Troubleshooter

by Austin Camacho

  “Hannibal?” Cindy asked when she picked up the receiver. “Do I want to know where you are or what you’re doing?”

  “You?” Hannibal said. “An attorney? An officer of the court? Probably not.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. “So I guess this isn’t a pleasure call. I’m sorry, but with Mister Balor out I really had to come to work. But if you need me…”

  “I appreciate that. More than you can guess.” Hannibal said seriously. He heard the concern in her voice, and stronger emotions as well. “I do need your help, but you won’t need to leave the office. Do you think anybody would mind some of your resources being used to help Balor’s case?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Okay, look,” Hannibal said. “I need you to find out everything you can about an Anthony Ronzini.”

  “Ronzini,” Cindy repeated, rolling the name around her tongue with a Spanish slant. “Didn’t he used to be a mob boss or something?”

  “Probably,” Hannibal replied. “Anyway, put together what you can and buzz me at the crib.” Hannibal thought it would be a long day, sitting at twenty-three thirteen with one eye on Denton until late afternoon when he would release him. In that time he would make plans with his team, assuming his team was ready to stick with him through what would come next.

  The moment Hannibal hated to face arrived a couple of hours later. Standing with his back to his big front windows, Hannibal scanned the faces I the room and saw anticipation in every one of them. Sarge sat on his right hand with his beefy arms crossed. Quaker sat beside his best friend with is wild hair sticking up and long legs stretched out in front of him ending in a pair of Timberlands. He made it easy to sometimes forget he was white. Virgil, both the tallest and darkest, stood leaning against the wall looking grim. He always looked grim. Ray, in a chair to Hannibal’s left, smiled as if anxious for whatever came next. Beside him stood Timothy, a fiery ball of West Indian nervous energy. Hannibal gathered his thoughts, not wanting to leave Denton locked in a room alone upstairs for long.

  “I just wanted to get everyone together to tell you that things are about to get a bit hairier,” Hannibal said. “It could get more dangerous and on top of that, we may come into some conflict with the law. From here on out we might be walking the line pretty damned close.”

  “You mean the line between legal actions and not so legal,” Virgil said in his deep, gravelly voice. It was not really a question, but he clearly was looking for confirmation.

  “Right,” Hannibal said. “So before I tell you what I have in mind, including some things that could get you in trouble later if you’re questioned, I thought I should give you a chance to move on. No one will think less of you if you want to call it a day here.”

  “Wrong,” Virgil said, and all eyes turned to him. “I’d think less of me. You took a chance on me, Hannibal. I know you’re a good man, so I guess I’ll have to take a chance on you.”

  When Sarge spoke, he addressed Hannibal but everyone knew he meant his words for the entire group. “You’re not stupid, and you’re as honest as they come. I know you’re not going to put anybody at unnecessary risk an you’re on the side of right. I’ll back your play as far as you want to go, brother.”

  “Thanks, Sarge,” Hannibal said. “Quaker?”

  “I follow the Sarge,” Quaker said with perfect calm. “If he says it’s all good then it’s all good. I’m down for whatever.”

  “Just so we hit these bastards where it hurts,” Timothy said. His frantic motions, barely controlled, reminded Hannibal of a puppy desperate to start his morning walk. “But you got to be ready to go all out, mon. These people are dangerous, and they got a lot of friends. We might have to hit a lot harder than we did when they tried to break in before.”

  Hannibal’s brow furrowed. “You know something I don’t?” he asked. “Got history with Sal?”

  “I just know the type,” Timothy said, dropping into a chair. His eyes would not settle on one object.

  “Whatever the deal, we’ll handle it together,” Ray said. “We’ve all got your back, Paco. Besides, Cindy would shoot me if I backed out now.”

  “Okay, I guess you’re all in this with me,” Hannibal said. “So you need to know how I see the next play. Step one is to question Denton and pin down the place where a certain business man likes to go for dinner and drinks. The good news is, if all goes well, we might be able to end this case for good in the next twenty-four hours.”

