A Mighty Fortress (6 page)

“Actually, it will be dinner for two.”

“Is she hot?”

I pictured Judge Pinkerton wobbling across his parking lot, pushing his bike and scratching his bony rump. “Not exactly. So, any idea what Scalzo looks like?”

“From what I hear, he’s pretty nondescript. Short guy, short black hair.”

“No identifying marks?”

“Christ, Porter, I haven’t seen the guy naked.”
 

“I don’t plan on seeing him naked, either. I just wanted to know—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here’s one thing I do know, the guy’s always packing.”

“Oh yeah? And who told you that?”

“Good luck, Porter.”

He hung up, probably en route to the nearest toilet. I slid open the top drawer of my nightstand and looked down at my commemorative Sig Sauer 250 resting in its case. I hadn’t taken it out in a while. In fact, I hadn’t fired a gun since I moved to Tampa. Maybe it would like to go for a ride. I asked it, but it was happy sleeping and staying home. So be it. I was, too.
 

I closed the drawer, and went about picking out clothes for my date.

Pinkerton was waiting on the corner of Westshore and Gandy. He’d wanted me to pick him up at the Circle K there for some reason, and when I arrived, he was holding a brown paper bag and wearing an antiquated gray suit of thick wool that resembled gabardine. Whatever it was, it was too hot for August. He walked to my car calmly, opened the door, and took his seat.

“Can I put this in your glovebox?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before he opened it and stashed the brown bag inside.

“What is that?” I asked. The traffic had cleared, allowing me to head north on Westshore.
 

“None of your business.” He closed the glovebox and reclined his seat a few degrees. I could tell he had showered, but his hair was greasier than when I’d dropped him off. “Pleased to see you’re a man of your word.” He rested his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. Red veins colored his gray eyelids.

“Actually, I’m hoping you’ll continue to prove valuable to my investigation.”

He shifted his head and opened one eye with a worrisome glare. “Fat chance.”

“All the time you were on the bench, you ever have any run-ins with the Scalzo family?”

He raised his seat and sighed. “There was a time in Tampa when if your last name ended with a vowel, you were for all intents and purposes above the law. Remember, I started out in the State Attorney’s office. We knew all about Alfonse and his family. Alfonse was one of the old guys, in with Trafficante. But his son, Art, he was a real fuckup. Did too much blow in the seventies. Why do you ask?”

“Because tonight we’re serving Alfonse’s grandson with a trial subpoena.”

Pinkerton leaned toward me. “Not
we
, sonny. That would be you. I’m just along for the ride. And the food.”

From Westshore, I turned left on Kennedy, passed the Westshore Plaza, and took 60 over to the Courtney Campbell Causeway. Armani’s was near Rocky Pointe, just at the start of the causeway, where a few hotels and restaurants overlooked the edge of Old Tampa Bay. I found the Hyatt and a sign for Armani’s, and pulled up to the valet kiosk.

“You can’t be serious about valeting this thing,” the judge scoffed.

He had a point, though he didn’t realize why. I’d rather not have to wait for the valet to retrieve my car if things turned south and we needed to get out of Dodge. So I parked in the hotel garage. It was only $20, rather than the $25 for valet service. I kept the receipt for Mattie.

The hostess wore black; her hair was blonde with black streaks. She didn’t make eye contact, just asked if she could help me.

I told her I had reservations for two.
 

She glanced at my companion. She seemed uneasy about where to put us vagrants. I made her job easier. “Could we have a seat somewhere out of the open?”

“Gladly.”
 

She led us to a two-seater in a far corner of the main dining room. I didn’t know much other than I was looking for a party of four, one of whom would be Angie, or whatever her name was.

Our waiter walked over regretfully, as though he’d picked the shortest straw. His demeanor improved when Pinkerton snatched the wine book from his hand. It didn’t take Pinkerton long to order. He ordered the antipasti bar as an appetizer, and the osso bucco special the waiter had told us about—undoubtedly the most expensive entrée on the menu. The judge obviously had been here before or spent the afternoon studying the menu.

