by Mike Faricy
Chapter 30
Over the course of the following week, Val settled into his new apartment and bought a new truck. New to him, that is, a late-model pickup, a big, old supercharged Dodge Ram. Thinking whatever vehicle he bought, it was just a given, it had to be bigger and better than Hub’s.
He had thought long and hard about how J.W. Brooks had tracked him down, found him in Tampa. It had to be through the car rental. That really didn’t worry Val. He had used his old address when he bought the Ram. All he needed was the car title, and the state of Florida wouldn’t send that out until four weeks after the sale. For a fifty dollar bill, he got the girls who’d rented his old place to give him a call on his cellphone once the title arrived in the mail. Even if J.W. traced the new registration to the address, that information would be two things - old and wrong.
He was driving up to Atlanta a little more frequently, twice a week now. He carried a smaller load in the Ram and stopped at just one or two places. If J.W. ever got word that he was in town, Val would be on his way home before they ever found him.
He was playing it safe, altering his routes home, incorporating a U-turn or two on his way out of Atlanta on the off-chance someone was following him. If Val could spot them, he could lose them.
He was still operating his 70/30 split with Hub. Dumb and happy, that was Hub. But then Hub hadn’t had his leg damn near snapped off in the trailer door. Hub hadn’t been assaulted by that muscle-bound thug in J.W.’s warehouse. It seemed the least Val could do was pay himself a little bit extra. After all, that beating may have cost him the National Swing Championship. Besides, Hub was making more money than he’d ever made in his entire life, and he owed it all to Val.
Actually, Hub did know the difference, which was why he had continued to work at quietly growing his side fund. He guesstimated he had close to forty thousand dollars in heirloom jewelry, the odd, unique silver piece, and some guy’s stamp collection he’d grabbed one night.
He was still cautious. The items he took had a high value. They were, or at least appeared to have been, untouched for some time, and they were unidentifiable, impossible to trace - no monograms, yet not so unique to be one of a kind. Over the past four months, he had become rather adept at removing diamonds and other stones from their settings. He was learning how to roughly classify quality stones. He had developed three different sources for used settings. Using Val’s line about working estate sales, he delivered a few gold or platinum settings on a weekly basis for cash.
For her part, Macey had given up a long time ago trying to keep Hub off her feet. If she was going to dance with Hub, she had to be prepared to be stepped on occasionally. She had to admit he was improving, the operative word on Hub’s stomps being occasionally. He was now good for one, maybe two stomps per night. It used to be two per dance, so that was quite an improvement, and it seemed a small price to pay. Ever since the experience with Willy, the night she feared would end her relationship with Hub, she and Hub had, in fact, grown very close.
She was swamped at work and hated every minute of it. She and Carlos Prensa had been added to a task force on a rash of burglaries with more seeming to pop up all the time, in all manner of homes, high rises, and condos. All social and age groups, married and singles, the only constant seemed to be that nothing was constant. The whole thing seemed so vague it was hard to even attempt to get a handle on it. But every cop with any experience looked at it and concluded, yeah, there was something there. Still, no investigative authority had any idea what, exactly, was going on.
Macey and Carlos were on their way to a task force meeting to review more of what they didn’t have. They could never get an accurate date when any of the burglaries occurred. There was never an accurate list of items that may have been stolen. If there ever really was a burglary, there was never any sign of a forced entry. The whole thing was very strange.
There was one other odd aspect to these burglaries. Not everything was taken. In fact, it always seemed to be just a handful of things. Not all the silver, just some. Not all the jewelry, just one or two items. The only common denominator seemed to be people weren’t 100 percent sure they had been robbed or what had been taken.
Someone at Tampa Metro had first picked up on an inordinate number of reports along the lines of, ‘I think, but I can’t be sure…’ It was the sheer volume that tilted things toward an investigation and eventually led to the task force.
Taskforce was a relative term. Carlos felt they got stuck acting as Officer Friendly to the metro guys, and Macey was sick and tired of dealing with all the extra paperwork. There was definitely something out there, but it was vague, gray, shapeless, nothing anyone could get their hands around.
