City of War (34 page)

“They tell me I’m a better swimmer.”

She ignored me. “As a breed, people with big money are arrogant, thin-skinned and lost in any conversation that isn’t about how incredible they are. But for all the vibe you give off, you could be a plumber.”

“Talk about rich.”

“Knock it off, will you. This is important to me.”

I concentrated on driving, and she continued. “Before that guy came aboard the
Sanrevelle
, Jimmy Buffalo told me you saved his life. By stopping him from killing somebody.”

I hesitated, then said, “That’s probably right.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not that interesting.”

“Humor me.”

I took a breath. “When Jimmy moved out to California, he needed transportation. But he was stone broke. He found an old pickup for a grand and borrowed the money from the owner of the gym where he worked out. Guy by the name of Manfred.”

“Why didn’t he just borrow it from his brother?”

I looked at her and saw the light come on. “Pride,” she said. “What else? The curse of the pure heart.”

I went on, “The deal was that Jimmy would pay Manfred back once he started knocking down some real money. In the meantime, he’d work weekend security at the gym—gratis. Jimmy didn’t like owing money, so even though some weeks he went hungry, he managed to pay back almost seven hundred dollars.”

Archer interrupted. “Then, of course, he hit a rough spot.”

“He couldn’t even cover his rent, so he was living in the truck under a viaduct and grabbing government cheese and ten pounds of potatoes on Welfare Wednesday. Then one day, on his way back from showering at the Y, he saw Manfred and two goons hooking his pickup to a tow truck.”

Archer was incredulous. “For three hundred fucking dollars?”

“Not to mention the countless hours of free security. When Eddie called me, he said he had Jimmy at his house, but he wasn’t sure how long he was going to be able to keep him there. Jimmy was just waiting for a friend to come by with a gun.”

Archer said, “So you paid off Manfred.”

I shook my head. “Eddie could have done that. But it didn’t matter to Jimmy. He was going to kill him anyway.”

Archer rolled her eyes. “Jesus, I just hate macho bullshit.”

“It wasn’t like that. In Cajun country, when a man’s down, you don’t screw with him. Period. Not his house, not his woman, and especially not his car.”

“But it wasn’t your fight.”

“I’ve got this thing,” I said, “about people who lend money. If you’ve got more than you need, and somebody needs some, then you give it to them…or you don’t. But you don’t lend it.”

“Is that Ghandi or Marx?” she asked.

“Let me ask you a question. You’re a carpenter, and a guy on your crew gets his tools stolen. The next day, he shows up for work and asks to borrow your extra hammer. Do you give it to him?”

“Of course.”

“And when he buys new tools but keeps your hammer, what then?”

She thought for a moment. “I might ask him for it, but maybe not. What the fuck, it’s just a hammer.”

“Okay, so instead of a hammer, the guy asks you for twenty bucks to buy a new one.”

“Same thing.”

“Really? So when he gets paid and doesn’t give you the twenty back…”

I saw the wheels turning. “I’m pissed.”

“Why?”

“It’s money.”

“And that’s logical how?”

“A hammer is a hammer. Money I could be using for a lot of other things. Besides, it’s like being slapped in the face.”

“So even if the guy’s got four kids to feed, and he had to go into hock to get new tools, you want your twenty back first.”

“How am I supposed to know about the kids?”

“You aren’t. But the way I operate, once I give the guy the twenty, it’s over. If he pays me back, fine. If not, I never think about it again.”

“And you don’t feel like you’ve been had?”

“Never. Because the pleasure’s in helping, not having another twenty bucks. When it comes to money, there’s a special kind of pain that some men who have it visit on those
who don’t. It’s about power, and it doesn’t matter how classy the guy is in the rest of his life or what a prince he is with his family. When he gets a chance to fuck with somebody who’s down, he usually does.”

Archer was nodding. “I think I know what you mean. He wants the good feeling
and
the cash. And he gets righteous and indignant. Maybe even tells a few mutual friends how you stiffed him so he can shove in another knife without your knowing it.”

“No, he wants you to know. In fact, he makes sure of it. He’s a victim now, remember.”

“So how did you handle Manfred?”

“I bought the land and building where his gym was and gave it to Jimmy.”

“You
what
?”

