Favors and Lies (11 page)

—

Good Time Charlie, off Route 50, just inside the Beltway on the Maryland side, was visible from a quarter mile. The LED bulbs that framed the roofline of the establishment twinkled just right. The brass fixtures near the entrance—the handrails and lamp posts—were lightly polished for a hint of class. The outside of the building attracted customers like insects drawn to light. The dark interior, the preponderance of royal burgundy carpeting and walnut paneled walls, gave it a sense of prestige. It was a place where secrets could be kept, right out in the open.

The main room of the restaurant was a well-heeled steakhouse which served—as Charlie the owner liked to claim—the best pieces of meat between New York and Texas. On the left side of the massive room, behind two large archways, was a bar that stretched the depth of the restaurant, the stash of alcohol running the gambit from Grey Goose to resurgent PBR. On the right side of the restaurant, behind massive doorways adorned with red velvet curtains, was a private party room that seated a hundred comfortably. The clientele at Good Time Charlie varied from pure-hearted meat-eaters to average johns looking for top-grade meat of a different nature.

Detective Wallace sat in his car in the parking lot and watched the first wave of carnivores disguised as tourists from Florida pull themselves up the three front steps under the awning entrance. For half an hour, Wallace observed and noted the extra-curricular activity of cars pulling behind the restaurant for what his detective mind quickly registered as illicit takeaway.

At seven, the beginning of the weekday dinner rush, Detective Wallace left his car in the far corner of the lot and walked through the front door. He nodded at the twenty-something hostess in a low-cut black dress and, after a quick surveillance, headed in the direction of the first archway leading to the bar. The bartender, replete with a bow tie, took his drink order and returned a moment later with a tonic water and lime. Wallace looked up and around at the line of TV screens surrounding the massive room.

“Nice set up,” Wallace said to the bartender.

“Yeah, the owner is a sports fan. But he's also a steak fan, and the two don't necessarily agree.”

“So he built a sports bar inside the restaurant, with the TVs out of direct view from the dinner customers.”

“Something like that.”

Wallace looked at the collection of photos on the wall above the shelves of liquor. Without being asked, the bartender answered his question.

“Twenty-four of the thirty-two NFL teams have eaten here. Good Time Charlie is sort of the de-facto restaurant of choice for most teams who come to town to play the Skins.”

“No love for the local team?”

“We have players in here all the time. Every day of the week, practically. But eight times a year we have visiting teams, and they all have Good Time Charlie on their itinerary. Nothing makes a football player meaner than raw meat the night before a game.”

“So they say.” Detective Wallace took a sip of his virgin beverage and made eye contact with a woman seated at the bar by herself. His eyes scanned the room as he completed a 360 degree assessment with the help of his swivel bar stool. By the time he came to rest facing his drink and the bar, the woman several seats down had closed the distance.

“Good evening.”

“Evening,” Wallace responded.

“You looking for company?”

“No sugar. I'm just having a drink on my way home.”

“My name's not Sugar. It's Ginger. Sugar may be sweet, but Ginger can be the spice of your life.”

“Married.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“I prefer black women.”

“Honey, I am black.”

Wallace smiled at the woman's Irish white skin. She had dark shoulder length hair and fire hydrant red lipstick. “I prefer not to pay.”

“We can call it a loan,” she purred, licking the end of a straw.

“No offense, Ginger . . . thanks anyway.”

The woman ran a strand of hair behind her ear, rotated her pearl earring once, put her hand on Detective Wallace's thigh and ran her nails up his slacks. Before his soldier could salute, Wallace removed his badge from his pocket and flashed it below the level of the bar. “This can go two ways. I can run you in or you can have a few drinks and answer my questions.”

“Nice try,” Ginger answered. “That's a DC badge. This is Prince Georges County.”

“You know your badges.”

“I've seen them on the dressers of a few customers.”

“How about I call in the PG County cops and we shut the place down for drugs being sold out of the back, prostitution in the front? Not sure that would be good for business.”

“Not much of a choice there. Though I prefer money when I get fucked.”

“What happened to the classy, sophisticated woman who was here a moment ago? The one who came over for a free drink and some fine conversation?”

“I didn't get my free drink.”

Wallace motioned for the bartender and pointed at his bar mate. The bartender nodded and disappeared without asking what Ginger was drinking.
Definitely a regular
, Wallace thought.

“How many nights a week you work here?”

“None of your business.”

“Doesn't seem like you want to take the easy route.”

