by Alan Lee
Alvin said, “Keith, this is Mackenzie. Put his on my tab. As long as he's drinking Miller.”
“I’ll have a Coors Banquet, Keith,” I said.
Keith acquiesced and brought me one and a napkin.
I drank some.
I said, “You move beer for Miller?”
“Regional manager,” said Alvin. “All Miller products as well as the local stuff. You wouldn’t believe how much beer this country puts away.”
“May God continue to bless the United States.”
Alvin raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“I met Sally.”
“My wife. How’d she look?”
“Stolid,” I said.
“Maybe use a smaller word, guy. I sell beer.”
“She misses you, though she’s reticent to admit it, I think. The only time she smiled was the occasion she mentioned your charm.”
“Sal tell you we’re estranged?”
“It came up. But that’s not why I’m here,” I said.
“I miss her. God, I do. But you could say I’m getting what I deserve.”
“Did Sally phone you about Carlotta?”
“Carlotta? What about her? Sal and I ain’t spoke a couple weeks,” he said.
“Carlotta’s dead. Murdered.”
His beer paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down on the napkin and sat up a little straighter.
“Murdered.”
“As a doornail,” I said.
“I didn’t do it.”
“I know. The guy confessed.”
“Murdered. Well hell. Not every day you know somebody who got killed.”
“Yeah it’s one of those big deals in life. You’ll feel unsettled a few days.”
Keith the bartender brought nachos. Alvin slid the plate between us and nodded at them.
“How’d she…I mean, who killed her?”
“One of her clients. She cleaned his house.”
Alvin’s face, the part I could see around his beard, was a little white.
“Jesus,” he said.
“I’m trying to suss out a motive. Be nice if you could tell me your story and how you acquired her services.”
“Sure,” he said. He took a swallow of beer. Then another, draining the glass. Wiped his mouth and signaled Keith for a refill. “Sure, I’ll help. Damn. Okay.”
“Anything you say stays between us.”
“Carlotta and me, we were screwing around,” said Alvin. “You knew? Sal caught us.”
“Who instigated the romance?”
“Me, I guess. But, you know, Mack, I’ve thought about this some. I put the moves on her, right? But…damned if she wasn’t putting signals out too. I got so I can recognize the signals a woman gives, and Carlotta was putting them out.”
“Tell me about the signals.”
“She would smile at me. Watch me, when we were both there. Long eye contact. She’d look at me the way a woman does, you know the look? So, one time…damn it, I’m not proud of this. I arranged for Sal to be out of the house when Carlotta came to clean. Just to see what would happen. And it happened. Anyway, now she’s dead and I don’t want to talk bad about the dead. But her outfit was different that day. Like she was the maid in a sleazy movie. Like she’d been waiting to wear it. One thing led to another.”
“Sounds to me like she seduced you, rather than the other way round,” I said.
“I think maybe she did. That don’t make what I did right, though.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Not long,” he said. Keith put another beer down and Alvin ate a few nacho chips. “Not long. One day she wanted to go swimming at the dock. She started undressing but that’s when Sal came home. Unexpectedly, right? You can imagine that shit hitting the fan.”
I could. And I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Sally’s wrath. Not with that severe turtleneck.
Alvin had none of the charm or charisma intimated by Sally. He was a couple years beyond middle-aged, over-weight, a middle manager who sold beer and who seemed to have no sexual appeal about him.
Even curiouser for Carlotta to hit on him.
“I moved out soon after,” said Alvin. “I mean, Sal threw me out. I texted Carlotta but she never replied.”
“Never heard from her again?”
“No.” He smiled without humor and chuckled. “Not directly.”
“Not directly,” I repeated.
“Her brothers came calling on me at work.”
“Carlotta has brothers?”
“Apparently.” He chuckled again. Sounded like he smoked. “Two of them. Big guys, kinda scary. Mexican or whatever Carlotta was. Said their sister got fired because of me and I should be ashamed and her reputation was ruined and blah blah.”
