Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  At his car, Hannibal tossed the shopping bag into the back seat.

  “You ought to see your grin,” Ray said.

  “I just like it when the easy stuff works. I’m going around. I want to see some faces, dig? Bring her around when the fireworks are over.” This time, the sound of approaching sirens made him smile.

  Hands in his pockets, Hannibal strolled around the corner, whistling an O’Jays tune he had heard the night before. The air on the street smelled far sweeter than the atmosphere in the backyard. An occasional blank-faced person rushed past him and disappeared into the darkness. He reached the front of the building in time to watch the last few rats desert their sinking ship, just before competing sirens heralded the approach of the first fire truck. A small circle of neighbors had gathered in the street to watch the smoke pouring from every orifice of the supposedly abandoned building. As emergency vehicles rolled into place they fell back to the sidewalk across the street.

  Two long red trucks blocked the street, their sirens still wailing, their occupants pouring out like ants from a poisoned hill. Hoses were hurriedly attached to hydrants and pulled into position, but not opened up.

  A white boxy ambulance stood nearby, two of its emergency personnel leaning against it. A police car stood at each end of the street for crowd control. Once everything was in place Hannibal wandered down to the nearest police car. A blue uniformed man spoke into a bullhorn, telling the yawning crowd to remain calm.

  “They don’t seem to be fighting the fire,” Hannibal remarked. The policeman turned to him. He had the look of a ranger, with a lean frame, close cut hair and piercing eyes.

  “Don’t think they will. That smoke’s too white to be from a house fire. Looks like signal smoke to me. They sent some guys inside to check it out.”

  “What do you know,” Hannibal said blandly. “False alarms must be a bitch, officer…”

  “Kendall,” he supplied. “And if the guy who did it called it in, he’s in deep shit. Probably, though, somebody saw the smoke start to come out and just called. Can’t jump on that citizen.”

  “You got a good attitude, Sarge.” Hannibal leaned against the car. “And since I live there, I’m in a position to keep this from being a wasted trip, at least for you.”

  The cop lowered his bullhorn, looking again at the man in front of him, staring hard at the black windbreaker and gloves Hannibal was wearing on this August night.

  “You live there?”

  “Well, just starting today,” Hannibal said. “In fact, I’m the only legal resident. However, I checked it out earlier and I happen to know there’s a major cache of stolen goods inside.”

  “Well, what do you know,” Kendall shot back. “Now, if I just had a search warrant I could go in there and bring it all out.”

  “You don’t get out of it that easy.” Hannibal wagged a finger at him. “You were called here for an emergency. Just like those firemen can go in to look for the cause of the fire, so can you, to investigate the false alarm.” Kendall looked at him, hesitating for a minute. “Come on. It’s free.”

  What little crowd the commotion attracted was dispersing, just like the smoke from the house. Kendall followed Hannibal up to the stoop of twenty-three thirteen. Firemen had just about secured their gear, and one truck had already left. One disgruntled firefighter walked past Hannibal carrying five spent shell casings in a plastic bag. It had not taken them long to find the source of the smoke.

  Hannibal had just about convinced Kendall to open the outer door and walk in when a bald black man with a crinkly beard mounted the steps behind them. He started past them, on his way into the building, but Hannibal grabbed his arm to stop him. When he turned, anger flashed in his eyes, but not recognition.

  “Lose your dog?” Hannibal asked. “Listen, man, you can’t go in there.”

  “Yeah?” The man’s eyes bounced off the policeman’s uniform and returned to Hannibal. “And why is that?”

  “You’re trespassing,” Hannibal said confidently.

  “No, brother, I live here.”

  “Really?” Hannibal stepped slightly to the side, almost sandwiching the man between himself and Kendall. “The owner told me I had the only valid lease here.” He pulled the folded form from his hip pocket. “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”

  “I don’t carry my lease around,” the bald man said, turning to go. Hannibal held his arm tightly.

