“I don’t see the similarity.”
“We went into Iraq and Afghanistan with good intentions and vague goals. Put boots on the ground and killed a bunch of people—mainly bad guys, but civilians too. Made few friends and lots of enemies. Lost a bunch of our own people, including many of my brother soldiers. We blew hundreds of billions of dollars building infrastructure—good intentions again. Then we declared victory and hightailed it out of both places. Both countries collapsed into chaos.”
“I don’t get the analogy.”
“It was Vietnam all over again. Blood and treasure wasted because the underlying causes of Iraq’s and Afghanistan’s troubles remained in place.”
“What underlying causes?”
“Don’t get me started. My grandpa Magnus McCrary served in Vietnam and he told me people still don’t agree on what went wrong there. As for Iraq and Afghanistan, who knows? I was a dogface grunt. But neither country has ever experienced democracy or self-government. Both indigenous populations see themselves as ethnic groups or a religious sect or a tribal member, rather than as a citizen. Both had cultures of corruption, nepotism, and cronyism. Nothing changed in the few years we were there.”
“So how does Al’s situation remind you of those?”
“You hired me to help Doraleen. You’re okay with throwing your treasure and my blood into the mission. Great. We have the best intentions. But what does true help look like? Al’s two weeks are up tomorrow and we don’t know where he is. Even if I find him, how will I know when the case is over? How will the world look different? What will have changed in Doraleen’s life? Will Al be sober and debt free? For how long?”
Doraleen stopped crying. “Al’s been sober before, Tank. Lots of times. It’s never lasted. And you’ve paid off his debts lots of times. Nothing changes because my son doesn’t change.” Tears spilled from her eyes again as she twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “He’s the same old Alfred Rice.”
“Tank, I don’t have a clearly defined mission here. I can put a guard on Doraleen for a while, but not for the rest of her life. You ruled out paying off Moffett. The only crime I might prove would be cruelty to animals. I have nothing to take to the police.” I spread my hands. “All I can do is find Al and bring him to a safe place. But what do we do for the second act?”
“What do you recommend, Momma Dora?” asked Tank. “What can we realistically do for Al?”
“If Al’s time is up tomorrow, this Monster Moffett man will find him. Find Al before he does. The rest, we’ll work out after Chuck gets Al safe.”
“All right, Act One is clear enough,” I said, “find Al before Moffett does.”
Chapter 7
“What was Al’s last address?”
Doraleen rattled it off, and I wrote it down. “I’ll go tomorrow. See if he left a forwarding address. Does Al still have a phone?”
“I don’t know. When I call his number, it goes straight to voicemail.”
“That’s good. That means his account is active or you’d get a message that the number wasn’t in service. Maybe his phone is dead and he hasn’t recharged it because he’s living in his car.”
“Everybody owns a car charger,” Tank said. “That can’t be why it went to voicemail.”
“Work with me here, Tank. Look on the bright side.” I smiled at Doraleen. “He might have lost the charger or it could be broken. The important thing is the account is active and Al can turn his phone on in the future. Let’s keep that option open for Al. Call his cell phone company tomorrow morning and tell them Al left on vacation and forgot to pay his bill. Tell them he asked you to take care of it. Use your credit card to bring his phone bill current.”
Doraleen sat straighter. “I can do that. Anything else I can do to help?”
“Yes. Leave another voicemail. Tell Al that you hired a private investigator to protect him from Moffett. Give him my name and cell number; it’s on my card. Ask him to call me ASAP. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“What about me?” Tank asked, “What can I do?”
“Did you bring a handgun with you?”
“Not with me, no.”
“Doraleen, do you own a gun?”
“Oh, heavens, no. Guns frighten me. William owned one, but after he died, I turned it in at a police department buy-back event. I was glad it was gone from the house. Sorry.”
“That’s okay; I have an extra one for Tank to use.”
I unclipped the Glock from my belt. “Take this. Stay here tonight and take Doraleen to school tomorrow before you go to work. Moffett won’t try anything at the high school. I’ll have Snoop pick her up tomorrow afternoon after school and babysit her until I find Al.” I turned to Doraleen. “I’ll send you a text with Snoop’s picture so you’ll recognize him. He’ll call for you in the school attendance office.”
