CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (3 page)

It was the two Carlucci guys. Both were sensibly wearing raincoats but their hair was already plastered to their heads. Both had mean, jowly faces.

“If you stand near the buildings, you’ll get less rain on you,” I said.

“What’s your business with Rahm,” the bigger of the two said. I had maybe an inch on him but he was well ahead of me in the Italian food department. I could have told him the truth: I had no business with Rahm. But maybe they knew something I didn’t. The world is discouragingly full of people like that.

“Who wants to know?”

It was lame but it was raining harder and the food was getting cold.

“Me, asshole.”

They both moved in on me.

“You, asshole, me Tarzan.”

That was marginally better.

“He’s a fucking riot, Benny,” the other guy said.

“I asked you a question, fuckwad. What did Rahm want?”

“I thought your name was Asshole. Well, if you must know, Rahm wants to hire me to find ugly, stupid, overweight thugs for his organization. You meatballs interested?”

“I’m through fucking with you,” Benny said, pushing me up against a door. “You think you got a limp now, I’ll tear your fucking leg off.”

“Wait,” I said, in what I hoped was a frightened voice. “I was just kidding. I’ll tell. Here, hold this.”

I handed him the bag. He probably never turned down a hero sandwich in his life. That was perhaps unkind. He was just taken aback. No matter, when he held the bag I hit him in the throat with the bent fingers of my right hand. I caught the bag with my left before it hit the ground. He staggered back, gurgling. His partner came at me but stopped when he saw what I was holding. Not the sandwich; the gun in my other hand.

“Am I going to have a problem with you?” He shook his head. “Didn’t think so. Now, I get to ask a question. Why so curious about what Rahm and I were talking about?”

Benny had his hands at his throat and seemed to have trouble breathing. I hoped I hadn’t over-quelled him. If I’d broken his windpipe he could be in serious trouble. I was out of practice. It’s been a while since a woman Marine Gunnery Sergeant running an unarmed combat class taught me the move. She was quite attractive, but none of us in the class ever asked her out. Benny made a sound like a turkey call. But his face wasn’t purple and the animal sounds were a good sign. But maybe thug No. 2 didn’t know that.

“We can stand here all day in the rain while Benny asphyxiates. I can always heat this sandwich up later.”

Benny made a timely “awk awk” sound and sank to his knees. The other guy caved.

“We were just told to see who he talks to. He’s been going to the Red lately. Never saw you before today.” Benny continued to provide sound effects. “C’mon, man. He’s dying. Give me a break. He’s my cousin.”

That complicated things. Gun or no, the guy might make a rash move with a relative in danger, so I decided to let it go.

“Want me to call 911?”  He shook his head again. “OK. Your cuz will probably be all right, but get him to an emergency room in case his throat starts swelling. Vamoose.”

I waved my gun to prod him and he bent to help Benny stand. They trundled off down the street. I holstered the Taurus and went on my way. A couple of Somali guys across the street looked at me. They’d seen the whole thing. I hoped they caught my sandwich grab in mid-air. Even I was impressed.

When I got back to my building I dropped off one of the heroes at the security desk and Abby Jones said, “A couple of cable guys are in your office.” Multiple cable guys? Abby had real clout.

There was a pile of mail just inside my door. I picked it up just as the cable guys came out of my office. One of them was sucking the back of his hand. I could see blood.

“I told him he shoulda moved the cactus,” the other one said.

I gave them each $20. I was going to need a separate line of credit soon just for tips.

After they left, I sat at my desk and went through the mail as I ate my lunch. There was a thick, glossy envelope from Omaha Steaks (“12 free burgers”). I looked at the envelope with something approaching affection. I admired the company’s persistence. One of the brochures had even followed me into combat, although the enclosed offer had expired by the time I got it. Indeed, I had almost expired.

