No Good Deed...Part XIII

[Robbie C.]

“I still don’t get it, Jimmy.” Jake Renfro fixed the reporter with his best perplexed editor glare. “Why you got such a hard-on for that rehab place, anyhow? What’s the angle? A senator’s daughter? Dead hookers? What?”

Jimmy Campbell. That’s what he called himself now. Jimmy was his name, but he’d borrowed Campbell from a can of soup. The story made him smile inside. “It’s big, boss. No senator’s daughter, but there’s big things going on in that place.” He paused for effect, his thin frame almost lost in the big chair on the other side of Renfro’s desk. “I just gotta get close enough to get it on tape or film.”

Renfro waved the papers in front of his face. “You know that ain’t gonna be easy thanks to this damned restraining order. You so much as touch the fence and they can have you arrested. That’s jail, Jimmy! And I gotta say I don’t see you writing a prison romance exposé.”

Jimmy scratched his chin, considering his reply. He had a number of reasons to go after Caitlin’s House; all of them personal and none of the editor’s business as far as he was concerned. “I keep hearing talk on the street, boss. Those girls? They bring ‘em in and maybe rent them out to high rollers. You know, celebs, politicians, connected people.”

“You got any proof of that? We may have some money behind us now, but that lawyer they’ve got could clean us out in a heartbeat.”

“That’s why I need to get at the place. So far it’s all talk. Street rumors. But I keep hearing the same ones.”

Renfro nodded, and Jimmy could see rotating dollar signs in the man’s eyes. “I’ll give you a week. No more. You don’t bring me something solid forget about it and start staking out that private beach up the coast. Might be some good topless starlet shots from that one, or an abused illegal or two.”

“You got it, boss.” Pushing himself out of the chair, Jimmy managed to bite back a sigh of relief. A week wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He’d just have to up his game.

The Post’s ‘newsroom’ was little more than a collection of cubicles dropped into what might have been a sales floor at one time. It was late, and most of the staff had gone home, leaving the place to the handful of night owls chasing their own demons in their stories. Jimmy nodded to the two he passed on his way to his cubicle. They all knew each other, or at least understood each other.

Dropping into his desk chair, Jimmy sighed. He’d been chasing Caitlin’s House ever since his lure girl, a pretty little hooker with the street name Angel, got run through the program and cleaned up. He’d used her to get people into compromising positions…some of his best headlines had been engineered using her. Sure, he’d smacked her around a time or two after she asked for more money, but that’s what those girls all wanted. She’d been off the streets for a week after the last time, and he’d gotten wind that her pimp, some punk called Marco, was pissed. Not that he cared. Marco was all talk and no action. But then Angel had been picked up in one of the routine hooker sweeps and sent off.

That was his first pass at Caitlin’s House. He’d never really heard of the place before that. Hell, why would I? They don’t treat rich girls…just streetwalking trash. No story there. He let the thought roll through his head, grinning at his own ignorance. Losing Angel had been a blow, especially since the word was out about him and he couldn’t get another lure with her looks and ability. He started digging more out of reflex than anything else. At least until he found out who was behind the place.

He’d expected to find some faceless shell company, but instead he found a ghost. Sonny Burnett. Even now the name sent a quick shiver down his spine, chased by a flash of anger. He’d never met the man, hadn’t even really seen him if he was honest, but the impact of Burnett on his life was almost beyond calculation. He was the reason Jimmy had tried to join any police force he could find in South Florida, why he’d dabbled as a PI, and then why he’d wandered into what passed for journalism. It still pissed him off thinking about it. All that time I spent, and then I basically trip over the son-of-a-bitch chasing down some hooker! Fuck me running.

Opening a file drawer under his cluttered desk, he pulled out the one marked ‘Security’ and started flipping through it without really reading. He’d been through the damned thing so many times he had it more or less memorized. Every detail about the security surrounding Caitlin’s House, and he had to admit he’d seen high-security prisons that were weaker than the rehab center. But the activity kept his hands busy while his mind worked.

It all started with his big sister. Back when his last name wasn’t Campbell. He’d just left high school, barely scraping through like most of the kids from his decaying neighborhood, when she lucked out and hooked up with some older dude. A rich older dude. Celeste had been working the club circuit for over a year, dating and then ditching a number of would-be players in the Miami scene. And then she hooked Oscar Carrera.

