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The Shadow Broker (Mr. Finn Book 1) Page 5
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The microwave buzzed and I grabbed the steaming cup.
“Of course I’ll watch her,” I said. “It’ll be fun. We’ll take the boat out. Cruise the river.”
“Do you know how to drive this thing?”
“Pilot, Brooke. You pilot a boat. You drive a car. And yes, I can.”
“Well, look at you. Pilot a boat. They teach you that when you bought it? Give you a little captain’s hat?”
“I’m renting. It’s temporary.”
“Okay then.” Brooke checked her watch. It looked new. Shiny. Probably a sorry-we’re-fighting gift. The real reason for the romantic getaway, I suspected. “Thanks for taking her for the weekend. I’ll drop her off Friday morning. It was fun catching up, Finn, but I start my shift in twenty minutes.”
I patted the mattress. “Wanna be late?”
“I don’t think Dr. Dickhead would approve. And from the looks of that mattress, it can’t support two people anyway. I don’t want to fall though the bottom of this shithole.” She smiled.
“It’s called a hull, honey.”
I watched her ass on the way out the door. It wasn’t as high and tight as it had been when we got married, but it still looked good enough to make me regret the split.
THE SMELL OF FRIED BOLOGNA and sauerkraut hit Bishop as he walked into Olive’s Café on Vine Street. Cincinnati’s German contingent packed the lunch counter and the tables at the front of the café. The old men choked down sausages, potato salad and burgers as they read newspapers, talked and watched the baseball game flicker on a dented television affixed to the corner of the wall. The cooks, dressed in grease-spattered aprons, yelled out orders and moved behind the counter in orderly chaos as onions and peppers sizzled on the flat grill behind them.
Bishop stepped past the placard advertising the meatloaf sandwich lunch special and found Rollo Watkins sitting in a booth in the back section of the café. Two of his men sat at a table next to him, their outstretched and crossed legs extended far into the aisle. They didn’t move when Bishop approached. After stepping around them, Bishop slid into the booth across from Rollo.
“What’s so goddamn important that you had to interrupt my lunch?” said Rollo, holding the menu in front of his face.
“I wanted to talk to you about my operation.”
Rollo set the menu on the table. “Don’t you mean my operation?”
“That’s what I want to talk about,” Bishop said. “I’ve got a business opportunity for you.”
“Funny, I didn’t take you for a businessman.”
“I’m looking to buy you out,” said Bishop.
Rollo lowered the menu just enough for his eyes to glare at Bishop. “Buy me out? You say that like we’re partners, which we aren’t. You work for me. Remember?”
“Of course I remember, but hear me out. I’m looking to move out of Cincinnati. Head South. I’m looking for a change.”
“You aren’t going nowhere,” said Rollo. “I can’t manage this website shit. That’s your thing. You’re staying right here.”
“That’s what I want to talk about. I want to buy you out for two million. Take the operation with me. Clean break.”
“Two million?” Rollo turned to the old man sitting at the table next to him. “Give me Bishop’s book.” The old man handed Rollo a tan ledger. He flipped through several pages and then looked up at Bishop.
“Says here you’re doing twenty-five grand a week. That’s one point three mil a year. You’re into me for a third, and Detroit gets another third.” Rollo turned back to the old man. “What’s the math?”
“About four hundred and thirty, three ways,” said the old man.
“Four hundred and thirty thousand a year,” said Rollo, turning back to Bishop. “And you want to buy me out for two mil? No way.”
“That’s more than fair,” said Bishop.
Rollo set the menu down onto the table and crossed his hands in front of him. “You sure got a sack on you, Bishop. You came to me, remember? I’m the one who made all this happen, so don’t tell me you want out. Nah, you get out of this shit when I say you do.”
A tall brunette approached the table and smiled at Rollo.
“I’ll have my usual, baby,” said Rollo, handing her the menu. He nodded to his men. “Get these two whatever they want.” Then, he pointed at Bishop. “He ain’t eating.”