“Kind of like protecting their sister’s honor?”
“Maybe. Mostly, though, they wanted money. Said Carlotta should be compensated financially until she found more work,” said Alvin.
Hmmmmmm, I thought.
“Hmmmmm,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“It’s peculiar Carlotta didn’t come to you herself. If she’d been interested in you, now that you were single why not arrange to meet you again?”
He stroked his beard and stared absently at the television.
“That’s a good question. I never thought about it exactly like that, I was so broke up over Sal. Good damn question, Mackenzie. Why didn’t she come herself? Did she like me or not?”
“Maybe her affection was illusory?”
“Huh."
“What’d you tell the two brothers?” I asked.
“I told them to get the hell out of my warehouse or I’d call the guys. And I had a lot of big guys there. The brothers left but told me they’d be back.”
“Did they?”
“No,” he said. “Never heard from them or Carlotta again. Probably because she got herself killed. Who’d you say it was? Another client?”
“Yes. Although she was using a different name. Called herself Juanita Yates.”
“Is that so? Well damn. I got no idea what to think.”
“Do you know where she lived?” I asked.
“Got no idea.”
“What’d she drive?”
“Jeep Cherokee,” he said.
“How many other clients did she have?”
“No clue. Sorry.”
“Did she ever tell you anything about herself?” I asked.
“No, there wasn’t much talking. Before or…after.”
“History, family, likes, dislikes, other jobs?”
“Nope. I’m not much help, huh.”
“How’d you find her?”
“My buddy. Said he found her on Craigslist. How about I get you his info?” said Alvin.
“Sure,” I said.
“So if the killer confessed, what’s all this matter?”
“I want to know,” I said, “what exactly happened the day she died. It doesn’t make sense. So I’m trying to determine motive. And I hate the opposing counsel.”
22
I did the dishes Wednesday night because Manny had cooked dinner—salmon in tinfoil boats with butter and lemon and asparagus.
Mi casa es su casa.
Timothy August and Sheriff Stackhouse settled onto the leather couch to watch some indie movie that was winning awards. From my spot in the kitchen I had a clear view of them. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him.
Manny nudged me and indicated them with his chin.
“Those two. That’s the best, sí?”
“My old man and the sheriff?”
“Simon,” he said. “That romance, it makes me happy.”
I finished washing and dried my hands with a towel.
“What are we doing tonight?” he asked.
“Something dissimilar to the lovebirds on the couch.”
“Put Kix to bed, señor. You and me, we’ll go to the gym. You are getting fat.”
; “Am not. I went last week.”
“Only once to the gym? Dios mio. What is a giant American word for fat? One of those big stupid words you use?” he said.
“Corpulent.”
“Sí, bueno. You are corpulent.” He pulled up his polo shirt and flexed abdominal muscles. A thin guy naturally with narrow hips, his torso had muscles etched just below his skin, like a professional athlete. Was I so inclined, I’d swoon. “Look, migo. You see this? No carbs.”
I pulled up my shirt. I had a few lines showing, but not like I once did. I flexed harder but no additional muscular definition surged into view.
“You put on weight?” he asked.
“No. Yes. Shut up. A few pounds.”
“You have…a three-pack, maybe. Get your gloves.”
“Gloves,” I said.
“Sí. The dojo.”
“Good idea. Let’s hit things. Like your face with my fat hands.”
He shot me a thumbs up. “That’s the spirit, big Mack. Corpulent Mack.”
Manny and I frequented a local martial arts club to workout. The club met twice a week after-hours in a karate academy and it was specifically for more serious fighters, often competing in events like Spartyka.
A couple older guys, this was their passion. They arrived early to set up the mats and two makeshift rings, and they stayed late to clean and mop. During the training they’d shout instructions to younger idiots.
Like Manny.