“Gave it to Jimmy. And when Manfred hit a rough spot and missed a few rent payments, Jimmy stopped by and showed him the deed.”

“Fucking priceless.”

“Eventually, he got behind far enough that Jimmy evicted him, then he sold the building to some burger chain. Made a nice deal too. Tried to pay me back with interest, but I told him to use what he didn’t need to help somebody else.”

Archer let a moment go by, then looked at me. “Did Kim know about this side of you?”

“She started out asking questions.”

“So who helps you with yours?” she asked.

“My what?”

“Your demons.”

“What makes you think I have any?”

I could feel her eyes on me. “Because what you do is about coping. There’s something inside that hurts so bad that the only way you can handle it is by helping somebody else.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Someday, you’re going to tell me what it is.”

I smiled at her. “Don’t make book on it, Sigmund.”

At 5:45 a.m., we were sitting in a quiet residential neighborhood in St. Michaels, Maryland, watching the first rays of morning break over the Chesapeake. The houses were unpretentious, but that was deceptive. The St. Michaels waterfront is home to professionals and entrepreneurs who earn seven figures tapping into the trillion bucks the Feds ejaculate into the area economy each year.

Not many government types live in St. Michaels, but Army Chief of Staff Marlon Hood’s wife, Suzanne, was a Connecticut Wentworth—the same Wentworths who helped invent the New York Stock Exchange—so his paycheck was getting a lot more traction than most.

Archer and I watched a pair of pelicans glide just above the surface of the bay as they window-shopped for breakfast. It was so still that when my cell phone rang, it sounded like a fire alarm. Mitchell Adams was on the other end.

“They matched up a palm print in Walter’s house with that guy, Dante,” he said.

“I figured they might.”

“Unfortunately, he won’t be around to stand trial.”

“What happened?”

“They transferred him last night, and during processing he disappeared. A janitor found him in a stairwell…shanked in the neck.”

I wasn’t surprised. “Los Tigres,” I said.

Mitchell didn’t answer, then he said, “Rumor has it, it was a brother.”

I thought about it. A guy like Mitchell Adams would have connections and be owed favors. In his position, I’d have done the same thing.

When he decided I was on the same page, he said, “Before he died, he chatted a bit. Tino’s full name is Celestino Negroni. He’s from Apollonica, Corsica. I checked the place out with a pilot over at Air France. It’s rough country. Rougher people.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“There was a third guy. Tino’s younger brother, Nico. But nobody knows what happened to him. Dante seemed to think he was dead.”

Obviously, the guy who’d quizzed Bruzzi the Lesser in the stairwell had been more persuasive than the cops. It’s always easier when you don’t have to worry about civil rights. I was glad to have a name for the guy who’d killed Jimmy Buffalo. Nico Negroni. May the fuckin’ fish eat him twice.

I said, “Thanks, Mitchell. I hope you find some peace.”

“I appreciate the thought, but there’s no satisfaction in knowing a piece of shit is dead.”

“If it helps any, two pieces of shit,” I said.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Thanks for letting me know.”

General Hood came out of his house at six sharp and got behind the wheel of a red Infinity M-Class parked in the driveway. They say the fourth star is the heaviest, but Marlon looked like he was wearing his well. He was as ramrod straight as I remembered him, and if he’d had any more gold on his uniform, he’d have needed a forklift.

Hood had always been a soldier’s soldier, not just a guy who dropped by to get his ticket punched, so the show of fruit salad seemed out of character. Then I remembered that his boss, the Secretary of the Army, had recently had a heart attack, so he was probably spending a lot more time on Capitol Hill these days. And even politicians who don’t like the military give battle ribbons a wide berth.

Archer leaned forward and stared at him. “Jesus Christ, it’s the guy in Kim’s picture! You know him?”

“Marlon Hood. When I was at Bragg, he was Special Ops CO. But I was a sergeant, and he was a bird colonel, so we weren’t having dinner together.”

“Looks like he’s moved up in the world. I count four stars,” she said.

“Army Chief of Staff. Not a surprise. Marlon was nobody’s fool.”

Just then, the door of the house burst open, and a tall woman vaguely reminiscent of Jackie Kennedy came flying out in a rage, a coffee mug in her hand. Barefoot and wearing nothing but a yellow bathrobe with the front flapping open, she was shouting obscenities and giving the departing general the finger. Lady Suzanne, I assumed.

