Rogue Asset (Rogue Warrior Thrillers Book 11), page 2
“It’s serious, isn’t it?”
Two more firm nods. “But it’s his problem to resolve.” Now she was crying, a tear tracing its way south, below her right eye. She wiped it away quickly. “I—”
“Dawn?”
“I don’t want to lose him. But I also can’t help him.”
Bob gestured to the bench. “Here. Let’s sit for a minute, okay?”
She sat down on the bench. Bob took a spot a few feet away. She could likely tell he was going to pry, so she just let it out. “He’s in a lot of trouble.”
“His old gang?”
“No. No, that’s still old news.”
“What happened? I thought you said he’d moved out west.”
“Uh-huh. He came back about a year ago. He swore to me he was keeping it real, playing things straight.”
Bob had heard that refrain a few times before, which meant his next question sounded more judgmental than intended. “Yeah, okay. How much?”
“That obvious, huh? You figure he’d just hit up ol’ soft-touch Dawn?”
“When ne’er-do-well family reappear, I’d say them asking for money is pretty much standard operating procedure.”
She hung her head again. “You are annoyingly intuitive. You know that, right?”
“Dawn…”
“A hundred and fifty thousand.”
That gave Bob pause. That was a lot of money by any standard. “Jesus H,” he muttered.
“Don’t blaspheme, please,” she said. But it was a weary rebuke.
“He’s got a gambling problem?”
“Something like that. He didn’t share the details, not really. He gave me some nonsense about it being a failed business venture. But he’s in real trouble. Even at my apartment, he was so worried he kept checking over his shoulder, scoping out the doors and windows and such. He kept saying he wasn’t really in trouble but also that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to know he loved me. But…”
“But then he asked you for the money, I’m guessing.”
“I don’t have anything close to that. I’ve got retirement savings, but they’re locked in. I mean… I guess I could cash them in, take the big penalty. But it wouldn’t cover it.”
Unacceptable anyhow, Bob thought. “There’ll be another answer,” he said. “Don’t even think about doing something like that.” Chances were good he was just playing her anyway, the real risk minimal. He probably just thought she was, in her own words, a soft touch. “You’d give someone the shirt off your back. You don’t even know what it’s about. Maybe he gives whoever he owes the money, but maybe that person just sees it as a route to more.”
Dawn looked around the gym, her eyes flitting from the man working the nearby heavy bags, to those working on the universal gyms, to the pair who had just entered the ring to spar, glove leather slapping glove leather. “I don’t think Errol would steal from me. If he’s desperate, it’s because there’s a genuine threat.”
“So take it to the police,” Bob suggested.
She cast him a sly gaze. “Really? The neighborhood we grew up in, you don’t call the police, Bobby. Never. I mean… even when they’re straight as arrows, they’re not going to trust Errol, and he’s not going to trust them. And if any of Errol’s old crew are still around and heard that… I mean, he wouldn’t last long, you know? I guess I’ll just have to take the hit. Cash in my retirement fund; that’ll get him most of it.”
What she really needed was to be rid of the problem, Bob figured. “I could have a word with him, figure out what’s actually going on at least.”
She frowned. “Is that something you really want to do?”
“Hell no! Of course not! But it’s hard to solve a problem when we don’t know how or where it started. Like I said when I got into town, I’m at least semi-retired from the good-deeds industry. But not everything has to devolve into a fight. Right?”
She looked over at the row of pictures again. “Yeah… I mean, I get it. But Errol might not.”
“He leave you a way to get in touch?”
She nodded. “A number.”
“Pass it over.”
Dawn gave him a hard look. “I’m not asking you to get involved in this.”
He shrugged again. “Like you said, family is family. If it’s your problem, it’s my problem.”
“I’m not sure I like that,” she said. “It feels different when you’re talking about helping other people.”
“Strong people don’t want help. Doesn’t mean they don’t need it sometimes.”