The woman looked away and sighed. “Two or three nights a week. I have class on Thursday nights. Take care of my mother when I have free time. When business is slow, I work as a psychic. A strong connection to the otherworld runs in the family.”

“A student, a saint, and a psychic.”

“Broke.”

“How come you didn't see that coming?”

“Asshole.”

“Life ain't fair. Who you work for?”

“No one.”

“How many girls work this place?”

“A few. We have it covered most nights of the week.”

The bartender paused on his way down the bar and slipped a drink in front of Ginger. “Everything OK, here?”

“Everything is fine,” Wallace answered before waiting for the bartender to saunter off.

“What's the house's cut?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on. Don't let my youthful appearance fool you. I've been around the block.”

Ginger glanced over at the bartender who was mixing drinks ten feet away. “The house gets ten percent.”

“How do they know what you charge?”

“It's a deal.”

“You mean you service a john who knows the owner, and they report back the going rate.”

“You have been around, Officer.”

“Detective. Any rough stuff? Anyone laying hands on you?”

“Plenty of people laying their hands on me. Nothing rough.”

Wallace handed Ginger his card. “You run into trouble, you let me know. I'll sort it out for you. Jurisdiction or not.”

“I can handle it. It's not as bad as it sounds. I am independent. No manager. I work in a nice environment and pay a small fee for having that safety.”

“Thanks, Ginger.”

“Don't get me in trouble.”

“I'm after something bigger than a blowjob or a steak dinner. Be safe.”

“You too, Detective. If you want to have your palm read, let me know.”

Detective Wallace winked at Ginger, turned, and raised his badge to the bartender. “I need to see the owner.”

“Let me see if he's in.”

—

Charlie Springs, all five foot six of him, popped out from a side door that melted into the wood-paneled wall. He looked at the bartender who pointed his nose in Detective Wallace's direction.

Charlie approached the detective who stood and towered over the owner of the eponymously named establishment. He motioned for Detective Wallace to join him at a secluded table in the corner.

“Detective Wallace, DC Metropolitan Police.”

“Good evening, Officer. Charlie Springs. How can I help you?”

“I'm checking on the alibi of one of your customers.”

“I have a lot of customers.”

“I can see that. Nice place. Seems to be doing good business. Never been here before.”

“Well, there is no reason you would have been here for work, seeing it is not in your jurisdiction.”

“I can gather evidence anywhere it leads.”

“Yes sir, you can. Can't really arrest me without assistance from law enforcement within the jurisdiction. Unless you witness the commission of a crime. But you are always welcome for dinner. Bring the missus. Dinner on the house.”

“Very generous of you.”

“We try to support law enforcement anyway that we can.”

“I see business is good. Full house of patrons, working girls in the front, drugs going out the rear. Probably a bookie somewhere in the works. Maybe the bartender.”

“I don't know anything about it.”

“I'm sure you don't. I'm equally sure you don't want the DEA and ICE to stop by for a meal and haul away half your staff. Those guys are federal, by the way. They aren't handicapped by jurisdiction. I could also have uniformed DC Metro put this on their places of establishments to visit on their way home. The DC line is not far down the street. Not sure how all of that would be for business.”

“How can I help you, Detective Wallace?”

“Dan Lord. You recognize the name?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you tell me if he was here two nights ago?”

“Let me think. Yes, he was. Had a couple of drinks at the bar.”

“Did he pay with a credit card?”

“He always pays cash.”

“Always?”

“Yes. Dan is a character. Suspicious by nature.”

“Anything illegal?”

“Nope. I mean, he will drop a fifty on a football pool, but Dan is both a character and a man of character.”

“And yet, he hangs out here?”

“From time to time. He likes steak.”

“How did you two meet?”

“He helped me out of a sticky situation a few years back.”

“Legal advice?”

“Something like that.”

“You run security video.”

“Sure do. Cameras in every room except the bathrooms.”

“You have the tape for the other night? Proof Dan was here?”

“I am sure I don't. The camera runs on a twenty-four-hour loop. Unless there is a holiday, an onsite injury, or we think someone is stealing from the till.”

“So you have no evidence Dan was here the night before last?”

“Talk to the staff. Ask around. I will sit right here at this table. Won't talk to a soul. See what the employees say.”

Detective Wallace pulled out his detective notebook. “This is how this game is going to be played. You provide the names of available witnesses. You, Ginger, and the bartender will grab a seat in the corner and be quiet. I want the young lady at the front door to gather everyone on the list of witnesses and bring them in here, as a group. Line them up. They will stand along the wall and I will question each of them in turn.”

