Daughters and Sons

by Tom Fowler

  "What do you want, Shade?"

  "Where is she?"

  "Where's who?"

  "Ruby, you asshole. Where you stashing her?"

  "I don't know where she is,” I said.

  "Look, man, I know—"

  "She's spooked. This stalker thing has really shaken her. I told her to hide. I don't know where she is, and I don't want to know."

  He considered what I said. His eyes narrowed in concentration. He looked around as if expecting someone to be following him. His left hand clenched and unclenched as if on its own. "Why do I think you're lying?" he said.

  "Why do you think I care?" I said.

  Shade surged forward and tried to push past me. I shoved him back. He tried again. I hit him with a quick left in the solar plexus. The breath left his lungs in a big gasp. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, slamming his head into the door jamb. The pimp staggered backward and stumbled, landing on his butt on my steps. A line of blood ran down his forehead. I took out the .45 and let him see it. "Go home," I said.

  Shade shook his head. "He's dead."

  "Who?"

  "Jacko. He's dead, man. Shot." Shade's voice threatened tears. I doubted he cared much for Jacko's well-being.

  "When?"

  "Earlier tonight."

  "Were you with him?" I said.

  "I was nearby." He paused. "I'm scared, man. I don't know what to do."

  "Run."

  "Run?"

  "Run,” I reiterated. “Far and fast. If you want to survive, it’s your best choice."

  He stood as if it would fortify his flagging courage. "I ain't never run in my life."

  "Of course not. You had Jacko." Shade bowed his head. "It's your best course of action."

  "Can you help me?" he said.

  "I'm stretched pretty thin already. You shouldn't need my help to leave the city."

  "What am I gonna do with my girls?"

  "You know a guy named Romeo?” I said. “He's . . . in your profession."

  "Heard of him."

  "Tell him you talked to me. Give him the short version of what happened."

  "Then what?"

  "Then do what he suggests,” I said, getting annoyed. “Especially if it involves running.”

  It took the frightened pimp a few minutes to parse it with what happened earlier, but he finally nodded. "OK," he said. "OK. That's what I'll do. Thanks, man."

  "Don't mention it . . . except to Romeo."

  Shade wiped blood from his forehead and walked away. I closed and locked my door. Later, I slept with the .45 on my nightstand.

  * * *

  I woke up a few minutes before nine and hit the mean streets of Federal Hill for my run around the park. After last night’s visit from Melinda’s disenfranchised pimp, I wore the .38 under my jacket. I ran about four miles. Pounding the pavement gives me time to think. I pondered why I’d tossed Samantha’s case aside to help Melinda. Samantha was my sister. Shouldn’t she be more important? Melinda enjoyed the advantage of still being alive. I could help her in a practical sense. Finding Samantha’s murderer was about revenge.

  I stopped in mid-stride. For the first time, I realized I pursued Samantha’s murderer not for her memory but for my own sense of justice and payback. I worked the case for me, not for her. This kind of mid-exercise epiphany might unnerve a lot of folks. I shrugged and finished my last lap. Regardless of the reason, I would find her killer. She would have her justice, and so would I. In the meantime, this was my chance to help someone else in dire need.

  After finishing my run, I went back to my house and showered. Freshly dressed, I came downstairs and made a simple breakfast of turkey bacon and a toasted wheat bagel. When I finished eating, I walked into my office and looked at my screen. All my searches finished long ago. They dumped their results into a text file. I opened it.

  A local ISP processed current email traffic by someone using the handle of Romirbo. It must be the same guy. He was still alive, which meant I hadn’t missed my chance to kill him. I jotted the email address down. I would find Romirbo. Melinda needed me more, which conveniently gave me time to plot the timely demise of my sister’s killer.

  * * *

  A couple hours later, I walked into Il Buon Cibo. It’s not the most famous restaurant in Little Italy—Sabatino’s has a stranglehold on the title—but as its name suggests, it’s always served damned good food. Through my parents, I knew the owner Tony Rizzo for most of my life. Tony is perhaps better known as Baltimore’s organized crime boss. I figured it out long before my parents did, and I’ve remained tight with him while they’ve distanced themselves. They could at least come in for the food.

