Damaged Goods (29 page)

In Hannibal's eyes the beach house was a transplanted mansion. He followed Ronzini and Wheels through a vast living room to a formal dining room, aware of Freddie behind him but not turning to look at him. Wheels kept on to the kitchen, but Ronzini turned off at a formal dining room. He settled in to the chair at the head of the table, so Hannibal dropped onto the one at the other end. While Freddie placed an ashtray and cigar at Ronzini's elbow, Hannibal heard an espresso machine making its locomotive sounds in the kitchen. He sat patiently, because to do otherwise would be disrespectful.

Wheels placed huge cups of cappuccino in front of Ronzini and Hannibal. Freddie laid a folder full of loose papers at Ronzini's left. Then both men left the room. This, from Ronzini, was a conspicuous show of respect in return. Respect, and trust.

Hannibal sipped from his cup, smiled as the rich flavor filled his mouth, and then sat up straight. “Okay, so I've met our boy, and he's everything I expected. Now, what else do I need to know?”

“You need to know who this man is,” Ronzini said, using a
penknife blade to snip the end of his cigar. “You need to know the path this Roderick Mantooth is on, so you can see how your path intersects it.”

Hannibal settled back in the wooden chair, crossing his ankles under the table. “He's on the fast track to hell. He's just a mean, tough street punk. Like you.”

Ronzini struck a wooden match and lit his cigar. “Well, same streets anyway. Brooklyn. Dyker Heights. Bensonhurst. But he's really an ambitious tough guy with tunnel vision, who can't see his real part in the big picture. Like you.”

“So it all starts in your old neighborhood,” Hannibal said. The dense cloud of smoke made him crinkle his nose.

Ronzini didn't seem to notice. He pulled a pair of reading glasses from an inside jacket pocket and opened the folder. “It starts in 1989, the first time cops pinch a sixteen year old named Rodney Johannsen for stealing a car. He pleads guilty to a reduced charge and…” Ronzini raised his eyebrows toward Hannibal.

“His record is wiped clean,” Hannibal said in disgust. “This is how the justice systems gets petty thieves off to a good start.”

“Right,” Ronzini said, puffing his cigar again. “Two years later he gets busted for assault. The guy he beat half to death was an off duty cop. Then he starts getting big ideas. By 1992 he caught my attention by stealing a couple of ATM machines.”

“Robbing,” Hannibal said, correcting Ronzini by reflex.

“No, stealing. He got a bulldozer and some chains and yanked them right out of the walls.”

Hannibal's jaw dropped. “You're kidding. Nobody's that arrogant, not that young.”

“Hell, that's just the part the cops know. I know he spent a year up in the Bronx. Friends told me he sold a hundred pounds of weed to some drug dealer, then turned around and stole it back. Hell of a way to raise starter capital. And when he comes back to Brooklyn in '94 he's Roderick Mantooth. He's what, twenty at this point, and we get word he robbed a guy by bashing his head in with a baseball bat.”

“Still a punk,” Hannibal said in a thoughtful tone, “But you can see he kept on chasing the big score.” Hannibal had resented the lecture form of Ronzini's presentation at the start. Now he was starting to see patterns and gain new understanding of the man he had spent the afternoon with. Ronzini shuffled sheets of paper, his glasses sliding low on his nose. Sometimes Hannibal saw him as a gangster, but other times he looked like a businessman. Right then, he looked a bit scholarly. A senior professor, tenured in the crime department, Hannibal thought.

“Now we're up to '94,” Ronzini continued, “and our boy Mantooth has a gang together. They're doing the usual petty break-ins, mostly up in the Bronx and out in Staten Island. Then they decide to rob a bank in a mall. They do it Mantooth style, busting in the door with sledgehammers.”

“Tell me they caught him.”

“Boy lives a charmed life,” Ronzini said. “Bank reported a loss of three hundred grand. I figure they padded by about a third. You'd think that was the big score for this jamoke, but his crew stayed in business, stealing cars, shaking people down, doing odd jobs for the local mob. Then a couple months later he's driving the getaway car for more home invasions out on the island. That seems to have stopped after they found someone home. A woman was shot in the head. Not sure if it was him or one of his crew. Anyway, I think the crew fell apart after that.”