  “No problem,” he said, holding a thin-lipped smile. “We can go up to your flat and get it.”

  Now the bearded man stared hard at Hannibal, memorizing his features. “I think I lost it,” he said slowly.

  “Shame.” Hannibal met that hard gaze. “We can just contact the landlord and straighten all this out. What’s his name again? And where do you send the rent check?”

  The bearded man snapped, “Fuck you,” gave the cop a hard glance and walked off into the night. Kendall’s eyes followed him for a moment, then returned to Hannibal.

  “You want to tell me the rest of it?”

  “Why not? My name’s Hannibal Jones, I’m a PI, and I’m currently in the employ of the owner of this building.” While he talked, he produced his license and let Kendall have a good long look. “He really did sign this lease, I really do legally live here, and I really am the only legal resident.”

  “And the stolen goods?”

  “Third floor, left.” Hannibal started up. “Come on, this is on the level. In fact, that guy that just left is the fence, maybe the thief. You could go arrest him.”

  “Sure, if I had some real evidence.” Kendall started inside. Hannibal followed. Kendall’s flashlight led them up the stairs. On the last flight he stopped and faced Hannibal in the darkness.

  “Know what I think?” he said. “I think this is all your gag. I’ll bet I could pinch you for that little practical joke with the smoke.”

  “Sure, if you had some real evidence.” The two men exchanged smiles in the dark.

  Hannibal was pleased to find the door unlocked, evidence the owner had left in a considerable hurry. After a few seconds flailing around in darkness, he found a lamp and turned its switch. Powered by pirated electricity, the bulb burst into life. Officer Kendall whistled one long, descending note as he looked around at the disorderly shelves and stacks of electronic components.

  “Didn’t even know Crazy Eddy’s had a branch in D.C.” Kendall said. “It’d take me a week to get this stuff out of here. It’ll take the department a month to try to find the rightful owners.”

  “Yeah. Wanted to talk to you about that.” Hannibal opened both windows in the room to clear the remaining smoke, crossed the room again and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He decided to lean against the door sill, presenting the least threatening picture he could manage. Kendall dropped into the tattered sofa, smiling, waiting for the sales pitch.

  “I been wondering just what you’re up to.”

  “Then let’s play it straight,” Hannibal said. “This place is a crack house. There’s a shooting gallery downstairs, vagrants crash here, streetwalkers bring their Johns in here to take care of business. As you can see, it’s also a warehouse for thieves and fences. I’m here to undo all that, to turn this place into a money making proposition for the owner. Now don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think my employer has me down here because he’s full of community spirit. He paid good money for this place and he wants to make money off it. But you got to admit, if I do my job right, it’ll have some pleasant side effects for the hood.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. You want help, is that it?”

  “Nothing weird,” Hannibal assured him in his softest voice. “I can take care of myself, but I could use some time. How about you get some of your fellow officers in here tonight to seize and impound all these stolen goods? They’d have to list and catalog it all and check for ID tags and such, right?”

  Kendall stopped for a moment to think, which Hannibal found very encouraging. In his experience, u
niformed cops rarely did such things. When he looked up, it seemed he had gotten the idea. He pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket and lit one.

  “In other words, you’re looking for a high profile police presence,” Kendall said. “And while we run interference, what? You move in, set up, and start turning this place into a fortress, is that it?”

  “Something like that. Actually, I figure if I can just get settled, the problem will go away in a couple of days. Junkies and bums ain’t known for their determination, or their attention span. They’ll find an easier place to crash.”

  “Sure hope you’re right.” Kendall stood, shaking his head.

  “Meantime, maybe you can use this cache as an excuse to increase patrols in the hood?”

  Kendall stood up, took a long drag on his cigarette, and rested his other hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal made a special effort not to react.

  “You know, if we maintain too much of a presence around here, it can make things worse with the local citizens. I’ll goose it up as much as I can without anybody thinking we’re trying to, you know, be a bunch of Nazis or something.”