Big Will and a couple of his enormously-biceped comrades were jumping rope in the corner. Then they’d drop the rope and work the chin-up bar. Big Will wore his standard red hoodie, slowly soaking through. He nodded at us by jerking his chin our way, which was the brawniest way to do it. He looked a little like James Harden, I thought.
Manny and I alternated hitting a speed bag and heavy bag until it was our turn in one of the rings. I ducked under the top rope and tightened my training gloves while Manny went for water.
“Here he is. Here’s the gumshoe thinks he’s funny.”
Toby Moreno had entered the dojo, along with Dexter. I knew Toby from a meeting over the summer—Don Draper-looking guy, professional hitman. Elite muscle for the District Kings. Marcus respected him, which carried water in my book.
With him was Dexter, Darren Robbin’s shadow. Black guy, thin, shaved head. He wore a blue sports jacket hiding a shoulder rig and pistol.
Marcus Morgan had warned me—Toby might not wait for the Saturday night convening. And here he came with a gunner.
“Watch your mouth, Toby,” I said. “I’m hilarious.”
He pointed at my gloves. “You know how to use those things?”
“Only to open cans of pickles, with the lid on too tight.” I walked their way and rested my hands on the ropes.
Why did I walk their way? To send an immediate message—I’m not afraid and I don’t run. Who was the message for? Mostly myself.
I asked, “Thrown anybody off a rooftop recently?”
“That guy? That guy got off easy compared to what’s coming to you.”
“Certainly your master, Darren Robbins, didn’t send you into a dojo full of fighters to cause trouble. Not even he’s that stupid.”
Dexter remained stoic.
Toby’s face turned a little red. “Darren ain’t my boss, asshole.”
“Sure he is. That’s why you’re here. You’re an errand boy. Albeit, one with great hair.”
Big Will had stopped his routine, watching us with interest. If the balloon went up, whose side was he on?
Probably not mine. He’d shot at me before with a shotgun. Dead giveaway.
“Told you before,” said Toby. “You ought be tied to concrete and tossed in Smith Mountain. Be doing everyone a favor.”
“That’s why you’re in Roanoke, like a good lapdog. Calvin Summers is dead. Plus his daughter dumped your boss. So Darren snapped and you came running. Sit, Toby, sit.”
Toby said, “Keep talking, big guy. You’re dead, you just don’t know it.”
“Is your hair gel responsibly sourced from renewable materials? I’m worried it’s petroleum based,” I said. “Bad, Toby, bad.”
“Dexter, maybe you put one through this guy’s right eye and we go home,” said Toby. “We’d get out of the fuckin’ dojo easy enough.”
Dexter did a shrug and reached inside his jacket.
But, as if by magic, the barrel of Manny’s pistol pressed firmly into Dexter’s back. Dexter froze.
“These two ass clowns,” said Manny. “Dos pendejos. Can’t even watch their six. Watch their six, I say that right?”
Dexter, a calm and stoic man by nature, looked downright forlorn. A gun muzzle will do that.
Toby didn’t move, other than to nod slowly. “I get it. I see this. You brought your boyfriend. I heard about this guy. Let me guess. Manny the corrupt marshal.”
“You move,” said Manny. “And I wreck your lower spine with my .357, migo.”
Manny reached around and removed the Glock from Dexter’s shoulder rig. Handed it to one of the old boxing coaches, watching this interaction with alarm. The old guy took it but he wasn’t happy. Then Manny lifted the pistol from the small of Toby’s back. It’d been tucked under his belt and I didn’t see what kind. Toby was smart enough not to object.
The old guy said, “I need to call the police?”
“I the police,” said Manny. “Federal marshal. We all good, señor.”
“You two sonofabitches are making a colossal mistake,” said Toby.
“I’ve been making those for months.”
“Years, pana,” Manny corrected me. He gave Toby a shove. “You, good-looking guy. You are Italian? The Italian stallion? Get in the ring.”
“Get in the ring,” said Toby.
“Pronto.”