Oscar. He snorted, still turning pages without seeing them. The answer to our prayers, she’d said. My ass. The man was a fat old fool. Rich, but a fool. And the son wasn’t any better. He let his mind slide back to those days, when she’d come home telling them they’d be moving into a fancy apartment soon. Just as soon as she sorted out the money. She’d convinced the old fool to marry her, and things were set. Their mother smiled and nodded, not caring where the money came from. Jimmy knew, and he knew enough even then to be worried. The drug trade wasn’t exactly stable or secure.

He’d watched the whole thing unfold: the evolving feud with the Manolos, the demise of that cartel and the scramble to fill the void, and the arrival on scene of Sonny Burnett. Jimmy had still been an outsider, working here and there on the fringes of the trade. A few small deals, moving a little bit of product. Nothing big, but with the hope of eventually moving up. Especially with his sister being married to the boss. The other dealers looked at him with envy, telling him he was set for the good life. It wasn’t exactly his choice, but the money made life easy and if it was going to be handed to him he’d be a fool not to take it. Then everything changed.

By chance he looked down just when he’d turned to one of the two pictures he had of Sonny Burnett. It was older, taken at a distance not long after Caitlin’s House had opened. The short ponytail was gone, but the black suit and blacker sunglasses were the same. Even now he guessed he could understand what Celeste had seen in him. The guy was a mover. No question. Her mistake had been assuming she could control him like she had Oscar and that drug-addled Miguel.

He’d never risen high enough to actually meet Burnett. The closest he’d gotten was some trailer trash thug called Cliff who his sister latched onto toward the end before going back to Burnett. He’d taken an instant dislike to Cliff, with his beady, darting eyes and fast talking. But even then he’d known enough to keep his mouth shut. When the fight between Cliff and Burnett kicked off, Jimmy had gone to ground like the rest of the rank and file. Sure, some chose sides, but Jimmy chose his own and got out with what he could before the whole thing went up in smoke.

Snorting, he closed the folder with a snap. The rise and fall of the Carrera organization under Burnett was the stuff of legends, but somehow the man had managed to walk away from the wreckage with his transportation business intact. Unlike his sister. She’d disappeared soon after the Carrera organization went tits up, sending an occasional postcard from places like Lauderdale, Dallas, and once even Los Angeles. Then the cards stopped. Jimmy didn’t really care. They’d never been especially close, and he figured she was a big girl now…or should be after what she’d done. But he hated what it did to his mother and his own plans for the future, and so by extension he hated Sonny Burnett.

Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out his map of the area around Caitlin’s House. He’d looked at the damned thing so many times he saw it in his sleep, but reviewing the map was sort of a ritual now. He’d monitored their radios enough to know the code names for most sections of fence, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at Charlie 3. It was the one section with a good view of the house’s long second floor balcony and the wide windows of Burnett’s office. He’d pieced that together by buying drinks for workers who’d done some of the renovations. It killed his expense account, but gave him a better idea of what the place looked like on the inside. But that didn’t help him get through the place’s security.

That was the piece of the puzzle he couldn’t break. He’d worked around tough security before, anything from cut-rate celebrity ‘security’ to the Secret Service…he was still drawing on the royalties he’d collected for a series of nudie shots of a Senator’s twenty year old daughter poolside in their Miami compound. Burnett’s security made the Secret Service look like mall cops at a cut-rate Kmart. But that was part of the draw. He’d want to get in even if Burnett wasn’t there. He was like the cherry on top of a sundae.

Usually the weak spot was people, but Burnett knew that, too. Jimmy had never seen such a collection of former cops in one place. And none of them were Miami-Dade rejects. He’d been smart enough not to approach them himself, not after seeing a stringer from the Herald get decked trying to bribe one off-duty. But he’d gotten pictures of a few and used his contacts to pull some information. Former State Police. Ex-military. Former Marshal’s Service. All heavy hitters.

Still, he knew it wouldn’t take much. A conversation that could be massaged into something else. A photo you could hang a lurid caption under. One of the most important things he’d learned from Renfro and the old timers at the Post was how to skirt the law when it came to that kind of thing. You didn’t tamper with the recording or the picture. Amateurs did that. Instead you turned it into something it wasn’t…or something it might be. And now he had a deadline. One week to produce or else.

Turning off the flickering neon desk lamp, Jimmy sat in the gloom for a moment before leaving. Listening to the click of computer keys as the handful of lost souls still in the building worked on their stories or their suicide notes. Sometimes, Jimmy knew, they were the same thing.

