Proof Positive (2006) (2 page)

IF YOU LOOKED UP THE WORD PATHETIC IN THE DICTIONARY, you might find a picture of Vincent Ballard. Ballard had not always been pathetic. At one point in his life, he had been considered brilliant and dynamic. That era had coincided with the dot-com bubble, when Vincent was making more money than he could count as a partner in an Internet start-up that could not miss. In those days, Vincent rode the tiger; hell, he had tamed the tiger and turned it into a pussycat.

Before he became rich, people described Vincent, with his Coke-bottle glasses, acne, and unkempt hair, as a skinny nerd who couldn't get even ugly girls to give him a second look. By the nineties, Vincent was wearing contact lenses and handmade suits from London, collecting sports cars like baseball cards, and kicking one centerfold-quality babe out of his bed as soon as another luscious cutie made his cocaine-powered dick rise.

Then the bubble burst. Overnight, Vincent's stock options didn't add up to the price of a Starbucks latte. But, hey, no problem. Vincent wasn't worried. He was so high all the time that reality had become irrelevant. Was he not the brilliant, sexy Vincent Ballard, brain and stud extraordinaire? So what if his company went under? He'd get a new idea and soon he'd be rolling again. There was only one problem; drugs had messed up Vincent's mind so badly that the idea part of his brain was now as limp as his dick.

Drug habits are expensive. Vincent sold the sports cars and his collection of fine wines. He downsized from his two-million-dollar home to a one-bedroom apartment in Portland's fashionable Pearl District. Five years after his company went under, he couldn't make the rent anymore. Now he lived in a residential motel in a single room that smelled like beer, stale pizza, and garbage; and he worked at minimum wage jobs when he could scam the drug tests.

A few months before he met Juan Ruiz, Vincent had been busted for possession and given probation on the condition that he enroll in a county drug program. Vincent had graduated summa cum laude and was as clean as a whistle. His probation officer had even helped him land a halfway decent job at a software company.

Vincent had kicked the habit several times before. During the early days of cleanliness, he was always euphoric. This time was no different. Vincent knew that soon he would be back in the land of Armani and Porsche. Then he had the predictable clash with his supervisor, which led to his early exit from employment, followed by depression and the inevitable reunion with Mr. H.

A few weeks after he started using again, Vincent's connection was arrested. Vincent badly needed a fix, and he learned through the junkie grapevine about a new source for the Mexican black-tar heroin he craved. Juan Ruiz was dealing in Old Town. Since he was selling and Vincent was buying, Ruiz was higher up the food chain than his customer, but not by much. When Vincent spotted Ruiz, the emaciated pusher was dancing from foot to foot to cope with the cold and damp, and his eyes were continually shifting as he scanned the dark, deserted streets for cops.

Are you Juan? Vincent asked nervously. He was twitchy and needed his fix.

What you want, bro?

Toby told me your stuff is good.

My shit is the best, Ruiz said. Show me some money and you can see for yourself.

Vincent pulled out a handful of crumpled bills, and Ruiz spit out a balloon. If Vincent had been a cop, he would have swallowed it.

Where you been buying? Juan asked as he counted the bills.

Around, you know.

All junkies are paranoid, so Vincent was intentionally vague.

Well, you buy from me and I'll treat you right. Our shit's cheaper, too, he added, holding out two bills.

What's this?

A rebate, amigo. There's a new man in town. He wants to treat you right. We got the best shit and the cheapest. You come to me. Don't go to no other dealers. Spread the word.

A light went on in one of the few areas of Vincent's brain that were still working. Martin Breach ran the drug business in Portland, but rumor had it that a Colombian cartel was trying to cut into his territory. Breach was not known for being a good sport or a gracious loser, and the word on the street was that he was giving drugs and money to anyone providing information about dealers who were working for Felix Dorado, the cartel's front man.

Back at the motel, Vincent shot up. First things first. But what goes up must come down. Vincent knew that he'd need to score again soon, but he couldn't afford another hit. When he was able to get out of bed, he walked up the street to Lombardi' s. The bar stank of sweat and cheap beer, and catered to people like Vincent. Martin Breach owned it.

