GUMSHOES

Chapter 3 - Nobody Gets Respect

"If it wasn't him, who was it?" Jerome struggled with the binding on his wrists.

"I don't know but right now that's not my prime concern." Wendell struggled with his own knots.

"At least he didn't shoot us too."

"Yeah . . . but why I wonder. Why tie us up?"

"Guess we'll know when he gets back from wherever he went with that body."

"Well, I don't want to be here for that, so get untied."

"Oh, right, why didn't I think of that."

The door opened and Benjamin stepped inside, looking at the abrupt halt to their struggles. He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with an agonizingly slow ceremony.

"Let me explain something, boys." The voice made it hard for both of them to concentrate, and Benjamin watched through the smoke with cold eyes. "Get past it. It's not my voice you have to worry about."

"What, no - never crossed my--"

"Shut up and listen."

"Yessir."

"I am a facilitator for special clients. I work under contract with very strict rules. What you bumbled into was one of those contracts. Now, one of those rules is complete anonymity - with no blowback of any kind."

"We wouldn't blow back, Mr. Underwood." Wendell tried for assurance.

"Grove. Undergrove. And I'll tell you why I let you know my name."

"You're gonna kill us!" Jerome moaned.

"It's tempting, but no. My personal code wouldn't permit it. However-" he sat back, rolling his eyes as they both began protesting and pleading, "However, there needs to be an understanding between us."

"We understand! We can understand!"

Benjamin finished his cigarette and stood, replacing the chair. "That's good, because the tiniest whiff of what happened here today - and I mean tiny - you, your friends, family and anyone else you might know will pay . . . heavily."

"Not a peep! Never! Ever, Mr. Underground. I swear - we swear! Right, Wendell?" Jerome nodded like a bobble head.

"Absolutely. You can rely on us . . . sir." Wendell joined the nod.

"It's Under- aah, forget it. better that way."

"Thank you, sir. It's a privilege dealing with a professional." Wendell's sweaty hands slipped free of the rope, and he dug out a business card. "If we can ever be of service to you . . ."

A pained expression appeared on Benjamin's face as he read the card.

"You two are gumshoes?"

"Uh- private investigators, yes. And may I ask you a question?" Benjamin was still staring at the card. "Did you call that number with the message - 'back off?'"

"Huh. What? No! I don't do telephone threats."

"Right. Okay. Of course not. Thank you. Uhm, can I ask another?"

Benjamin closed his eyes and waited.

"Did you see anyone using the phone at Piper's around two?"

"Max Shine. Now that's it. Remember what I said." He made a gun sign with his fingers.

Jerome finally got himself untied and raised his hands. "Our word, Mr. Undercarriage, you got our word."

The look was thunderous and Benjamin pulled back his thumb as if cocking the hammer. "Leave. Now. And take Cosby with you."

"Cosby!"

"Shut it, Jerome. Just get a move on." Wendell hustled him out of the room, with a weak smile for Benjamin, then shoved him down the hall to the stairs, hushing Jerome's protests all the way. Out on the street, Jerome pulled away from Wendell's grasp and stomped about angrily.

"What the hell is it with all you Honkies? Ray Charles, Rochester, Cosby, for God's sake? Why is it never Denzel or Dwayne . . . or Drake--"

"Or Dionne. Jesus, Jerome stop whining. We got a new clue in this Max Shine."

"Right. Prob'ly another member of Undergrad's pals."

******

At the large corner table in the dining room of the Meteor Club, Hardy Menken scoffed forkfuls of Strapponi CinCin, Mumbai, while a small retinue of henchmen sat patiently - watching. Sauce slopped from each forkful onto the large serviette stuffed into his shirt collar and around the beleaguered Van Dyke on his chin.

"Report." He garbled, through another mouthful.

"Since that disaster with the detective we've had to rethink our choice of transportation."

"And?"

"It's difficult. It's not like smuggling drugs or money, Hardy. You can't fill up a green pepper or a watermelon with people."

"You sat there and told me this car seat deal was foolproof. Now it's a disaster?"

"It was perfect. He was inside the special car seat slip cover, and you couldn't tell it wasn't the real thing. Problem was, at the border, he sneezed while the guard was looking inside."

Hardy licked the last of the sauce from his plate and wiped his face with the messy serviette.

"So the driver runs the checkpoint and gets into a police pursuit."

"He was new - it was his first run."

"And his last, as it turned out, along with one very expensive client."

"It's a risk, Hardy. It's always a risk."

"Huh. I'll tell you what a risk is, Fletcher. A risk is letting you handle this operation."

"Hey! That's not fair. The idea was perfect, it isn't my fault the client sneezed when he did."

"So what's the new plan?"

"I'm working on it. I think it's even better."

"You think."

Everyone tensed as Hardy pushed his plate away, guzzled the last of his drink, and got up from the table.

"Three days, Fletcher. That's when we have to bring Don Parco in from Columbia. You gonna be finished working on it in time?"

"Three days!" Fletcher saw the henchmen shift uneasily, and he calmed down. "That's not much time to develop a plan and get it down to Columbia, Hardy. C'mon, we have to test it once it's ready. That can't be done in three days."

"You better see that it can." Hardy pushed past Fletcher with his retinue and left the dining room.

"That really isn't enough time, Hardy." The little man with the laptop said, scurrying beside him.

"I know that. Fletcher just needs incentive, and you just stick to the books, Owen, I'll run the operation."