“Even the bad guys don't want to hang with this wacko,” Hannibal said. He and Ronzini lifted their cups at the same time, sipped, and put them down. Something about that made Hannibal uncomfortable.

“Don't know much about 1995. He got busted for beating up a guy, so maybe he was working protection or enforcement for somebody. Anyhow, he pleads guilty to lesser charges again, but now the cops are watching him. Less than six months later he whips up on a club bouncer.”

“Isn't it usually the other way around?” Hannibal asked.

“The way I get the story, Mantooth tried to get into a club that was too exclusive for him. The bouncer went after him
with a club. Mantooth not only took it from him, but cracked him in the head with it. And this is when he decides he ought to get out of New York.” Ronzini shuffles more papers, puffs, and sends another stream of acrid smoke Hannibal's way. “We pick him up in Miami in '96, accused of stealing a Lexus and changing the VIN number. He paid the owner off to get him to drop the charges. And it's apparently about this time he gets deep into this dom-sub stuff.” Ronzini looked up. “You know about that stuff?”

“He dominates submissive women,” Hannibal said, nodding. “He's pretty good at manipulating women's feelings. Makes me crawly.”

“Good,” Ronzini said. “It ought to. Our boy apparently meets a woman down there with money, takes over her life and makes her his slave.”

“Patient zero,” Hannibal said under his breath. “Or victim zero. The trail of broken women starts right there.”

“From all reports he did her pretty bad before he emptied her bank account and kicked her to the curb. Then he bought a little club down there and life got good for him. Don't know if you know much about Miami, but at that time down on South Beach things were pretty rough.”

“Miami Vice,” Hannibal said. “Art deco and big boats.”

“Yeah, and biker gangs and drug addicts and derelicts all over. Right about the time he got this club going, it started to get cool for sports stars and rock stars to hang out there. He had three or four girls at this point, and he had them waiting on him and on whoever he told them to service. Real dominant types didn't like what he did to his women, but they just stayed away from him. Then he put the word out that he was connected to the mob. The real crime bosses didn't like that but it seemed harmless and they let it slide. The rumor made him and his place cooler to the rap and rock crowds. They all think they're gangsters. The mob sent a man to make contact, you know, explain the rules to him. Set up a cozy little live-and-let-live deal. He let the dealers do their thing in his place, the right people drank free, girls worked in there without giving Mantooth a cut, and like that.”

Hannibal reached for his cup, only then realizing that his jaws were clenched so tightly that it required a conscious effort to open his mouth. The brew was still hot, still strong, but it now had a bitter taste. Ronzini was quiet, as if waiting for Hannibal to digest the information.

“This guy's no businessman,” Hannibal said after a moment. “Even with the mob nod, I can't believe he ran a club successfully.”

“Didn't last long,” Ronzini said. “Less than a year later the club is destroyed in a fire that looks mighty suspicious to me, but the insurance company paid. He dumped the money into a bigger, better place, subsidized by another woman of means, and managed by a girl who knew the bar business but I guess didn't know much about men.”

“You'd think hanging with the big guys would have smoothed this clown out,” Hannibal said. “If the Madonnas and K.D. Langs didn't change his behavior toward women, somebody like 50 Cent should have shot him. How's he still walking around doing this stuff?”

“Guys like this don't change. Look here,” Ronzini said, pulling individual sheets of paper from his folder and flipping them aside. “Accused of beating up an employee because the guy took a break without permission. No charges filed. Smashes a pro football player in the face with a beer bottle in his own VIP lounge. No suit filed, thanks to some nasty threats. Oh, this is nice. Gets in a fight with a professional weight lifter. The guy was the ex-husband of one of Mantooth's subbies. The weight lifter left town right after that. Later claimed that Mantooth flew a bunch of guys down from New York to go after him. Let's see, caught driving a stolen car. “

“Charges dropped,” Hannibal said. Ronzini nodded.

“Beat up patrons in the bar.”

“Charges dropped,” Hannibal said again.