  -33-

  The long black Continental limousine rocked down the scarred street all alone. Most of Georgetown had excellent roads, but Anthony Ronzini’s favorite restaurant was a bit out of the way. His driver, now retired from professional wrestling, had found an approach almost empty of traffic. Ronzini thought the bumps well worth avoiding the gridlock.

  His suit was cut full and comfortable, but for fifteen hundred dollars his tailor managed to make it look well fitted. He sat in the center of the back seat, his legs apart to allow for his ample belly, sipping a before dinner scotch. Freddy, his bodyguard, was crowded into the seat on his left.

  Ronzini’s unwieldy vehicle turned down the final narrow street on its way to the restaurant’s shadowed back entrance. He did not like attention when he went to dinner. As they made their final approach, he handed his glass to his seatmate, who opened the bar and put it away.

  Ronzini reacted with bored annoyance when he saw a car stopped in the street in front of him. It was an old, wide, Chevy with its blinkers flashing. In years past, he may have assumed that this was a ploy by one of his enemies to get at him, but it had been a long time since anyone had dared to give him any trouble.

  “Can you get around that thing, Rick?” Ronzini asked his driver.

  “On the sidewalk maybe,” Rick said, “but not without risking scraping up the paint, boss.”

  Another car pulled up behind them, and for a moment Ronzini’s old alarms went off. Then the other car’s horn sounded three long blasts. Just another impatient driver, Ronzini thought. Like me. The driver behind Ronzini decided to put on his high beams, which prompted a curse from Rick.

  “I ought to go back and punch that guy’s lights out,” Rick said. He dropped the column lever down into low gear, and powered his window down to see around the stopped car better. “Now which way around is less likely to scratch up the car? Damn. Some days I hate this job.”

  “Really?” Ronzini said, watching Rick’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “Seems to me it has its advantages over being tossed around in the ring for a living.”

  “Aw, boss, you know I don’t mean nothing.”

  Exactly, Ronzini thought.

  Bored, his eyes wandered out the window. A shadow caught his eye. Was someone there, crouched beside the car?

  He froze when a big black man rose to his full height beside the door. Rick had time to turn and open his mouth to speak before the business end of a Louisville Slugger swung through the window, smacking across his jaw. He fell to the side limply, his eyes glassy before his head hit the seat. The man with the bat didn’t speak, but someone else did.

  “If you sit still for a minute, we can do this without any more violence.”

  Pulling his attention from his driver, Ronzini turned toward the voice on his right. He was staring into the muzzle of an automatic pistol. The man holding it was dark, and wore sunglasses.

  “Bullet proof is a bit of an exaggeration for this kind of glass,” the gunman said, keeping his face straight. “Trust me, it won’t resist twelve of these forty caliber rounds. Now I want you out of this car and into the one behind you.”

  “You’re not serious,” Ronzini replied, showing no more emotion than the gunman. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course,” the gunman said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m Hannibal Jones.”

  “Hannibal?” Ronzini said, his brow wrinkling. “I may have heard of you.”

  “We need to talk,” Hannibal said. “I’ve chosen the time and place. Get
out now, and the other two don’t get hurt. Otherwise…” As if to punctuate Hannibal’s words, the bigger man opened the driver’s door and leaned in on one knee. Ronzini assumed he had a gun, in which case, his bodyguard could never free a weapon without being killed.

  The man outside the car seemed more in control of himself than the man in the front seat was. When in doubt, Ronzini would always choose to deal with the most reasonable person. He patted his seatmate’s shoulder, opened his door and stepped out.

  “Okay, Sarge,” Hannibal said. Sarge nodded and slid out of the limo, taking the keys with him. Hannibal rested a hand on Ronzini’s shoulder and walked him back to the white Volvo.

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to assume the position,” Hannibal said, grim but polite. With a smile, Ronzini rested his hands on the car’s roof.

  “I haven’t done this in a long time, stud,” he said as Hannibal expertly frisked him. “You a cop? You can’t be a Metro cop, but you sure act like a cop.”