“Snoop?”
“Nickname. His real name is Raymond Snopolski. He’s a former police detective like me. He was my partner when we were both in the Port City Police, and he’s better with a gun than I am. You’ll like him, and he’ll keep you safe.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for this Snoop in the attendance office. What else can I do?”
“What kind of car does Al drive?”
“A silver Toyota sedan.”
“What year?”
“I don’t remember, but it’s ancient.” She smiled. “And it was filthy when he was here. I know the license number.”
I was surprised she knew it. “Great, what is it?” I wrote it on my notepad. “I’ll have the police put out a BOLO on it.”
“I don’t want to seem ignorant,” Doraleen asked, “but what’s a BOLO?”
“Be on the lookout. The cops will help me find his car. They’ll call if anyone sees it.”
“They’ll do that for you?”
“When I tell Detective Kelly Contreras that Al’s life is in danger and the PCPD might be able to bring down Monster Moffett if we find Al… Yeah, they’ll do it.” I hope.
Chapter 8
I squeezed my minivan into a parking space up the street from the Albemarle Arms apartments on NW 77th Street. I moved the Browning .380 clipped to my belt around to my back. I put on a navy-blue sports coat to hide the gun. I locked the van and set the car alarm. No one paid any attention. Not surprising since the minivan was six years old, dingy white, and identical to a million others. It might as well have a neon sign on it that blinked to potential thieves: Nothing inside here worth stealing.
I walked up the cracked sidewalk and stopped at the three-story apartments. Faded terra cotta paint peeled off the walls of the concrete block and stucco building. Four neglected Sabal palms with the stumps of old fronds clinging to the trunks stood silent sentinel on each side of the sidewalk that led to the front porch. I tried to remember what they called those stumps. Then it came to me: boots. The next hurricane to hit Port City would grab those overgrown crowns like Velcro and toss the trees through a window or onto a car. A pink Bougainvillea ran wild to the left of the sidewalk and covered the windows as high as the second floor. At least their thorns were a good deterrent to burglars.
The faded Albemarle Arms sign had a For Rent placard hooked on the bottom, swinging in the morning breeze.
I knocked on the office door, waited, and knocked again. I climbed the steps to the third floor balcony and found apartment 3-H. I knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. Maybe the landlord had not rented Al’s apartment yet. I tried the door but it was locked. Some of Al’s things might be inside, things that might provide a clue to his whereabouts. I debated whether to pick the lock or find the super and spoof him. I didn’t want to be caught breaking and entering. At least not yet. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Yeah, spoofing was the way to go.
I returned to the office door and knocked again. I called the emergency contact number on the office sign.
“Albemarle Arms. This is Reggie speaking.”
“I’m at the office door. Where are you?”
Reggie was a middle-aged black man with gray hair cut short. Reminded me of Obama in his second term, except for the beard. The stubble had turned white, which would’ve given him a scholarly look if he weren’t wearing a dirty khaki industrial uniform and work boots and carrying a tool belt in his hand. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Reggie?”
“Yeah, Regivius Larkin. I’m the superintendent. Everybody calls me Reggie.”
“I’m looking for Al Rice.”
Reggie scoffed. “If you find the bum, tell him he owes me fourteen hundred dollars in back rent. He don’t live here no more. I evicted him a few days ago.” He turned to open the office door.
“Did he leave a forwarding address?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I shrugged. “I had to ask.”
“Why you wearing a piece? You a cop?”
“You’re not supposed to see my gun when I clip the holster to my back.”
“You was facing the other way when I walked up, son. I seen the bulge in the back. You ain’t the first cop I ever seen, y’know.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a runner for a bookie. Al Rice’s bookie. Sometimes I carry enough cash to need protection. My boss owes Rice two thousand dollars. You know where I can find him?”
“No, and if I did, why should I tell you?”
“I might help you collect that back rent, that’s why.”
