No Good Deed...Part XII

[Robbie C.]

Outside Gordon Wiggins could see the shadows growing longer as the day faded into memory. Both Arthur and that scrub Watkins were still in court as far as he knew, but if he was honest with himself he also didn’t care where they were. They were tools, and ones intent on proving themselves less and less useful with every passing day.

Sighing, he looked down at the glowing screen of the microfiche reader. In the old days he’d have some fluff of a paralegal doing this. One of those little co-eds with ambition to match her bra size. Maybe it was better this way, though. He knew what he was looking for, and there was always a chance he’d find something related another searcher wouldn’t even notice.

Since he’d made the connection between Burnett and Crockett, he’d started looking further back through the papers. Finding any links he could, and then expanding to Caitlin and her career. Oh, he knew all about Tommy Lowe and his ham-handed attempts to ‘handle’ situations, going all the way back to the murder of her bass player and some before that. But friend Tommy’s little bits had been scattered all over a rooftop parking garage, so there was no need to look further into him.

Looking from the screen to his notes, Wiggins sighed again. He’d found precious little on this Crockett after the man had moved from Robbery to Vice, aside from the lurid tales of his relationship with Frank Hackman. Before that he’d found some scattered stories about the ‘football hero and veteran turned cop’, but those were back in his uniform patrol days. There’d also been a divorce notice, but that wasn’t unusual for cops.

It was when he turned to the gossip pages things got interesting. Not for Crockett, but for the Davies woman. Not so much her, but that behemoth she’d always had close by. Angie. Wiggins wasn’t too proud to admit the woman made him nervous; always looking at him like she wanted to snap him in half, even though he was her height. There was some chatter about her social life, but what seemed exciting and dangerous back in the early ‘80s and before was simply mundane now.

But even the world-weary ‘90s still frowned on drug dealing. Especially if it happened to be something like crack or heroin. They’d wink at some pot, and maybe even explain away cocaine…so long as it was going to the ‘right’ people whoever they were. But harder drugs were still a solid no-go. Wiggins moved the fiche holder to bring up other pages, making a few notes on his pad. Then he dug into his pants pocket and fed dimes into the machine, listening to the machine whir and hum each time he hit the button to print a page. There was simply too much to write down, and he had to meet Arthur soon in any case. Better to take what he needed with him to review later.

He met Arthur in the hotel bar at the agreed-upon time, frowning when he realized his friend had brought the idiot Watkins along. He thought about going back to his room, but Haskell had already seen him and was waving a big hand like he was having some kind of fit. Forcing a smile on his face, Wiggins headed over to their table. The last thing he wanted to do was ‘handle’ Watkins, but he guessed that was why Haskell had dragged the younger man along. He was still smiling when he sat down. “Arthur. And this must be Watkins. If you don’t mind my asking how did court go today?”

Haskell took a long pull from his drink. “Not bad for opening remarks.”

“What he means is they didn’t hang us. Not yet, anyhow.” Watkins’ face had the blush of three drinks too many, and Wiggins wondered how long they’d been down here, or how big the flask was Watkins had been pulling on in court. Or maybe he’d just gotten stoned from inhaling the cloud of cologne that always surrounded him. Wiggins never trusted a man who wore too much cologne or one who dyed his hair before the age of fifty. Watkins fell into both categories.

“Courage, Watkins. My God, man. Arthur’s a top-flight attorney when he wants to be. You’ll beat this one. Might take a little assistance, but you’ll come out on top. Never fear.” Turning, he shot Haskell a quick glare. “Has there been any word about that other business?”

“Hank’s been quiet, but he usually is until he’s ready to move. Same with my friend at the paper. Why?”

“I might have found something that will help us.” He raised his hand. “All in due time, friend Arthur. All in due time. But things are not as gloomy as they might have been. My day at the library has not been wasted. Not by half.”