  I walked to Tony’s table by the fireplace. His goons were used to me by now; they didn’t even go through the trouble of glowering anymore. Tony looked up and smiled at me. His face looked tired. Over the last year and a half, the man probably lost a good eighty pounds. He’d amassed a few to lose, but I thought he took the weight loss a little too far. Bitching about his doctors became a popular pastime for Tony. “C.T., it’s good to see you,” he said. We shook hands and I sat. “You hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. I want you to try something. We’re starting to offer whole gluten-free pasta. These fucking health nuts keep asking for it.” Tony snapped his fingers and a young waiter nearly tripped over himself to answer the summons. “Tim, bring my friend a plate of our fake pasta . . . with whatever kind of sauce he wants.”

  “Marinara is fine,” I said. I didn’t want to try the gluten-free pasta—from prior experience, I thought it possessed the taste and consistency of boiled cardboard—but I also didn’t want to refuse Tony.

  Tim nodded and scurried away. Tony looked at me. “What brings you by? I know you don’t need a free meal.”

  “You remember Samantha.”

  “Of course I do,” Tony said with a smile. “Great girl. Damn shame she died so young.”

  “My parents recently told me she didn’t die of a heart defect.” Tony frowned. In his line of work, he probably knew what I was about to say. “Someone killed her.”

  “Jesus.” Tony’s voice dropped to a whisper. He regulated his voice automatically depending on the subject. “Long time to carry a lie.”

  “Thirteen years,” I said. “They told me they did it to protect me.”

  “You were sixteen at the time.”

  I shook my head. “Even if they needed to protect me from it then, they’ve had plenty of time to tell me since.”

  “True,” Tony acknowledged. “I guess they have their reasons.”

  “Did they ever tell you?”

  “Me? No.” Tony gave a quick shake of his head. “Something so big, you don’t tell many people, if anyone.”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “What are you going to do about this?”

  “I’ve been looking for her killer since I got the news.”

  “And?”

  “I’m pretty sure I found him.”

  Tony leaned forward. “You gonna take him out?”

  “Damn right,” I said.

  As quickly as he’d leaned forward in his chair, Tony leaned back. He studied me. “You’ve killed people before,” he said after a few seconds of thought.

  “Professional hazard,” I said.

  “But always in defense of your own life.”

  “Once someone else’s.”

  “There’s a big difference between killing someone because you need to and doing it because you want to. If it’s you or them, fuck ‘em. Everybody gets it. But killing someone because you want to is different. It’s crossing a line for a lot of people. And once you cross it, you can’t come back.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” I said.

  “Could you live with it?”

  “I’m pretty sure I could.”

  Tony said, “You’re gonna have to be sure, C.T. Damn sure. You can’t go back. You can’t undo it.”

  “Are you t
rying to talk me out of it, Tony?”

  “No. You’re a big boy. Decide for yourself. I’ll just tell you this. Everybody compromises. With ourselves . . . with other people. We all do it. We compromise because those are the choices we can live with.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “Sure,” he said, “but I’m not you.”

  “I’m going to find him, Tony. When I do, I’m going to kill him . . . exactly like he killed my sister.” This earned me a glance from one of the goons.

  “I hope you do,” Tony said.

  Tim returned with my food. He asked me if I wanted a drink. I requested an unsweetened iced tea, and he reappeared with it before I finished peppering my pasta. Despite being gluten-free, it looked like regular spaghetti. It carried the darker color of wheat pasta. Maybe this was an ironic touch. I snagged some onto my fork. It nearly spilled over the large plate, and the sauce avoided the tablecloth only through surface tension and my utensil skills. There were perks to eating at the owner’s table. “What do you think?” said Tony.

  “It’s . . . not bad,” I said. “Better than a lot of similar stuff out there.”