  Hannibal nodded and eased his shoulder out from under Kendall’s hand to head down the stairs. The cop followed. When they reached the front stoop, Hannibal’s car stood out front. While Kendall headed for his patrol car to file a report, Hannibal stepped up to his Volvo. Ray, very nervous, powered down his window.

  “You sure about all this?” Ray asked.

  “All of it,” Hannibal assured him. “Just pop the trunk, okay? The sooner we get this stuff unloaded, the sooner you can go home.”

  Ray pushed the necessary button and Hannibal raised the trunk lid. By the time he pulled out his sleeping bag and air mattress, Ray was standing beside him.

  “It ain’t too late for me to stay here with you, Paco.”

  Hannibal’s gear was packed into a large duffel. He shouldered his burden and turned to his friend. “Ray, if you stay, my car will be here. My beautiful Volvo. I am not prepared to try to defend the house and watch the white tornado all night.”

  While Ray stayed near the car, Hannibal went inside, settling his bedding in the first floor apartment on the left, the one the heroin crowd previously used. It wasn’t even close to clean, but it did contain a couple of rusted metal chairs from an old kitchen set. He quickly ran through the flat, looking for drugs. It was no surprise to him that the users had not left a single grain of powder behind. However, he did gather quite a collection of needles, both new and used, and catheters, the rubber tubing the addicts used to tie off their arms. Odd, he thought, how something as deadly as heroin could make a comeback. As if crack cocaine wasn’t bad enough. It sometimes seemed that the bad things in life never really went away. They just changed their shape or found a new audience.

  Not knowing how long it might take the police to arrive, he sprinted upstairs. In the apartment full of stolen goods he found a dresser that the previous resident had used to store tools and spare parts. He dumped the drug paraphernalia on top of a variety of screwdrivers, closed the drawer, and hurried back downstairs.

  He had chosen a first floor flat because he thought people might try to reenter through windows. On the first floor he could patrol likely entrances. Besides, he knew it would take a day or two for the utilities to be turned on. He knew that apartment’s electric stove worked, which meant that at least in the kitchen he had pirated electricity. He would let one of his new neighbors pay his meager power bill for a couple of days.

  He returned to his car, retrieving a couple of large shopping bags from its trunk. He had packed a variety of necessities for his stay at the house. On his third and final trip from the car, Ray slammed the trunk and stood facing him.

  “Hannibal, mi amigo, this is loco. These people kill each other like it’s nothing.”

  “These people?” Hannibal asked.

  “These drug people,” Ray explained. “They’ll cut their best friend’s throat for a dime bag, man. You know they’ll dust you like nothing.”

  “Ray, I’m perfectly safe inside. Now let me get set up. I’ll be looking for you at noon tomorrow. You got the list? The cleaning stuff is especially important.” Ray stood in his path as if he had more to say. Hannibal, standing with hands on hips, blew one heavy breath at the ground. In a gentle voice he said, “Look, I’ll be careful, okay?” He slapped Ray on the shoulder, and got a half smile in return before Ray returned to the car.

  Hannibal watched his own car pull away through the big front window of his new home. He was just thinking how alone he was when another vehicle pulled up out front. A glance out a window told him a police van had arrived. He smiled at the long blue line snaking out, heading for his building.

  Then he turned to making his home livable. Wandering the flat, he placed an Airwick in each room. A shopping bag yielded a small foot pump, with which he began inflating his air mattress. That done, he pulled out a telephone and plugged it into a wall jack. With it pressed against his ear he heard silence as expected. He left it off the hook, knowing that a most annoying noise would let him know the second service was established.

