Hot Shot, page 6
“Quoting Mrs. Love, I think that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Why indeed?”
The rest of the ride back to Babylon was made in silence as both Jack and Dennis contemplated their next move.
Twenty minutes later, Jack, Dennis, and Cyrus stepped out of the private elevator that let them off in the foyer of Annie’s penthouse apartment. A babble of voices greeted them, and a buffet lunch was set out on the dining-room table. Everyone stopped talking and eating to stare at the trio. Cyrus barked, then barked once again as he beelined for the table, his way of letting everyone know that he was hungry. Fergus immediately fixed a plate for him while the others demanded answers to the questions they kept throwing at the two men.
“First things first. Good idea to serve lunch here so we can talk openly and not worry about someone listening to our conversation in a public place. Since you’re all here, that has to mean Cosmo is, at the very least, holding his own, right?” Jack asked. “Am I right?”
“He’s still in the ICU. Dr. Wylie is at his bedside, and Lizzie is with him. They both insisted we all leave. They promised to call with any news even if it’s bad news. We had no other choice but to come back. We’re just biding our time,” Charles explained.
“You two probably know more than we do. We’re still in the dark as to what really happened, not to mention why it happened.”
“I will say this,” said Charles, “Dr. Wylie said he is cautiously optimistic as to Cosmo’s complete recovery, so I think we should all take that as a plus. Now, if you two don’t mind, we’d like to hear what you found out at Happy Village.”
Jack took the floor and, as he walked around the table filling his plate, gave a detailed account of their meeting and everything that was said. He ended his tale with, “And right before we got here, I had Dennis call Mr. Meadows for the fourth time, and the call went to voice mail like the other three calls. He has not gotten back to me. I find that strange and more than a little disturbing. We need to do a full check on that guy.
“For starters, I think we should talk to Annie’s people here at Babylon. They probably know everyone at the Gaming Commission and might even know Meadows, or at least something about him. Ted, you and Espinosa might be good at that. You want to take a crack at it? Just for the hell of it, Abner, check the guy’s financials. Go back to the day he fell out of his mother’s womb.”
“Sure, we can do that right now. We’re done eating,” Ted said as he slung the backpack he was never without over his shoulders. Espinosa did a quick check before he slid his arms through his own backpack. He grabbed two egg rolls on the way out.
“Abner, hack into that guy’s bank account and see what you come up with,” Jack said, as he bit down into a crusty egg roll. “We also need to find out everything we can on those two gangs. Well, maybe one gang and one . . . whatever Lionel and the Cavaliers are.”
“I can do that part when I’m done eating,” Dennis volunteered.
“Where’s Harry?” Jack asked.
“He left with his friends right before you two arrived,” Charles said. “He said to call him if we needed him. He indicated that he wanted to spend some time with his friends but was just a phone call away. I think they would all like to see some action, but that’s just my opinion.”
“We’re good for now. Let Harry enjoy his friends,” Jack said, as he peeled the shell off a shrimp and popped it into his mouth. “Listen, if it’s okay with the rest of you, I want to take a shower and try for at least a two-hour nap. I’m about dead on my feet here.”
Charles made shooing motions with his hands, which meant, Go already, we can look after things here fine without you and Cyrus.
Jack looked over at Dennis, who was oblivious to what was going on as he tapped and tapped on his laptop. Ah, to be that young again and know what I know now, Jack thought wearily as he trudged to the door, Cyrus on his heels. “Call me if something goes down.”
No one responded.
“Guess it’s just you and me, big guy. You can sleep on the bed with me since we don’t have your bed with us.” Cyrus barked to show that he loved the idea.
Chapter 4
Once upon a time, it had been a decent neighborhood with families. Kids played outside on the manicured lawns and picked flowers for their moms, while neighbors chatted over their back fences or just sitting on their front steps. As the families grew, one by one they moved out slowly, and with that an influx of undesirables appeared almost out of nowhere until there was nothing left of the old neighborhood but run-down houses, many of which turned into crack houses in the blink of an eye. Gangs formed, then multiplied at dizzying speed.
