One for My Baby (Phoenix Noir Book 4) (3 page)

“What’s up, Mark? You haven’t come to rob us, I hope.”

Mark looked at him. “Huh?”

“Aw, come on, mate. I saw the news.”

“What?”

“You getting arrested last night.”

“What the fuck was on the news? I wasn’t charged.”

“Didn’t stop
New Times
from putting it on their website.”

“Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’d be lying if I did.”

“Jesus.”

“They’ve got your mugshot on there. If you put out a record, you should use that as the cover photo.” Tony laughed, but Mark didn’t. “Sorry, mate—it’s just that the thought of you doing stick-ups is funny. Why did they think it was you? I wouldn’t have thought they were that daft.”

Mark shook his head. Said nothing.

“Anyway, sorry, like I said. Newkie Brown?”

“Yeah. And fish and chips.”

“Right you are.” Tony handed him a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale. “Only Yanks will drink this. When I was still in England, you couldn’t even get it on draught in bars in Newcastle.”

“How come?”

“It wasn’t worth their while to stock it, since not enough folk were desperate enough to drink it.”

“Well, this is the Wild West.”

“You should know, mate.” Tony made shooting gestures with his fingers, and, laughing, went to serve other customers.

Mark got out his smart phone and looked at the
New Times
news blog. There it was—his mugshot, and a short account of how the police had made an arrest in the latest in the series of restaurant robberies, but the suspect, Mark Sharpton, a musician known locally for his lounge gigs, had been released when the only witness had failed to positively identify him.

“Failed to positively identify him.”
Not
“positively identified him as looking nothing like the robber.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He wondered if the piece was motivated by vindictiveness on the part of Rankin, or just laziness on the part of the reporter. For decades,
New Times
had been the best newspaper in Arizona, but in recent years the owners had gutted it, replacing professional journalists with low-paid amateurs and replacing costly investigative reporting with cheap innuendo. Had Rankin asked the paper to run the story, or had the reporter just heard about what happened from a cop and used it to fill space?

As he waited for his food to arrive, Mark emailed a friend, an attorney in New York, who had been a public defender in Phoenix:
“In Arizona, if you're wrongfully arrested, and released without charge the next day, how long does your mugshot and arrest information remain a public record?”

He was halfway through his beer when the reply came.
“For ever.”

He wrote back, explaining what had happened, leaving out the fact that he was guilty, and asked,
“What can I do about this? Surely it can’t be legal to do this to someone who wasn’t charged.”

“Let me get this straight.  They put web cameras in the female inmates’ toilet and you're surprised about the popo releasing mug shots? There are some states, and I believe Arizona is one, where the law provides that someone can ask a court to seal their arrest records upon a showing of actual innocence.  It is at the complete discretion of the judge. But, unless you take the affirmative step to request this relief, the arrest record remains public forever, at least in Arizona.”

His food arrived. He wanted to leave it, not eat it, leave the bar, but he forced himself to keep sitting there, and to eat. His lawyer friend had once remarked, in a late night bar-room conversation, “People don’t go to prison for breaking the law. They go to prison for being stupid. They don’t keep their mouths shut, or they get paranoid and fuck up. Innocent people go to prison because they talk to cops, but I know lifelong career criminals who’ve never done any time, because they stay calm and don’t talk.”

So Mark decided to stay calm, eat his food, drink his beer, behave like a law-abiding citizen instead of following his impulse to rush back to his apartment and see what he needed to move in case the cops showed up with a search warrant. He chewed and swallowed and made a mental inventory of what he had at his place that he wouldn’t want anyone to know about. His Glock was in the canal along with the money, and the current would have carried it far by now. There was about a few thousand in cash in one of his drawers.  Could he explain that as money saved from tips at his gigs? He had used public computers, with no login required, to search for information about suitable targets, and everything on his own machine was encrypted.

He finished his meal and paid his tab—enduring a couple more jokes from Tony—and left.

