the knees and work my way up. It’s your call.”
His eyes said he was on the edge.
I covered the barrel with the pillow and leaned forward.
“Wait!” he cried.
“Three seconds.”
“I don’t know who he was. I do know my cousin told me to do whatever he asked.” The words poured like salt from a shaker.
I raised my eyebrows.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Not enough of it.”
The tensing of my hand on the butt of the Sig got him going again. “Charles. His name is Charles.”
“Charles what?”
“I don’t know. He’s…he’s some sort of hot shot security guy from Washington.”
“Joey, Joey, Joey…” I said, my voice mocking him. “You can do better than that.”
“Jesus, Storm, I swear. He’s on some senator’s staff. That’s all I know.”
I didn’t let on how hard the words hit me. Nothing he said could have surprised me more. What the hell had Scotty found out?
“I need more.”
He shook his head and this time his eyes showed everything. He’d given it all. “Who else at the club knew?”
He shook his head again. “No one. I got the call. I set up the room.”
“I know the Contes have some Washington people in their pockets. Who?”
“Look, I gave you what you asked for; I can’t give you anything else. Even if I knew, I couldn’t.”
What he said was true enough. If his Conte relatives knew he’d given me anything at all, what I might do to him would pale in compa
rison, for no one would ever see Joey Parodi again. “If Santucchi or anyone asks what happened to you,” I pointed to his ear and the blood running down onto his neck and soaking into the blue silk shirt, “make sure my name doesn’t come up. We clear on that?”
When he nodded, I picked up his forty-five, released the clip and cleared the chamber, ejected every round and then pulled the slide off before dropping all the pieces onto the bed.
“You’ll want to clean up before you leave and Joey, if what you’ve told me doesn’t pan out, we’ll have another little chat. The room is paid for until noon.” I winked and walked.
Femalé favored at me with a questioning gaze when I closed the door behind me. I stayed silent as we went to the elevator. It must have been a slow night at the hotel; the elevator was still on the floor.
When we’d made it to the street and walked a half block, and I was sure Joey Parodi wasn’t rethinking his position and coming after us, I told Femalé what had happened. We walked another block in silence before she said, “Would you have shot him?”
I turned to face her. “When you go into a situation like that, you go prepared to do whatever is necessary or you don’t go. I was prepared; but, I know his type, and I was pretty sure he didn’t have the backbone for a one on one.”
A breeze snuck along the street and tugged at our clothing. Femalé pulled my jacket tighter. “That was a good blouse he tore up.”
“You’ve got the company card.”
“Its last year’s Ann Klein. I won’t find it any more…”
“You did real well, you know.”
She smiled. “I know. And I would have stopped him.”
It was now my turn to say, “I know.”
After putting Femalé into a cab, I walked and tallied up what I’d learned, comparing it to what I already knew.
The results weren’t good. What had started out as a killing was leading me into a place without boundaries. But I had a name, Charles. It was a lead. Charles was on some senator’s security team. It might be enough.
But what the hell was the connection to Scotty? Was it the children? Was Charles into young girls or protecting someone who was? Charles wouldn’t have been the shooter. If he was security, he was a professional. He wouldn’t have taken out Scotty that way. It would have been one clean shot to take him down and a second to make sure he was dead; and, he wouldn’t have turned out the apartment to make it look like a robbery. A pro would do an in and out and not worry what the cops thought. And this Charles had the feel of a pro, a real pro.