  He had some fresh oranges, pears, apples and bananas to cover his first couple of meals. His fruit was sealed in plastic bags, which he hoped would suffice to keep out the roaches and any rodents he might be sharing the house with. He sat three books beside his bed. Next he carried one of the big shopping bags into the kitchen. Guided by moonlight he pulled out a coffeepot and a small, shadeless lamp. Using a cube tap, he plugged the lamp and coffee maker into the fixture supplying the stove. Once he had light he filled the coffee basket with grounds. The next thing out of the bag was a water filter that he screwed onto the faucet. After letting the sink run for three minutes, he filled the coffee pot’s reservoir. When the aroma of fresh brew hit his nose, he wandered into the hall. There he watched the river of televisions, VCRs and radios flowing down the stairs until he spotted Kendall.

  “Hey, pal, come in and take a load off for a minute.”

  Kendall stopped, stereo components under each arm. “Little busy right now, Jones.”

  “Okay. Can you just tell your friends I belong here? And, look, I’m leaving my kitchen door open. There’s fresh coffee in here, and Styrofoam cups, spoons, sugar and creamer in packets. Everybody in blue can help themselves. Just ask them to hit the trash bag with their garbage.”

  Kendall was on the edge of laughter by the time Hannibal finished. “What, no donuts?” he asked. Hannibal chose not to answer, instead going back inside long enough to pick up one of the overloaded shopping bags. He had things to do, and he wanted to move around while the presence of so many policemen made unwanted interruption unlikely.

  Secret Service work had taught him the importance of securing his area. Good security meant paying attention to details. Carrying a long, police type flashlight he went next door, to the other first floor apartment. Starting in the front room, he moved around the flat, nailing each window shut. The kitchen presented a different challenge because, aside from the window over the sink, there was a door to the backyard. Hannibal pulled two blocks of wood from his bag and nailed one across each of the outer corners.

  Back in “his” apartment, he found three policemen in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Less than half a cup remained in the pot. Hannibal resisted the urge to make a caustic remark while pouring the dregs into a cup for himself. Then he pulled out the box of Gevalia Stockholm roast and started a fresh pot.

  “Thanks for the java,” one cop said, making conversation. “You know, I thought druggies were still using this place to shoot up.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Hannibal answered, starting to nail the kitchen windows down. “I’m hoping they’ll find a new place for that after tonight. And I hope you boys appreciate the help.”

  The cop crushed his cup and tossed it at the trash bag. “Don’t get me wrong, but it don’t do shit for us. I mean, yeah they’re gone, but they’ll just pop up somewhere else.”
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br />   “Maybe,” Hannibal said, rinsing out the pot. “If you’d have come in here and busted them, maybe not.”

  The silent policeman pulled his talkative partner back out into the flow of stolen goods while Hannibal kicked three rubber wedges under the kitchen’s back door. He wanted one escape route that was not permanently closed.

  Policemen were still carrying hot items out when he finished. A few detoured for a cursory search of the premises, adding drugs to their haul. Hannibal took this opportunity to explore the house more thoroughly. After checking its fixtures he was sure he had dropped his gear in the best flat. His base of operations contained the building’s only functioning stove and sink. Not that the apartment was fully habitable. The pipe leading to the bathtub sprayed water around the room when he turned it on. The only tub in the building with running water that did not leak was on the second floor, so he would be spending some time up there. For other needs he would have to plan ahead. The third floor flat so recently used as an electronic storage area contained the only operable toilet. Considering how hospitable its previous occupant had been, Hannibal wondered what everyone else in the building did when nature called. Then again, maybe he didn’t want to know.

  An hour later, Hannibal stood in the door to his new apartment, watching the last blue uniforms waving their way out the door. Kendall stayed until all the others were gone.

  “Not sure if I admire or pity you, Jones,” Kendall said, shaking Hannibal’s hand, “but I sure do wish you the best.”

  “Thanks,” Hannibal said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I sure hope I don’t have to see you here again.”

  Hannibal closed the hall door behind Kendall, noticing the forlorn and impotent click of the latch. Back in his apartment he watched through one of his front windows as the police van pulled away. He could almost feel the street heave a sigh of relief. It was not a feeling he shared. Suddenly aware of the extent of his aloneness, he returned to the hall and jammed three rubber wedges under the front door before returning to his inflated bed.