“So,” Carlos asked. “Who has access to all these homes and apartments? Maybe a contractor or window washer? The meter man? A pizza or furniture delivery guy, a contractor, a repairman?” He was looking out the window as Macey drove toward Metro and their latest task force meeting.
“Whoever is doing this, and we’re not even sure someone is, they have to have some time alone. So, how many people do you know who would open the door for a delivery guy, or anyone else, then let them go through the house on their own?” Macey asked.
“It’s got to be— Hey, Macey? You ever use a cleaning service? Usually, they’re left alone. They’ve got access to a variety of rooms. Maybe they pick a few things up while they’re cleaning. Or, maybe they come back later when no one’s home.”
“Yeah, Carlos, that makes sense. But would everyone have the same cleaning service? It’s gotta be something like that. Something all these people have in common. Maids, a mailman, a cable company, something that’s so obvious we can’t see it. How many of these people have security alarms?” she said, thinking out loud.
“Are you fighting the idea of a cleaning person just because your place never gets dirty?”
“Yeah, Carlos. That and because you’ve never been in a filthy place you didn’t feel comfortable in.”
“He-he-he, aren’t we clever today.”
“It’s gotta be something like this,” she said
“Yeah, but the harder it is to get our head around this, the more I think there is something going on.”
“Hey, I’m just the note-taker. You’re the damn investigator. We can’t even say for certain when these items were taken.” She pointed at a file the size of a phone book on his lap. “I think that might represent thirty percent of the actual incidents. The rest are just unreported or undiscovered. No one knows.”
“We’ve got single women, married couples, elderly, middle-aged, and a few young people. A lot of snowbirds and transplants, along with some native to the area. Spanish speakers, non-Spanish speakers. White, black, East Indian, and Asian. All collectively upper-middle class. That’s really the only common denominator we’ve got, that and most of this seems to be heirloom or estate sort of stuff. But then, none of the likely sources report anything like this stuff being moved in town.”
“Is it hard to move it out of town?” Macey asked.
Chapter 31
It was a Tuesday night, and Hub was on his third and final stop, the Schmidt residence. As always, he had spoken with Val earlier to make sure the evening’s targets were at the Moonlight. He’d called ahead a few minutes ago to ensure no one was home. He wore matching gray work trousers and a gray shirt, just to look the part of a delivery person. He carried his clipboard and, of course, his large empty box up to the front door.
He rang the doorbell a second time, waited, then inserted his key, turned the lock, and stepped inside. The home was nicely appointed, a split level with a family room and what looked like bedrooms on the lower level. The kitchen, dining room, a master bedroom, and maybe an office on the upper level. After waiting a good three minutes just inside the door, he went to work.
His usual timeframe was still just under fifteen minutes, depending on what he might find of interest. He’d worked his way through the dining room, an office offer
ing absolutely nothing, and was finishing in the master bedroom, finding a nice pair of diamond earrings, a string of pearls, and some cufflinks. He was examining a pair of large pearl earrings. They were tempting, but he was afraid pearl earrings would immediately be missed, and he returned them to the jewelry box where he’d found them.
From somewhere downstairs, he heard a toilet flush and froze. There was absolutely no mistaking the sound. Someone other than Hub was in the house. His box, with a substantial set of silver flatware and two medium-sized trays, was sitting on the dining room table along with his clipboard. He stuffed the string of pearls in his trouser pocket and cautiously crept to the bedroom door. He strained his ears for the slightest hint of sound, not hearing a thing. He glanced at the bedroom windows and thought about going out that way, leave the box and clipboard on the dining room table, just get out, and call it a night.
“No, please, honey, stay a little longer. I don’t want you to go.” It was a woman’s voice, whiny, with an edge to it. He strained his ears but couldn’t hear anything else. There was a muffled sound, a slight shuffle, something he couldn’t quite place. He suddenly saw the light flash on through the open bathroom door across the hall and heard the shower turn on. He ducked behind the bedroom door just as a woman strolled into the room.