  “Gluten-free shit,” Tony grumbled.

  “Why not go with spaghetti squash? No gluten, and it’s low-carb.”

  “Another fucking health nut.” Tony looked at me and laughed.

  “It’s not easy looking this good,” I said.

  After I forced myself to eat some more pasta, I asked Tony about something else. “I think I’m going to do something most likely unwise.”

  “We still talking about Samantha’s killer?” he said.

  “No, this is something different . . . another case I picked up.” I paused for a swig of tea. “I think I’m going to threaten Vincent Davenport.”

  “Are you serious?” Tony looked at me like I brought the car back after curfew and neglected to fill it with gas. “Why would you?”

  I told him a condensed version of Melinda’s past, present, and whatever future I tried to preserve. “He has to know she’s alive,” I concluded.

  Tony considered it all and nodded. “I’ll buy it. He’s rich and smart. He could find anything out. Why are you going to threaten him, though?”

  “Maybe I’ll just unsettle him.”

  “Still not smart. He’s a powerful man, C.T.”

  “Someone is making Melinda’s life hell. Her step-brother is the easy culprit because he’s stalking her. But what if dear old dad found out his long-lost daughter is a whore on the cheap streets of Baltimore? One of her coworkers caught a bad beating, and her pimp’s bodyguard got killed last night.”

  “Could be the step-brother.” Tony shuddered.

  “It could be, but he recently got out of rehab. Vincent Davenport would certainly have the reach to get a hooker beaten and a lummox shot.”

  “Be careful, will you? Don’t just walk into the man’s office and accuse him of all this crazy shit. He could make your life hell.”

  “I know. I’ll be as tactful as I can.”

  “Christ, you’re really in trouble,” said Tony.

  “I’ll be all right. My parents know plenty of people like Davenport. I can talk to him.”

  Tony smirked. “I’m not sure anyone your parents know is quite like Vincent.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis with him,” I said.

  “You think I don’t know every important person in this city?”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Just be careful,” Tony said again. “You can’t avenge your sister if you get in over your head with Vincent.”

  “I know. Do you and he get along?”

  “Not really.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s an asshole,” Tony said.

  “Should be a fun meeting, then,” I said.

  * * *

  D&S Bakery’s production facility sat on the border of Little Italy and Fells Point. I would call it Fells Point, but when one can throw a sizable stone to an excellent Italian restaurant, one's stomach mucks up the calculus. To solve this pesky location problem, Vincent Davenport located his corporate offices in Canton. On the drive to it, I realized some people would erroneously label the site as Highlandtown, which would piss off any older Cantonites in earshot. Ah, the neighborhood peculiarities of Baltimore.

  I parked in a numbered spot on the lot and walked in through the front door. An imposing security fellow scanned me as I entered. I walked up to a reception desk, where a perky young woman welcomed me to the building with a ready, pre-made smile. "Can I help you, sir?"

  "Yes," I said, "I'm here to see Mr. Davenport."

  Her smile twisted into a look of surprise, but to her credit, she tried to maintain the cheerful visage. "Do you have an appointment?"

  "No."

  "I'm sorry, but Mr. Davenport's schedule requires him to only see people who have made appointments."

  "You can call his office, I presume."

  "Sir, if you don't—"

  "It was a yes or no question," I said.

  Her smile had vanished now. Alas. "Yes."

  "Good. Please call his office. Tell him someone is here to see him. When your counterpart upstairs scoffs and asks why, tell her it's about Melinda and fraud."

  She mouthed the last three words as she frowned and picked up the phone. The security guard tried to stare me down. I shrugged at him and returned my attention to the receptionist, who was much easier on the eyes. She sported a sharp navy business suit with a white shirt buttoned to the nape of her neck. She wore her hair up, held in place by two large pins, a canister of hairspray, and good fortune. Her brown eyes glanced at me as she called upstairs.

