“Did you find him?” Elizabeth asked. She sounded anxious.
“Not yet,” I replied. “I was calling about that lawyer, Lowell Pinkus. You ever met him?”
“No, we never met. Only spoke a few times on the phone.”
“Anything you can tell me about him that stands out in your mind?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything peculiar or different about him. Any little thing you remember could be helpful.” I needed to jog her memory. “How about his voice anything that stands out in your mind? Maybe he had an accent?”
Silence. Then she said; “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I’m just trying to jog your memory a little.”
“I know,” she said in almost a whisper.
I spotted the emcee stepping back onstage, headed for the microphone. The next show was about to start.
“Close your eyes and take a deep breath,” I said. “Think back. Think of Pinkus. Go over your conversations. Think about his words. Sentences. Anything you can think of. I’ll call you back shortly.”
The disco music’s volume rose again, followed by a man’s voice introducing the next act. Sheena and Jade, exotic dancers from Brazil, were about to dazzle us. The spectators who had answered nature’s call, their liquid burden no longer an issue, their prostates momentarily relieved of discomfort, rushed back to their seats, not wanting to miss a beat. The man in the wheelchair glided in deftly behind them. He didn’t want to miss a beat, either. Nearing my table, he slowed down and said in a loud voice, “You don’t want to miss these two, you know.”
“Oh?” I said, glancing at the two new dancers contorting suggestively onstage to the cheers of their lust-crazed admirers. Like the dancers before them, they too were young, busty and curvaceous and full of tight dark skin.
“Yes,” he said behind a knowing smile. His voice was deep and booming. I also noticed something else... a slight lisp, perhaps? I couldn’t tell. “Theiw act is all S and M. They have studs and piewcings evewywhewe. Lovely show.”
There it was: a bit of a problem with his “r’s.”
“Nevew seen you hewe befowe,” he said.
“No,” I said, trying to be friendly. “First time.”
“Well, enjoy,” he said as he moved the joystick protruding from the left armrest and glided back to his table.
I looked Sammy’s way. He had been watching this exchange. He raised an eyebrow as if to say,
Well?
I shook my head, indicating I had nothing. My cell phone came alive in my pocket. Caller ID said it was Elizabeth Gage. I went outside to get away from the blaring music.
“I think I remember something,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“About the lawyer, I mean,” she added, as if we could be talking about anyone else. “The way he spoke.”
“What about it?”
“He had trouble saying some words... like a lisp or something.”
I told her to stay on the line, then hurried back inside and discreetly scanned the shadows in the back of the room. The man in the wheelchair was in the same spot, his rapt attention on the spectacle before him. Elizabeth had no way of knowing whether he was in a wheelchair, since she had never met the man. It could well be him. I needed more corroboration. I walked down the entrance to get away from the thumping music.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“What kind of a lisp?” I said, ignoring her question.
“Oh, I don’t know...”
“Think hard. This could be important.”
“Well... I know this is probably going to sound very silly, Jason,” she said. “But he sounded a little like that cartoon character, Elmer Fudd.”
But it wasn’t silly at all. That was very specific and incredibly helpful information. “He had trouble with ‘r’s,’ is that it?”
“Sort of,” she hesitated. “But not all the time. Sometimes he seemed to stammer a bit before he said anything else you know what I mean?”
I did. It meant that the man had probably undergone speech therapy to help him deal with the condition. Like a neighbor I grew up with, he sometimes had to think before speaking, to compensate for the lisp. But if it was the same man I had just met, why wasn’t he trying to conceal his lisp? I looked in on him again. He was being served yet another drink. Under the influence of alcohol, he may not even care enough to mask the lisp.
“Jason? You still there?”
“That’s very helpful, Elizabeth,” I replied. “Thank you. I’ll call you back.”
I entered the club and headed for the bathroom. On my way there, I gave Sammy a slight nod to follow me.