The neighborhood was originally divided into four sections, each with four buildings, be they single-family houses or two-story town houses. They were separated by three mini gardens full of emerald-green grass and flowers of all the colors of the rainbow; the neighbors took turns caring for them all. A comfortable place to come home to at the end of the day.
But that day was now long gone.
The first house in the fourth section was simply referred to as Building One. It sat in a row of four buildings with nothing to differentiate it because there simply wasn’t anything else for miles except three other shacks in the same condition. The emerald grass was gone and so were the colorful flowers the little kids picked for their moms. Cactus, scrub, desert weeds, and sand was all that remained.
Buildings Two, Three, and Four were identical and housed the members of the Scorpions. The word squalid was way too kind to describe the interiors of the buildings. There was no water, no electricity, and no plumbing of any kind because the shell company that had been created to hide the identity of the real owner had failed to pay the taxes on the properties, and all the utilities had been turned off. The buildings smelled of rot, decay, feces, urine, unwashed bodies, and cannabis, of which there was plenty. But the gang had jerry-rigged things so they had electricity for their computers and cell phones.
There was only one difference between the four buildings—Building One was the domain of the so-called supreme leader of the Scorpions. It was where he sat on his throne, made up of two milk crates held together with duct tape. A red rag covered the crates, and it was whispered among the gang that the rag was red because someone’s blood had saturated it, then dried. Of course, those who did the whispering had probably failed high school biology and had no idea that dried blood is actually brown, not red, but they never let the facts get in the way of a good story. Another makeshift stand held a brand-new Apple laptop—stolen, of course, from the backseat of a high roller’s Aston Martin at one of the casinos in town. Dirty, filthy mattresses, stolen from the Trump International Hotel, littered the floor. In this room, the supreme leader ruled his disciples with a dirty fist and a meat cleaver. His name was Alonzo Zuma Santiago. It was a name he had given himself when he was ten and living on the streets with no parents that he knew of. No member of the Scorpions dared question the title he’d bestowed upon himself.
There was jerry-rigged electricity; water pipes, also jerry-rigged; and outside, four porta potties. All stolen. The members took turns emptying them.
At the moment, Building One was filled to capacity, with runaway or homeless young thugs of all ages lining the ramshackle walls and filling the doorway. The stench was sickening to the point that several of the disciples had to go outside, where they choked and sputtered as they fought the bile threatening to erupt. The meeting continued without them. It was a given they would pay for their defection, but they were young and didn’t care. Later, they would learn the hard way that, whatever the circumstances, when the supreme leader said attend a meeting, you attended the meeting—no matter what.
Inside Building One, Santiago raised the meat cleaver and waved it in the air for silence. The crowd instantly went quiet. “Okay, guys, listen up. We have fifteen minutes until our guest arrives. It’s not going to be a pleasant meeting. We were paid only half the money promised, but that’s on us, and Mother Nature. The other half was to be paid to us today. Since we failed to complete the job to Mr. Hot Shot’s satisfaction, there might not be a payday today unless I can convince our employer otherwise.” Santiago pointed to a metal box with a padlock, which was simply called the money box.
“See that! Inside our money box is a measly six dollars. Our food supply is almost gone. The last time I looked, which was an hour ago, there were two boxes of Cocoa Puffs, one can of Spam, and two cans of tuna on our food shelf. Since we share and share alike, that means no one eats until there is enough for everyone. That means Team One has to hit the streets and bring back either food or money. Go now!” Six gang members broke ranks and left the building.