Watkins looked up from his drink and sneered. “Arthur said you’d done time. I figured you’d be tougher than this.”

Wiggins smiled, his hand flashing out to grab Watkins’ wrist. “Not all tough guys have tattoos and bad mustaches, my young friend.” He applied pressure, twisting until he saw tears beading up in Watkins’ eyes and his lips turn white as he clamped his mouth shut. It wasn’t the first time he’d been underestimated because of his accent and manner of speaking. But people usually did it only once. “Now perhaps you’ll just sit quietly and let the adults talk, humh?”

Haskell looked from one many to the other. “Roger, you need to just shut up now. And you think you have something that will help us?”

“Perhaps.” Wiggins didn’t want to give his hand away, especially with the fool Watkins sniveling and rubbing his wrist at the table. “But we need to start discrediting this facility. How soon do you think you’ll hear back from your contact at the paper?”

“Tomorrow at the latest.” Haskell snorted. “I guess that reporter of his likes to disappear for days at a time. Says he’s researching stories, but who knows with reporters.”

“Indeed.” Wiggins rubbed his temples and tried to keep his face expressionless. Is there no one in this damned town who’s dependable any more? “Please tell me the other man is more reliable.”

“Hank? Oh, don’t call him that to his face. He hates the nickname.” Haskell smiled. “Yes, I’d say he’s more reliable. Especially if he takes an interest in a project. And he seems to have taken a big interest in this one. Maybe because Burnett’s involved. I don’t know. These underworld feuds are too much for me to follow.”

“Agreed.” Wiggins paused as the waitress brought his drink. “Thank you, my dear. Charge it to my, room, please.” He sipped, letting the single malt scotch roll across his tongue and across his nerves. “Unfortunately we need information from your friend at the paper before we can turn this other one loose. Unless, of course, he develops his own leads.” Wiggins took another sip, ideas forming in his mind. “Is there a chance he might do that, Arthur?”

“I…I don’t know. I suppose he could. My business with him never really required him to use his head, you know.”

“I understand, Arthur. Truly, I do. But maybe you could encourage him a bit in that direction. In case this reporter stays lost for an unacceptable period of time. For all we know the man’s an addict, feeding his habit in some seedy hotel.” Wiggins took another drink, hoping his true motives didn’t show.

“Can’t trust reporters, can we? Consider it done.” Haskell clapped Watkins on the shoulder. “And now I’d best get Roger fed and home. Too much booze on an empty stomach is an occupational hazard, but you don’t want to show up in court with a hangover, right?”

“Of course not. Bad for business.” Wiggins nodded them away, not wanting to move from his chair quite yet. The scotch was doing its job, both relaxing him and lubricating his mind. When the waitress sauntered by again he signaled for another.

After what he’d seen, he was sure he didn’t trust Haskell with the information he’d uncovered. The man would share it with Watkins. He simply couldn’t help himself. And telling Watkins was the same as buying air time on all the local channels. It was looking more and more like he’d need to find other ways to use what he’d learned, and maybe this Hector was part of the answer. He thought about the missing reporter and decided maybe he’d had too much to drink already. Telling a reporter was buying air time, and he’d lose control of his information in the bargain. No, he’d start with Hector.

He didn’t realize his glass was empty until the waitress stopped again. “Can I get you another?”

He looked down at the melting ice, weighing his options. “Please. And then close out my tab if you could.” He’d eat in his room. There was serious thinking to be done, and he preferred to do that alone.

 

To be honest, Hector hadn’t expected a call from Ramon. He’d been sitting in his hotel room, nursing a beer and staring at the TV without seeing it, when the phone jangled and the kid’s thin voice filled his ear. “I got someone you might want to talk to. You know where the Palm Club is?”

“I can find it.” Hector snarled as he set down the beer bottle. It still annoyed him how much Miami had changed while he was locked up. “But this better be worth it.”

“Oh, it is, boss. Juan will meet us there.” There was a click, and the buzzing dial tone filled his ear.

