Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  At first, Hannibal rolled his eyes and blew air between his teeth, making a “sheesh” sound. Then his face sobered and his jaw slowly dropped in understanding. A slow, shallow smile spread across his face.

  Cindy Santiago had given him a revelation, an epiphany, a vision of how it would have to be, and he wanted badly to be able to sit up and give her a big kiss.

  -22-

  SUNDAY

  Mirrors never lie, but Hannibal sure hoped the one over the dresser was exaggerating just a little. His skin showed multiple bruises from his face to his waistline, but he reminded himself that he bruised easily. His left eyebrow was badly swollen, but at least the cut over his left eye was closed. A purple ring as big as a donut surrounded his right eye. He again thanked the Lord for a nose too small and flat to easily break. His lower lip was still three times its normal size. His jaw was not broken but it hurt like hell. He stared at himself and managed a crooked smile.

  In part, he was smiling at Cindy’s doctor. When he arrived the night before, it quickly became obvious that he had never worked a boxer’s corner. He over reacted to Hannibal’s superficial injuries. After an examination he still wasn’t convinced there was no serious damage. He taped up Hannibal’s sore ribs, and even offered anesthetic before the three or four stitched he used to close the small cut over Hannibal’s eye.

  While all that was going on, Cindy had made her father bring Hannibal’s things from his motel. He found his socks and underwear in the top dresser drawer. Rummaging through it, he found the photograph he had salvaged from his burned out apartment. He lifted it now, feeling new warmth just holding it in his hand.

  Very curly script at the bottom of the photo said “To my honey.” The woman’s face looked younger in the picture than he remembered it, but then it was taken before the loss of her man, single parenthood, and the unearned disrespect of others had taken their toll. He leaned the small framed photo against the dresser’s mirror, kissed a fingertip and touched it to her face.

  “Well I look like hell,” he told the photo. “It ain’t as bad as it looks, though, and I heal pretty quick. Still the tough guy.”

  His ego drove him to make one other small change, but he knew that what he needed would not be in the room he was using. While he was alone in the house, Hannibal tentatively invaded Cindy’s bedroom. He could not avoid the impression of how feminine she had made it. Pink pillow shams and bedding on a four poster bed dominated the room. He did notice that the bed was made, and that the closet doors and even her bathroom door were closed. He avoided looking on her dresser at all, aware of just how much of a invasion that would be. Besides what he needed would surely be on her white, wrought iron vanity.

  He opened and closed cases and kits, working hard to leave everything exactly as he found it. More than once he looked over his shoulder, unnecessarily. Finally he found the tube of beige gunk he was looking for. He squeezed a dab of it into his palm and mixed it with a little hand cream. Stifling his pained noises he spread the paste over his black eye, expertly laying it on, moving out a bit past the bruise and blending it smoothly into his own skin tone. This would not hide the injury completely of course, but it would make it a lot less obvious.

  Backing up a bit from the mirror, he could see purple around his waist below the tape, as far as his view allowed him to check. There was no sense in trying to hide these bruises, and they would fade soon enough. Stretching exercises would be torture but he would do them, slowly and thoroughly, after he made one telephone call. He moved into the living room, stood beside the couch and picked up the phone.

  When he heard the greeting Hannibal focused on not slurring his words. “Mister Balor this is Hannibal Jones. Sorry to bother you at home on the Sabbath, but…”

  “Jones. Are you all right?” Balor asked. His concern sounded genuine. “Don’t worry about the day, it’s not my Sabbath anyway. But Miss Santiago told me you were, well, that you’d been hurt. Pretty badly.”

  “I figured I’d better report in.” Hannibal very slowly lowered himself onto the sofa. “Just bumps and bruises. I’ve been examined by a doctor, and he gave me a clean bill of health. No broken bones, all senses are functioning normally and I’m not passing any more blood.”

  “Any more?” Balor muttered. “God. Isn’t this when you call the police? At the very least, we’ve got these guys for breaking and entering and assault, right?”