There were also assorted bills, an offer to join the Wall Street Journal Wine Club, four credit card solicitations, a menu from a nearby Chinese restaurant and a magazine:
Gay Lifestyle
. I threw everything but the bills in the trash, including the magazine. I’d subscribed to it by mistake when filling out a form to trade frequent flier miles for various publications.
Gay Lifestyle
was listed just above
Golf Lifestyle
. The type was small, although the scotch I’d mixed with my pain meds might have had more to do with it, since I was also now getting
New Zealand Life, Archery Unlimited
and
Muscle Car.
I was beginning to enjoy those, but I’d tried to stop the other subscription. There is nothing wrong with a gay private eye, but the magazine was left outside my door where all the secretaries on the floor could see it. One even came by to ask my opinion on decorating her apartment!

I took off my jacket, dropped my gun in the drawer and got a Coke from a small refrigerator sitting by its lonesome in a corner without plants. I dug into my eggplant hero, which was everything it should have been.

CHAPTER 3 – ELLEN JAMES

A week later, I was watching two Moran tugboats shepherd the
Yokahama Maru
up the Narrows when the pounding stopped and I heard Scarlett O’Hara ask for me. Twice.

“I said, is Mr. Rhode in?”

It probably wasn’t Scarlett. Or even Vivien Leigh. But from the way the two carpet guys in my reception area started stammering I suspected she wasn’t a Clydesdale either.

I was standing at my window between two piles of boxes. I had a hell of a view of New York harbor. Only the law firm on the ninth, and top, floor, had a better one. It owned the building and I scored a corner office by promising to help out with an occasional skip trace,
pro bono
, probably the first time that phrase had been uttered by any of the lawyers. They liked the plants I gave them.

Even with binoculars the big seagoing tugs looked like a pair of dachshunds nipping at a rhino. The massive cargo carrier was piled high with hundreds of containers, hopefully none of them concealing a 20-megaton hydrogen bomb with “Death to the Infidels” etched on its casing. The incoming tide was battling both the East and Hudson Rivers and the wind wasn’t helping. The harbor water was choppy, the way it gets when a cold front comes through. Rain clouds were scudding in from the west. Drops were already splattering against my windows. I heard her laugh. The workmen appeared to be tongue-tied. I was conflicted. I wanted to see how the tugs would get the
Maru
around the bend into the Kill van Kull channel. But hers wasn’t the kind of voice I could ignore. It wasn’t just that I liked the way my name sounded when she said it – she might be a client. The first in a long while. Things in my office weren’t progressing as planned. The carpet guys had started three days later than scheduled.

I slipped the binoculars into a drawer of my desk. You can tell people you’re just looking at the harbor; they’ll still assume you are a Peeping Tom. When I peered out to the reception area all I could see were a pair of gorgeous legs. The
Yokahama Maru
was now on its own. The rest of her was blocked by the Hawaiian umbrella trees, Pigmy date palms and other exotic foliage still thriving in my office while the carpeters carpeted.

“Mr. Rhode?” The woman had pushed a frond aside and was looking at me. I was suddenly aware I hadn’t shaved in a while, and was wearing paint-splotched jeans and an old tan golf shirt with more paint streaks on the right sleeve. I smelled of sweat with a delicate overlay of enamel. “May we come in?”

She wasn’t alone. A waiflike young girl stood behind her smiling shyly. I realized I hadn’t said anything.

“Yes, of course. Please.” 

Then I remembered the fresh paint on the door jamb.

“Stop!” I shouted, as I ran around the desk, bumping into a tower of boxes, which toppled over in slow motion with a loud crash, then played dominoes with a large cactus. I caught it just before it hit them.

“Son of a…!”

The spines hurt like hell. The young girl’s smile faded and her eyes widened as she shrank against the woman.

“The doorway may still be a little wet,” I said lamely. “Please sit, Ms…”

“James. Ellen James.”

She extended her hand. I checked mine to make sure I wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t.

“This is my daughter, Savannah.”

“That’s a lovely name,” I said to the child, trying to regain some high ground.

“It’s where Mom is from,” she said. Her hand fluttered in my own like a small bird. Her eyes were downcast.