“Bob…”
“Just… give me the number. I’ll see what I can do, at least. Okay?”
“Okay.”
2
If Errol Green wanted help, it wasn’t going to come from someone he didn’t know. That much was clear from the first half-dozen phone calls.
Eventually, Bob had given up and hiked the six blocks from his rooming house to Dawn’s tiny apartment, where she’d insisted he stay. He’d bowed out and taken the rooming house at least partly because her adopted nineteen-year-old son Marcus was still living there as well, and the place was barely big enough for two.
On the seventh hang-up of the day, he’d pointed out the problem as they sat in her floral-print-and-wood-laminate living room. “My burner’s coming up as unfamiliar. I tried two other phones, same problem. Why don’t you call him, then pass the phone over?”
So, she’d tried.
He’d answered on the first ring. “Hey. Look, you know that thing we talked about?” Dawn had proposed. “I was wondering if maybe you could talk to a friend of mine about it. He’s right here. He’s a gentleman who specializes—”
She shot a scathing glance at the phone. “He hung up.”
Bob spread both palms wide in a show of resignation. “So, he doesn’t want your help, clearly. He just wants your money.”
“That’s not fair. We don’t know that that’s true.”
“No, but we do know that as soon as you mentioned another party, he was Gonzo Alonzo.”
“I’ll have to find him,” she said.
His hanging up had prompted her curiosity to kick in, Bob guessed, which meant her anxiety was also on the upswing. “He didn’t leave you any kind of address?”
“Nope. I asked, but he said he’d get back to me when they were settled. But he never did. I guess he had his reasons, probably something to do with this whole mess.”
“That makes it more… wait… who’s the ‘they’ in this?”
“His fiancée, Kandi Oakley. She’s a dancer at Scallywags. It’s a peeler bar about ten blocks from here. You know where the old Cabrini Green projects were located?”
“Yeah. Used to be a real tough neighborhood.”
“Not so much anymore. They sold off the old walkups, put condos up. It’s decent now, mostly. And that’s sort of her home club. If she’s dancing anywhere, it’ll be there. Probably lives nearby to save money, too.”
That gave him a neighborhood, at least.
“She a hardworking type, this ‘Kandi’?”
“That was my impression. She figures he’s got a big score coming eventually, and she can pay their bills ’til it comes in. She has a lot of faith in him. Not sure why, really.” She rose and walked over to the undersized roll-top desk in the corner, rustling through the top drawer. She produced a glossy photo. “Here.”
Bob took the image. It was the type of “Sunday best” shot he’d seen at portrait studios, Errol and Kandi with an arm around each other, on a love seat, him in an oversized dark blue suit, green shirt and patterned tie, her in a black ballgown. “She’s pretty.” Errol looked heavier than his old boxing photo, rings under his eyes, the pressures of years past showing through his smiling exterior, his chiseled frame long giving way to rolls of fat.
“She’s a survivor,” Dawn said. “Errol gave me the impression she had it real hard. But she loves him. I do believe that.”
Bob figured that was a very Dawn thing to say.
She wouldn’t give up on anyone if there was still hope.
Scallywags was the sort of place that made a poor neighborhood look bad and a bad neighborhood look worse. Covering a street corner and half the size of a grocery store, its windows were permanently smoked to prevent anyone looking in. The flashing pink neon naked devil woman on the sign out front prompted people to scurry past that much more quickly.
Which was probably as it was supposed to be, Bob thought, as he looked out the driver’s side window. They were only interested in paying customers.
The bouncers sitting on stools at doors, front and back looked like brick outhouses, Bob figured, with enough steroids in them to end their family line.
He watched the front doors for a few minutes from behind the wheel of Marcus’s third-hand Honda Civic. Traffic in and out seemed light. Strip joints had a hard time surviving in the city, with a local ordinance preventing full nudity anywhere booze was sold. They were making more off the booze than the nakedness, apparently, because at least one customer coming out was staggering.