“You got a different price in mind?” said Bishop.
“Yeah, I got a price in mind. Zero fucking dollars.” Rollo waited for the waitress to leave the table. “Do you think I’m some stupid street hustler, Bishop? Some wet dick who’s gonna jump at a few zeros? I might not know much about computers and websites and all that shit, but I know a lot about money. And I certainly know when someone is trying to fuck me.”
“I’m not trying to fuck anyone. I’ll offer Dunbar the same deal.” Bishop paused. “Can you just run it past him?”
“Stop, Bishop. Just stop,” said Rollo. “You work for me. And you’ll keep working for me until I decide this arrangement no longer suits. And for right now, this arrangement is fucking cream and caramels. We clear?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Asked and answered, Bishop. Don’t ask again. The next words out of your mouth better be ‘thanks’ and ‘bye’ because if you say anything else, I swear I’ll stomp the shit out of you right here on this floor.”
Bishop looked down at the red-and-white checkered tablecloth and stood up. He stepped over the two pairs of legs still blocking the aisle and headed for the exit.
“Oh, and Bishop,” said Rollo, without turning his head, “I want to see that fat-ass bastard with my money next Friday as usual.”
“You’ll get it,” said Bishop.
BISHOP WALKED OUT OF THE café and toward the SUV parked across the street. Fat Sam opened the driver’s door and started to pull himself out of vehicle.
“I got it,” said Bishop, opening the rear door and climbing in.
Fat Sam lurched sideways and threw a tree-trunk-sized forearm over the headrest, knocking the rearview mirror out of alignment.
“So how’d it go?” he said.
“Pretty much how I expected,” said Bishop. “Rollo’s not going for it.”
“He want more money?”
“No, it’s not about the offer. He’s looking for this to be a long-term thing. Too much money on the table.”
“So what do we do now? Plan B?”
“That’s right,” said Bishop. “Plan B.”
I ROLLED TO A STOP in front of Little Freddie’s home at 5:45 p.m. and crossed the street to his house. He sat on the front porch with a cigarette in one hand and a maroon duffle emblazoned with a white Indian-head insignia in the other. He lived in a small craftsman-style home. Forest-green cedar siding with cream-colored trim and flower boxes on the outside of the second-story windows. The paint still had a gloss to it. New within the last two years. Not the type of place where I thought a professional killer kicked back at night. Probably the flower boxes. The covered porch had a café table, two chairs and a bicycle leaning up against a wicker loveseat.
“Funny, I didn’t take you for a biker,” I said.
Little Freddie took a final drag from his cigarette and flicked it onto the sidewalk. “Keeps the legs and the mind sharp.” We crossed the street, and he tossed the duffle onto the passenger floor and climbed into the seat.
I stared at the wrinkled Indian-head logo. “Nice bag,” I said.
He closed the door. “Local school was selling them. Got to support the youths.”
We turned off his street and within fifteen minutes were driving north onto I-71.
WE’D BEEN ON THE ROAD for an hour, when Little Freddie turned to me.
“Mr. Finn ... That your real name?”
“No.”
“Well, as aliases go, it’s kinda gay. Sounds like a Tarantino villain to me.”
I looked over at him. “Little Freddie ... Is that any better?”
“Not an alias, assh
ole. That’s my name. My father was Fred and they named me Fred. Called me Little Freddie to minimize confusion. It just stuck. What’s your excuse?”
I shrugged. “Guess I’m just not the creative type,” I said.
“Bishop said you used to be a PI. Why the used to?”
“The state revoked my license about a year ago.”
Little Freddie kept his eyes fixed out the passenger window. “How’s that?”
“Long story,” I said.
“Can’t do much without a license, huh?”
“Nope. But most of the people I work for don’t care if I’m licensed or not. It’s not like I’ll be testifying in court or filing official documents or anything.”