  “You tell me. You’re the lawyer. Do you expect the police to react somehow differently this time? It’s my word against theirs, there’s no physical evidence, and the other side took some lumps too. Can’t prove who started it all. Will the cops make it right?”

  After a pause, Balor said “You have a point I’m afraid.”

  “And while I’m in court for weeks everything returns to the status quo in that house.”

  “Maybe it should end here,” Balor said. “I told Santiago if you want out…”

  “I’d like to finish this,” Hannibal said, as diplomatically as he could. “However, I realize I’m operating on your bankroll, and this job is about to get expensive. I’m afraid I’ll need to subcontract some help on this.”

  “I don’t care about…” Hannibal could hear Balor reordering his thoughts, as a man does when expressing thoughts foreign to him, “This isn’t about money, Mister Jones. This is about somebody taking something that belongs to me. I’ll spend my last dime to get it back. But it isn’t worth people getting hurt.”

  “People are always getting hurt. If I get my head handed to me, well, it’s my head. I knew it’d be dangerous. This is what I do. Now, do I go ahead and do my job, or not?”

  Hannibal suffered through a long silence. He heard Balor draw on a cigar, could almost see his lawyer’s eyes examining the consequences of his next decision. When he finally spoke, he sounded very tired.

  “Look Jones, I’m sorry. These people you’re up against are just too dangerous. I’m not taking a chance of having anybody’s death on my conscience. It’s over, understand? Naturally I’ll pay you for your work up to this point, and of course I’ll cover any medical bills or other expenses. But it’s over.” There was no goodbye, just silence and, after a moment, a dial tone.

  -23-

  Hannibal had just hung up when Ray and Cindy returned from church. He reacted to seeing her in a light blue summer dress. She reacted rather differently to him wearing only jeans, with his ribs wrapped in white tape and bruises covering his body like Dennis Rodman’s tattoos. He read her concern for him in brown eyes grown wide.

  “You look worse than before,” Cindy said, rushing forward but stopping short of touching him. “I don’t think you should be walking around too much. I hate the people who did this to you. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, sure,” Hannibal said. “I got my ass kicked, I’m sore everywhere, and I just talked to Balor. I’m out of a job.” His eyes were hooded, his brows tightly knit. He stood up slowly and went into the guest room without looking at anybody. While he gathered clothes with one hand, he pushed the door closed with the other.

  Just before the latch caught, the door flew open. Hannibal turned to find Cindy glowering in the doorway.

  “So that’s it? You just quit?”

  “I never quit!” Hannibal snapped. “I was fired!” He turned his back to her, breathing deeply. “Right now I wish I could buy the damned building, then I wouldn’t have to stop, but I work for somebody else. That’s the business I’m in. I do what the client wants, whether I like it or not. Now, please let me get dressed.”

  Hannibal slowly eased a tee shirt over his head and pulled it down. Then he gathered up his blood soaked shirt from the night before and stood staring at the bundle in his hands. He was trying to decide if it belonged in the trash.

  “Where you going?” Cindy asked from the doorway.

  “Don’t know. Out.”

  Cindy brushed past him to reach into a dresser drawer. “Didn’t mean to sound like I was accusing you. I don’t really think of you
as a quitter. Here, I got you a new shirt.”

  “Sorry I yelled.” Hannibal accepted the white, long sleeved shirt from Cindy and started pulling pins from it. He unfolded it and removed the cardboard and plastic through an uncomfortable silence. After fumbling the buttons open he slid one arm into a sleeve.

  “Not sure I get you,” Hannibal said. “I mean, I thought you wanted me to stay away from that place.”

  “Yes.” Cindy’s head dropped and she examined the toes of her shoes. “No. That was before. I just don’t want you getting hurt anymore, and they’ll hurt you if you go back.”

  “It’ll kill me if I don’t.”

  Cindy tentatively reached for him, but pulled her hands back as if a touch might hurt him. “I can see that now. But more, I think maybe I see why. What you were trying to do, it’s important. I mean, I knew that before, but maybe I didn’t know how important until I saw the look on that little boy’s face when he saw you lying there, all beat up. Somebody needs to show him it’s not all hopeless.”