 

Hector Rendozo’s head hurt. He slowly opened his eyes, looking up at the popcorn ceiling in his hotel room and once again swearing off vodka in all its forms. It might have been a good night, and from what he remembered it was, but the morning was going to be hell.

At least there wasn’t a girl in the bed. With this kind of hangover the last thing he needed was some girl wanting to talk. Rolling over, he closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning before opening them again and sitting up in bed. The red numbers on the room’s bedside clock told him it was after one in the afternoon. “Glad I ain’t got nowhere to be,” he muttered as he eased himself out of bed.

After a shower, coffee, and a handful of aspirin he felt like he could leave the room without embarrassing himself. Reaching into his pants pocket, he found the number the older lawyer had given him and headed down to the lobby pay phones. It was harder for cops to trace calls from them, and old habits died hard with Hector.

The lawyer answered on the fourth ring, and Hector didn’t give him time to ramble. “Checking in. You got anything for me?”

There was a pause, and then recognition. “Hank. Yes, I think we do. I need to check something on it first, though. Can you meet tonight at the same place?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Good. And Hank? We may need to move quickly on this.”

“Sure.” He hung up without waiting for a reply, leaning against the side of the booth for a moment to steady his body and mind. “Damned vodka,” he muttered again as he headed for the elevators.

Back in his room he turned on the TV and flopped in one of the chairs where he could see both the screen and the balcony door. He kept the volume low, the images flickering on the screen more of a distraction for his mind than anything he cared to watch. He’d learned in prison he did some of his best thinking this way.

The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t want to wait for whatever stunt Miguel had in mind. Even if the suits were good with waiting, and from the panic in Haskell’s voice he didn’t think they were, Miguel’s man was a player he didn’t control. Hell, he barely controlled Ramon and one person like that was all he felt like managing. And then there was Cooper or whoever he really was.

No, they needed another way. Maybe the suits would have something, but he doubted it would be solid. And he wouldn’t control it. He knew with Sonny Burnett involved he’d get one shot at Cooper. So he had to make it count.

Then there was the question of money: the million dollars the suits had promised. Even if it was only half-true, that kind of cash wasn’t something you walked away from. Not without a fight at least. And even if it turned out to be only a few grand it was still more than he had right now. Seed money he could multiply ten or twenty-fold with a couple of good deals and maybe a fast move or two.

His eyes lost focus as he stared out the window, watching white clouds scuttle across a clean blue sky. Miguel had it half-right trying to sneak someone into the place. But staff were watched too closely, and screened too hard before they became staff. With the security they had, one blip would mean you were out and the next person on the list got a call to come in. But the patients…they were trying to keep them in and away from outside contact. Sitting up straight, he tried to remember what he’d read about the place. How girls got sent there. Shaking his head, he got to his feet and headed for the door. His hangover was gone.

The hotel had one of those “business centers,” a fancy name for a room with a few computers and a copy machine or two. Hector took one of the computers toward the back of the room and punched in the hotel password. He’d learned more than a bit about computers while he was inside - one of the only good things about doing time - and it paid off now. One search command later he was looking at the home page of Caitlin’s House, its logo splashed across a picture of the big white house and the ocean beyond.

He skipped the crap about programs and support, and even ignored the staff bios. He knew all they’d talk about there were the doctors and other shit. Instead he pointed the mouse cursor at the heading titled ‘entry’ and clicked. The screen flickered and changed to a wall of text, broken up by what looked to be ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures of girls who’d been through the House. A blurb near the top said they’d be accepting male patients as soon as construction was finished on a new building, but he ignored that part, too. Once he’d finished reading he did another web search or two before closing the browser and restarting the computer. He knew that would clear the memory and make finding his trail a little bit harder.

His stomach had settled enough to be hungry, so he ducked into the hotel restaurant for a sandwich before heading back upstairs. It was cool and dark in the restaurant, almost empty since the lunch crowd had faded, and he took his time eating. It was a good space for thinking, and he needed to do some of that before tonight.

The two searches had confirmed what he’d read on Caitlin’s House’s website. Girls were admitted based on the recommendation of victims’ services and one or two other offices associated with the court system or law enforcement. They were almost always girls under the age of twenty-one, runaways, and using one or more drugs. Hector knew plenty of girls like that, or had before he’d been locked up. The problem was finding one you could trust not to screw things up.

The other problem was he’d have to trust Jangles to find the right girl, and to do it quick. Both those things were problematic. Finishing the last bite of his club sandwich, Hector chased it with a sip of ice water and looked around the almost empty room. Jangles himself was fairly reliable, but he wasn’t the best judge of character. Maybe it wasn’t his best idea, but Hector was running out of options.

