by L C Hayden
Soon as the head waiter left, another waiter stepped forward. Bronson read his name tag: Mario Serafin. While Mario recited the day’s specials with the enthusiasm of an actor uttering the world’s greatest lines, Bronson reached for his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill.
When Mario finished delivering the choices, he asked, “Any questions?”
Bronson placed his open palm on top of the bill and pushed it toward the waiter. “I have one. Do you know Matthew Devono?”
Mario’s eyebrows knitted. “Of course, sir. He’s the owner of this fine restaurant and as such, he makes sure he personally knows each of his employees. May I ask why you want to know that, sir?”
“I’d like an introduction.” Bronson gave the fifty another small push.
Mario eyed the money but didn’t reach for it. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr. Devono isn’t here today.”
“That’s a shame because I wanted to talk to him tonight. But you will give him my message?” Bronson moved his hand, exposing half of the bill.
“I will do my best, sir, but he’ll want to know who was inquiring about him.”
“Tell him I’m Lorraine Bronson’s brother.”
Mario nodded as though familiar with the name. “And the nature of the visit?”
“Tell him I received Lorraine’s message.” Bronson removed his hand from the bill.
“Very well.” Mario took a step forward. “I’ll make sure to tell Mr. Devono about you.” He looked down at the fifty, and then at the man he only knew as Lorraine’s brother. Bronson nodded once and the waiter pocketed the money. “I’ll give you fine folks time to check out the menu.”
Bronson watched him as he disappeared behind the wooden swinging doors.
Mike leaned forward. “A fifty? Bronson, really? Retired cops don’t make that much unless there’s something you’re not telling me. Carol’s going to kill you.”
“What happens in Pittsburgh stays in Pittsburgh.” Bronson buried his face in the menu as guilt consumed him. What was it about Lorraine that harbored secrets? The prices in the menu jumped at him and he thought maybe the seventeen-dollar tureen of soup should be his entire meal.
Much to Bronson’s surprise, the soup not only teased his taste buds but also satisfied his hunger. Bronson hadn’t realized that tureens came in such large sizes. When they finished, Mario approached as the bus boy emptied the table of the dirty dishes.
Mario handed Mike and Ellen each a dessert menu. “Mr. Devono told me to tell you that tonight the three of you are his special guests.”
Damn, Bronson thought. Was it too late to order the steak and lobster Mike had enjoyed? Ellen had said that her prime rib was the best she’d ever had. Double damn.
“While your friends enjoy their dessert, Mr. Devono would like to speak to you, sir. If you follow me, please.”
No dessert either. Well, bummer, but this would be a lot better. Bronson removed his napkin from his lap, stood, and followed Mario through the swinging wooden doors.
Soon as he stepped in and the doors closed behind him, someone’s fist landed on his stomach.
Good thing all he had was soup.
Chapter 10
Two men, one at each side, held Bronson up as Mario delivered the second punch. “We’re going to release you, but you’re not to pull any cute shit. Is that understood?”
Bronson straightened up, trying to breathe normally. “I understand perfectly well.” The wind had been knocked out of him and he had trouble speaking. “But I want to know why.”
“Mr. Devono told me tell to tell you the first punch was from Lorraine. The second from him.”
Bronson started to speak, but Mario waved him off. “If you’re ready, sir, Mr. Devono is waiting to see you.”
Bronson forced himself to stand up straight and follow Mario up the stairs.
Devono’s office, located on the back side of the second floor, didn’t seem large from the outside. But once he entered, it told him a different story. Its mahogany floors blended with the light-colored wooden furniture, giving the room a feeling of opulence. A tall, lean cocoa-cream colored man with salt and pepper shaded hair greeted Bronson. “Mario tells me you’re Lorraine’s brother.”
“And you must be the rude host who owns this joint.”
“This joint? I’d hardly call it that. This joint clears over half a million dollars in profit each year, and that figure continues to climb.” He indicated the leather couch next to his desk.
“I’m impressed.” Bronson sat down.
“Funny, but you don’t look impressed.” Devono headed toward the bar. “Not that I care. Want something to drink?”
“What guarantee do I have you won’t poison it?”
“It’s not my style. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.” He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “Once again, what do you care to drink?”
“I was enjoying a nice cup of coffee downstairs. It’s probably cold by now.”
“How do you take it?”
“Three spoons of sugar—” An image of Carol scolding him flashed in his mind. “Make that two heapin’ spoons of sugar and plenty of milk.”
Devono nodded at one of the two bodyguards stationed like tin soldiers by the door. The one to the right nodded and left. Mario remained standing rigidly at the edge of Devono’s desk.
Devono sat on the couch facing Bronson, a coffee table separating them. “Lorraine may have been your biological sister, but I was more of a brother to her than you ever were.”
Don’t leave me. Bronson swallowed hard and cast his glance downward. “That may be true, but now I’d like to learn as much about Lorraine as I can.”
“Why, Mr. Bronson? She’s already dead. Why would you want to get to know her now?”
“Because she was murdered. She died in my arms. I want to find her killer and bring her justice.”