“You want me to fight your boyfriend? I do this for a living, marshal. I’ll kill the guy,” said Toby. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
A little haunting, to be honest.
“I want you to kill him,” said Manny.
“You sure?”
“Sí, baby.”
“Sí, baby,” I agreed. “Show me how the gloves work. Kill, Toby, kill.”
“I got your word, I break his face,” said Toby, “and you don’t shoot.”
“Got my word,” said Manny. By now we’d drawn a crowd. Tension will do that. And Manny’s gun was gasoline on the fire. “Everybody hear? I am a federal marshal. I won’t shoot. My word.”
“Good hell, a couple of idiots, you are,” said Toby. He stepped out of his leather loafers and ducked under the top rope. He hadn’t worn exercise gear but his outfit wasn’t untenable—his pants were loose linen and his shirt was stretchy long-sleeved cotton, no collar. “I’ll do this for free. No one needs to pay me a dime.”
“Violence is its own reward?” I said.
Manny tossed Toby his pair of training gloves.
“Don’t get Mack’s blood on them, por favor.”
I nodded at the old guy operating the bell and timer. “Three rounds. Five minutes each.”
Dexter made a snickering sound. “Bitch, need for round two, my guess.”
That didn’t bode well for me.
Maybe Manny should shoot them instead.
I was barefoot and I began some light hopping, transferring weight one foot to the other.
Was I a betting man, I wouldn’t know where to place my money. Toby hurt people as a career. However I used to fight in cage matches in Los Angeles. Toby might be in better shape but I had a couple inches and twenty pounds on him. A bad loss was within the realm of probability.
So why was I fighting? Good question. Maybe someone smarter could tell me.
It had something to do with pride. Something to do with genitalia comparison. But more than that, it had to do with Ronnie. She’d stood up to these guys. She taken their punches and survived. So I could too.
If I couldn’t, I didn’t deserve her.
And if I didn’t fight him now, Toby w
ould know he’d won. And he’d kill me soon. So it was about Ronnie but also about survival.
Big Will caught my eye. He stood behind Dexter, arms crossed, and he gave me a slow nod. Maybe he didn’t like these big swinging dicks coming to town and threatening everyone either. I was the lesser of two pains in the ass.
The crowd around the ring was three people deep in places. They knew. Something wicked was afoot.
The bell rang.
Toby came out in a closed boxing stance. Fists balled near his face.
I did a little more hopping, moving around the ring away from him, shaking my hands a little. Sweating.
“Get off your bicycle, piece of shit,” said Toby. “This won’t hurt long."
He closed.
I dropped into a shallow squat, a forward stance.
Because it was the only kind I’d ever learned.
He threw a right and I understood immediately that I was gonna win, if I didn’t make a mistake.
He should have led with some probing jabs using his left hand. See what I could do with them, see if I was any good, discover who was quicker. But instead he gathered behind his right hand. Put all his weight into it, trying to kill me with one shot. Swing for the fences. Powerful but slow. Pure arrogance.
I took his fist on the meaty part of my left shoulder, and it staggered me to the side. Painful but no damage done.
It made a good sound and he grinned with satisfaction.
Toby had never been trained. An experienced fighter never underestimates his opponent. Toby was tough and cruel and unafraid of violence and pain, but there’d been no rigorous practice behind it. He was the kind of guy who hurt people by intimidating and overpowering them. He’d break the hands of lesser men by squeezing. He’d smack them around because people would let him, even tougher guys. Toby was a bull. Bulls didn’t need practice, they assumed.
But anyone watching who knew their stuff, they knew immediately he wasn’t skilled.
He got behind another right hook, feeling smug.
My left hand darted out and smacked him. Kind of a jab, too quick for Toby.
I danced backwards and came in again, another smack.
He tried a right hook again—his tried and true bread and butter, never let him down before. But it missed and he stumbled.
He was off balance so I came with a flurry of slaps. One, two, three, hard hands to the skull that stung.