“And to drink?” asked the waiter.

Pinkerton admitted he didn’t know much about Italian reds. He asked for something that could stand up to the braised veal.
 

“A brunello, perhaps,” suggested the waiter.

“Sounds great. Give us your most expensive one.”

I sighed, wondering what the limit on my Amex was.
 

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked me.

I ordered a Tuscan ribeye and an Italian beer. I’d let the good judge have his way with a bottle of wine. I was curious to see if he could finish it by himself and, if so, how he handled it.

Pinkerton disappeared for his appetizer. I glanced around the dining room. Still no sign of the Scalzo party. The waiter returned with the wine. While he worked on uncorking it, I asked if they had any private rooms for special occasions.

He set the cork on the table and hovered over my glass to pour the sample.
 

I covered the glass with my hand. “Just the beer for me.”

“We do have a few private booths,” he said as he poured a sample for the judge.

I asked where they were. “I’d like to see them before I leave. I might be interested in reserving one for an upcoming birthday.”

“Around that hallway.” He pointed, and I thanked him.

I was about to get a better lay of the land when Pinkerton returned with a plate filled with cuts of charcuterie, white cheeses, and every shade of olive you could imagine. He swirled the wine in his glass and took a whiff of the bouquet. His nose snarled merrily and he finally nodded in approval.

Then he raised his glass for a toast, and I met him with my beer.
 

“What are we toasting?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Life,” he said. “That should be good enough.” He started chewing on a piece of oily salami. “You know, speaking of life, I did a little reading on yours today.”

“You don’t say.”
 

“You don’t think I’d go to dinner with a complete stranger?”

“I didn’t give it much thought.”

“Sure you did. But you know me. You had no reason to. Plus, I thought your name was familiar. I realized it wasn’t just from the courtroom that I remembered you.”

I sipped my beer, not liking where this was going.

“Yeah, sonny, I saw you had your fifteen minutes of fame. Or should I say your fifteen minutes on Fox News?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Some story. You lost your dad on 9/11, dropped out of law school, and enlisted to fight the bad guys.”

“I guess that’s how they reported it.”

“And you played football too?”

I nodded. “I was a tight end at U. Conn.”

“A pretty good one. I read you tried out at the combine.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, the message I kept hearing was that I needed to put on some weight to make it at the next level, and if I did my research I could locate some anabolics that would do the trick. I said no thanks. So I went to law school, to make Gus Porter the happiest man in Brooklyn.”

“That your old man?”

I nodded again. “Yeah. When he was gone, I had no desire to stay in law school. I guess at that time, I didn’t want to do anything but fight. I wanted revenge.”

Pinkerton took a slow sip of wine. “You get it?”

“You’ll have to wait for the book.” I stood up. “On that note, I need to relieve myself.” I put on my black blazer and grabbed the subpoena.

I found my way to the restroom, spent an obligatory minute at the urinal, and returned to the hostess. She didn’t look happy to see me so soon.

“A friend of mine is supposed to dine here tonight, and I’d like to buy him a drink. Any chance you could have someone tell me when he arrives? I think his reservation is at eight.”

“His name?” she asked, with no lack of suspicion.

I told her the name I was growing tired of repeating.

“They moved their reservations up to six. They’re probably finishing dinner right now.”

Close one
, I thought. I thanked her and followed the hallway in the direction of the private booths. The first booth I came to sounded like it was hosting a standup comedy show. I stuck my head in.

There was laughter all right, produced by a group of old fat men, none of whom were young enough to be Scalzo. Nor was there any sign of Angie. “Can I help you?” the ringleader asked.

I apologized and said I had the wrong booth.

I started for the next one and listened. It sounded like the waiter was kissing ass and collecting a credit card for the bill. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be right back.” Then the waiter left, holding the little black credit card folder.
 

I took a step back when I heard another person excusing herself from the room. No doubt who that person was. She was wearing a tight black dress that barely covered her butt and breasts. She walked with a tipsy gait and flirtatious stride.
 