Reggie gave the matter some thought. He shrugged. “Come on in.” He led me inside. He dropped the tool belt on a battered desk and plopped into an equally-worn chair. “Rice owes me fourteen hundred dollars, plus eviction expenses.”
“My boss owes him more than that,” I said. “If I find him and pay him, he’ll have the money to pay you and move back into his apartment.”
The superintendent frowned. “How do I know you ain’t shitting me?”
“First tell me if you have any information about Rice. If you can’t help me, it doesn’t make any difference whether I’m shitting you or not.”
“I might know a thing or two about Al Rice.” Reggie’s eyes narrowed. “And I might know how to find out more if you pay the back rent.”
“If you’re only the super, why do you care if Al pays or not? Are you the landlord too?”
“Nah, but he give me a cut of the rents I collect. If I get the fourteen hundred back, I keep a hundred forty.”
“Tell you what, Reggie, I’ll make you a better deal.” I pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my pocket. “You help me out and I’ll give you these.”
The super reached for the bills and I pulled them back. “First you help me out.”
“You don’t look like no bookie I ever seen. You sure you ain’t a cop?”
“I’m not a bookie; I work for a bookie. And, yeah, I used to be a cop. I make more money working for the bookie.”
“You on the shady side of the law now, and you carry a gun. How I know you’ll give me the money after I help you?”
“Did Al Rice leave any stuff here?”
“Yeah. I threw his clothes in a trash bag for him and he left without taking them.”
“Did you clean out his apartment after he left?”
“Nah. I only cleaned out the refrigerator so’s it won’t stink. I’ll wait on the other stuff until I rent it to someone else. That might take weeks.”
“I’ll give you a hundred now to tell me what you know and the other hundred after you show me Rice’s stuff and let me into his apartment.”
“You going to a lot of trouble to pay a debt. Why you not just wait for Rice to find you?”
“Not good for my boss’s reputation. He pays off when he loses—good for business. Do you want the hundred or not?”
Reggie stared at the two bills in my hand. “Deal.” He pocketed one. “Rice, he like to hang out at a strip club in the neighborhood. He sweet on one of the strippers. He talk about her all the time.”
“What’s her name?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Reggie, if Al was sweet on a girl and talked about her a lot, he must’ve mentioned her name.”
“I said I don’t remember.”
“Then tell me the name of the club.”
“Don’t remember that neither.”
I started to put the other hundred back in my pocket.
“Wait, wait.” Reggie waved his hands. “I don’t remember the name and that’s the God’s honest truth. But how many can there be, man? I know he usually walked when he went there. Al, he said he had two DUI’s and wouldn’t risk a third one. If he walked, it has to be close. That’s good information, right?”
I held up a hundred. “Al have any friends?”
“When he had money, Al had lots of friends—black, white, and brown. Not that I knew any names. When he was broke—which was most of the time—he din’t have no friends. He’d get late on his rent, then he’d catch up. Then he’d get late again. Same old, same old. I gave up when he got two months behind. I changed the lock and threw his ass out.”
“How long did he live here?”
Reggie scratched his head. “Almost two years.”
That was plenty of time for stuff to accumulate in Al’s apartment—credit card slips, old letters, bills. Lots of potential there. “Where are his clothes?”
“In the apartment. When I changed the lock, I left his stuff in a bag outside the door. I stuck a note on it for him to take them and leave. State law don’t let me keep his clothes. Wouldn’t be worth nothing anyway. Next day, the note was gone, but the clothes was still there. I set them inside the apartment door. If he don’t show, I’ll toss them in the dumpster when I rent the apartment.”
“Let’s look in the apartment.”
Reggie opened the door and stood in the opening, blocking it. He stuck his hand out. “Time for that other hundred.”
I held up the bill. “If you were looking for Al, where would you start?”
“At that strip club. All he talked about was that stripper what worked there and how he knew she loved him but pretended not to.” The super took the bill. “Her name was Jasmine, not that the information does you much good. Half the strippers in town are named Jasmine and the other half are named Tiffany.” He cackled as he stuffed the bill in his pocket. “Lock the door behind you when you leave.”