Devono remained quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft, yet firm. “To honor her, I’ll cooperate, but know I’m doing this for her and nothing for you. Frankly, Mr. Bronson, you disgust me.”
Which was perfectly fine with Bronson. At this point in his life, he disgusted himself. No matter what Mike said, Bronson had allowed his sister to die. He should have come earlier. Then he might have been able to prevent her death.
Don’t leave me.
“What can you tell me about her?”
Devono leaned back. “I met her when she was still a kid. She arrived in downtown Pittsburgh by bus, a frightened, lonely child, barely fourteen. Made her way all the way from Dallas to Pittsburgh. That’s a heck of a distance for a kid to travel by herself. I always wondered what brought her here.”
The bridge. The damn covered bridge. The one good memory she had of family life. Bronson should have known about its lure, although at sixteen, Bronson hadn’t cared. “You knew she was under age. What did you do?”
“I fed her and cleaned her up. I gave her the love you failed to provide.”
Bronson tightened his fists. “You’re a pimp.”
Devono threw his head back and widely smiled. “I see you did your homework. I’m impressed.”
Bronson leaned forward. “You son of a bitch. You took an innocent fourteen year old and—”
“—kept her safe, which is a lot more than I can say about you.”
The coffee arrived and the bodyguard set it down on the coffee table. He returned to his post by the door. It took all of Bronson’s will to ignore the drink.
“Your sister—even at fourteen—had a special quality about her. So I didn’t send her to the streets to turn cheap tricks. Instead, I taught her the finer points of society. I showed her how to look like a twelve year old but act like twenty-one. She learned fast.”
Bronson shot to his feet but even before he could fully stand up, the bodyguards saddled him and pushed him back down.
“One more outburst like that, Mr. Bronson, and our meeting is over. Is that understood?”
Bro
nson shrugged off the bodyguards who still held onto his shoulders. He slumped down on the couch.
Devono snapped his fingers and pointed to the bar. Immediately, Mario headed toward it and began mixing a drink. “Now, where was I?” Devono’s gaze locked on Bronson’s. “Oh yes, I was telling you how I managed to turn your sister into my highest paid escort.”
Mario set the drink down in front of Devono who picked it up and half-emptied it. “She had this special quality that appealed to high-ranking police officers, politicians, businessmen, millionaires, even movie stars. She could play the role of twelve year old for those who liked that or be a glamorous twenty-odd year old, all within the same day.” Devono finished his drink and signaled for Mario to prepare another.
Mario picked up the empty glass and set out to mix another.
“I only offered her services to the good politicians, the good lawyers—”
“Those are oxymorons.”
Devono flashed him a blank look. “What?”
Bronson waved him off. “You were sayin’?”
“Over the years, she made me lots of money, and I rewarded her very well. Then one day shortly after she had turned nineteen, Mark Willington III entered her life.”
The name quickly captured Bronson’s attention. He recognized it as being that of the man who the press had nicknamed Mr. Steel. Willington represented what early Pittsburgh stood for. His mill remained one of the few that still thrived, making him one of the country’s wealthiest men.
Mario handed Devono the second drink. Devono set the beverage down without sipping it. “At first Mr. Steel requested her on a monthly basis. Then every two weeks, then he increased it to weekly. If I offered him someone else’s services, he’d refuse. Only one he wanted was Lorraine. Then he started asking for her on a daily basis. Then one day, the requests stopped. By the end of the second week, I assumed we’d never hear from him again. On the third week, he stopped by and landed the bomb on me. He would pay me half-a-million dollars each year. The police would never bother my establishment, and in return, Lorraine would move in with him.” He reached for his drink. “I had no choice. I lost Lorraine that day but she’d come and visit occasionally. She was, after all, my little sister.” He took a sip. “You might not know this—it’s been kept a secret—but Mr. Steel is on his deathbed. It’s an end of an era. If I were you, I’d talk to him as soon as possible.”
*****
The man sitting four tables away from Bronson’s carefully noted the time Bronson followed Mario through the wooden swinging doors. He also recorded the time he returned. He’d been gone exactly twenty-six minutes. Plenty of time to gather a lot of information. He wished he’d been able to bug Devono’s office, but it was too late for that.
No matter. He knew exactly what Devono would tell Bronson. He rubbed his chin as he watched Bronson and the other two people walk out of the restaurant.
Chapter 11
The Google search showed Bronson that the Daniel Jenkins School for Boys had been named after the congressman who had donated a vast amount of money to build the facility. Since it first opened its doors a decade ago, Jenkins Sr. was its greatest benefactor.
And now he’s a presidential hopeful, Bronson thought. This looks good on his resume.
During the school’s early history, its faculty prided themselves in housing troubled boys and turning them into productive young men. Testimonial after testimonial attested to this. Now it educated the nation’s elite.
Bronson closed the computer window and leaned back in the chair. “Thanks for the use of your computer.”
Ellen put down the book she was reading. “You’re welcome. Did you learn anything?”
“That it used to be a school for troubled boys.”
“I could have told you that.”
“That somewhere along the line, it stopped admitting troubled boys and now only educates the country’s cream of the crop.”
“I could have told you that too.”
“That Congressman Daniel Jenkins is the school’s main financial contributor.”