I waited for Angie to pass and disappear around the corner, and then I backtracked to the kitchen area. I found the computer, where there was a line of waiters submitting orders and waiting for credit card bills to be processed. I eyed a small stack of the credit card folders. “Which way is the restroom?” I asked a waiter as I furtively slid one of the folders off the pile.

“That way,” Scalzo’s waiter answered, oblivious to what my hand was doing behind my back.

I folded the subpoena and put it in the black folder.

I entered Scalzo’s booth. There were two men and a woman sitting around the square table. The men faced each other; the woman was facing Angie’s empty seat. The man with his back to me had blond hair tied in a ponytail. The hair on the other guy matched Mattie’s description, and I knew no self-respecting Italian would sit with his back to the door, so I figured the guy facing me was Scalzo.
 

I stepped up next to the blond, and drew the ire of the guy looking at me.

“Are you Chad Scalzo?” I asked.

“Who the hell wants to know?”

I raised the bill holder. “I’m sorry, but there’s a problem with your credit card. I need to verify your ID.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Are you Chad Anthony Scalzo?”

He reached behind him. He did it slowly, maybe trying to scare me, like he was going for a gun. But then he pulled his wallet out and showed me his license.

I was in business.
 

I returned his license and handed him the credit card holder. “This is for you, sir.”

He opened it and shook his head when he saw the folded paper.

“Mr. Scalzo, I’m serving you with a trial subpoena. This compels your attendance at a trial next week.”

He looked at first like he thought it was a joke. When the punchline never came, his face twisted with anger.
 

“Are you
kidding
me?” he asked. “You interrupt my dinner with business associates to serve me with a subpoena?”

“What’s going on?” Angie had returned. She stared at her party. Then me. She smiled as though we were playing a game. “Hey, this is the guy I told you about. The guy who was in your apartment today.”

Scalzo stood. “Is that right?”

I nodded.
 

He waved the subpoena at me. “This?” He lowered it to a candle burning on the table. “You think I give a flying fuck about a subpoena?”

I shrugged. “Not my problem.”

He threw the burning paper at me. I let it hit the floor and stomped it with my boot.

“It sure as hell is now.”

Angie stood between us. “Let’s not be ridiculous here,” she pleaded with Scalzo. “Take a look at this guy. He’s perfect for what we need.” She placed her hand on my chest. “This is just what you were talking about. A guy off the street. He’s perfect.” She looked at me. “You have plans tonight?”

The other girl smiled from her seat. She was blonde and about ten years older and twenty pounds heavier than Angie. “Yeah, I can see it too.”
 

Angie held my hand like we were long lost friends. “You ever considered doing some acting?”

The guy with the ponytail turned around. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and looked like some kind of physics student. He pushed his glasses up to get a better look at me.

I took a few steps back to stop whatever game they were playing.
 

Scalzo was making his way toward me with red cheeks and a steaming brow. “You get the hell out of here,” he said. “And you better make sure I never see you around here again.”

The waiter returned with Scalzo’s credit card. He looked horrified when he saw what was going on. Scalzo grabbed the holder from him. “Waiter, this man is trespassing.”

“Shall I call security?” he asked weakly.

I told him that wasn’t necessary and ducked out of the room.
 

I headed for the exit, and then took the long route through the dining room, hoping they would assume I’d left the restaurant. When I returned to the table, Pinkerton had eaten a third of his veal, and my steak sat glimmering under the candlelight.

“Where there hell did you go?” Pinkerton asked while chewing.
 

“We might need to get this to go,” I said.

“Scalzo?”

I nodded. “They decided to eat early. Must have big plans for the night.”

“Screw him. We eat.”

And so we did. Once ten minutes had passed, I figured we were in the clear. Still, I couldn’t finish my steak. Adrenaline blunts my appetite. Dr. J says my body produces too much adrenaline, and I’m addicted to it. I didn’t buy that, but I did have another beer for good measure.