Three strikes (picker mysteries) Read online

  I turned; opened the front door; called my dog and headed for home.

  Strike 2

  "What's your interest in this matter, Mr. Picker?"

  I was sitting in the law offices of 'Sharke, Lawless amp; Cozener, LLC'. Unfortunate surnames for those in the legal profession. Well appointed offices residing on the second floor of a stone building; off of Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill. Amy had provided me with the name of the estate lawyer.

  "A very close friend was murdered two days ago. Bigfoot Henderson. Excuse me, Hari Henderson. This was shortly after cleaning out the property on Ardleigh; the one for which you are the executor."

  Char Cozener appeared to be in his mid-sixties. Average height, perhaps five-ten, white hair combed back, plastered with Brill Creme, ears which stuck out, no lobes and steely grey eyes. Fifteen or twenty pounds overweight.

  "And you believe that there may be a connection."

  "Precisely. Maybe you can tell me a little about the deceased. Something about his life."

  "To be perfectly honest Mr. Picker, I don't see how it can help. On the other hand, it can't hurt. I liked Hari, done business with him for years. Nice boy.

  "Peter Carrington III recently passed away at the age of one-hundred and twelve years. Old family, old money. The original fortune was made by Peter the first; apparently running guns and ammo for the wars going on in the world at that time. That produced the seed money for Peter number two. An industrialist, fingers in everything."

  "And our Peter?"

  "What may have been referred to in other times as a gentleman, a man of leisure. The fortune left to him was so vast that even I don't know the full extent of it. That family has monies hidden all over the world in accounts that show up nowhere."

  I was curious. "What exactly does a man of leisure do with his time?"

  "In Peter's case there were two passions. Traveling and collecting. As a matter of fact, the reason for traveling was to collect more stuff. Antiques, art; particularly paintings, pottery, old documents, military stuff. His real passion, however, was sports. Anything to do with sports. Loved baseball from the time he was a lad wearing knickers."

  "Mr. Cozener, what happened to his collections? As you are well aware, Hari's job consisted of the kitchen, pantry, the basement and garage."

  "Everything of value went to an auction house in New York. All of his collections were extensive, but the baseball card one was staggering. I believe that was the exception. It went to another outfit, also in New York, which specializes in sports memorabilia. I don't recall the name off the top of my head; I can look it up if you wish."

  "Not necessary, but thanks." The auction that Cozener was referring to is Gotta Have It! They've been around since 1994 and specialize in authenticated sports, entertainment, Rock amp; Roll and historical memorabilia. Not old by auction house standards, but apparently they get good prices. Which, when it comes down to it, is the only thing that matters.

  I thanked Mr. Cozener for his time. He asked me to pass his condolences on to Mrs. Henderson and if I would be so kind to keep him informed.

  I walked west for two blocks. Went into a pizza joint and ordered a Sicilian slice with a Mozzarella and Eggplant Parm topping and homemade iced tea. Took it outside to sit at a wrought iron table under an umbrella.

  I mentally rehearsed everything that I knew about Hari's death up to this point. Decidedly, it wasn't much. Hari picks up a choice cleanout here in Chestnut Hill. Merely a few rooms, but still very profitable. Apparently, he finds somewhat valuable vintage baseball cards in a locked floor safe. An unaccounted portion of a much larger collection. Valuable, but not valuable enough to kill for, I think.

  Literally, a handful of people actually know what was in the steel box from the safe. So far as I'm aware, Hari's crew; Rebel and Chucky, Danny Boy Boyle and the sports dealer Leon Burger. But not Amy. She only seems to know that it was baseball cards, not which specific cards. Did Rebel, Chucky or Danny Boy tell anyone else?

  Last evening, over dinner at my place with Kelly and TJ, I had asked TJ to get me the contact info for Hari's crew. I tried both their numbers; neither picked up. The message that I left requested a return call as soon as possible.

  Speak of the Devil. At that moment my cell rings. "Mr. Picker, it’s Chucky. You wanted me to call?"

  "Sure. When can we meet? The sooner the better."