Hector stared at the TV for a moment longer, then opened the dresser drawer and pulled the Beretta out from under some wadded-up clothes. A guy had to be careful these days, and he’d bought the 9mm earlier that same day from a dude he’d known in the pen. Hefting the pistol, he worked the slide to chamber a round and then flipped on the safety before stuffing the pistol into the waistband of his jeans and pulling his loose shirt over the front. An extra magazine in his front pocket and he was ready to roll.

He was about to ask about the Palm Club at the front desk but thought better of it. No reason to let some college punk know his business. Instead he stepped out into the humid evening and walked down half a block before hailing one of the cabs that circled the hotels close to the airport. He didn’t look at the driver. “The Palm Club.”

“You got it, boss.” The driver, who sounded to Hector like he’d gotten off a boat from Haiti only a few days ago, threw the car into gear and bulled his way into traffic.

The Palm Club looked to have started its life as a gas station with an attached mechanic’s shop some time in the 1950s, only to be reborn as a cheap club adorned with a flickering neon palm tree within the last three years. Tossing two twenties to the driver with a muttered “keep it,” Hector checked his shirt to make sure it was still covering the Beretta before heading for the door. There was no line, and no big guy checking IDs and cup sizes outside, so Hector kept his expectations as low as the wattage on the sign.

He wasn’t disappointed. The bar must have been scavenged from another club, a disco judging by the rhinestones stuck to its front panels, but the stools were strictly Western theme. Fake palm trees in cheap clay pots from World Market marked the edges of what passed for a dance floor, and some pasty kid with oversized headphones pretended to be a DJ in a booth that must have come from the same club as the bar. There were some drunk couples on the dance floor, and a scattering of other people at the bar and tables.

He spotted Ramon and Jangles at the far end of the bar, and he wondered why the hell they hadn’t grabbed a table as he walked over. Ramon seemed to anticipate his question. “Table won’t work for this one, boss. The guy you gotta meet is the bartender.”

“Must not be a very good one if he’s working here.”

Ramon and Jangles exchanged glances, and Hector was sure he saw them grin at each other. Jangles spoke first. “You know, Hector, what they say about looks and all that. This place looks like a dive, but more coke moves through here than Rumour and Overton combined. Place like this is better for wholesale.”

“Nice.” Hector shook his head, and it pained him to admit he hadn’t expected that. “This bartender own the joint?”

“Him and a couple of other dudes. They don’t figure, though.” Ramon chuckled. “Out of town money.”

Hector nodded. He knew what that meant. Some things never really change. “So what’s his angle?”

“Same as yours, boss. Revenge.”

Nodding, Hector watched the man detach himself from a group near the beer taps and make his way down to them. It wasn’t anything special. Average height, looked to be more Puerto Rican than anything, and carried himself like he had an attitude. Normal Rican, then. Shit. Last thing I need. But when he spoke the voice was level and smooth. “You must be Hector. I’m Miguel, but call me Mike. Makes the frat boys breathe easier.”

“Whatever you say, Mike.” Hector shook the offered hand, exerting just enough strength to match what the bartender threw. “My boys here say we got business.”

“Yeah, you could say that. I know Ramon from back in the day, and he says you’re lookin’ for information on Sonny Burnett and that place of his.”

“Something like that. I also got some things to square with Burnett.”

“I heard you got sent up.” Miguel flashed a short smile.

“That ain’t all I owe him for. But you first, mano. What do you need from me?” He looked around. “From what I hear you got a good thing here.”

“You mean aside from Columbians having their damned hands in my cash box? Yeah, it’s a good thing. If you think small.” Miguel’s eyes lost focus, and Hector felt a little worm turn in his stomach. “I was on my way to something bigger when Sonny Burnett smashed El Gato’s operation.” He raised his hand. “I know…I was lucky to get out with my life. But to be that close…to taste it and touch it with my fingers and then have it ripped away. I swore I’d find a way to get back at him. And now you land in my lap.”