He hated the idea of even entering the building, the reek of cheap liquor and idle failure. He hadn’t had a drink or even thought about relapsing in more than a year. He had no intention of starting up again in some sleazy dive a block off North Larrabee Street.
But I have to start somewhere, I guess.
He got out of the car and sauntered across the road. The bouncer got larger and larger as he approached. Like the Death Star in a skintight black T-shirt. It didn’t really worry Bob, the man’s posture said he was a civilian, and the bigger a civilian was, the less he usually knew about handling himself. A man that big would figure few could challenge his strength and be overconfident.
He nodded and rose as Bob approached, crossing a pair of beefy arms. “Yeah?”
Bob pointed at the door. “Just going in for a beer.”
The bouncer stepped sideways, in front of the doors. “Private club, officer. You got a warrant?”
“Not a cop,” Bob said. “What, I look official to you?”
“You’re in the wrong hood altogether, little man,” the bouncer said, without a hint of animosity. “We don’t get too many Mark Strong-looking motherfuckers, ya know?”
Bob squinted. “Who?”
“English actor. He’s in… shit, I dunno… everything?”
“I’m not a big moviegoer.”
“Be that as it may, you really expect me to buy that you was just driving by and thought, ‘Oh, I’ll stop in at my FAY-vorite haunt, Scallywags, have me a glass of champagne or something?’ Pu-leeze, my fine five-oh brother, pull the other leg. You’ve got official business inside? Fine and dandy. You just need to show me a warrant.”
The dude wasn’t going to believe him, Bob could tell. “I just need to talk to one of your dancers, Kandi Oakley.”
The bouncer shook his head but did not elaborate.
“Okay,” Bob said. “I’ll wait at the back door until she comes out.”
The bouncer sighed, starting to feel put out. “You’d be waiting a long time and upsetting the other ladies in the process. And the back door is ON private property, so…”
“You want to see a warrant. Gotcha. Trouble is, like I said, I’m not a cop.”
“Then you REALLY fucked,” the bouncer said.
He was starting to irritate. “You want to do me a solid, poke your head inside and ask for her?”
The bouncer grinned at that. “Now why would I do that?”
Why? Why do I always have to pay to avoid a fight? Bob took his money clip out and removed a twenty. He handed it to the bouncer.
“There. Now… ask inside, okay?”
The bouncer looked at the twenty, snapped it taut. He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. “And I thank you for the tip. But this remains private property, and if you want to go inside—”
Bob’s patience had run out. He didn’t let him finish the sentence, throwing the uppercut from his hip, knuckles catching the bouncer on the tip of the chin, the same spot he’d just shown young Maurice… only harder.
The bouncer’s legs folded under him, and he slammed to the sidewalk, back first. His faculties returned almost immediately, and his eyes snapped open, the momentary confusion giving way to anger.
“How…?” he spluttered.
“I hit you.”
The bouncer looked confused. “Hit… me?”
“You didn’t see it.” Bob took a step forward and put his foot on the man’s throat. “Now… when a man takes your hint and gives you the bribe you were so clearly demanding, the correct thing is to play the game properly and honorably,” he said, without raising his voice. “It’s an implied contract. Not honoring it is theft, in my eyes. So, I hit you.”
The bouncer was turning beet red. He tried to pry at Bob’s foot with his fingers.
“I’m going to go inside,” Bob said. “I have no beef with you other than you taking my money and then pretending you didn’t know what it was for. And you’ve already paid for that. If you come in looking for revenge or to show everyone how tough you actually are, I’m going to hurt you, possibly seriously. You understand, eh?”
The man was gesturing towards his throat, trying to talk, his hands on Bob’s ankle, trying to move it but with no leverage against the other man’s full body weight. “Hard to… breathe…” he managed.
Bob released some pressure. “Better?”
“Yes.” He exhaled and drew in clear air, such as it was. “Thank you.”
“Good man. Stay here. I’ll be right back. And you can keep the twenty.”