Santiago’s second-in-command, a twenty-something named Miggy, stood up, and asked, “So what’s the plan once Mr. Hot Shot arrives? Why is he even coming here? I thought we were done with him. . . .” He looked around to see if everyone was listening, and said, “And his other project. Does he think we owe him a second chance? What?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like it when I don’t know something,” Santiago snarled in return. “I have it on good authority—and by that I mean Hot Shot himself—that several strangers showed up at Happy Village and were asking questions. He called a little while ago. I think that’s the main reason he’s coming here today, since he does not like people sticking their noses in his business. I want to know who those strangers are and what brought them nosing around Happy Village. That means Team Two needs to head out there right now. And don’t come back until you have the answers I want.”
The leader of Team Two, a scrawny teen named Juno, jumped up and demanded to know why they were being sent out in broad daylight, because that just meant they were looking for trouble. Then he grew bolder, and said, “If you’re planning on forcing Hot Shot to pay the balance, why should we risk going to Happy Village?”
The meat cleaver swung back and forth in the stifling air. “Because I said so, that’s why, and do not ever question my orders again. Go now, or this cleaver will be sticking in your back. Clean up a little before you go.”
“Like we have running showers here with tons of hot water,” Juno grumbled as he scurried after the other four members of his team.
Santiago looked around. With eleven members now gone, there were only the five members of Team Three left plus Miggy. He looked down at the knockoff Rolex on his wrist. Five minutes until he had to play host to his employer, Mr. Hot Shot himself.
“Okay, boys, split. I’ll handle this from here on in. Miggy, you stay with me.” To the others, he waved the meat cleaver and shouted, “Stay close but out of sight.”
Miggy dropped to his haunches at Santiago’s feet. He looked up at him, worry lines etched in his dirty face. They were identical to the worry lines he saw etched in his childhood friend’s face. They’d been like brothers, living on the streets since the age of ten or before, two throwaway kids society didn’t know about or want. They’d lived by their wits and did whatever they had to do to survive. From day one, they’d had each other’s back, and as Miggy said, he never expected that to change.
Alonzo had big dreams, which he shared with Miggy in the dark of night. Someday they’d score big. Someday the Scorpions would be so feared, even the police would respect them and leave them alone. Someday there would be so much money, they wouldn’t know what to do with it all. Someday they’d live in luxury, with showers that never ran out of hot water, soap that smelled like flowers, clean clothes, silk sheets on real beds, and the finest food and liquor.
Someday.
That someday was supposed to be now except for a few minor glitches. Every plan ran into a few glitches along the way.
Miggy was tired of waiting for someday to arrive. He wanted it all now. He knew that Alonzo was tired of waiting too. The two of them had talked and whispered to each other in the middle of the night that Hot Shot was the answer they’d been waiting for. Miggy believed, and so did Alonzo. And it had almost happened. And then it all went to hell in a handbasket in a matter of seconds, and they were right back to square one. The here and now. He hated it. Sometimes life sucked, and sometimes it really sucked, and this time it really really sucked. But, Miggy consoled himself, they still had one ace in the hole. Like Alonzo said, you never show your hand until the last second, and that’s when you hit them right between their squinty eyes. Alonzo was always right. He could almost feel those silk sheets. Almost.
Alonzo and Miggy both heard the sound of the car at the same moment. Alonzo squared his shoulders. Miggy jumped to his feet and hustled to stand behind Alonzo as a show of strength. He held a lead pipe in his right hand.
“Remember now, he has the money, but we have the upper hand. Let me do all the talking. Where’s your gun?” Alonzo hissed.
“Back of my jeans. Where’s yours?”
“Same place. No more talking. Remember, we’re going to make nice. At first.” Alonzo’s tone of voice was full of menace.
“I don’t like this,” Miggy mumbled.
“Get over it. Be cool. How many times do I have to tell you, the enemy of our enemy is our friend. He came to us, we did not go to him. We have the power in this situation.”
Miggy wasn’t sure whether that was true, but for now he had no choice but to go along with Alonzo’s theory if he wanted unlimited hot water, primo food, and silk sheets.