The hammering hadn’t resumed. The carpet guys were staring at Ellen James. From their vantage point, on hands and knees, they had a lot to stare at. As I started to close my office door, the man stenciling on the glass of the hallway door called out to me.

“Hey, pal, can I see you a second?”

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman.

As I brushed past her I caught a heady whiff of vanilla and jasmine. It beat the hell out of my Eau du Sherwin-Williams.

“It’s not on the work order,” the man said when I reached him, “but I got plenty of room for a middle initial. Whole middle name would be better, actually. Look real nice, balance things out.” He stood back, framing the still blank glass with his hands. A true artiste. “It’d be $15 extra for each letter.”

“I’d love to,” I said. “But I don’t want to pay for Bartholomew.”

That’s not my middle name.

“You get a 10 percent discount when it’s more than eight letters.”

He put his stencil in his mouth and started counting out the letters on his hand. Then,  his other hand.

“Thanks, anyway,” I said quickly. “Just what’s on the order is fine.”

“What about just ‘B’? The period is free.” He made a dotting motion with his finger. “My treat.” A little stencil humor.

He’d followed me to my office. Having made up a name, I couldn’t now give him a different initial. What a tangled web we stencil.

“No, just what’s on the work order. Thanks.”   

He gave me a disappointed look as I closed my office door in his face.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said to the woman. “I just moved into this suite.” I liked the sound of that. My previous office qualified as a closet. “Please sit.” Luckily, some chairs had arrived the day before. Their plastic wrapping was still piled in a corner. I smiled at the young girl, who looked like she was about to cry. “Can I get either of you something to drink? I have some soda and bottled water.”

They both declined and I sat as Ellen James looked around the room.

“Are you an amateur botanist? Or perhaps you are going for an
Avatar
look?”

“Most of this will go in my reception area when it’s finished.”

Her teasing smile told me she had already figured that out. She crossed her long legs, accenting toned calves and providing a delicious glimpse of thigh. Her lustrous blond hair fell in waves her shoulders. Blue-green eyes framed a slightly upturned nose. Her mouth was wide and generous and she had a strong chin. She was wearing a cobalt blue dress with white dots that fringed below the waist. The modest roll neckline of the dress accentuated her long neck and hid her cleavage, but the swell of her breasts was, well, swell. Black onyx earrings and matching necklace. There was a sapphire ring on her left hand. No wedding band.

“I got paint on my dress,” the kid said, her voice quavering as she touched a small streak of blue on the light yellow pinafore. She had fine, delicate features but was unnervingly thin. Blue eyes that were actually not a bad match for the paint. I kept my mouth shut about that. Blonde hair, cut very short, stuck out from a red beret that gave her the look of a street urchin in a French movie.

Ellen James patted the girl on one knee.

“It’s all right, Savannah,” she said. “It was an accident. We can probably get it out. If not, we’ll buy another. Look, it happened to Mr. Rhode, too. On his sleeve.”

“I was hoping I could pass it off as a sports logo.”

“Perhaps if Rorschach made golf shirts, it might work. But it does go well with the spot on your collar.”

I hadn’t noticed that one. The girl wasn’t finding any of this funny.

“It’s the only one I liked,” she said, plucking at the paint on her dress. No accent that I could identify. Sounded like every kid her age.

Her mother looked at me and smiled.

“My daughter is upset. It’s her first new outfit in a long time. Her other clothes have gotten too big.”

Close up, the girl’s delicate beauty was compromised by hollow cheeks and an unhealthy pallor to her skin that makeup didn’t quite obscure.  

“I think the paint is water-soluble,” I said, as if made a difference to a kid with a new frock. “And I’ll be glad to pay for a cleaning, or new dress.”

Well, not gladly. While a waterfront address on Staten Island cost a third the going rate in Manhattan, I had yet to rebuild my business. For now, paint, carpet, furnishings, computers, and just about everything but the phone system was on my home equity line.

“That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.” Ellen James looked me over. “I guess we caught you at a bad time. I tried to call, but your phone doesn’t appear to be working.”