  “Not a cop.” Hannibal opened his car’s back door. “Slide in.”

  Ronzini sat in the middle, against Sarge’s bulky frame. Hannibal got in behind him, holstering his gun before closing the door. Up front, Ray shifted into reverse and pulled out of the street. In seconds they were back on Route 395 heading east toward Anacostia.

  Hannibal felt like an actor in a bad play. In this play, the writer did not understand characterization and motivation, so he and his fellow performers could not put enough depth into their parts. They were trapped in this plot, going through the unavoidable motions that grew from their last irrational acts. His own behavior startled him at times. Ronzini was the most recent addition to the cast, and Hannibal wished he could figure out the man’s motivation. He rode in silence, wrapped in his thoughts for several minutes, until Ronzini interrupted him.

  “You’re in charge,” he said, stating the obvious like an ice breaker at a party.

  “Yep.”

  “I take it this isn’t a one way trip to the morgue,” Ronzini went on, “So? What? Money?”

  “Not money, Mister…not money, Tony.” Hannibal watched Washington flow past for a moment before shifting his focus to look deep into Ronzini’s face. “This is about your son, and selling drugs, and beating up a noncombatant.”

  At first Ronzini did not react, but Hannibal saw the wheels turning behind his eyes. It took him no more than a minute to make the connection.

  “Balor,” he said in a low voice. “Salvatore had Balor roughed up. Guess I should have seen that coming.” He shook his head in regret, or perhaps in frustration at his son. “So what, you beat me up in revenge? I think in this case I’m a noncombatant like you said.”

  “Don’t want to hurt you, Tony,” Hannibal said, sounding weary. “You’re here to make the boy listen to reason. When he gives me what I want, I let you go.”

  “What happens to my people back there?” Ronzini asked next. “They done nothing to you.”

  “And I’ve done nothing to them.” Hannibal stared out the back window. Ronzini turned to join him looking through menacing dark clouds at the great orange ball hanging low in the sky, on its way to bed. Periodically he glanced at Hannibal’s face, reading his expression, Hannibal guessed, the way good card players do.

  “Something surprised you,” Ronzini said.

  Hannibal nodded. “I’m surprised by your interest. About what happens to your flunkies, I mean.”

  “I get bad press,” Ronzini said. To Hannibal’s surprise Ronzini actually smiled. He must have just really accepted that he was in no danger. “You’re with people every day, you come to care about them. I’m not a monster, I’m a business man.”

  Hannibal nodded, but offered no more conversation.

  When the car stopped in front of number twenty-three thirteen, it was Hannibal’s turn to smile. Ronzini’s eyes became silver dollars when Sarge opened the door. He stared around at the street, the teenagers wandering in hip hop shorts and tank tops, the rundown row houses. He was now surrounded by blackness.

  “Wonder how many of these people know you make your money selling them numbers and women,” Hannibal said as Ronzini stood. He left his gun in its holster, figuring Sarge’s bat was enough to convince Ronzini he could not escape. Even if he ran, where would he go? This neighborhood itself was an effective prison for him.

  With Ray on Ronzini’s left, Hannibal on his right, and Sarge behind him, they climbed the sandstone steps toward the door. It opened as they reached it. Quaker waved the shotgun and said “All quiet. Pulled it off, didn’t you?”

  Any hope Ronzini had that a white face might make a difference should have died as soon as he got a good look at Quaker’s eyes. He had no way of knowing this man was homeless, but anyone could see he was another member of some minority. Ronzini took another wide look around. While several people wandered or loitered outdoors, they all seemed determined not to see him. Then Sarge prodded him in the kidney, and they stepped forward into the hallway. The door closed behind them, followed by the loud click of a dead bolt lock.

  Hannibal’s stomach was playing host to a butterfly convention, so he was in no state for surprises. At first he jumped away when Cindy leaped into his arms and locked him in a deep kiss. After a couple of seconds of reflexively returning her kiss, he broke her embrace and pushed her back into his front room.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked

  “Cindy what the hell are you doing here?”