Ellen looked at him and raised her eyebrows and twisted her lips. “That too.”
Bronson opened his hands, placed them in front of him, and waived them. “What can I say? Some people have to learn the hard way.” He turned off the computer. “Why do you think Lorraine volunteered her time there?”
Ellen stood up and headed toward Bronson. She placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Maybe she felt bad about her childhood so she reached out to those boys, hoping to prevent them from making the same mistakes she did.”
Bronson sighed. “Yeah, maybe so. Makes sense.” He moved the mouse next to the computer so it wouldn’t fall and stood up. “I’m going to call Carol, and then I’ll hit the sack. Good night.”
*****
Bits and pieces of Lorraine’s life plagued Bronson’s dreams. He found himself sitting up in the bed more often than lying on it. By six in the morning, eagerness to get the day started forced him to get up. He shaved and showered. By 6:30, he was downstairs, playing with the coffee maker, cursing himself for not asking Ellen where she kept the coffee and filters.
“Far top right hand side cabinet.”
Bronson pivoted and saw Mike leaning against the door frame.
“Why are you up so early?” Bronson reached for the can of coffee.
“I’ve always been an early riser. Feel I’m wasting the day if I stay in bed.” He grabbed two coffee mugs and handed one to Bronson. “Ellen’s still asleep.”
Bronson turned on the coffee maker. “Think the two of you will ever hook up again?”
“I plan to follow your example and retire while I’m still young. When I do that, she’ll take me back for sure.”
“Retire, you? When will this be?”
“Soon. Real soon.”
The coffee finished dripping and Bronson poured Mike and himself each a cup. Mike blew into the coffee and sat down at the dinette table. “What’s today’s agenda?”
“I’m payin’ Mr. Steel a visit.”
“Mr. Steel?” Mike’s eyebrows furrowed. “Oh yeah, you mean Mark Wellington, alias Mr. Steel because that’s how he built the family fortune.”
“Right.”
“Need some company?”
“I can always use your company, but I think we can use our time more wisely if you head to the congressman’s school for boys. Find out what Lorraine did over there, whom she was close to, anything along those lines.” Bronson poured what he thought was the equivalent of two, maybe three, teaspoons of sugar and added cream. “You know the routine.” Bronson half emptied the mug with one swig. “I better call Trooper Cannady and fill her in on what we’ve learned and what we’re planning to do.”
“Think she’ll tell you to back off?”
“Nah. I think she welcomes the help as long as we keep her informed.”
*****
Not only did Cannady not get upset, she embraced the idea. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Steel, but he was tight lipped. Didn’t give us a damn thing to go on. Maybe you’ll have better luck. Just keep me posted.”
Bronson promised her he would and disconnected. Soon as he finished his coffee, he headed out. The drive back to Pittsburgh gave him plenty of time to think about Lorraine. He was now remembering the good times and pushing aside the bad ones. Less than an hour later, he slowed down as he executed a left onto Wellington Ave. Two blocks down, he found Mr. Steel’s residence, the address and name embossed on the stone pillars by the gate.
He pressed the intercom button located on the outside of the locked wrought iron gate. From there, the driveway curved and disappeared into a cluster of trees that hid the mansion from the public’s view.
“May I help you?” came a male voice behind the intercom box.
“I’m here to see Mr. Mark Wellington III.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Wellington isn’t taking any visitors.”
“Tell him I’m Lorraine’s bro
ther.”
“Just a minute, please.”
A cool chill infiltrated Bronson’s car and he wished he could roll up the window but didn’t want to take a chance on missing the answer. He waited and wrapped his arms around himself.
He waited some more.
Damn, looked like he’d have to find another way to meet Mr. Wellington. Just as he was about to back up, the gates rolled open. Bronson didn’t wait for instructions. He drove in.
The three-story mansion loomed before him and awed him with its splendor. Bronson wondered how much time Lorraine had actually spent there. He parked and rang the doorbell. A pair of dark oak doors opened and a middle-age man stepped aside. “Mr. Bronson, I assume.”
Bronson nodded and entered the large vestibule that consisted of high ceilings and museum-quality Biedermeier furniture.
“Mr. Wellington will see you in the music room.” He turned and Bronson followed him. They walked past the magnificent art collection that hung on the walls and the seemingly comfortable, richly upholstered couches.
The butler reached for a door to his right. “Mr. Wellington hasn’t been feeling too well lately. Please don’t upset him.”
“It’s not my intention to.” Bronson stepped in and the butler closed the door behind him. A distinguished looking man in his seventies sat in a wheelchair by a grand piano. He wore a white shirt and a silver necktie along with a matching silver colored silk robe. A music themed blanket covered his lower torso.
“You look very much like I pictured you.” The millionaire rolled his wheelchair toward Bronson and offered him his hand. “Lorraine spoke often of you.”
Don’t leave me. Bronson closed his eyes. In all these years, he hadn’t once thought of his sister.
“Care for something to drink?”
Coffee. But he was such a jerk he didn’t deserve the drink. “No, thank you.”
“My condolences to you.”
“Thank you, and my condolences to you. I understand you loved my sister.”
