I order a second margarita, she’s half finished with her first, and we go back and forth with stories about our past. A platter of enchiladas arrives and she hardly notices. Judging by her figure, she has the appetite of a bird. I can’t remember the last time I had sex, and the longer we talk the more I am consumed with that subject. By the time I finish both the food and the booze, I’m fighting the urge to lunge across the table.
But Naomi Tarrant is not impulsive. This will take time. It’s Tuesday, so I ask her what she’s doing Wednesday. No go.
“You know what I’d really like?” she asks.
What? Anything.
“This may seem a bit odd, but I’m really curious about mixed martial arts.”
“Cage fights? You want to go to the cage fights?” I’m stunned.
“Is it safe?” she asks, and mentions the little episode involving the riot and Starcher’s close call with disaster. Judith sued me again and Naomi got a subpoena to testify.
“If there’s no brawl, it’s pretty safe,” I say. “Let’s go.” The truth is, at least half of the fanatics who show up at the fights and scream for blood are women.
We book a date for this coming Friday. I’m thrilled because there is another young fighter I need to evaluate. His manager has contacted me and needs some financial backing.
Not surprisingly, Doug Renfro has not done well since his wife was murdered by one of our SWAT teams. The civil trial is two months away, and Doug is not looking forward to it. He’s had his day in court and he’s not ready for another one.
I meet him for lunch in an empty deli, and I’m startled by his appearance. He’s lost a lot of weight, pounds that he needed. His face is gaunt and pale, and his eyes convey the pain and confusion of a defeated and lonely man.
He nibbles on a chip and says, “I’ve put the house on the market. I can’t stay there, too many memories. I can see her in the kitchen. I can feel her sleeping in the bed next to me. I can hear her laughing on the phone. I can smell her body lotion. She’s everywhere, Sebastian, and she’s not going away. Worst of all, I can’t help but relive those last few seconds, the gunfire and screams and the blood. I blame myself for so much of what went wrong. I often leave at midnight and go find a cheap motel where I pay sixty bucks and stare at the ceiling until sunrise.”
“I’m sorry, Doug,” I say. “It certainly wasn’t your fault.”
“I know. But I’m not rational. Plus I hate this damned city. Every time I see a cop or fireman or a garbage worker I start cursing the City and the fools who run it. I can no longer pay taxes to this government. So, I’m outta here.”
“What about your family?”
“I’ll see them whenever I need to. They have their own lives to live. I gotta take care of me this time, and that means I need a new start somewhere.”
“Where are you going?”
“It changes every day, but right now it looks like New Zealand. As far away as I can get. I’ll probably renounce my citizenship so I won’t have to pay taxes here. I’m a bitter old man, Sebastian, and I have to get away.”
“What about the civil trial?”
“I’m not going to trial. I want you to settle it as soon as you can. Hell, the City’s liability is only a million. They’ll pay that, won’t they?”
“Yes, I assume. I haven’t talked settlement with them, but they don’t want to go to trial.”
“Is there a way to get more than a million?”
“Maybe.”
He slowly takes a sip of his tea and stares at me. “How?”
“I’ve got some dirt on the police department. Some crap that’s pure filth. Extortion is what I’m thinking.”
“I like it,” he says with a smile, the first and only. “Can you move fast? I want to get outta here. I’m sick of this place.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
When my cell phone buzzes after midnight, it’s never a call I want to take. At 12:02 I pick it up and see that Partner wants to talk. “Hey, Boss,” he says in a weak voice. “They tried to kill me.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really. I’ve got some burns but I’ll be all right. I’m at the hospital, Catholic. We need to talk.”
I strap a Glock 19 under my left armpit, put on a heavy coat and a brown fedora, and hustle down to the parking lot to retrieve my worn-out Mazda. Ten minutes later I enter the ER wing of the hospital and say hello to one Juke Sadler, one of the sleaziest lawyers in town. Juke roams the City’s emergency rooms trolling for injured clients. Like a vulture, he loiters in the hallways watching for distraught relatives too panicked to think clearly. He’s been known to have lunch and dinner in hospital cafeterias while passing out cards to those with broken bones. Last year he got in a fistfight with a tow truck driver who was hustling the family of a fresh car wreck victim. Both were arrested but only Juke got his photo in the newspaper. The bar association has been after him for years but he’s too slick.