He’d seen her a number of times at the Moonlight, recognized her blonde hair. She was completely naked. She opened the dresser drawer he’d searched only moments before, pulled on a pair of panties, and left the room, passing just inches from him hiding behind the door. He was able to catch the faintest scent of perfume as she left the room.
“At least let me make you a sandwich before you go, feed you after that workout,” she laughed, walking down the hallway.
“Naw,” replied a male voice. “I’m late as it is, and I don’t want anyone getting suspicious, asking me any questions. Thanks, but I better run.”
She was on the upper level, and he was somewhere below. Hub guessed most likely right by the front door. A few more words were exchanged, spoken too softly for Hub to hear.
“Okay, see you later,” she finally said. The front door closed, and there was silence.
He strained his ears and hoped she wasn’t looking at her silver trays piled in the box on her dining room table. Maybe she was dialing 911 while he hid behind her bedroom door.
He was thinking about the bedroom window again, just make the jump and get out of there. The window seemed a better and better idea as the seconds passed. He wondered where she could possibly go then suddenly heard the bathroom door close directly across the hall. A moment later came the unmistakable sound of the shower door closing.
He waited a long minute, counting to sixty in his head slowly. He peeked around the bedroom door then cautiously moved toward the dining room. It seemed impossible she could have missed his box, yet somehow she had. Perhaps she was still basking in the afterglow of her sexual interlude. Maybe she was glad to get rid of the guy.
Hub didn’t really care nor stop to ponder the thought. He scooped up his box and clipboard without breaking stride and quickly, quietly, exited out the front door toward the safety of his pickup. He drove two blocks before he exhaled, noticing he had sweated through his shirt and the upper portion of his trousers. My God, he thought, that was too close for comfort, way too close.
At 9:30, he had phoned Val, changed clothes in the back of the Moonlight, parked his truck across the street, and gone in the front door. With any luck, Macey would be there. He was still stomping her feet at least once a night on the dance floor. Usually, the stomp was fairly light. Now, he was actually able to maintain a fairly decent pace, moving, if not quite gliding, around the dance floor. He could even talk a little at the same time.
Macey waited in line for the restroom, listening to Mary Alice. “That’s about it. This city, I tell you. And I’m not the only one who’s had this happen. You know Carol? Always wears red? I told her, Carol, that red, someone needs to tell you, it’s not good. Makes you looked flushed, dear. So go figure, she didn’t even listen.
“She’s down for the season from Hartford. Husband had a plumbing business. Plumbers, there’s got to be money there. You know, we all need to flush. Anyway, she thinks someone took her mother’s silver service. She would never have loaned it to someone, and all of a sudden, it’s gone. If I wanted this, I would have stayed in New York. Oops,” she said to the opening stall door, “my turn.”
Chapter 32
Over the years, John Wilkes Brooks had learned that patience and persistence eventually paid off. A little luck never hurt, either. But with patience and persistence, you could sometimes make your own luck. That’s just what happened when Gail Gongal called.
Gail might have been a competitor of J.W.’s, had she ever sold anything. She might have been a competitor if she had inventory anyone else wanted. Rather than a competitor, she was a flake. She could afford to be a flake. Burying two husbands had set her up quite nicely. She was more concerned with the celebrity aspects of the business, things like Huntz Hall’s appointment book, blank by the way. Cummerbunds, once worn by Don Ameche, or George Raft’s cufflinks, silver plate not sterling were the items she dealt with. Her celebrity items were ‘celebrity’ with a small ‘c.’ Years back, she had been a personal friend of Dennis Day. There was a tie-in, later on, to a handful of people on the fringes of the music business, older, ‘B’ grade names from the late ‘40s, ‘50s, and ‘60s.
Gail liked to drop names every chance she got. So when she called J.W. to casually mention she had acquired possibly the last items from Carl Switzer’s estate, J.W. was only half-listening.