  “So?”

  “So, don’t give up.” Cindy began buttoning his shirt once he had it on. “You’re a fighter, right? Then fight for what you know is right. Go get your job back.”

  “You didn’t hear him.” He fumbled with his cuffs until he got them buttoned. “I don’t think I can change his mind. He was pretty damned clear about this. The case is closed.”

  Without raising his eyes, Hannibal stepped quickly to the door, waving to Ray on his way out. Cindy looked past her confused father, staring at the closed door as if she could still see Hannibal.

  “Maybe you just need a good lawyer.”

  Hannibal sat in his car watching the free enterprise system at work across the street. People streamed into and out of the little corner store, gathering the necessities of life in small daily quantities. They were friendly, honest, courteous people, deferring to older neighbors at the door, helping women with their packages.

  A dozen feet away, a smiling young man with a shaved head and an earring chattered to passersby like the scalpers outside the MCI Center when Hannibal went to watch the Wizards play. Only this guy was not pushing overpriced tickets. He was hawking drugs.

  Free enterprise.

  Hannibal had bought a new black blazer. Afterward he wandered the city aimlessly for an hour before his wheels brought him back to Southeast. He was not sure why he was there, or why he had parked down the block from, but out of sight of, Balor’s building. The store seemed to be the center of activity in the neighborhood, and maybe he just wanted to see his situation in terms of people, not property.

  Even with his window down, the temperature in his Volvo was rising fast. He looked down to wipe a handkerchief across his dripping face, careful not to wipe away the makeup around his eye. Reluctantly he started the car, raised the window and punched the air conditioning button. When he looked up, he saw Monty rolling down the sidewalk on his board. That ignited a smile. Maybe he would go say hello, maybe offer to take him to one of the parks which lined the Potomac on the Virginia side. After all, there’s more than one way to save our youth, he thought.

  Monty flipped his skateboard into his hands at the door into the store. The boy with the earring called to him. Monty turned to face him, then turned away. The older boy called again, waving to him. This time Monty reacted more caustically. Hannibal could see contempt on his face.

  Hannibal watched the conversation through his driver side window, almost as if it was on a television screen. Only this was real. The older boy was holding a joint out to Monty and smiling, right out in the open. It was as if they were in their own little world, invisible to passersby. Hannibal could not hear his words, but his face and hands were saying Monty should take it. It was free. What was he so afraid of? If he did not like it, at least then he would know he was not missing anything. After all, what kind of a chump turned down free stuff.

  Hannibal slid his sunglasses into place and got out of his car.

  “Give it up, Aaron,” Monty said, waving a hand as if dismissing the taller boy. “I ain’t about to even start taking any of that junk from you.”

  “I ain’t trying to hear that, see,” Aaron said, pushing his sample closer to Monty’s face. Then a hand reached in from outside their world and wrapped around Aaron’s wrist.

  “Try harder.”

  Aaron’s eyes scanned up and down Hannibal’s form. Hannibal figured he was probably a complete mystery to the boy, obviously not a policeman, but just as obviously not a competitor. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Hannibal snapped his hand around, locking Aaron’s arm at full extension. The boy’s mouth flew open in shock. “I’m the local Chamber of Commerce. You’re out of business.” Showing almost no effort, Hannibal snapped his foot up into Aaron’s exposed ribs. Aaron howled in pain. That was gratifying, so Hannibal kicked him again.

  “What you doing?” Monty said, yanking Hannibal’s jacket. “Let him go, man. He’s just a hustler. You don’t beat a brother up for running his hustle.”

  Hannibal released Aaron, turning to Monty. Fear and surprise wrestled for dominance on his face. “Monty, are you so far gone you think what this kid’s doing is okay?”

  “At least he’s trying to get something for himself,” Monty said, fists on his hips, head tilted at a defiant angle.

  “You can’t look up to dope pushers like this scum. He’s no better than Sal.”

