“So that wasn’t just a mugging, was it?” said Chelsea.
“No.”
“What did they want?”
“To scare me off, to stop me from looking into the past. They said I was trespassing, as if the past is piece of land governed by the laws of property.”
“So what’s it all about?” said Lonnie. “You got any idea?”
“Some,” I said. “I asked some questions of an important man today and that seemed to get a lot of people rattled.”
“Who was he?” said Chelsea.
I looked into her pretty eyes, saw there a curiosity that was more than idle.
“He’s a State Supreme Court justice,” I said. “A long time ago one of his friends was the head of a huge cocaine ring. The ring was busted by the FBI and the friend disappeared. I think the ring, the friend, the long-ago crime, the murder on the riverfront, I think everything is related.”
“What are you going to do?” said Chelsea. “Are you going to stop asking questions like they told you?”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We have a friend who lives in New Mexico and has become kind of a spiritual mentor. He always says that the past can be a pretty dangerous place.”
“And, Dude, think about it,” said Lonnie. “You could be getting into something way way over your head. You could be stepping into a serious firestorm. If two dudes came up to me and started playing handball with my head, I’d be doing more than wondering what the hell I was getting myself into. I’d be thinking it might be a good time to check out the Baja for a while, work on my tan.”
“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? I’m sure nothing I’m involved with is as dangerous as a tan.”
Chelsea flicked her hair and laughed.
“If you want, some of my customers are definite muscle heads,” said Lonnie. “You need any backup, give me a call.” He reached into his vest, pulled out a card. THE CHOP SHOP. LONNIE CHAMBERS, PRO-PRIETOR. WE FIX EVERYTHING SO LONG AS IT’S A HARLEY.
“No need to turn a little collection case into Altamonte,” I said, “but I appreciate the gesture. I appreciate everything.”
That was the cue, I suppose. Lonnie stood and then Chelsea stood and then I stood, towel still on my head, the water from the ice now dripping down my temple in a steady stream and onto my bloodied shirt.
At the door I shook Lonnie’s hand, hard, rough, and then Chelsea’s hand. She smiled at me and her eyes lit and she squeezed my hand, softly but still hard enough to convey a message of sorts.
“Thank you for everything,” I said.
“It wasn’t nothing,” said Lonnie.
“Oh yes, it was. I’d like to show my appreciation.” Chelsea smiled at me and I felt it in my chest. “How about if you let me buy you both a drink in gratitude. There’s a place in Lonnie’s neighborhood. You guys know the Continental?”
“Not my usual hangout,” he said.
“Mine neither, that’s what will make it fun. Say tomorrow night? Nine?”
“I don’t know,” said Lonnie, but then Chelsea spoke up.
“That would be great. Really. We’ll both be there.”
“Terrific,” I said. “See you then.”
I stood at the door and watched them go down the stairs and listened for the front door to open and close and then I went inside and peered out the window and watched as they made their way, side by side but not holding hands, definitely not holding hands, east on Spruce, back to the section of the city where they lived, with all its bars and restaurants, far from this mainly residential edge of center city.
As soon as they left my sight I put down the bloody towel, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Telushkin here,” said the voice on the other end.
“Mr. Telushkin, this is Victor Carl.”
“Oh, Victor, yes. I’m so glad you called. How are things going? Have you checked out that lead I gave you?”
“I called about something else,” I said quickly, not wanting to discuss with Telushkin my meeting with the justice. “Was there anyone in Tommy Greeley’s crew named Lonnie Chambers, or was there a woman named Chelsea?”
“Let me think, let me think. Oh yes, of course. There was a man named Chambers, I think they called him Lonnie. He was a mule, mostly, and a debt collector when that was needed.”
“Was he indicted?”
“Oh yes, convicted too. Conspiracy. Drug trafficking. I think there was a racketeering count along for good measure. Ten years, but he wasn’t a kingpin and so was eligible for parole and time off for good behavior. He’d be out by now.”
“And the girl?”
“I remember her, remember her quite vividly,” he said. “Her name was Chelsea Cartland. She helped with the money, helped break down the big shipments, added the cutting agent, bagged it into salable quantities for the customers. She pled guilty, received only sixteen months. A slap on the wrist, really, nothing more. But she was very pretty, very young, and the judge seemed smitten with her.”
I could understand that, how a judge could be smitten with a woman like Chelsea, I could understand it completely.
It was starting to come clear, the crimes of the past that were visiting themselves upon the present. Amidst the warning from Dante and the violent threats from the thugs that night, and the gentle caution issued by my Good Samaritans, who had come into my life, I now was sure, to deliver their message just as clearly as had the goons who had come before them, it was all starting to come clear. A drug conspiracy awash with money. A friendship turned bitter. A lovely sad-eyed woman with a perfect body. A small-time loser who fell into something from which he never recovered. And between everything was a single link holding it all together, a link that could provide some of the answers if I could squeeze it just enough.
Derek Manley.
I had seized from him already a car, a stack of stolen electronics, and I had my man out searching for more. He wasn’t going to like that, no he was not. And I had the feeling, yes I did, that it would not be long before Derek Manley got hold of me.
Unfortunately I was right.
Chapter 29
“WHAT THE HELL you want from me, Vic?”
“How about,” I struggled to gasp out, “you letting go of my crotch.”
“Not until we get this straight,” said Derek Manley, his angry face an inch from mine, his foul breath warm on my cheek, one huge hand grabbing hold of my lapels, forcing my chest up against a brick wall, the other, well, you ever see the back of a garbage truck close down on a sack of trash? “Tell it to me, Vic. What the hell you want?”
“To sing bass again?”
“You a singer?”
“No.”
“Then that makes you a smart-ass. You a smart-ass, Vic?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like smart-asses.”
“Please.”
“You ain’t so funny now.”
“No.”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
“You got a red face, you know that. You must got some Irish blood in you. You got some Irish blood in you, Vic?”
“My grandmother.”
“She was Irish?”
“Ukrainian.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let go and I’ll explain.”
“I don’t want no explanation. I want you to stop your squeezing.”
“Me?”
“You’re killing me, you son of a bitch.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Let go.”
“You let go.”
“You.”
“You.”
“Please.”
“Fuck.” Manley’s face twisted in some sort of fearful rage and he let out a bellow that deafened me with its frustration.