––––––––

T
he restaurant
was busier than usual. Linda wondered if it was because some people wanted to see the scene of the robbery the night before. At one point, without warning, she began to shake, and, holding back tears, told Joel she needed a break for a few minutes. She went to the rest room, locked herself in a cubicle, expected to cry, but the tears didn’t come. The shakes continued. She waited for them to stop. They didn’t, but when they reduced to tremors, she went back to work. Joel asked her if she needed to go home, and she said she was all right and that she needed the paycheck and tips. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. She could tell that he was enjoying playing protector, and she wondered if another poem was on the way.

Casci was sitting at the bar. He had been there since she arrived, but, aside from a  smile and a hello, hadn’t spoken to her. Joel had tried to chat with him, but Casci didn’t seem to be feeling talkative. He sat there drinking Bloody Marys and reading on his tablet.

As Linda finished delivering food to a table and started to walk back to the kitchen, she saw that another man had joined Casci at the bar. It was Detective Rankin.

––––––––

M
ark was
in bed, listening to the purring of Pangur Ban on the pillow next to him. He was almost lulled to sleep when he heard the sound his phone made to let him know he had a new text message.

It was from Suzanne:
“Ryan knows everything.”

No, he doesn’t, Mark thought. He may know about you and me, but he doesn’t know my last name or where I live, and neither do you.

Another message arrived. It was from Suzanne’s number, but it wasn’t from her:
“Hey Mark I have your name, phone number and email. Don't ever contact my wife again!! I'm not one to take this lightly! I have ur pic too. Unless you want a piece of me! Loose her number asshole!”

Mark responded,
“Grow up. And learn to use commas and spell while you’re at it.”
He set the phone to silent and fell asleep.

––––––––

W
hen he
woke
,
he had a message on Facebook. It was from Linda.

––––––––

H
e waited
for her in Lux, the coffee shop on Central in Uptown. They’d agreed to meet at four, but he got there a half-hour early, wanting to survey the place, but not knowing what he was looking for. He got a cup of green tea that cost more than he would have expected from the setting with its shabby, mismatched chairs and tables with uneven legs. He sat in a chair and pushed its back against a wall. He took a Kindle from his messenger bag and pretended to read it.

She was a few minutes early. When she stepped inside the door, she took off her sunglasses and looked around. He waved to her and she came over.

“Hey,” he said, and mustered a smile.

“Hey.” She didn’t smile and she didn’t sit down.

“Can I get you something?” he said, standing up.

“No, thanks. I’ll get it.” She walked to the counter. He sat down again.

He was pretending to read when she came with a cup of coffee. She sat in a chair facing him. “Service isn’t very friendly here,” she said.

“I know. If I wanted to be condescended to by tattooed posers, I’d have gone to college.”

“I did go to college. This is worse.”

“I thought you must like it here, since you suggested it.”

“I hardly ever come here.”

“Where do you like? Where do you usually go?”

She shook her head, and he realized she had suggested this place because she didn’t want him in her regular place.

“Okay,” he said.

“Have you ever had anybody else message you on Facebook after you stuck a gun in their face?”

He smiled. “I’d say sorry, but I don’t know how you apologize for something like that.”

She surprised him by smiling too. “You mean there isn’t a standard etiquette for how to follow up an armed robbery?”

He laughed, but didn’t say anything. Then he just said, “Sorry.”

“Are you worried that I might be recording you? Is that why you’re not saying anything specific about it?”

“It occurred to me, of course.”

“I’m not.”

“I believe you, but I can’t think of any other reason you’d want to meet me.”

“I didn’t need to do this if I wanted you in jail. I had my chance, and I lied to the cops. Do you want to know why I did that?”

“Yeah.”

“So do I.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“That’s really all I’ve been thinking about the last few days.”

“Me too,” she said. “I couldn’t wait to identify you, but... I think it was something about you just sitting there, and the cops’ attitudes toward you. Were you afraid?”