Twenty minutes after Vincent convinced the bartender that he had some information Mr. Breach would be interested in hearing, the door opened, and two men walked over to the wooden booth where the bartender had told Vincent to wait. Vincent had once been a businessman, and this was business. He slicked down his hair as best he could, squared his shoulders, and stood up.

Vincent Ballard, he said, offering his hand. Neither man took it. After a few seconds, Vincent felt ridiculous, and his hand dropped to his side.

Sit down, Charlie LaRosa said as he slid in across from Ballard. LaRosa had a square face with dark, flat eyes that made him look very intimidating, so Vincent was surprised by how gentle he sounded.

Vincent sat on the bench, and the other man squeezed in beside him, forcing Vincent against the wall and cutting off all avenues of escape. The man smelled of aftershave and had thick, greasy hair and long sideburns. Vincent's head was even with his chin. Dark stubble highlighted a pale, jagged scar. This man never spoke during the time they were together.

So, Vincent, how you doing? Charlie inquired politely.

Okay, Ballard answered, trying hard to keep a tremor out of his voice.

Good, good. So, I understand you have something to tell me.

Once upon a time, Vincent had been a big shot who sat at polished mahogany conference tables, listening to his lawyers conduct negotiations involving millions of dollars. He had picked up a thing or two, and he knew that he shouldn't give away anything before he got something. Vincent licked his lips.

Yeah, yeah, I do, but I want to know what's in it for me.

Charlie smiled and extended a ham-size hand. When he opened his fist, three dime-bags were resting in his palm. Vincent made a grab for them, but the fist closed and Vincent's fingers hovered above a set of scarred knuckles.

So, Vincent? Charlie asked.

Vincent told LaRosa about buying the dime bag from Juan Ruiz, about his rebate, and about Juan's sales pitch for better, cheaper dope. The man's expression didn't change. As soon as Vincent was done, he stood.

Let's go for a ride and meet your friend, he said.

He's not my friend.

Good. Then you won't mind finding him for us.

Charlie nodded, and a hand circled Vincent's biceps. When the man beside him stood, Vincent's body rose with him. He didn't waste his breath protesting, but he did ask for his dope, which was more important to him than his life.

LaRosa patted Vincent on the shoulder.

Don't worry. You done the right thing and I'm going to take care of you. But I have to make sure you aren't yanking my chain. He smiled. Point out this fuckhead to us and the dope is yours. There might even be a bonus for you.

Vincent resigned himself to waiting for his fix. He'd hold it together, finger the dealer, and go to heaven. He was okay, for now anyway. The shakes wouldn't come for a while.

The men drove Vincent around Old Town in a dark blue Lincoln Continental until they spotted Juan Ruiz next to a chain-link fence on the periphery of a construction site. Vincent hadn't noticed Juan's minders when he made his buy the day before, but LaRosa spotted the gunmen lurking in the shadows when they drove by. As soon as they were parked around the corner, he took out his cell phone.

I found that gift you' re looking for, he said. Nice ring. There's a pair of pearl earrings, too. We should meet. You know that Chinese joint over in Old Town?

LaRosa listened for a moment. Fifteen minutes. Have the Ratman buy the present. I look too prosperous. I'm afraid they'd jack up the price.

So, are we all done? Vincent asked anxiously as soon as LaRosa cut the connection.

We' re done when I say we' re done.

Ratman's real name was Henry Tedesco and he had been born in Ireland. Tedesco was tall and skinny. His eyes protruded from a face ravaged by acne when he was a kid. A long, thin nose and overbite made him resemble a rodent. There was a debate over whether he looked more like a weasel than a rat, but no one offered an opinion when Henry was around.

The true reason for Henry's emigration was a mystery, and Henry never spoke about it, but he was rumored to have been an IRA assassin before coming to America. Some people believed that Henry had fled Ireland because he had botched an attempt on a British MP. Others had heard that he had revealed an IRA arms cache to the British. What they did know for certain was that he was a distant relative of Martin Breach, who had supposedly squared Henry's problem with whoever was after him. Now Henry did special jobs for Martin.