Bob stepped over him, opened the door and went inside.
3
Scallywags was impenetrably loud, the bass subwoofers under the central stage thumping with such volume that every drink in the place seemed to jump a quarter inch in time with the dance music.
The room was doused in blacklight, people’s light-colored shirts glowing in a purplish haze. Aside from the stage, there were two full-length wall bars on either side of the main floor, neon signs dancing across the walls, repeating the obvious. Two-person tables ran right up to the side of the stage, and most were filled by single men, some with dollar bills in hand.
Bob realized he was the only white guy in the room, and it was drawing attention. A waitress wandered by. “You lost, sugar?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m looking for someone, a dancer named Kandi.”
The waitress screwed up her features at that, moving just enough for the tray-borne martinis to jiggle but expertly not spilling a drop. “I can’t give out personal information,” she said.
Bob scoped the room quickly. Once he was sure no one was still staring, he took his money clip out again. “You sure about that?” He peeled off a twenty. “Not even looking for her, really, just her boyfriend.”
She frowned and took the money but looked unimpressed. Bob was starting to get the impression that inflation had hit bribery particularly hard of late. “Errol. Uh-huh. You five-oh?”
“Nope, just a concerned and generous citizen.” He peeled off a second twenty. “Any more expensive and this may not be worth my while.”
The waitress checked their perimeter, then took the money. “She don’t dance here no more,” she said. “Other girls complained she was stealing.”
Ah, hell. “Any idea where—”
She started shaking her head before he’d even finished the sentence. “Don’t know, don’t care. Nasty bitch, that one.”
“She get along with any of the girls?”
Another shake. “Nope. Maybe Justine, ’cause they both use Mr. Balaban’s shoe repair down the street for their heels. But she ain’t dancing tonight. Look, I got to get back to my shift…”
“Thank you,” Bob said. “You’ve been a lot of help.”
That didn’t sound likely, her expression suggested. “Uh-huh,” she offered before walking away.
Bob headed back outside.
He clocked the bouncer’s straight right hand as soon as he threw it, in his periphery. Bob bobbed backwards, the punch sailing past his face. He leaned to his right and smacked the man with a side-fist, striking him on the nerve cluster between the shoulder and back of the arm.
“Hnnnh!” the bouncer grunted. He leaned forward and clutched his left arm with his right even as he took two steps backwards, almost tripping over his own stool. Bob kicked his feet out from under him. He slammed to the sidewalk again, this time butt first.
“What… what did you do?”
“Your arm is going to be completely numb for a few minutes, that’s all.” Bob looked him over. “What’s your name, fella?”
“Em-Emmanuel,” he stuttered.
Bob offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. “You’re a big dude, Emmanuel, but one day, the customer who fights back will be meaner than me,” he suggested. “If I were you, I’d find another line of work.”
He crossed the street to Marcus’s Honda Civic, taking out his phone en route. Women’s shoes weren’t cheap, and strip clubs were one of the few things keeping cobblers in business.
The cobbler opened again at eight the next morning.
A two-sided sidewalk sign outside declared: “Shoes repaired in 24 hours!”
At the counter, Bob watched as the cobbler studied the photo.
“I mean… we get so many,” he said half-heartedly. “All the ladies around here bring me their heels to fix.”
“I figured. That’s why I’m here,” Bob said. “Take a hard look. This is incredibly important. Her boyfriend’s in trouble. But she doesn’t know it, and I can’t help him if I can’t find her.”
“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”
“The kind you don’t want,” Bob said. He took out his money clip again and peeled off a twenty. This is getting expensive. “If she’s a client, you must have a name and address or phone number, some way to tell her that her shoes are ready.”
The cobbler nodded behind him to a nicked-up workbench by the wall. On it sat the monitor for a Mac Pro. “Yeah, but I do it the same way as everyone now, good sir. I just email them.” He looked at the twenty. “Now… that doesn’t really get someone a decent lunch in this town anymore.”