The restroom was deserted. Sammy entered a minute later. I explained my conversation with Elizabeth and the man in the wheelchair. We had to make sure it was him. Sammy would find whatever car he was driving and check out the registration, most likely kept inside the glove compartment. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate his vehicle to accommodate his large motorized wheelchair, he most likely drove a van or minivan with a “handicapped” plate or a dangling interior tag. If this man was indeed Lowell Pinkus of Plantation, the documents inside would affirm it. But that would work only if he drove himself. What if he was driven here say, by some sort of a service for disabled pervs? I dismissed the thought. This man seemed to like his independence. And if he had been involved with Baumann, he was likely capable of performing more than just basic tasks.
The plan was simple. I would return to my table while Sammy examined the guy’s vehicle. If it was indeed our man, Sammy would arrange for us to talk privately later. I would take care of the rest.
I went back to my table. Nothing much had changed during my brief absence. The same girls were still gyrating on stage, the same patrons were in various stages of subservient adoration. The guy in the wheelchair, as expected, was parked at his table. A friendly waitress with ample boobs and a not-so-young face wandered by to see if I needed to freshen up my drink, handsome. I said no thanks, and she scooted off with a practiced smile. Less than ten minutes later, my phone buzzed, and I glanced at the screen. Sammy, with a one-word message: “Bingo.”
Nineteen
We left the Pink Heel just before closing time. It had taken another four drinks and well over two hours for Lowell Pinkus to have enough. I paid for the drinks. I had to entertain him, gain his trust. Besides, having him under the influence would make my job easier.
Sammy had gone to bat one more time and, as always, delivered. He had called one of his local sources and secured several items that would be required to carry out my plan. It was imperative that our man survive the interview and that when finished, we leave him in pretty much the same condition we found him in. Yes, he would remember some of it, but he wouldn’t be able to prove that it ever took place.
I followed Pinkus out of the club. The night was cool and damp after yet more rain, and the clouds overhead heralded more to come. That reminded me that I was supposed to be on vacation. I shook off the images of Nora’s hasty exit from the boat, our last phone call, regrets over how things had turned out. I needed to focus. After all, I was about to commit several serious felonies that, if ever proven in court, called for a significant amount of alone time.
Pinkus hummed away in his chair, and I strolled casually behind him. He was headed toward a large van. I saw the Virginia “disabled” license plate. That explained why we couldn’t find a Florida driving record. Pinkus and I chatted about any old thing as we crossed the wet pavement. When we reached the van he pulled a small gizmo resembling a remote control from a side pocket of the wheelchair and pointed it at the van. The cargo door clicked open, and with a whir, a ramp extended to the pavement. He turned around and faced me.
“Thanks for the drinks,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Don’t mention it,” I replied. “You okay to drive?”
“Oh, sure. Trust me, my friend, I’ve been much worse and still managed to find my way home.”
I smiled and shook my head in the way men do when they recognize a good boast. He smiled, too, and we both laughed.
“I never introduced myself,” he said, rolling toward me. He put out his hand. “Lowell Pinkus.”
I shook his hand. “Jason.” Not letting go of his hand, I said, “Tell me something, Mr. Pinkus...”
“Lowell, please,” he interrupted while I kept pumping his arm.
“Lowell, then...” I leaned in closer and could smell the bouquet of scotch, aftershave, and old sweat. “You ever heard of a Jacksonville woman by the name of Elizabeth Gage before?”
His eyes widened before he caught himself and went back to his old self. I felt the muscles in his arm tighten. He tried to retrieve his hand but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry who did you say?”
So this was how he was going to play it. “How about the name Stefan Baumann you familiar with that one,
Lowell
?”
His face froze for a beat, and his small eyes darted around me as if he half expected company. Finally, he seemed to regain some measure of composure. He regarded me with a skeptical glare.
“I’m sorry Jason, is it?” He pulled his hand hard and broke free of my handshake. No matter. He was exactly where I wanted him: alone, in a dark corner of an all but deserted parking lot, with Sammy watching my back. I obviously knew quite a bit about him, and he knew nothing about me other than that I was twenty years younger than he, fit, and not handicapped. I had all the advantage.
“But I’m sure I have no idea what you’ah talking about. Good night.” He turned to leave.