“I’m still in a shakedown mode, using my cell. The phone company is coming this afternoon. How did you find me, Ms. James? I haven’t started advertising. I’ve been away for a while.”

“I saw an article in the local paper, about how reservists called back to duty for the war were re-adjusting to civilian life. Their jobs and so forth. You were mentioned. I have to say the photo didn’t do you justice.”

“That story sat around for a month. I’ve filled out a bit since they took the photo.”

“Oh, that’s right, you were wounded. How are you doing?”

“Fine. Just enough damage to ensure I won’t be called back unless we’re attacked by the Martians. But the story was local. Don’t tell me it made the papers in Georgia.”

She laughed.

“No, we have been staying in Manhattan and I was doing a little research about Staten Island and signed on to the paper’s website to look for someone in your line. That’s where I saw it. Just chance. A lucky one, I hope.”

“So do I.” I reached into my top drawer and pulled out one of my new business cards. “This has my new office number, and my cell.”

“Can I have one, too?” the girl said.

I gave her one and got a small smile in return. Progress.

“Now, Ms. James, how can I help you?”

“I would like you to find Savannah’s father. Do you do that kind of work?”

“I do a lot of things. That’s one of them.”

“Can you find people quickly?”

“Well, in this business you can’t make promises, but with computers, databases and search engines, it’s a lot easier to find people than in the past. That old boxing maxim, ‘he can run, but he can’t hide,’ has taken on a new meaning. People leave electronic trails on Twitter, Facebook, with IP addresses and emails, credit cards, cell phones. And, of course, there are more mundane avenues. Social Security numbers and bank records. Sooner or later they pop up on the grid.”  I was overcompensating for the unkempt appearance of myself and my office. “It’s actually frightening when you think about it.”

There was a yellow legal pad and a pen with a Holiday Inn logo on my desk. The only thing on the pad was a list of New York Jet draft picks who over the past 10 years didn’t even make the taxi squad. I had thought of jotting down all the women I’d slept with and was discouraged to realize it would be much shorter than the Jet list. I ripped off the top sheet of the pad, folded it and put it in my desk.

“What’s his name?”

“William Capriati.”

The pen ran out of ink on “Willia.” I went through some drawers looking for another.

“Will this help?”

I looked up. She was holding a gold Cartier pen that was probably worth more than my car. That was promising.

“Thanks.” I finished “William” and she spelled “Capriati” for me.

“Middle initial?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at her.

“Do you have a recent address for him?”

“No.”

“Well, how about any address? Or phone numbers.”

“No, sorry”

“Family, friends, acquaintances?”

She shook her head.

“Can you hazard a guess where he might be? Last known whereabouts?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be much help in that regard.”

The next obvious question was whether she had any idea if he was still alive. But I didn’t want to ask it in front of the kid.

“I guess a Social Security number is out of the question.”

“I know very little about Billy,” she said, coloring slightly. “We weren’t together very long. I haven’t seen or heard from him since he ran off 14 years ago. He doesn’t even know Savannah exists.”

It sounded like Capriati was pretty good at running
and
hiding.

“What makes you think he is around here?”

“He may not be. But he told me he was born here. I’d never heard of Staten Island. I didn’t even know it was a borough of New York.”

“Some people still don’t think it is.”

“Yes, well, I’ve since found that out. You tried to secede from the city, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Didn’t quite work out.”

“As a Southerner, I can relate,” she said. “It didn’t work out for Georgia, either. At least you didn’t have Sherman.”

I resisted the urge to tell her about the Albany politicians who treated the borough like a leper colony.

“Did Capriati mention a specific section on the Island?”

Even today, Islanders identified with the “towns” or hills they lived in or on: Grymes Hill, Todt Hill, Emerson Hill, Tottenville, Huguenot, St. George, New Springville and a dozen others.

She brightened.

“No. But he did tell me he graduated from Wagner College and played football. He was very proud of that. Does that help?”