“Pretty specific instructions.”

“Necessary. I can't have corroboration among the witnesses and I think that you, the bartender, and Ginger would attest to each other being at the first lunar landing if it served you. The young lady at the front of the restaurant is too young to know anything. She is the one who is going to get the witnesses and bring them out here.”

“As you like, Detective.”

An hour later, Detective Wallace had burned through nine witnesses and twice as many pages of his detective's notebook.

He stood from his table and approached Good Time Charlie, the bartender, and Ginger.

“Your employees can get back to work.”

Charlie nodded at the bartender and Ginger and they quietly exited the table.

“Satisfied?” Charlie asked.

“Not the adjective I would use.”

“You know you're wasting your time.”

“Why is that?”

“If Dan wanted to get away with a crime, he would.”

“Not the kind of endorsement you want to convey to an officer of the law.”

“Look, Dan is a good man, unless you piss him off.”

“And then what?”

“Then, look out.”

The detective shut his detective notebook and stared Good Time Charlie in the eyes.

“If I find out you're lying, I will bring all the forces at my disposal down on this little place of yours. I am old. Approaching retirement. I have a long list of favors to call in. You won't like me if I do. I got you on drugs and prostitution and I was only here an hour.”

“You ran the show. You got to interview witnesses without any intervention. They didn't have the chance to talk amongst themselves. No opportunity for one person to warn the next person about the type of questions that were coming. You got clean testimony. You can't say I didn't cooperate.”

“How long before you call Dan and tell him I was here.”

“I won't. But it doesn't matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you're here, then he already knew you would be coming.”

—

Dan pulled off Route 66 and merged into the traffic on Route 7 going west. He turned at the second light into Pimmit Hills, a sea of box houses built when subdivisions were in their infancy, a time when streets were streets, houses were houses, and neighborhoods were neighborhoods without fancy titles like Sugar Run Heights.

Dan's eyes scanned left to right, from house to house, as the neighborhood changed from shabby one-story houses to two-story colonials and back to shabby again. At the end of the road, Dan turned right on a gravel driveway just beyond an all brick mailbox constructed to withstand the impact of a baseball bat swung from a moving vehicle—a dying form of teenage entertainment. Dan inched slowly down the driveway, assessing the area. A group of high school kids were playing three-on-three basketball on a distant blacktop to the left, music wafting from an unseen source.

The driveway curved around two large oaks and a Sears and Roebucks bungalow peaked out from the shadows. The house was tucked between the sprawling Pimmit Hills neighborhood and the retaining wall for the Dulles Toll Road in the property's backyard. Dan stepped from the driver's seat and the steady hum of cars from the highway could be overheard, drowning out the four-letter din from the basketball court.

The two-story wooden house was worn, the front porch flirting with neglect. The boards on the front steps sagged, seventy years of use taking their toll one foot at a time. What had been a modern marvel of the mail-order era, the bungalow was now the first house to have its candy inspected by parents on Halloween—for the kids with brass ones large enough to make it to the door.

Dan knocked on the screen door and a moment later the curtain covering the main window of the living room moved. A pair of hands disappeared from the edge of the glass as Dan tried to peek inside.

“Not taking visitor's today,” a voice yelled from the confines of the house.

“Tobias, it'll only take a minute.”

Tobias, binary wizard dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, paced on the small carpet runner on the other side of the door. He mumbled to himself, his hands moving wildly, his words slipping between whispers and overstated grandeur.

After a moment of verbal self-debate, Tobias pulled the old front door open, leaving a beat-up screen door between the two men.

“Dan Lord,” Tobias said, indicating that dementia wasn't one of his ailments. His shoulder length dark hair was wet, the mop still dripping on his shoulders. His face was shaven. His feet bare. Small sprouts of hair pushed out from his ears.

“Tobias. Good to see you.”

“Not if you're trying not to be seen.”

“Can we talk for a few minutes?”

Tobias leaned on the frame on the other side of the door and eyed Dan through the dirty screen. “How long has it been?”

“Almost a year.”

“How is the little project I programmed for you?”

“I know we tested it and it worked, but I haven't had real-world verification yet.”

“I am confident it will work. So confident, in fact, I used it for myself.”

“Then we will both see.”

Tobias nodded his head in a small rapid burst. “I wasn't sure you'd still be alive.”