I grabbed his wheelchair with one hand and yanked the power cord from the large battery pack with the other. “I need some information, Lowell,” I said, “and I know you have it. This can go one of two ways. You cooperate, and we both go away feeling better for it, or you don’t, and I force you to give me the information anyway and in the process, you suffer needlessly. It’s your call, Lowell.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes searching mine as he tried to assess the seriousness of my threat.
I leaned on the wheelchair’s armrest and said, “So what’s it going to be, Lowell?”
“Who awe you?” he asked.
“A friend of friend.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ah messing with hewe?”
“Enlighten me.”
He smirked. “All I can tell you is that if you don’t stop this befowe it’s too late, you’ah going to wegwet it.”
“Understand this, Lowell: I’m not interested in you,” I said. “It’s really very simple. Your friend Stefan Baumann stole from my clients substantial amounts of money and property that did not belong to him. My clients want it back. Tell me where to find Baumann, and I go away. No one needs to know of your involvement.”
A smirk. Even sitting there in his wheelchair, he thought himself somehow immune.
“What are you afraid of?” I asked. “No one has to know a thing.”
“Me afwaid?” he asked, seeming puzzled.
“Is it Baumann that’s scaring you?”
He smiled and shook his head. He studied my face for a moment, then said, “Do you-ahself a favor, pal. Get lost befowe it’s too late. That’s my best advice.”
“Lowell, please tell me you aren’t that stupid,” I said, giving him a look of disappointment. He responded with a deadpan stare. “Is that’s the way you’re going to play it?”
The cocky smile again. “That’s the way it’s got to be, pal.”
I raised my hands up in an expression of giving up and took a step back.
He smiled. “Now, that’s a smawt man.”
Reaching back on his chair, he reconnected the power line, did a U-turn, and rolled toward the van’s elevator ramp. As he steered the chair into position, I stepped beside him and hit him with the edge of my hand just below the second cervical vertebra. His head snapped forward, and he sank unconscious in his chair. The act of knocking out a harmless guy, especially one confined to a wheelchair, a man who could not defend himself, stirred a pang of remorse, but I reminded myself of what he had been a part of, the harm done to Elizabeth and her family, and the feeling soon passed.
I looked at him listing sideways in the chair. All his frustrations, shortcomings and anxieties all locked up inside his body. His combative attitude a clear indication that before befalling to whatever bound him to this chair, Lowell lead a different life. Maybe, like countless others, he grew up in some idyllic part of America, had loving parents, maybe a sibling or two, went to school, graduated, perhaps even married and had a family, worked and paid taxes. One day his life too, will come to an end. He will be buried or cremated and his heirs, if any, would squabble meagerly over property and insurance proceeds. Such is life. We spend a lifetime gathering things only to leave them behind as futile mementos of our brief stay in an ungrateful world, failing to realize that in the end, we are not remembered for what we leave behind, but by the emptiness felt by those that remain. I wondered if anyone would miss this broken man.
Out of range of security cameras or prying eyes, I pushed the buttons on the lift, and we rose off the pavement and were soon inside the van’s cargo area. The door closed automatically behind us with a reassuring click. There was no driver’s seat, since the van was retrofitted to run by hand controls accessible from Pinkus’s wheelchair, which locked in place behind the steering wheel. I lifted Pinkus from the wheelchair and laid his limp frame out on the floor. His dead weight felt heavier than I expected. After placing some towels just below him to protect him from the skid proof metal floor of the van, I took the battery out of his cell phone, gagged him and tied his hands in front of him, and called Sammy. We were ready to roll.
In the rearview mirror, the Denali’s intense, bluish xenon lights pierced the darkness. After locking the wheelchair behind the wheel, I sat in it and took a few moments to figure out the gas and brake hand controls. Then I started the big van, pulled out of the parking space, and glided out of the lot to follow Sammy south on the interstate. A few minutes later, we were headed west on Interstate 595. I followed the SUV’s bright taillights down a wide two-lane road into one of the light-industrial areas west of the highway. The Denali turned left into a dark driveway and came to a stop before a big hangarlike structure. Stark and ominous, the semi-round structure stood tall in the moist night air.