“Thanks, Reggie.” I handed him a business card, one without the Welcome Wagon logo. “If you think of anything else, give me a call. There’s another hundred in it.”
Reggie read my card. “Din’t figure you was no bookie. Why you really wanna find Rice?”
“Very bad guys are after Al Rice. He’s in danger, and I want to find him and keep him safe.”
“How I know you ain’t one of them bad guys your own self?”
“His mother hired me to find him.”
Reggie’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?”
“Look at this face. Is this the face of a bad guy?”
He laughed. “You got me there, white boy. Knock yourself out.”
I set the bag of clothes to one side while I searched the two-room apartment. The front room had a kitchenette on the left wall and a dinette set with a yellow Formica table and four chairs upholstered in yellow plastic. The other side of the room held a battered couch that might have been purple when it was new, sometime in the first Bush administration. A worn easy chair that might have matched the couch years ago sat beside it at an angle facing the small television. A side chair that didn’t match anything sat at the other end of the couch. Two empty beer bottles were adding to the rings on the coffee table between the couch and the television. An uneven set of Venetian blinds hung in the jalousie window that overlooked the walkway.
The refrigerator-freezer was empty like the super said. The cabinets in the kitchenette held mismatched tableware. I checked inside the coffee cups and found only coffee grounds and stains. I searched the underside of the plates; nothing t
aped there. One cabinet door had a two-year old calendar hung inside on a finishing nail. The drawers held nothing of interest. The cabinet under the counter held a few pots and pans. I found a baggie of marijuana stuck in a teapot. A pot stash stashed in a pot. Ha. I left it there as a present for the next lucky tenant.
The bathroom medicine cabinet held a toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving gear, and a half-empty ibuprofen bottle. I examined the pills. They were ibuprofen. Nothing in the toilet tank or taped underneath it.
The bedroom closet and shelves looked empty. I ran my hand along the top shelf and found a red envelope addressed to Al. It was a Christmas card from Doraleen. It had a long, handwritten note on the left-hand side that expressed her love, invited Al to move back home, and promised to get him into rehab. I stuck the card back in the envelope, which was postmarked two Christmases ago. I debated what to do with it. If I took it to Doraleen, it might make her sad. On the other hand, it proved Al cared enough for his mother to keep the card. I stuck it in my pocket.
I stripped the bedclothes off and shook them out. Nothing. The pillowcases were empty. I flipped the filthy mattress and there it was: a small address book. Names and phone numbers with few addresses. Mostly first names and some only initials. I stuck it in my pocket for further study if my other leads failed.
In the nightstand I found three credit card bills postmarked several months earlier. None had been opened. I read the charges: liquor stores, drug stores, convenience stores, and bars. Not a single charge at a grocery store. None showed any payments on the account balance. The most recent bill contained a notice that the card would be cancelled if the minimum were not paid within ten days. That bill was two months old.
I told my smartphone, “Find strip clubs near me.” A map flashed on the screen. Three strip joints were within walking distance of Al Rice’s apartment.
Chapter 9
Al Rice woke with a splitting headache. At least that meant he was alive. Teddy hasn’t found me yet. Bleary-eyed, he squinted against the sunlight and closed his eyes again. His mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. Where was he? He moved his hand. Rough pavement. Was he lying on a street? He listened for traffic noise. Nothing. He turned over and banged his head. He opened his eyes. The door panel of a car. He was in the parking lot behind the Orange Peel. How the hell did he wind up here? He thought back to the previous night. What was that god-awful smell? He glanced down at his jacket. Christ, he had vomited on his jacket. That explained the smell, stronger than the smell of his unwashed body. He felt for his keys. Not in his pants. Oh, yeah. That prick Billy took his keys. What did he say? Come back tomorrow when you’re sober and I’ll give your keys back? Yeah, that was it. Al glanced at his left wrist for the time, then he remembered he’d sold his watch. He pulled his phone from his jacket and saw the blank screen. Christ, it wasn’t charged. He’d forgotten to charge it for the last few days.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 4
