On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter 2
 

Delbert
Falls
is a typical medium-sized town in
Maryland
, between
Baltimore
and
Philadelphia
. My office is in the northwest section, which has low-rent industrial and commercial buildings and a few low-rent apartment buildings.

“Elevator out of order?”
Buford said.

“I don’t think there is an elevator. The doors and buttons are just for show.”

We went down the stairs and across the street to Oliver’s, a small saloon that serves an ample drink at a reasonable price.

We took a booth for the privacy. Sammy came over with my usual, a double Jack neat.

“This is Sammy,” I said, “my closest friend and confidant.”

Buford reached up to shake hands. “I’m Buford. I’ll have the same.”

Sammy went to the bar to get Buford’s drink.

“You can trust Sammy,” I said.
“The soul of discretion.”

“Every good bartender is,” Buford said.

Sammy brought Buford’s drink and returned to the bar. Buford looked at his glass for a while then took a sip.

“This is better.” He took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. I lit my last cigarette ever. I was going to quit. Did I already say that?

“Penrod said you used to be a cop.”

“I was. We were partners.
Homicide.”

“Tell me why you’re doing this and not a cop anymore. It can’t be for the money.”

I didn’t like telling this story. But everyone wants to hear it. I should just go on Jerry Springer.

“Got canned,” I said. “I was a good cop.
Caught killers.
Closed cases.”

“And they let you go?”

“That’s a nice way of putting it. I took a swing at a suspect. He swung back. End of fight.
With me as first runner-up.
According to the bosses, they can’t have suspects beating the shit out of detectives in the squad room. Makes them look bad.”

“They fired you for losing a fight?”

“They did. If only that citizen hadn’t been there with his cell phone. Click. Smile. You’re on candid Youtube.
And the
six o’clock
news.”

“I can see where that would piss off the brass.”

He shifted around. His girth took up most of the bench.

“Punching that moke was the last straw, according to the Lieutenant.
Came as a surprise.
I didn’t know I had been piling up straws.”

“Sauce?”

My secret was out.

“Yeah.
The Lieutenant was one of those guys who bores the shit out of you with his endless litany about the evils of drink, meetings, twelve steps, one day at a time, and all that shit.”

“I know the type. I married his sister.” He took another drink.

“He asked who my enabler was.”

“
Your
what?”

“Someone who encourages the drinking.
Like my ex-wife.
And maybe your wife.
They nag you about your drinking so you drink more to block it out.”

I looked toward the bar and said, “I told him these days my enabler is Sammy.”

We both took slow sips. Buford took another pull on his cigar. I lit another last cigarette.

“So you wound up a P.I.”

“After I retired without a pension, I got a license, had cards printed, and painted my name on the door. It was that or be a Walmart greeter.”

“You like this line of work?”

“If I have to work for assholes, I might as well be self-employed.”

“And now you find missing persons.”

“Runaway teenagers, deadbeat dads, bail jumpers, cheating spouses, hidden assets.
The usual.”

I downed the last of my bourbon.

“Now,” I said, “are you going to give me some details about the shakedown or are you going to have another drink?”

“Yes,” he said.

I signaled to Sammy to bring another round. I took a pencil and pad from my trench coat pocket. I don’t always take notes, but detectives on TV do it, and it’s expected.

Like most clients, Buford recited his life story first, something I usually don’t care about, but if you don’t let them spill their guts, they’ll keep trying. So, I am a good listener. A booth in a bar can be a kind of confessional.

“I’m a financier.
Investment counselor.
Big money.
High-profile clientele.
Moguls, movie stars, politicians.
You ever read the financial section of the newspaper?
Or the Wall Street Journal?”

“No. I figured I’d take that up after I make my second million.”

“Already made your first?” He was probably wondering if I was a potential client.

“No.
Gave up on that.
Working on my second.”

“That’s why you don’t know my name. I make a lot of money in investments.”

“Ponzi?
Like Madoff?”

“No. Not yet anyway. I know my shit. My clients all made money in 2008. There’s a Rolls parked in the alley behind your office with a driver waiting to take me home to a twenty-two year old wife in a big house in the Heights. I want to keep the Rolls, the driver, and the house. Not to mention the wife. I need to hang onto my money.”

“And you need help with that?”

“I do.”

“To help you find a blackmailer.”

Buford leaned back and crossed his arms. His cigar hung out over his suit jacket, and the ash grew longer with each puff. I waited for it to drop off and burn a hole in the expensive garment.

“I wasn’t always a successful investment counselor,” he said.

“Were you an unsuccessful investment counselor?”

“No. I mean, I got into investments late in life. I’m good at it.”

“You don’t look like the typical investment counselor.”

“What do I look like?” he asked.

“More like the typical biker bar bouncer.
Except for the clothes.
You got tattoos under those threads?”

He ignored my sarcasm and took a long drag on his cigar. The ash grew longer.

“I know you’re a big mother,” I said, “but how does a guy with a moniker like Buford Overbee get a job as a wise guy?”

Buford smiled for the first time. “That wasn’t my name back then. I changed it when I went into this line of work.
More respectable, more impressive.”