Here we go
, Dan thought. “There were moments I didn't either.”

“Then you are a lucky one.”

“Can I come in?” Dan asked through the door. “I need your help.”

Tobias opened the door and looked in both directions.

“I'm alone,” Dan said, close enough to smell Tobias's deodorant, and thankful he was wearing some.

“Enter, enter,” Tobias groaned as if he had just made the most difficult decision of the year.

Dan followed Tobias into the house. The homeowner flicked his hand subtly and Dan took his cue to sit on the couch.

Tobias started to ramble, pacing back and forth on the other side of a shin-high coffee table. “You know I'm up to 213. Needless to say, thirteen is a particularly bad count. Two hundred and thirteen dead. None of them were my fault.”

“I'm sure they weren't.”

“My painter died last week. I told him to keep to himself but the man loved to talk. Had a weak bladder to boot. Always coming in the house to use the can. Always wanted to talk. I warned him, best I could, but you know people these days just don't listen.”

“Some of us have that problem.”

“Painter was almost finished with the house, too. Only had the front left.”

“I can find someone to finish it for you. Free of charge. And I'll make sure they don't talk to you.”

“I'd rather pay. You get a better job when you pay.”

“Who else did you lose?” Dan asked out of morbid curiosity. He figured the sooner he could get the gruesome conversation out of the way, the quicker he could get down to business.

“I lost my favorite cashier at the grocery store. I tried to go to different cashiers, to mix it up, spread the risk, but apparently it was one conversation too many. Problem is, I shop at night and there aren't that many cashiers working the graveyard shift.”

“I'm sure there was no connection.”

“I have a new postman. He seems to be playing by the rules. I told him not to talk to me, and that seems just fine with him. Some people just can't keep quiet.”

Dan nodded. “Some people don't listen and some can't keep quiet.”

“I lost my dentist. I came down with a few periodontal issues and needed a couple of root canals. Spent a week in and out of his office and one Sunday morning they found him floating face down in his pool, his dog barking like mad from the diving board at the deep end.”

“That's awful,” Dan said. He had forgotten how mesmerizing a meeting with Dr. Death Count could be. He watched and waited in amazement as Tobias, a wet-haired ball of energy in jeans and a t-shirt plowed through his ongoing body count.

“I lost an aunt and uncle in a house fire. Lost two second cousins during a family reunion when a bolt of lightning hit the party tent they were standing under. What are the chances of that?”

“Pretty rare for adults to die in a house fire, unless they are elderly. And it's rare that anyone gets killed by lightning. Only seventy people per year in the US, give or take.”

“Did I tell you I lost one of my roommates from college in a sky-diving accident? Another was shot in Tijuana.”

“Risky behavior, especially visiting Tijuana.”

“My first fiancée drowned in the bathtub after hitting her head. My wife died of a sudden aneurism.”

“I recall you mentioning both of those before. I'm sorry for your losses.”

“It's my curse, I tell you. Everyone who gets close to me dies.”

“I don't believe in curses.”

“Just the same, I'm giving you fair warning. The countdown has begun and every minute you are here is another minute the Grim Reaper has to zero in on your location.”

“You are absolved of all responsibility.”

“OK. OK. So, what does Striker want?”

“I'm not working for Striker this time. I'm working for myself.”

“Striker didn't send you?”

“No. We, uh, had a falling out. I'm not sure I will ever work with that prick again.”

“Hmm. Then how did you find me?”

Dan delivered his packaged response. “You have a lot of bandwidth for a residence.”

Tobias flipped a wad of wet hair over the top of his head and considered the statement. “I suppose, if you knew what you were looking for, you could
eventually
find me that way. Otherwise, I am pretty far off the grid. I have solar panels in the back of the house. They provide forty percent of the power I need. I have generators in the basement that run on ethanol. Not the cheapest option, but storm-proof and government proof. Geothermal heating as well. I have a generator running on natural gas and another on propane. Spreading things around to remain below the radar.”

“Government proofing?”

“The government can monitor everything based on power consumption. And believe me they do. This old place still has a working well, which I run through a filter system. By all appearances, I'm just an average middle-aged guy, living a quiet life doing computer work.”

Dan was lucky. His visit dovetailed perfectly into two of Tobias's greatest fears. Death and conspiracy. “I could use your help. I need your help. I lost my nephew and sister-in-law recently. I think there is more to it than what the authorities are telling me.”

Tobias moved towards the window and peeked out the front blinds. “Solving crimes is not my area of expertise.”