“Who the hell was Carl Switzer?”
“J.W., I swear, how could you not know?” Gail said. “You know, Carl Switzer,” she paused, waiting for the light to come on in J.W.’s head. When it didn’t, she said, “J.W., for God’s sake, Carl Switzer, Alfalfa. You remember, with the Hal Roach Our Gang comedies? The little boy with the hair that stood up in the back and the freckles? Surely you remember The Little Rascal’s, J.W.?
“In fact, the nice young man who handled aspects of that estate is paying me another visit this afternoon. Poor dear, always pressed for time, comes down from Memphis and always has some items of interest for me.”
At the mention of Memphis, J.W.’s ears perked up. It didn’t take long to put it all together, and he had two cars watching later that afternoon when Val pulled into Gail Gongal’s shop.
J.W.’s plan was to do absolutely nothing for the time being. Todd could beat the man to death, but that wouldn’t get J.W.’s money back, and it sure wouldn’t help him in taking over Val’s operation. Once he took over Val’s operation, Todd could do whatever might catch his fancy.
In order to take over the operation, he had to find out where, exactly, Val was in Florida. He intended to follow Val. Not stop him, not hurt him, just follow him. Wait, watch, be patient, see how many were involved. Todd had guessed at least four or five the night he was attacked. They would follow Val. J.W. in one car, Todd and Cyril in J.W.’s Coupe de Ville. They would take turns trailing Val, at a discreet distance, tailing him all the way back to wherever he led them.
* * *
Todd hung back a respectable distance from the red Ram Charger they had been following for the past three hours. J.W. was in constant contact by cellphone, alternating between threats and promises.
“Just let the world turn a bit here. No need to rush. You’ll get your chance. Once we get the information I need and the goods, he’s all yours.” Not five minutes later with the next call, “You stupid idiot, back off now before he sees your ass in my Coupe de Ville. I swear, Todd, sometimes you don’t use what few brains the good Lord gave you. Back off now, hear, or I swear you’ll be walking all the way back up to Atlanta.”
Todd thought from time to time about the .45 resting in the glove compartment in front of Cyril. The same chrome .45 the gang used to split his skull weeks back in the warehouse. The .45 was loaded now,
and it was going to give Todd a distinct pleasure to pull the trigger. He planned to shoot that chump in the red Ram Charger up ahead and then shoot all his friends. Let them look into Todd’s eyes first, so they knew it was him pulling the trigger. They could beg and grovel for their worthless little lives right before he killed them. Maybe shoot Val last, just so he could watch the others get their brains blown out. Line them up so when he shot every one of them—
“Todd, Todd, you doing okay?” Cyril asked. Todd had been accelerating and then taking his foot off the gas, fast and slow, fast and slow. Much more of this, and Cyril felt certain he was going to be carsick.
“Relax, I’m just fine,” Todd answered, glancing at the speedometer. He absently stroked his sparse mustache. The bare spots ripped out in J.W.’s haste to remove the duct tape still remained. Cyril continued to watch out of the corner of his eye. He watched Todd stroking his upper lip. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Cyril thought. ‘If Todd keeps it up, he’ll rub off what remains.’ Cyril knew Todd hadn’t recovered. He knew instinctively that Todd felt the pain anew each and every time he looked in the mirror.
Val debated driving the handful of remaining items back to the storage site, finally deciding against it. Over the past months, he had become so familiar with the round-trip up to Atlanta and back that it seemed to take a little longer every time he made it. He seemed to drive for hours only to see a familiar landmark, a barn, a crossroads, a billboard, something that would remind him he had traveled only that far and had hours to go before reaching the end. Now, coming into the Tampa outskirts, he just wanted to get home. No side trips, no deviations, no clever U-turns, no unloading the few pieces he didn’t move. Just get home, out of the damn truck, and relax.
Home, a hot shower, a cold beer, count his cash, and give Hub his 30 percent. Then kick back and relax, review his swing routine, listen one more time to the music he was going to win with.