  "Hi, it's Megan . . . I have a man here to see Mr. Davenport . . . no, he doesn't . . . yes, I told him. He said it's about Melinda and fraud . . . sure, I'll hold." She put her hand over the receiver. "I'm on hold," she said, as if I hadn't heard everything. I gave her a quick smile. She took her hand away from the receiver. "Yes . . . he did? Are you sure? OK, I'll send him up."

  "You can go up, sir," she said, still frowning in surprise.

  "I had a feeling," I said.

  "I'll have someone from security take you."

  "I'm pretty sure I can find my way to the elevator."

  "Unless Mr. Davenport knows you,” she said, “you travel with security."

  "Is there a pat-down involved? Can I request you if there is?"

  Megan flashed a small smile, and her cheeks reddened. "There's no pat-down," she said. She picked up the phone again and dialed a three-digit extension. "Can you send someone to escort a visitor to Mr. Davenport's office? Thanks." She hung up. "Someone will be down in a minute to take you to see Mr. Davenport."

  "Thanks," I said.

  She went back to her work. The phone rang a couple times. The security guy kept glaring at me, even as one of his compatriots stepped off the elevator and walked toward Megan's desk to collect me. He looked like he’d just finished abusing tackling dummies in defensive lineman drills. I felt glad there would be no pat-down—and doubly glad this fellow would not be administering it.

  Chapter 21

  The Mountain and I rode the swiftly-rising express elevator. He didn’t say anything to me, and I returned the silence. He sized me up but never searched me. I’d prepared for the possibility by not bringing a gun into the building. The odds of needing one during a conversation with one of the business leaders of Baltimore were remote. The elevator dinged for the top floor, and the doors slid open. The security guard gestured with a wave of his tree-trunk arm. I stepped off into a hallway inlaid with marble. The paintings on the walls conveyed sophistication and expensive tastes.

  I walked through an open double doorway at the end of the corridor. Some ancient Belize mahogany behemoth gave its life for the doorway, which was, of course, inlaid with gold and decorated in the refined tackiness preferred by rich assholes the world over. On the other side, two women sat behind large desks of the same wood facing each other. Mayb
e the second secretary existed to feed her boss’ ego.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the closer woman said. She looked to be in her forties and dressed like a 1950s schoolmarm. I wondered if she would rap me across the knuckles and give me detention for not making an appointment. Her coworker, more my age, focused on her computer.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  “Mr. Davenport will see you in a moment.” She gave me a well-practiced and artificial yet pleasant smile. The opulence of the penthouse must have covered the multitude of sins with respect to the secretaries’ warmth. Who would notice a fake facial expression while looking at ugly miniature statues and tchotchkes carved from bricks of solid gold?

  “Thank you,” I said, giving her a smile injected with as much sincerity as I could muster. I sat in a comfortable guest chair between the desks and the closed ornate door past them. If the waiting area looked like it did, I couldn’t wait to see the decorations in Vincent Davenport’s office. My mind flashed to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Indy and the female explorer are looking for the Holy Grail. All the cups they passed on would be on shelves in Davenport’s office. Anything less would disappoint me.

  The phone on the older lady’s desk buzzed. She picked it up, said a quick, “Yes, sir,” and cradled it again. “Mr. Davenport will see you now,” she called to me. As if triggered by her voice, the massive door opened. I nodded my thanks and walked through.

  I felt disappointed. Vincent Davenport’s office could sleep a family of sixty, and windows dominated three sides. The square footage rivaled my house and probably won. Davenport sat behind a desk in the far corner, larger and darker than the ones at which his secretaries perched. A mahogany conference table occupied the near corner, surrounded by six chairs each costing more than all the equipment in my office. A large TV and bookcases took up the areas of the walls not covered in glass. Most of the floor was open space. An executive could get in some mean putting practice up here. I noticed Davenport kept a putter in the corner opposite his desk. Despite the encouragement of my father and grandfather, I’d never cared much for golf. Once I discovered lacrosse, hitting a stationary ball every few minutes never held any excitement for me.