“I'm looking for a phone number.”

Tobias began a slow slide into ego-mode, a chest-thumping personality who was as arrogant as his Dr. Death Count counterpart was crazy. “Phone numbers are easy. Frankly, I'm surprised you need help.”

“I'm looking for a phone number that doesn't exist.”

Tobias twirled and looked Dan in the eyes. “You have my attention.”

“The night my nephew and sister-in-law were killed, I received a phone call to my landline at home. That call, according to the police, never existed.”

“And you believe
the police
? By law, the police are permitted to tell you any untruth they want to aid an investigation. By law. They can legally lie to you. Until they get to the courtroom. Then they lie, but it is illegal. Hell, lies are more prevalent in a courtroom than lawyers or criminals.”

“Can you help me determine if the police are lying?”

“Did you try your other connections?”

“I did.”

“I'm insulted you didn't come to me first.”

“I am here now. My contacts confirmed there is no record of a call to my home on the night in question.”

Tobias paused and ran his finger in a circle on his temple. “You want my help, here are the rules. First, the meter is running. Going rate is a thousand dollars an hour. That is a one, followed by three zeros. Those are US dollars, not Guyanese dollars. Second, everything you see and hear remains confidential. Third, and most importantly to you, fuck with me, and I will make your life very uncomfortable until I have extracted what I determine to be an appropriate amount of revenge. Curse-proof or not. You fuck with me, you will never again have a working phone, get money from an ATM, use a credit card.”

“I get the picture.”

“OK. Good. Good. So, you need a trace on a call without a call record.”

“Can you do it?”

“You still living in Alexandria?”

“Yep.”

“Is the home landline Verizon?”

“Yes.”

“Let's go upstairs and see what we can do.” Tobias tossed his head to the side and Dan followed him up a narrow staircase to an office on the second floor. The room had a slanted ceiling that sloped downward to the left, following the roof angle of the 1920's bungalow. The walls were lined with racks of computers and servers. A desk stretched the length of the far wall, topped with a multitude of computer screens in various sizes. A small sofa sat along the other wall, under the narrowing roofline.

Dan motioned towards the sofa. “Is this where you daydream the latest schemes to fleece the deserving and unknowing?”

“Yes. Have a seat.”

Tobias sat down in a wheeled office chair and pushed himself down the length of the desktop with one shove of his legs. The chair came to rest in front of a keyboard near the largest monitor in the room.

“Nice space.”

“A thousand processors in this room. Over a hundred teraflops in total computing capacity. A thousand terabytes of data storage across the hall.”

“Serious numbers. What's on the agenda?”

Tobias mumbled to himself and then raised his voice. “Working on retirement. Got a few things cooking. Been spending some time on the gambling front. Working on perfecting spyware that allows me to see the hands of other players in most of the large online poker communities.”

“Trying to get into the Tournament of Champions, or just making more enemies?”

“Enemies of the righteous. Internet gambling is illegal in the US. Most of the online gambling sites are run from Central America. But the computers and servers, well, most of them are sitting on an Indian reservation in Canada.”

“Canadian Indians?”

“Completely autonomous Indians. Their own nation. Their own police. Their own government.”

“And they have taken to online gambling?”

“Like fish to water. Nothing new for the Indians. They were fucked out of everything else. Left them with alcohol and gambling, and if that wasn't bad enough, they don't have the enzyme to breakdown alcohol. Lots of Indian tribes running casinos, but these Canadian Indians are different. They don't have casinos. They just host the computers for online gambling sites.”

“Let me guess, Indians know more about getting fucked than they do about computer security.”

“I always said you were smart, Dan.”

“Just trying to pay attention.”

“Anyhow, I've been working on some really slick code. But it's a matter of finding the right asshole to fleece. I mean, with my software I can outplay any number of US citizens gambling online and there would be no recourse. What are they going to do, go to the cops? That's like a drug dealer complaining someone stole their stash. Besides, believe it or not, I'm not into fucking over innocent people.”

“A man of principle.”

“Yes. As a result of my principles, I have to spend precious time vetting other players at the poker table. Background work. Make sure I'm not about to tilt the table in my favor at the expense of a recently laid off father of three who is just trying to make ends meet. The guy probably shouldn't be gambling, but shit happens. I get it. Now, the son of a billionaire with a dozen martinis in his veins indicted for running over a young couple in his Ferrari . . . well, that is a different story. He could stand to lose a few dollars to finance my retirement.”