Leaving the blonde waitress a reasonable tip, he went back to his room and resumed his seat between the TV and the balcony door. He had a few hours yet until the meet, and he wanted to try to sort through everything in his head before sitting down with those damned suits again. He still wasn’t quite sure what they wanted done with Caitlin’s House, but maybe they’d get more into that tonight. And maybe he’d look into some kind of down payment, along with the insurance in his jacket pocket.

It was loud in the bar, and he was glad he’d started recording before walking through the door. He was also glad he could feel the Beretta tucked into his waistband. Flying solo always made him want to carry his own insurance.

They were sitting toward the back, the big one with the accent and the older one. Haskell. Cutting around a waitress with a tray load of drinks, he nodded when he got close enough to be seen and slipped into a chair, turning it so he could see the door and the two other men at the table.

The big one nodded. “Careful. I like that. I believe it’s time we filled our friend in on his task, yes?”

Haskell nodded, but Hector thought he could see doubt in the man’s bloodshot eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.” He turned away from the other lawyer. “As I said on the phone, we may need to move quickly on this one.”

“Yeah. But I might need some good faith money. It ain’t that I don’t trust you…”

“But you don’t trust us.” The big man nodded again. “A good way to be in business. But I believe friend Arthur here has something to ease your concern. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

Again Hector could see the doubt, but the big one seemed to have some kind of hold over the other man. Haskell lifted a leather overnight bag from the floor and put it on the table. “There’s fifty thousand dollars in there. Consider it a down payment.”

“Sure.” Hector unzipped the bag and flipped through the bundles inside. A mix of bills, and nothing consecutive. These guys know the score. He smiled as he zipped it back up. “Looks like we got a down payment. Now what is it you need done?”

“You seem like a smart man, Hector. So let us talk straight, yes? We want to ruin the reputation of Caitlin’s House. Destroy it so the place must close and never reopen.”

“Why not just burn it?”

“Direct as well. No, this must cause someone to suffer a great deal. Property may be rebuilt, after all…”

“But when a reputation’s gone, you’re screwed.” Hector nodded slowly, letting his mind wrap itself around the idea. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Sonny Burnett, would it?”

“Let us just say it’s an old issue. One that’s been too long in being dealt with.” Wiggins steepled his fingers and leaned forward on the table. “Now how would you go about destroying the place’s reputation?”

Hector paused for a moment. “Get a girl in there. One you got some hooks in so she does what you want. Then maybe have her smuggle in some drugs. Get pictures. The kinda stuff those rags in the supermarkets go nuts for. Maybe have her say one of the guards tried to fuck her. All kindsa stuff you could do if you got the right girl in play.” He shook his head. “Trouble is getting on those supermarket rags.”

“You mustn’t concern yourself with that. All in good time, friend Hector. But do you think you could find such a girl? And, what was your phrase, put her in play?”

“Yeah. I think so.” He wasn’t as sure as he sounded, but with this kind of money in play he’d make it happen. Even if he had to cut Jangles’ balls off and send him in singing soprano. Or Ramon. Dude might actually like that, though. Then the rest of what the lawyer had said sunk in. They’ve got a paper ready to run the story! Gotta be the Post. No one else around here would touch that. Not with Burnett in back of it. “So how soon do you need this?”

“As soon as possible. But don’t cut corners. Haste makes waste, as they say.” The big one leaned back again. “We will likely only have one shot at this, so it must be true.”

Haskell cleared his throat. “Call me as soon as you have the girl. I’d like to check her out, just to make sure she’s what we need.”

“You mean bang her?”

“No. She has to be a certain type if we want the press to buy the story.”

“I get it. One of them hookers with heart of gold? Big eyes an’ a sob story as wide as the Gulf? We’ll do what we can, gents, but it’s also gotta be a reliable piece of tail. And those are hard to find.”

“Do what you must.” The big one got to his feet, followed by Haskell. “Don’t let too much time pass, Hector. Once you have the girl we’ll start preparing her story.”

Hector waited for them to leave before reaching into his pocket and shutting off the recorder. The brown leather bag still sat on the table, and he resisted the urge to open it again. But he knew he had to move. He didn’t need the attention, or some moron cop thinking he was a buyer. Snatching up the bag he headed for the door. He’d call Jangles from a pay phone and set up his own meet. And hope the little asshole could come through.