Hector hated dealing with the crazy ones. You never knew what they’d do when things got tight. “That’s nice an’ all, mano, but it don’t answer my question. What do you need from me? And what you got that I need?”

“You’re out to ruin that place he’s got out there? Good. That’s all I need. I want to see his dream crumble in front of his eyes. As for what I got, in a week I’ll have someone on the inside.”

“And you do this for free? Just to see him suffer?”

Miguel smiled. “Mostly, yes. But getting Burnett out of the way should free up some routes and assets a strong man could swoop in and take. Cut me in on that and we’ll be even.”

“How much?”

“Say twenty percent? As you say, I have a good thing here. But it could be better. More routes means more custom, and that means more money in the bank for me.”

“Sounds good.” Hector shook the man’s hand again, not bothering to mention Burnett was just a means to an end for him, and that he didn’t give two shits about what happened to the hooker rehab center. He just wanted Cooper or whatever his damned name was. But having someone on the inside would make things a hell of a lot easier. “So when do I get to meet your guy?”

“Better if you don’t. I hear they use lie detectors during the interviews. My guy’s clean, but that also means he don’t lie for shit.”

“Fine by me. But I better meet him at some point.” Hector was about to go on when he sensed rather than saw someone standing behind him. He shifted his hand, getting it closer to the warm grips of the Beretta. “You best back off quick. And then say what the hell you want.”

Turning on the cheap Western bar stool, he came eye-to-eye with a greasy punk with lank hair and ambitious eyes. “Easy, Hank. Come on, man! It’s Rafe. Remember?”

Hector sorted through his collection of names and faces, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I remember you. Goddamned punk who cut and ran when we had a two key deal going down on the edge of Overtown.” He was about to turn back to the bar and just blow the punk off when he remembered something Ramon had said. Maybe it was time to show these bitches, including Miguel, the old Hector. “What you buggin’ me for, bitch?”

“I ain’t the one who spent a few years in charm school, Hank.” Rafe’s gin showed bad teeth and worse intentions. “I bet you made a damned fine…”

The Beretta flashed for an instant in the dim light of the bar and then Rafe spun away, clutching at his face where the pistol’s front sight had torn a deep gash in his left cheek. Hector continued the arc of his swing, letting the pistol cross in front of him before lowering it between his legs where it couldn’t be seen but was ready to strike again. “Way I hear it you don’t need to be in prison to be someone’s girlfriend, Rafe. Now you’d best step the fuck off before I really get pissed.”

Blood dripped between the man’s fingers, turned almost black by the bar’s lights. “I oughta…”

“What?” Hector’s voice was a hiss, and he could feel the others watching him. So far the sounds of the bar hadn’t changed, and he guessed this was normal weeknight entertainment in a place like this. But he also didn’t underestimate the amount of firepower on hand. Balance was key. “You oughta what, Rafe? Exactly? Change your pants? Put on more lipstick? What? But whatever it is, do it away from me. I don’t work with punks or bitches, and you’re both.”

Rafe looked around, suddenly seeming to realize he was very much alone in the Palm Club. “I’ll see you later,” he muttered and turned away.

“No. You ain’t gonna see me at all. If you do, it’s the last thing you’ll see. Make no mistake about that.” Hector kept the Beretta in his hand until the skinny punk left the bar, and then stuffed it back into the wasteland of his jeans.

Ramon let out a low whistle. “Now that’s the Hector I heard about. Surprised you didn’t pop him.”

“Look around, mano. This is Miguel’s place, and he don’t need the headache. Besides, there’s enough firepower in here to start a small war, and if I shoot someone that’s what happens. Ain’t that right, Mike?”

The bartender nodded. “Pretty much. The marketplace likes its mayhem kept to acceptable levels, if you know what I mean.” He turned to head down the bar. “I’m gonna tell my people to keep that one out. His kind we don’t need in here.”