  Monty shrugged. “Sal rides around in a Continental. Who should I look up to? Winos in the park? That bunch of homeless guys down the block? I got to get the milk Grandma sent me for.” Monty ended the conversation by walking into the store.

  “Some of those homeless people are miles better than these drug dealers,” Hannibal told Monty’s back. “At least they’re honest and…” He stopped, realizing nobody was listening. At that moment, a great deal was going on behind his dark Oakley’s. As he turned toward his car, he came face to face with Aaron, who now had three large friends with him. Hannibal balled his fists and stalked toward his car, which was beyond the four young men. They stared into his face as he approached, but as he reached them they parted to let him pass.

  Behind the wheel, Hannibal dialed his phone even before turning the Volvo’s key. He was talking as he pulled away from the curb.

  “Ray? Hannibal. I’ll be there in about half an hour and I need you to drive. Yeah, you still got a job, whether I do or not. Yeah, well, it ain’t just about money, is it?”

  Balor’s home was in McLean, barely ten miles northwest of the District and a world away from the property he owned in Anacostia. It stood at the end of a long winding drive through an elm and maple covered dale. To a Realtor it was a traditional double wing colonial. To Hannibal, it was a million dollar brick monstrosity.

  “I’ll stay and watch the car,” Ray said as Hannibal got out.

  “I guess it’s pointless to argue,” Hannibal replied. “I need to do this alone anyway.” He pushed his shades into place and straightened his posture.

  “Cindy swears she’ll have a place just like this one day,” Ray said through his open window.

  Hannibal stared up at the imposing structure for a moment. “Why?”

  “Good day,” Hannibal said, surprised by the age of the woman who answered the door. “My name is Hannibal Jones. I’m working under contract for Mister Balor and I need to speak to him on a matter of some urgency.”

  “Oh, my. How formal,” the woman said. She was short, slight and silver gray, with an open face and perfect posture. “Please come in. I’m Beth Balor. Have a seat and I’ll see if Dan’s available.”

  Hannibal chose to remain standing, but he pulled his glasses off. The decor was traditional pastels, all the furniture overstuffed. The house was brightened, not by paintings on the walls, but by several small vessels of fresh flowers and small framed photographs. Staring around the stadium sized sitting room, he wondered where the servants were. Surely Balor’s wife could not keep a house this size alone. Then he reme
mbered it was Sunday and wondered if the Balors gave their Christian house workers the day off.

  “He’s waiting for you in the sun room,” Mrs. Balor said when she returned. Hannibal started forward before he realized she was not alone. Cindy’s face flashed an oddly brave kind of guilt, like a wronged wife caught with another man.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked before he had time to think. “Sorry. None of my business.” He rushed on, trying hard to focus on his mission.

  Hannibal stalked into the sun room as confidently as he had entered Balor’s office when they first met. He stood as straight and tall as he could, ignoring the pain around his ribs. Balor stood up from his chair and stared out the French doors leading to the deck. Beyond it, mature shade trees reached for heaven. Hannibal realized he was expected to speak first. No problem.

  “Mr. Balor. You’ve got to let me finish what I started.” Balor stared at his carefully landscaped rolling hills and lit a cigar. “We’ve had this conversation. I don’t think the job can be done. That pile of brick and boards isn’t worth seeing people get hurt. And if you go back there, if you keep this up, I’m telling you, you will get hurt.”

  “So?” That response turned Balor around. Hannibal suddenly realized Balor was looking into his hazel eyes for the first time. “People are always getting hurt,” Hannibal added.

  Balor pushed the French doors open. The scent of hyacinths flooded the room, replacing his cigar smoke. He stared out at his private forest until Hannibal wondered if he was forgotten. Then Balor stepped out onto the deck, and Hannibal followed. Balor turned toward him, taking another pull on his cigar.

  “Tell me something, will you? Why do you do this?”

  Caught off guard, Hannibal spread his hands. “You mean my work? It’s who I am. It’s what I do.”

  “I see.” Balor left another pause, then said “This thing’s personal with you, isn’t it?”