Mr. Hot Shot, as the Scorpions called him, entered the room and walked up to the makeshift throne in full swagger as if he owned the place. He looked more like someone’s neighbor, possibly a postal worker or a man who worked in a supermarket stocking shelves than a criminal mastermind. He had no distinguishing marks. He had no tattoos and no piercings like the two men in front of him. He didn’t wear glasses or any jewelry, not even a watch. His clothes were ordinary, off the rack—wrinkled chinos, a long-sleeved Izod T-shirt, and boat shoes. He looked to have a full head of brown hair, with just a tinge of gray at the temples.
Mr. Nobody.
Mr. Somebody.
Mr. Anybody.
Or the man with bags of money.
Just a man with no name except for the name that Alonzo bestowed on him, Mr. Hot Shot. Or so the man thought; but about that, he was so very wrong. Alonzo knew exactly who he was, where he lived, and what he did for a living.
Alonzo leaned forward, his eyes as black and shiny as marbles. He squinted now with the sunlight pouring into the stifling room. “Where’s my money?” His tone was light and sounded almost playful.
“You botched the job. Cricket is still alive, and it looks like he’ll make a full recovery. In other words, you didn’t finish the job.” The voice was strong and angry, conceding nothing to the gang leader.
“My house, my rules. We did the job you requested. You can’t blame me for the flock of pigeons that took that particular moment to swoop down to look for food. In my book, that’s an act of God. And just for the record, we do not do do-overs, so pay up!”
“Or what?” the man barked.
The light, playful tone disappeared as if by magic. Alonzo laughed, a mean, menacing sound that didn’t seem to bother the man standing in front of him.
The meat cleaver, which was razor-sharp, sliced through the air so close to the man’s ear that it sounded to the man as if the tide at the ocean had just rushed in before it hit its intended mark on the door frame.
“Or that!” Alonzo said, pointing to the wall. Miggy leaped forward, pried out the cleaver, and brought it back to Alonzo. “I missed on purpose. The next time, you might not be so lucky, so we should both agree right now that there will not be a next time. One more time—my house, my rules. Now where’s my money?”
The bravado drained from the voice of the man standing in front of him. He started to shake. When he finally spoke, his voice no longer sounded confident. “I don’t have any money on me. That should be obvious to you. I’m willing to compromise. I’ll pay half of the remaining money, but you have to finish the job.”
Alonzo laughed. Miggy joined in the laughter.
“Listen to me, Mr. Hot Shot. I don’t have to do anything. My boys will escort you to wherever you need to go to get the money, and not half, either. I want the full amount. Didn’t your mama ever teach you that a man is only as good as his word? Now, if you want to negotiate a new contract, the price is double. I’m done talking to you. Miggy, escort the man outdoors and have Team Three follow for the handover. Same place as the last time. Don’t be late. You have two hours, Mr. Hot Shot!
“Oh, one last thing. Like I said, we do not do do-overs. Your man Cricket is under guard and will be for a long time to come. Right now he’s safer than the president of the United States. No one, and I repeat, no one, will be able to get near him. I am not going to risk jail time for my boys to make you happy. Find someone else to do your dirty work. A deal is a deal. And remember this: Our original project is still on the books, so don’t mess with me. I don’t like it when people try to tell me what to do. And as long as we’re having this discussion, I want to remind you that payment for our original contract is due in two weeks. That means the rubber meets the road two weeks from today, at which time I become a rich man. Tell me right now if that’s going to be a problem.”
“It’s not going to be a problem,” Hot Shot said through clenched teeth.
“Then you are free to go,” Alonzo said imperiously as he waved the meat cleaver back and forth.
Outside in the fresh air, Hot Shot gagged and retched as he sprinted to his car. Right alongside Hot Shot’s dusty Saab SUV, a rusted-out Honda Civic rumbled and wheezed as the driver prepared to follow the SUV with the mud-covered license plates.
Inside the stifling, ramshackle building, Alonzo and Miggy high-fived each other.