Once he was out of earshot, Jangles found his voice. “You think he’s on the level about his guy?”

“We’ll find out. If not, we just don’t come back. Simple enough. But he don’t care a bit for Burnett. That means he might be tellin’ the truth.” He kept an eye on the figure at the far end of the bar. “We’ll play along for now, but keep lookin’ for other ways in. I gotta meet with them damned suits again, an’ maybe they found somethin’.” He shook his head and stopped talking. It had felt good to smack that little bitch Rafe. Just like it had ditching those damned boots. He’d not understood how much he’d locked down the old Hector in prison until bits of him started climbing out again. And he knew if he was gonna get this cop who called himself Cooper he’d have to get all of Hector out again.

 

Sonny Crockett let his hand slip down to Jenny’s firm backside as they walked through the door of Sanctuary. As soon as they got through the door he could hear the shouting from the back tables and knew Stan and Randy had found each other. Dave’s voice could be heard, too, along with the more nasal tones of Lester. He kissed the top of Jenny’s head and grinned. “Team Elvis is in the house.”

“It’s good to hear them again.” Jenny pressed back against his hand. “Stan hasn’t laughed like that since they left.”

“I know. Big goof seems happy enough most days, though.”

“But the things they shared…”

“Yeah, I know, darlin’. I’ll bet they missed him, too, even though those two Jarheads would never admit to it. At least not while they were sober.” He grinned and gave her a little nudge. “Let’s quit blockin’ the door and get back there.”

The tables had been pushed together to make one long row, and Sonny could see pretty much the entire Strike Team gathered. Even Tiny, his wheelchair centered on the far end of the table, was there, laughing at something Dave had said around his glass of beer. Marty and Trudy were sitting with Randy, sandwiched between Stan and Lester, and he could see Mindy and Tubbs helping Angie settle in with some kind of huge drink dominated by an umbrella. Rico happened to look up and see them, and his eyes lit up. “Sonny! Jenny! Bout time you dragged your asses in here!”

“Yeah, yeah!” Sonny grinned and made his way through the crowd, feeling Jenny close behind. “You better have saved me some beer, pal.”

“You snooze, you loose, chump!” Rico laughed and poured them glasses from the pitcher on his end of the table. “But you did miss those two fools tellin’ lies about their exploits out in the wild west!”

Sonny settled in a free chair, grinning as Jenny settled into his lap with a smile. Another burst of laughter exploded from the other end of the table, and he looked across at Rico. “Sounds like they’re havin’ a grand old time.”

“Yeah. It’s been like that ever since Stan got here. Gina’s enjoying it, too, and Marty said Pete was gonna stop by after eight.”

“Good. I didn’t realize how much I missed those two jokers.”

“Yeah. And look at Stan and Lester. Those two…”

“Yeah. Happiest I’ve seen ‘em in months.” Sonny kissed Jenny’s neck. “She said it, too.”

“Hey!” Gina’s voice echoed down the length of the table. “You two better get a room!”

Sonny was about to reply when Jenny turned to face him and kissed him. It was full-on, lip-locking paradise, and he could taste the beer on her tongue. Finally she came up for air and turned to look up the table. “Not a chance. It’s funner this way.”

True to his word, Pete made his entrance just after eight, strutting through the club with a swagger George Jefferson would have admired. Sonny laughed, still stuck after all these years by how much Pete did resemble the sitcom character. He looked around and spotted Dave and Randy at the far end of the tables. “I heard tell two of my wayward deputies happened to have wandered into town. You boys miss me or just get lost?”

“We missed you, boss.” Randy laughed, spilling beer on Dave who returned the favor. “Or hell, maybe we did just get lost. It’s all so damned flat down here it looks the same.”

“Oh, them two gonna make some trouble.” Angie looked across at Sonny and waved a finger. “Blondie better keep them two in line.”