Little Freddie turned his eyes to me. “So how’d you end up working for Bishop?” he said.
“You sure ask a lot of questions.”
He squinted. “I like to know who I’m sitting next to, especially when we’re about to do what we’re about to do.”
“Money,” I said. “No license means no work and no income. Have to take the jobs where I can get them. Bishop offered me the work and I took it. That simple.”
Little Freddie shifted in the seat. “But how did you hook up with Bishop, specifically?”
He was probing, and I couldn’t blame him. I got the sense that Little Freddie worked alone, and now he had to put his trust and confidence in me, someone he’d just met. Our new relationship was like that of partners on the police force or soldiers in the same unit, but our relationship wasn’t forged by years on the force or a brothers-in-arms mentality. It was just happenstance. He didn’t know me from anyone.
“Grapevine. I do a lot of work for a client in Boston. You know how it goes, small circles and all. Word gets around. Bishop got my information from my Boston contact, and here I am.”
I blew past a highway patrol cruiser in the median. My eyes shifted to the rearview mirror and I held my breath, waiting for him to pull out behind us. He didn’t. “So what about you?” I said. “Why are you here?”
“Me? Just like to kill people, I guess.”
I glanced at Little Freddie’s face, searching for a smile or even a smirk, anything to confirm whether he was joking or not. Nothing.
“That’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it? Something in that brain of yours short out?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just helping God sort out the shit, that’s all.”
“How’s that?”
Little Freddie’s eyes moved to the passenger side mirror and then back on the road in front of us. “Look, the people we deal with ... They’re criminals. Don’t contribute piss to society. And they’re just going to kill each other anyway. Who the fuck cares what happens to them?”
Little Freddie leaned forward in his seat and eyeballed the handle of the .45 sticking out from under my jacket.
“What about you? Any problems killing a man?” said Little Freddie.
“Haven’t had to.”
“That wasn’t my question. I asked if you have any problems doing it. Just because you got that under your jacket doesn’t mean you’ll use it. And I don’t need you bitching out if things go south with this Silvio or Banks or whatever his name is. I need you to be on that trigger if it suits.”
I checked the rearview for the cruiser one more time. “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ll pull it if I need to.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, MY phone vibrated on the console. Normally, I’d never take a call in front of Little Freddie. I didn’t want him knowing anything about me, and a phone conversation would poke holes in my carefully constructed anonymity. But then I saw the incoming ID on the screen and lunged for the phone. I clicked “accept” and kept it tight to my ear opposite Little Freddie.
“Is this Finn Harding?” said the woman on the other end.
“It is,” I said, my voice low.
“This is Diane Foster at the Spring Lodge Retirement Community.” Diane Foster was the director of my father’s retirement community. The Spring Lodge included both an independent-living facility and a nursing home, with the idea being once someone couldn’t live independently, they were shuffled to the nursing-home section. My father was on the independent side.
When I first saw “Spring Lodge” on my phone’s screen, I thought it was a health issue, but had it been an emergency, I’d be speaking to a doctor or nurse, not Diane. Directors don’t make emergency calls. They make administrative calls. This was no medical emergency. It was worse.
“Hello, Diane. How are you?”
I first met Diane three years ago, when I moved my father into the facility. I met with her again two months ago, when my father overturned a meal cart in the dining room. Something about corn.
“Not so good. I’m calling about Albert.”
“What’d he do? Not the food cart again,” I said.
“I’m afraid this time it’s much more serious. Your father sexually assaulted a nurse.”
“What?”
“The floor nurse entered his room this morning because he didn’t attend breakfast,” she said. “It’s protocol to check on all residents who don’t attend a meal. Just as a precaution. She said that he touched her inappropriately while she was in the room.”
“What does that mean? Touched her inappropriately?”
“She said your father groped her and tried to reach up her skirt.”