Ratman was ideal for this job. He looked like a junkie. Juan Ruiz hadn't suspected a thing when Henry sidled up to him, making sure that Ruiz was between him and his protectors so Juan's minders wouldn't spot the gun he jammed into Ruiz's belly.

Make one move or say anything and I'll shoot you in the gut. You'll die screaming, Henry said.

You' re making a big mistake, Ruiz said.

You made the mistake when you started selling in Martin Breach's territory, Ratman said just as the Lincoln screeched to a halt behind him. The doors flew open. Henry shoved Ruiz inside and slammed the door before Ruiz's protection realized what was happening. The car was rounding the corner before the gunmen could get off a shot.

Before meeting Henry Tedesco, Charlie LaRosa had taken Vincent to a deserted warehouse in an industrial park on the Columbia River. He'd had the key to a padlock that secured the gate in a chain-link fence and the key to a door that lay in the shadows on the side of the building facing the river. The man who never spoke waited behind the wheel of the Lincoln while Charlie escorted Vincent inside. Three men had been waiting for them. Two of the men stayed in the shadows. The third was Arthur Wayne Prochaska, Martin Breach's right-hand man.

Prochaska was a giant with thick lips, a broad nose, pencil-thin eyebrows, and a bald, bullet-shaped head that he had used to stun debtors in the old days, when he and Martin Breach were leg-breakers for the mob. Nowadays, Martin ran the mob and Art managed a couple of bars and considered himself an entrepreneur, except for those rare occasions when Martin wanted the only man he could trust to take care of a different kind of business.

By the time they arrived at the warehouse, Vincent had been sweating profusely and fidgeting. After listening to LaRosa, Prochaska let Vincent shoot up. When Ratman pushed Ruiz into the warehouse an hour later, Vincent was in a pleasant mood.

Ruiz stumbled forward, and LaRosa threw him onto a chair.

I'm going to ask you questions, Prochaska said as Ratman used duct tape to secure Juan to the chair. You'll give me truthful answers.

Prochaska was holding a ball-peen hammer, which looked like a toy in his massive hand. He tapped Ruiz on the knee hard enough to make him flinch.

You don't give me truthful answers and I'll break your right knee and ask you again. Then I'll do the left knee, your shins, et cetera. You got the picture?

Ruiz nodded. His eyes were wide with fear, and he was on the verge of tears. Juan wasn't tough and he had not signed up for something like this.

I help you, he said. You ask me. I help you.

Good. You' re being smart, Prochaska said. Your name is Juan, right?

Yes, sir, Juan Ruiz.

See, that was easy. You gave me a straight answer and I didn't hurt you. So, Juan, who you working for?

Felix, Juan answered, eager to please and grateful that Art hadn't hurt him.

What's Felix's last name?

Dorado. I can tell you where he lives.

That won't be necessary, Juan. I know where he lives. What I don't know is how many pieces of shit like you he has dealing where they ain't supposed to and where they' re selling. But I'll know that as soon as you tell me.

Chapter
2.

DOUG WEAVER WAS ON HIS WAY TO THE JUSTICE CENTER JAIL TO interview a new, court-appointed client when the light on the corner of Fourth and Yamhill changed to red. The case sounded dull, and Doug wasn't thinking about it as he waited for the light to change. Doug was thinking about the dinner invitation he'd received from his wife, Karen, just before he left his office. He and Karen were separated, and this was a rare communication. The fact that she actually wanted to meet him face-to-face made him nervous and highly suspicious.

Karen was a rising star in the Portland branch of an investment banking firm. She made a lot more money than he did, and Doug's failure to pull his own weight had been a major problem in the marriage. Doug's life had not changed much when Karen moved out two months ago. She traveled a lot and worked late when she was in Portland, so they didn't see much of each other, and they hadn't had sex regularly for a long time. Doug was certain that Karen was having an affair but he didn't have the energy to work at confirming his suspicions. It was hard for him to condemn Karen, anyway, because he felt guilty about the reasons for the breakup. He had convinced himself that he would probably have walked out, too, if Karen had been drinking as much as he was and had not lived up to the expectations with which both of them had started their marriage.