  "Anytime today, Mr. Picker. Boy, I can't believe it. I loved that man like a father." Hari was only a few years older than Cheese. "You tell me when and where, I'll be there. You bet. Anything that I can do to help."

  "I'm in Chestnut Hill. Let's say two o'clock. Antiquarian's Delight. You know it?"

  "Sure thing, Mr. Picker. Two o'clock it is."

  I crossed the street at Bethlehem Pike. Several stores down I picked up some natural, homemade dog biscuits. Put them in my pocket. At West Evergreen I crossed again and started walking towards my car.

  A block from the Avenue I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy footsteps.

  One hundred feet ahead I could see my parked car.

  The next two things appeared to happen at once.

  Kato leapt from the Morgan. He came tearing towards me.

  Simultaneously, the sound of two men rushing up from behind.

  I turn quickly. Tall and thin; short and stocky. T amp;T is raising his arm holding a. 38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson. S amp;S is gripping a blackjack in his left paw.

  My black and tan monster springs from his hind legs. Kato’s teeth come down hard on Tall's right wrist; the one holding the gun. I actually hear bones crunching. Tall drops to his knees and screams.

  Short raises his hand to strike with the blackjack. My left hand grabs his left wrist; I turn into him; bend my knees and pull. Short ends up on his back.

  "Throat," I said. Kato releases Tall's broken wrist; opens his jaws as wide as they can go and grabs Short's neck.

  Tall is in so much pain that he has no idea what is going on. I step over and kick the gun out of his reach. Return to Short; lean over; smile and said, "This is important. Pay close attention. Do Not Move or that dog will kill you. If you have any doubts whatsoever, well, you can find out first hand."

  I stand back up. Grin from ear to ear. "Well boys. What can I do for you today?"

  T amp;T was in too much pain to talk. S amp;S just looked terrified. "Look, son. Talk to me or I'll have him kill you just for giggles. Understand?"

  "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Mr. Santucci. It was Mr. Santucci. He tell's us dis guy's looking for muscle."

  "You're fucking kidding me. Uncle Carmine?"

  "Yeah, yeah. We call this guy. He say's to rough up this guy, Picker. Ya know, put a scare into him. That's it, honest mister. Not personal, ya get me."

  "Who's the guy, shitbrains?" Shitbrains? Did I really say that?

  "Don't know. All done over the phone mister, honest. Dat's all I know."

  "One last question. Did Carmine know?"

  "No, Mr. Santucci knows nothing. He gave us the phone number. We made all the arrangements, honest."

  I guess I would have to find out for myself. Two cop cars came racing down the street; lights flashing and sirens blaring. Damn neighbors. One cop in each car. Ever since the budget cuts some bean counter thought this would save taxpayer dollars. How is two cars cheaper than one?

  The two police officers hop from their vehicles. One of them actually starts to go for his gun.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  Officer One gives me a puzzled look. "Oh you wouldn't, would you?"

  "Officer, you see that man there. The one with the broken wrist. The one that's bleeding profusely. My dog did that. Kato here is security trained. He has one mission in life, only one. To protect me. I guarantee, no shit, that if you even touch that gun, you will be dead before it clears the holster. Your buddy there might, and I say might, get off a shot. Doesn't matter. You'll be as dead as a doorknob." What does that even mean?

  Officer One lowers his ha
nd. Officer Two examines the scene, looks at me and said, "You're coming with us."

  "With all due respect officer, fuck you. I'm the victim here. Look at the gun, look at the blackjack. For God's sake, look at these two morons. I've got things to do."

  I slowly reach into my pocket and take out two business cards. "One card is mine, the other my lawyer's. Call him and set up a time for me to give a statement."

  I consider giving them Santucci's name but decide against it. Don't need him as an enemy if it can be avoided.

  "Kato, guard." The beast is eyeing Officer One. "Remember what I said. There is no need for anyone to get hurt. Don't make any sudden moves until I pull out."

  Officer Two, "You're making a mistake mister."

  "You know, everyone tells me that." I turn and head for the car. Start it up; pull out and start to cruise down the street. Let out a sharp whistle. Kato comes bounding towards the car; I stop; he jumps in. I reach into my pocket and give him one of those natural biscuits.

  "Good boy."