  His words stopped her for a moment, but her resolve quickly returned. “Well, for one thing, Chico, I’m making dinner for this big boy’s club. I wanted to be with you. I thought you…”

  “It could get dangerous here,” Hannibal muttered. He pointed Ronzini into a chair, heaved a giant sigh and turned to Sarge.

  “Stay with him every second. Cindy, let’s go talk in the kitchen for a minute.” Gently yet firmly, he took Cindy’s arm and led her to the other end of his flat. There he dropped her, not quite as gently, into a chair. His eyes, changing from green to blue, slid over two large pans on the stove. The room was warm and steamy, its spicy aromas reminding him how hungry he was. The atmosphere transformed what was to be a lecture into an appeal. He dropped to his haunches in front of her.

  “Cindy, sweetheart do you understand what’s happening here?”

  “What is happening here, Chico, is my…” during her thoughtful pause, Hannibal noticed how Cindy’s lips curled back when she got angry, exposing her small, very white teeth, “…someone I care about is so focused on his job, he’s ignoring everything else, including his friends. And his new neighbors are worried about him. And my paella is burning.” At that she stood up and went to the stove.

  Helplessness converted his anger to frustration, and Hannibal found himself standing behind Cindy, his hands on her waist, watching her stir a big pot of rice.

  “Cindy, just by being here, you’ve made yourself an accessory to a crime.”

  “I don’t know that?” Cindy snapped sarcastically, suddenly sounding far more Latin, much less educated than he knew she was. “You forgot I’m a lawyer? I thought I should be here. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”

  “Damn it, Cindy, it is a federal case. No matter how you cut it, what I just did is kidn…”

  “Don’t you say that word.” Cindy spun in Hannibal’s arms, jabbing a finger in his face. “Now you listen to me mister I-can-handle-it. You got you a delicate legal situation here. Yes, you got him by the cojones, but he got you too. If you do this right, you can kind of trade what you got and you both get away with your balls. But it’s going to be tricky. You need me. Let me help.” When she turned back to the food, Hannibal could feel the energy flow out of her, making her feel smaller between his hands. “Everybody’s hungry now,” she said more quietly. “Let me do this.”

  A lifetime as a loner had left Hannibal ill prepared for anyone being this determined to help him. As tenderly as his rough history allowed, he pushed her hair away and kissed the ba
ck of her neck.

  “Let the girl cook for Christ’s sake,” said Sarge, walking in behind them. “Like in the old Sinatra song, man, I get too hungry for dinner at eight.”

  -34-

  On the top floor, Virgil washed his hands in the kitchen sink. Behind him, Timothy paced back and forth. Virgil remembered seeing a movie about rodeo cowboys a long time ago. Timothy reminded him of the bull, fidgeting in the chute, anxious for a chance to get loose and gore some fool cowboy trying to ride him. As he dried his hands on a dishtowel, Virgil smelled a pungent, surprising but familiar odor.

  “Hey, man, I wish you wouldn’t smoke that shit in here.”

  Thin smoke leaked from Timothy’s mouth as he answered. “You know, you smoke the ganja it keep you sharp. Keep a man ready for what he got to do. That Jones, he could use some of this.”

  “I think Hannibal’s handling things just fine,” Virgil said with the slightest edge in his voice.

  “He afraid to take care of the business,” Timothy said, putting extra emphasis on the last word. He took another deep toke from his ragged joint, dragging extra air in through his teeth. Then he began gesturing wildly. “We got the man right here, the man his self. Ought to just walk up to him and badow, take his head off.” Unexpectedly, he pulled a Saturday night special from inside his shirt.

  “Where the hell you get that?” Virgil’s head snapped back in surprise.

  “One of them junkies shot Sarge with this, first day we came in,” Timothy said, twirled the small revolver in his hand.

  “Damn,” Virgil said, clenching his eyes shut. “I though the police picked that thing up when they cleared the apartment.”