“They’re big boys, Angie. They can take care of damned near anything they get themselves into.” He smiled at the woman’s concern. “Besides, with you watchin’ them there’s no way they’re gonna step out of line.”

“Mmm…hmmm. Even Angie can’t watch that much trouble at one time.” Her stern face cracked into a grin for a fleeting second. “You and Little Blondie gonna make sure they don’t get Elvis and his friend in trouble?”

“You got it, Angie.” Sonny looked at Jenny and winked. “I’ll bet Randy wouldn’t mind you buying him a beer, though.”

“Good idea.” She waved a thick arm for the waitress.

He hadn’t seen Robbie Cann arrive at the table, but his old friend was at his shoulder with a smile. “Now that’s not fair, turning her loose on Randy.”

“I know. But it gets her out of our hair and might keep him from getting into trouble.”

“I think Marty’s got that sewn up, partner.” Robbie jerked his head to point. “He’s been stuck to those two most of the night.”

Sonny nodded slowly, realizing Robbie was right. Trudy and Mindy had been talking most of the night, and Rico alternated between him and Stan and Lester. But Castillo had remained close to the two former deputies, especially Randy Mather. “I wonder what the hell he’s up to.”

“Memories, maybe.” Robbie clapped his hand on Sonny’s shoulder. “Marty Castillo has enough for ten men, and I think Randy’s carrying around more than he’ll admit to.”

“Yeah.” Sonny thought back to the day he’d learned why Randy had stopped shooting the rifle…until the day he dropped the man who’d wounded Dave. “Ghosts, man. Funny how much of our lives are about ghosts.”

“Until they’re not.” Robbie grinned. “Look around! You got friends all around you, and a pretty lady on your lap. We never would have believed this back in Da Nang.”

“Naw. There it was day by day.” Sonny shook his head. “You’re right, Robbie. Although now that Pete’s here I’m starting to feel like a fifth wheel.”

“Look…why don’t the two of you come back to the office? We’ll talk, have a quiet drink, and let the kids have their fun.”

Jenny nodded. “I’d like that. This….I don’t know.”

It was quieter in Robbie’s office, the blare of the club muffled by solid doors and good soundproofing. As soon as Sonny sat down Jenny reclaimed her spot on his lap, and Robbie grinned as he poured three drinks from a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “I must be getting old. I was thinking about leaving soon.”

“Naw. You got Allan to keep you running. And Julia. How is she?”

“Good. She keeps asking when you’re going to come by.”

Jenny smacked him on the arm. “We can do that next week, can’t we, Sonny?”

“Ow! Sure, sure we can.” He made a show of rubbing his arm. “Of course we can come by, Robbie. It’s been so damned busy out at the House with the renovations and all I lose track of time.”

“And then you sail away on your boat.” Robbie chuckled as he sank back in his chair. “Gotta say I’m jealous sometimes, Sonny. But only sometimes. The club doesn’t sink or get run down by the Love Boat.”

Sonny sipped his drink. “Can’t argue with that. But it’s nice, just being able to up anchor and get the hell out of Dodge some days.” He took another sip. “Looks like the club’s still doing well.”

“Better than most of the competition, but you know how it goes. Always gotta stay fresh or you’re yesterday’s news. I’ve been thinking of bringing some of that techno stuff in a couple of nights a week.”

“Talk to Lester. He actually is a dj from what I hear. And a good one. Goes by the stage name Tango Foxtrot.”

“I heard of him. Didn’t know that was Lester. Yeah, I’ll give him a call. Word is he’s a great draw with the crowd I’d like to tap into.” Robbie leaned back. “But we didn’t come back here to talk about business.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sonny gave Jenny a quick squeeze. “Robbie’s always busting my chops about something.”

“That’s what buddies do.”

Sonny Crockett locked eyes with Robbie. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s what buddies do. Now we’d best drink up and get you home to Julia.”