  Ball Two

  "I don't suppose you ever read that book?"

  "And what book might that be?" I asked.

  The caller id read Margaret Moore. Moore is an Assistant District Attorney for the City of Philadelphia.

  "Why, 'How to Win Friends and Influence People', of course.

  "Can't say that I have Maggie."

  Margaret Moore is a stunning five-foot seven inches. Mid-thirties, mousy brown hair cut shoulder length, striking green eyes hidden by black rimmed glasses; a wonderful package wrapped in designer clothes.

  "Talked to a police Lieutenant in the 14th Precinct. Looks like you pissed off a couple of Philly's finest."

  "I suppose that I did at that. Tell me, what else is new?"

  "Well, big boy, I pulled your bacon out of the fire. Those lads wanted a warrant for your arrest. I quashed it for you. Have that stooge of a lawyer you use call the district captain."

  "Much appreciated. How can I repay the favor?"

  "Dinner."

  Oh shit. "Sure. Get back to me with a time and place. Talk soon." I cut the connection. A date with Maggie Moore? Jeez. Kelly would kill me.

  I was early for my meeting with Chucky.

  Decided to make a quick stop. My meeting was for two o'clock. I still had an hour or so. Parked the car in front of an unremarkable building not far from 9th and Washington.

  Standing guard at the front door was an overweight bovine wearing a powder blue sweat suit; white t-shirt accessorized with a heavy gold chain. He managed to squeak out a "Yeah".

  "Mr. Picker to see Mr. Santucci."

  Without muttering a syllable he turned and went inside; leaving Kato and I standing on the sidewalk. Two full minutes passed before he stepped back outside.

  "Mr. Santucci says to com' in."

  The Italian Social Club is an old brick structure dating to the turn of the previous century. It's basically a long narrow room with an ancient bar running down the left side of the room. On the right are scarred wooden booths and dark wood chairs and tables lining the center of the room. Completing this picturesque motif is a black and white tiled floor along with a pressed tin ceiling sporting old world rotating fans.

  The moment we entered Kato sat near the door facing the men in the room. An oaf on a bar stool swiveled his head, saw my beast and said, "Not that damn dog again."

  I made my way to the back. Uncle Carmine Santucci rose from the chair behind his desk and offered his hand. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the great antique's dealer himself. Take a seat Mr. Picker." To the bartender, "Due espresso Carlo." To me, "I enjoyed those cigars, Mr. Picker. I must thank you again. Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

  Uncle Carmine is the acting head of the local mob. His territory, so to speak, covers Southeastern Pennsylvania and South Jersey. In the tradition of the legendary Angelo Bruno, many consider Carmine to be The Gentleman Godfather. He does not allow dealing in drugs; is well known for giving back to the community; and never or almost never kills outsiders.

  Late sixties, tall and trim, Carmine gives the appearance of a self assured, elegant grandfatherly type businessman.

  I pushed the red lacquered box across his desk. An extra box of Gran Habanos that are kept in the trunk. "It pleases me that you enjoyed the cigars. I hope that you enjoy these as well." Hint: Never visit the local mafia don without bringing some sort of tribute, no matter how small.

  Carlo placed the espressos on the desk. Without asking, Carmine spooned some sugar into both cups. "Thank you, I'm sure that I will. Now, what is the purpose of this visit?"

  "Two men attacked me a short while ago. Your name came up."

  Uncle Carmine took a sip of his coffee. I did the same. Good stuff. "I trust that you were not hurt."

  Not a word. I sat there and kept my yap shut.

  "Dem guys." Despite the fine clothes; the regal bearing and other trappings of success, Uncle Carmine's speech left something to be desired. "Mr. Picker, I apologize for the inconvenience."

  Huh? Inconvenience?

  "The best that I can do is to tell ya what I know. And, also what I don't know. What I know is dat some guy calls the club here. He's looking for some muscle. Of course, he doesn't say what for. I don't ask. The job, I gives it to Sal and Tony. Two leg breakers. This voice on the phone, it gives a time and a place. I leave the details up to dem two mooks.”

  Not a word. Just sitting there; listening.

  "What I don't know is who, when, where or why."