“Sure, but I wasn’t even really letting myself think about what was happening. I was just waiting to see how it would turn out. If I’d let myself think about it, I might have panicked and started babbling. The only thing you should ever say to a cop is that you’re invoking your right to silence and you want a lawyer. Especially if you’re innocent, which, let me say for the benefit of any recording devices, I am.”

She surprised him by laughing. Then she said, “I don’t think you’re in the clear yet.”

“I can’t say I haven’t been worrying about that.”

“That cop, Rankin? He’s into something with the owner of Green Life. And the owner’s scary.”

“How do you know that?”

“What, that Rankin’s in with him, or that he’s scary?”

“Both.”

“I know both because of what I saw last night.”

––––––––

R
ankin had
mouthed “Hello” to her when they made eye contact, and she nodded in response, but after that he didn’t look at her, and neither did Casci. She occasionally glanced at them as she went about her work, and each time saw them sitting at the bar, drinking and talking.

There was another man sitting at the bar, on his own, waiting for a table. The host had asked him if he’d like to eat at the bar, since it was so busy and the other customers were in groups, but he insisted that he wanted a table. It had been close to an hour, and he’d started complaining loudly that since he’d had to wait so long then his drinks should be comped. Joel, who was tending bar, said, “That’s not possible, sir. I’m sorry.”

“If you were important enough to decide what’s not possible, you wouldn’t be slinging drinks,” the man said. “Who’s the manager?”

“I am, sir,” Joel said.

Casci got off his stool, and, as Rankin watched, walked toward the man. “Joel, what’s this fat bastard’s bar tab?”

“Let me check... eighteen dollars and forty cents, Mr. Casci.”

“It’s on me,” Casci said.

“I don’t want you to buy my drinks,” the man said. “I want them comped.”

“That’s what you’re getting,” Casci said. “This is my place.”

“You mean you own it, or you just drink here?”

“I own it. Your drinks are on me. Let me get you another.” Casci nodded to Joel, who began pouring the drink. When it was poured, Casci held out his hand for it. Joel gave it to him.

Casci turned to the customer. “Here.” He offered the glass. When the man reached for it, Casci punched him in the face with his other hand. Before the man had registered the shock of the punch, Casci also threw the contents of the glass in his face, broke the glass against the bar, and pressed the jagged base of it against the man’s throat.

“Hey, I don’t want to fight!” Casci yelled at the top of his lungs. Quietly, he said to the man, “Do you want me to cut your fucking throat? Then get out of here.”

––––––––

M
ark looked
worried. “That means he’s a pro,” he said. “Those are classic tricks—do something to distract the guy before you attack him, and shout that you don’t want to fight, so people remember it, and it seems like you were only defending yourself even if the guy you hurt didn’t do a thing...”

“The guy didn’t even try to touch him,” Linda said. “I mean, like I said, he was mouthing off, but he wasn’t being physical, or threatening to.”

“What happened? What did Rankin do?”

“Nothing. He just sat there. He didn’t get involved. He didn’t say anything. The guy left—he was shaking and nearly crying—and Casci and Rankin just kept on hanging out together.”

“Do you know anything about Casci? Even though he’s obviously a pro, he’s obviously crazy too, or he wouldn’t have flipped out on the guy like that right there in the restaurant.”

“I don’t know anything about him, and I don’t want to. I’m looking for another job.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“Just a few weeks, but he’s hardly talked to me.”

“From the Italian name, I wonder if he’s retired mafioso.”

“Like Sammy the Bull?”

“Kind of. Sammy Gravano wasn’t retired, though. He was moved here by the Witness Protection Program, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and he couldn’t stay legit, which is why he’s back in the joint. But the Valley’s a popular place for mobsters to retire to. I’ve never heard of Casci, but that doesn’t mean anything. They tend to keep a low profile out here.”

“I get the sense that he’s new around here, and from what I’ve heard him say, he’s definitely new to the restaurant business.”

“So, I have to ask... Why did you get in touch with me?”

“I thought you should know about Casci and Rankin. If Rankin thinks you did it, and he told Casci...”