I shook my head and lowered my voice even further. “My father is seventy-one years old, Diane. I really doubt he purposely harassed a nurse. Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? Maybe he brushed up against her or something?”
“She said his hand lingered.” Diane paused. “He also physically assaulted another staff member when he confronted Albert about his behavior.”
That part I believed.
“The punch definitely wasn’t an accident,” she said. “Mr. Lewis required medical treatment. Look, the bottom line is we can no longer care for your father. We have a responsibility to provide a safe environment for both our residents and our staff, and Albert is prohibiting us from doing that. The only bright side in this is that both staff members have agreed not to pursue legal action if, and only if, he leaves the facility immediately.”
I glanced at Little Freddie, who was looking out the passenger window again. “Are you sure there isn’t—”
“No, there’s not,” she said, cutting me off.
“I understand,” I said. “So what am I supposed to do? Just come pick him up?”
“Yes. We’ve already informed your father of the resolution and he’s packing now. I can provide you with a list of other facilities that might be better suited to your father’s needs. Spring Lodge might be a little too structured for him. Do you have someplace you can take him in the meantime? Can he stay with you or another relative?”
“Are you sure there isn’t something we can work out? If he promises not to do it again?”
“We had that conversation two months ago. I’m sorry.”
“Alright. Look, I’m out of town for the day, and there’s no way I can pick him up. Can you please let him stay there for the night? I can be there first thing in the morning.”
“There isn’t someone else who can get him today? Another family member? Albert’s file lists another son.”
“No, my brother lives out of state. I’m all he’s got locally. I can be there first thing tomorrow.”
“Okay, but this really is the last night he can stay. If you don’t pick him up tomorrow, I’ll have to call senior services.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“We’ll see you then.” The line died.
Little Freddie turned to me. “Family trouble?” he said.
“Something like that.”
WE EXITED I-71 NORTH AND twenty minutes later we idled in front of Banks’ townhouse on Buffalo Run. Banks’ parking lot had about twenty more cars than when I visited his place two days ago. No one came in or out of the lot since we parked. Two bright streetlights towered over the mi
ddle of the parking lot, but the light dissipated toward Banks’ unit. Every unit had porch lights, but most were dark. The light traffic and the clouds that blocked out the quarter moon increased our odds of getting in and out of Banks’ place without anyone seeing us.
Little Freddie surveyed the parking lot. “Not the best place to kill someone,” he said. He pointed down the row of townhomes. “Everything’s connected. Probably paper-thin walls. Can’t risk some neighbor calling us in.”
“We’ll be fine if we go in, do it and get the hell out,” I said. “We’ll be gone before anyone realizes what’s happened.”
“It’s not the killin’ I’m worried about. It’s what’s going to happen before the killin’ that’s going to get loud.”
I turned to Little Freddie. “Say again?” I said.
“Bishop wants to know how this guy got into his website. So he can plug the hole before anyone else has a chance to do the same thing. We have to talk to him, and he might not want to talk to us.”
“So you need someplace to knock him around?” I said.
“Something like that.”
I knew the area like I knew Chinese algebra, so I pulled up the local map on my phone. I didn’t like the idea of moving Banks out of his home. Too much to go wrong. Especially in an unfamiliar town. I scoured the map. There wasn’t much around. Just the golf course and several rows of townhouses. A few office parks sat to the west and more residential neighborhoods to the east. The north provided the best opportunity. There was a large dam on the Big Walnut Creek. The map showed a park there and a few outbuildings. Probably dam substations. The sound of the water would muffle any sounds coming from Banks or Little Freddie.
I held up my phone. “There,” I said pointing to the zoomed image of the dam. “It’s our best bet.”
“It’s close?”
“Maybe two minutes away,” I said.
“Works for me.”
I explained the townhouse layout to Little Freddie. We had the key to the front door, so we could make a quick entry, snatch Banks and be on our way to the dam in a matter of minutes, assuming he was alone in the townhouse.