  "You left out how." I bite my tongue. This is a man that I do not wish to insult.

  Uncle Carmine smiles and let's it pass. "My young friend, I truly apologize. If I had known it was you, hand to God, I would not have allowed it. How may I make it up to you?"

  I polish off the espresso and pause for a moment; trying to give the appearance of thoughtfulness. "Nothing Mr. Santucci. This was, as you say, a minor inconvenience." Huh? "There must not be any hard feeling among friends." Don't blame me. I have an adult male affliction. Suffer from watching 'The Godfather' too many times.

  Uncle Carmine, "Thank you. You are a respectful young man. I trust that you were not hurt?"

  "Not a scratch. Although, it did cause a run in with the police. But, that's already been taken care of."

  "And the two guys that attacked you?"

  "That's a different matter altogether. The taller one, unfortunately, has a broken wrist. My guess is that he'll require corrective surgery. I apologize for the inconvenience." Pretty funny, huh?

  For the most fleeting of moments Carmine gives me the bent eye. It passes so quickly one may imagine that it didn't occur at all. I know better. But even in his world, Carmine concedes that I hold the moral high ground. Did I say moral?

  "I'll take care of any medical expenses. Mr. Picker, I want to thank you for dropping by. To be honest, I always enjoy our little chats. And, I like you. You are my friend. If you ever need my assistance, for anything, please feel free to call upon me."

  I was being dismissed. Uncle Carmine handed me a business sized card. It contained a hand written phone number only. "My personal number Mr. Picker."

  "Thank you Mr. Santucci."

  "Please, call me Uncle Carmine."

  Time out

  It was almost three months to the day that Kato adopted me.

  The following is what happened.

  Another beautiful morning at the flea market. Looking for something to buy and perhaps turn around for a small profit. Walking up one row; back down another; scanning the tables and occasionally stopping to examine something up close.

  Googie Great Horse, some sort of American Indian descendent, is set up at a corner table. Now, if you have never been to an outdoor market, then allow me to briefly fill you in on the set up.

  Most fleas, but not all, have the dealer park his or her car, pick-up, van or even truck behind their table or tables. The tables are positioned in a long straight row, back to back. So, if you can picture this, when yo
u set up you'll will have a dealer on your right, one on the left and several to your back.

  If you think that this is a little chaotic, you would be correct. Pulling-in in the morning is a major headache. Leaving when you’re finished can be an absolute nightmare.

  Back to my story. Googie is set-up on the corner meaning that no dealer is on his right. His tables, he rented two, are catty-corner to one of the co-op buildings. On the back of his pick-up truck is a crate with half a dozen German Shepherd puppies.

  "Good morning, Googie. How's business?"

  "Hey, Pick. Good, man. Really good. See anything that you can't live without?"

  "Not yet. What's with the dogs?"

  Picture this: Very early morning, the sun's not quite all the way up. Hundreds of dealers, both men and women, are walking about hunting for the next great treasure. What's garnering the most attention? Dogs! Six German Shepherd puppies.

  "My Angel had some pups. Gotta sell them. My old lady won't let me keep 'em. Hey, maybe you'd like one P. What do ya say?"

  I step over to the back of the truck and poke my fingers into the cage. One of them, a monster black and tan, begins to lick my fingers. "I'm not in the market. Out of curiosity, how much?"

  "A grand."

  "Like I said, not in the market." I’m looking at this one pup, I can't believe how big he is. Maybe forty pounds. "Googie, how old are these puppies?"

  "Six weeks. That one, the monster licking you, he's forty, forty-five pounds." Just as I thought.

  "Do me a favor. Let him out, I want to take a closer look."

  My Uncle Moe pops up out of nowhere. "Don't be doing it laddie. That beast gets out of there and it'll be all over."

  The old man doesn't know anything. I ignore him. Googie opens the door, wrestles with these hyper active creatures but manages to pull out the monster. The six week old bundle of energy leaps from the tailgate; dashes over to me and jumps up. He presses his front paws into my chest.

  This is where it gets interesting. Very quietly I say, "No." Down he jumps; sits and looks up at me expectantly. "Googie, we're going for a walk. Right back."