“More anonymous.”

“Right.
I chose a name that doesn’t look like me. Not only do my present clients not know about my past, my former employers don’t know about my present. I keep a low profile. No pictures, no interviews. The press refers to me as ‘the elusive Buford Overbee.’ Like Howard Hughes in his later years.
Always in the action but never in the picture.”

The cigar ash was due to fall off on its own. He flicked it off in the ash tray. Now I could breathe again.

“What was your name before?” I asked.

“You don’t need that.”

“Why not?”

“Because
your
knowing that could draw the attention of the boys back home.”

“And they’d come after me to learn what I know?”

“They would.”

“How would they know that I know?” This was getting complicated.

“Stan, you’re going to come into contact with some of my people and, I hope, the blackmailer himself. These kinds of secrets are hard to keep.”

“You don’t trust your people?”

“I don’t trust anyone. Remember, the family pays well for information. Like if you tell them what they want to know, you get to keep your arms and legs.”

He still had some secrets, even from me, his personal detective as of a thousand bucks ago. I’d have to break down that wall eventually, but not yet.

“I assume there’s a reason you don’t want your previous colleagues in the family to know where you are.”

“A very big reason having to do with a grand jury and a federal prosecutor.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m guessing that after testifying, you joined the witness protection country club.”

“I did.”

“And that’s how they don’t know where you are.”

“It is.”

“And the blackmailer, whoever it is, figured it all out.”

“Apparently.”

I reached my arms out and stretched them behind me on the back of the bench.

“How does a wise guy from the streets choose investment counselor as a cover profession? Why not something easy like brain surgeon or theoretical physicist?”

“I always had a feel for the market. I learned the ins and outs of insider trading when I was connected. You can do great things if you don’t have scruples and don’t have to worry about being caught.”

“Which you don’t when the feds are your guardian angels,” I said.

“Which they are as long as you can be helpful.”

“How do you build up a list of clients when you’re an unknown, new investment counselor recently retired from the mob? Cold calls?
Door-to-door?”

Imagine a guy his size knocking on your door selling mutual funds.

“I scammed my way into it.”

Why did that not surprise me?

He continued. “I sent e-mails to about two hundred investors and told half of them that a particular stock would go up and the other half it would drop. Whichever way it went, I removed the other half from my list and did it again with another stock.”

“I can see where this is going,” I said.

“I did it three times. After that, I had a list of twenty-five investors that had just gotten three consecutive hot tips. I sent them invitations to be clients. Most of them signed on. After that it was word of mouth.”

“After that you had to deliver.”

“And I do.”

“And now somebody has found you and wants to be paid for his silence.”

“Exactly.
He uses e-mail and requires online payments, for chrissake, using OnlinePay.”

“What’s that?”

“You send money using the Internet.”

Learn something new every day.

“How much dust does he want?”

“Started out twenty grand, which I paid.
But it seems that’s only the first installment. Apparently this goes on forever. This time he wants thirty. I can’t do that. Twenty grand here, thirty grand there, it adds up.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“I want it stopped,” he said. “Not just because of the money, but because I don’t want some scumbag knowing he got one over on me. I hate that. That’s where you come in, Stan. Find out who and where he is. You say that’s your specialty? That’s what I’m buying. You find him. I’ll take it from there.”

“I just have to find someone whose name, address, and likeness we don’t know.
Should be easy enough.”

That was a bluff.

“All I have is his e-mail address. Can you do anything with that?”

“Well, that will take some serious hacking. I’ll call in Rodney.”

Rodney was my nephew, my sister’s boy.

“Rodney?”

“My computer expert.
When he’s not working for me, he surfs for porn and breaks into government computers.
Just for the hell of it.”

“You sure a guy like that is reliable?
Sounds flaky.”

“I’m sure. When it comes to computers, if he can’t do it, it can’t be done.”

“Okay. What’s your fee?”

“Five hundred a day plus expenses.”

I seldom got that much, but if you don’t ask...

“What kind of expenses?”

“Travel, bribes, tips for information, whatever I have to pay Rodney, and such.”

“Makes sense.”

“For now I need the e-mail address of the blackmailer.
And a way to reach you.”

Buford took a card from his wallet and wrote on the back. “This is his e-mail address. My cell and e-mail are on the other side. Don’t pass them around.”

I looked at the card. “I’ll need your home address.”

“No, you won’t. You need to talk to me, call. You can e-mail or text an invoice when you need to be paid. Just don’t try to outbid the blackmailer. Keep me in the loop too.
Daily progress reports.”

“Will do.”

“Stan, you do this for me and your financial worries are eased a bit. I’ll keep you on retainer for as long as I might have these kinds of problems.”

That was the best news I’d heard all day. “Don’t worry, Buford. I’ll find the rat.”

We shook hands and Buford threw a twenty on the table and left. I went to the front window and watched him cross the street and go behind my building to the alley. Soon a white Rolls Royce Phantom pulled out of the side street and turned north. I couldn’t see the driver. But the big man in the alpaca coat and fedora was in the back seat lighting another cigar. The Rolls sped away.