As General Hood backed his car into the street, the woman ran down off the porch and rifled her coffee mug at him. It bounced across the hood of the Infinity and shattered on the blacktop. The general gunned the car and took off.

“Probably forgot to mow the lawn,” Archer deadpanned. “You want a recount on the ‘nobody’s fool’ remark?”

I said nothing and started the SUV.

Archer turned to me. “So not telling me about the general was another one of your tests, huh, asshole?”

“A little while ago, I was a damaged soul with demons.”

“Hey, fuck you. How’s that for your soul?”

“Okay, you’re right. Sorry. Next.”

“So make it up to me. What else?”

“He’s the reason Bruzzi—and probably the other guy—had to come to the States. A general can’t travel outside the country without approvals all the way up the chain of command. And in Hood’s case, probably the president’s okay too. So whatever it is those three are doing, the general is driving the train—or at least thinks he is.”

I told her to turn on the laptop. When she had the right picture, I pointed out the suitcase and attaché. “They could have had emissaries do a simple exchange.”

“So there was something that they had to discuss. Why L.A.?”

“Probably a city of convenience. Far enough from Washington that Hood wouldn’t run into anyone he knew, and just one nonstop for the other guys.”

“But Kim was onto it regardless. It could have been
Patagonia, and she’d have been there…with her camera.” Archer’s voice told me she was over her anger and proud of her sister.

As soon as he crossed the bay, Hood hooked a hard right at the first exit. I wasn’t ready for the move and almost blew by him. I thought he might have picked up the tail, but he pulled into a Starbucks, got out and never looked around. It was still early, and the place was mostly empty, so I parked and watched him buy a
Washington Post
from a machine and go inside. I gave him five minutes, then followed, leaving Archer in the car.

Hood had his coffee and a bran muffin and was seated at the very back of the L-shaped room. He was facing the door but absorbed in his paper. I made my way to his table, stopped and said, “You’re mighty cavalier about security, General. Don’t they insist on drivers for guys like you?”

His eyes shot up. It took him a second, then he broke into a broad smile. “Jesus Christ, if it ain’t the Duke of Delta Force. Excuse me, you must be a count by now.”

I laughed. “If you’re going to hobnob with the international set, you’d better brush up on your heraldry. No counts in the UK, General. And the British equivalent, an earl, is downwind from a duke. But I’m serious about the security. Not procedure.”

Hood smiled. “Sons of bitches hang around and listen to all your business. Then they talk. Fuck that.”

“In other words, there’s a girlfriend someplace who doesn’t throw coffee cups.”

His eyes narrowed, but he recovered quickly. “No comment,” he said. “Besides, none of the guys in the driver pool has any combat experience. If the shit hit the fan, they might panic and shoot me. I handle my own security.” He tipped his chair back just far enough for me to see the chrome-plated, ivory-handled semiautomatic on his lap.

“You take that off a pimp?” I asked.

“Gift from some sheikh,” he grinned as he slipped the gun
in his pocket. Then he got to his feet, came around the table and hugged me. “Goddamn, Rail,” he said, “it’s good to see you. Get yourself a cup of coffee and sit down.”

The hug didn’t fit with our relationship, so he was checking me for a weapon. I hoped he’d felt the Sig.

I pulled out a chair. “The coffee can wait.”

When we were both seated, he asked, “What are you doing way the fuck out here? And strapped?”

“You don’t believe in coincidence?”

“You’re driving a silver SUV, and you change lanes too much.”

I smiled. “One of the hazards of morning surveillance. Nothing to hide behind. I was hoping you might shed some light on why I’ve been summoned to your place of business. I hate meetings where I’m the only one who’s going to be surprised.”

Marlon Hood looked uncomfortable, and I suddenly remembered that even though he’d acted startled when I’d approached him, he hadn’t tensed up. And he hadn’t put his hand on the gun in his lap. I don’t care how cool you are, that green and gold General Staff badge on his right breast pocket put him near the top of Sandland’s hit parade, and he’d be getting regular briefings on a shithouse full of bad guys who’d like to earn their six dozen virgins by taking him out.