“Arrested for assault and attempted murder after he stabbed paparazzi multiple times for taking his picture.”

“My God. Charges dropped again? What the hell sat this guy behind bars?”

Ronzini chuckled. “Well, it wasn't until 2001. Guess he shouldn't have told that undercover FBI agent about the neighbor he wanted to have whacked. Turns out the guy was a witness to a crime one of Mantooth's pals committed. The feds did some digging and turned up enough to threaten charges for murder, robbery and racketeering. That was enough to make him turn in some pals in exchange for a three year vacation in a minimum security cell.”

“Which is where he meets Vernon Cooper, and where the story begins for me.” Hannibal hated the indiscriminate way luck got handed out in the universe. Career criminals get their share just like heroes do.

“In what way?” Ronzini asked. “What is your business with this man?” Ronzini leaned back and drew hard on his cigar. For the first time it occurred to Hannibal that Ronzini had done all this research without really knowing why Hannibal was chasing Mantooth. He knew this was business, knew it was about recovering stolen property, but little else. Hannibal smiled, nodding in recognition of his obligation. But at this point he was no longer begging for help. They would now speak as equals.

“Okay, Tony, here it is. Mantooth had a cellmate in the joint. The man was a chemist who developed something very special. Mantooth found out where the formula was hidden, and sometime after that this man died suddenly in prison. When he got out, Mantooth stole the records of the formula from his old cell mate's daughter.”

“A new pharmaceutical?” Ronzini asked. “I ask this because drug people have expressed an interest.”

Hannibal looked at the floor. “Not a drug.”

“If not a new narcotic, then what?” Ronzini sat still, exuding calm, but Hannibal felt the pressure of his eyes. It wasn't his secret to share. It wasn't any of Ronzini's business. It wasn't something a career criminal ought to know. But he felt an obligation here. And in some ways, this was a man he could trust. He took a deep breath, and let it out while saying, “Shit” under his breath.

“From all reports, it appears to be the beginnings of a cure
for addiction.”

Ronzini's mouth dropped open, and a small smile curled his lips. “So. In Hitchcock terms, this is the McGuffin. Drug dealers undoubtedly want to destroy the formula. Drug manufacturers want to own it. Or, even this could be dealt illegally. Imagine being able to use cocaine without worrying about getting hooked.”

“I don't care who wants it,” Hannibal said. “It belongs to the girl.”

“Unless Mantooth sells it to make his big score,” Ronzini said, pointing his cigar at Hannibal. “This, we can expect soon. One of the friends he made in Miami is on his way up here with a great deal of cash. He must mean to trade it for this secret formula.”

“Then tell me, am I going up against the Cuban mob if I snatch the prize?”

“Think about it,” Ronzini said, leaning back with his hands laced over his ample stomach. “What do you know about this man now?”

“I know this guy has been chasing the big score all his life, and never managed to make it stick,” Hannibal said, standing and beginning to pace. “His temper gets in his way half the time. He's desperate to land the big fish, and he thinks he's got it on the hook now.”

“And one other thing.” Ronzini leaned forward, using an index finger to drive his point home. “Consider the reason for the time lapse. Why does he still have the formula to sell?” When Hannibal didn't answer, Ronzini shook his head, looking disappointed. “He offered this prize to the local people, those who run this city, and they turned him down. They turned him down in Washington. They turned him down in Atlanta and Philly.”

This brought a smile to Hannibal's face. “He's not a made man. I don't get it, but I guess the real players don't want anything to do with him. How come?”

Ronzini spread his hands wide. “He's messy and he gets his mess on other people. That's why you can do this thing. Even though he's inside, he's an outsider.”

“So if I can figure out how to get the formula away from him…”

“He won't stop if you do,” Ronzini said, in a very matter of fact tone. “You know you'll have to take him out.”

“That ain't me,” Hannibal said.

“It would make you some important friends.”

“Those friends I don't need,” Hannibal said.

“We'll see,” Ronzini said, standing. “You're a blunt instrument, my friend. When the time comes, we'll see.”

As they headed for the car, Hannibal held his tongue, not offended by the comparison to a blunt instrument, but still bristling at Ronzini referring to him as friend.