Lady Justice and the Devil's Breath Read online

  “How would he ever know?” Andre replied. “He wasn’t there. He’d have no way of knowing we boosted a Rolex and some jewelry.”

  “What then?” Marcia asked. “Are you planning to turn the stuff into cash?”

  “Not right away. Undoubtedly the old man went to the cops and gave them a description of the things we took. Every pawn shop in town will be on the lookout. No, we’ll just hold onto the stuff for awhile and wait until things cool down. Anyway, Ramon should be happy with the cash. Twenty grand isn’t something to sneeze at.”

  Ramon smiled as he counted the cash in the envelope. “Twenty thousand! Now that’s what I’m talking about. This will make Carlos very happy. You had two strikes against you with that botched robbery and the paltry five thousand from the old broad.”

  Ramon handed Andre a pouch. “You have redeemed yourselves. Here is more of the magic elixir. Are you ready for your next assignment?”

  “Absolutely,” Andre replied, taking the pouch. “Who’s our next mark?”

  “It’s not a who, but a what,” Ramon said, handing Andre a slip of paper. “This is the address of a payday loan company on Main Street. It’s one of those places that loan cash using a person’s car or truck title for security. They advertise cash in thirty minutes or less, so undoubtedly they have a bundle on hand.

  “There are only two people on site, a receptionist and Gabe Paulson, the manager. At exactly twelve o’clock, the receptionist leaves for lunch and Paulson orders a sandwich and diet Coke from Jimmy John’s on Broadway. Think you can handle it from here?”

  “Consider it done,” Andre replied.

  “I like this a lot better,” Marcia said as they pulled into traffic.

  “Like what a lot better,” Andre asked.

  “Taking money from a company rather than from the elderly. I can’t stand those stupid payday loan commercials. Some doofus comes on the screen smiling from ear-to-ear, saying ‘I got my title back with Gabe’s Payday Loans.’ It’s like they’re thrilled to be paying 40% interest. Give me a break!”

  Andre smiled. “I agree. This could be a big haul for us. Let’s do our homework and get started.”

  Two days later, Andre and Marcia sat outside Jimmy John’s on Broadway.

  The day before, they had watched the delivery boy take an order to the payday loan store just as Ramon had predicted.

  As soon as he saw the same delivery boy exit the store with a bag, Andre caught up with him at his car.

  “Excuse me. By any chance is that delivery for Gabe Paulson at Gabe’s Payday Loans?”

  “Sure is,” the boy replied. “A #2 Big John with a diet coke. Same order every day.”

  “Of course it is,” Andre said, smiling. “That’s Gabe. So predictable. Listen, I wonder if you could do me a favor? I’m Peter Paulson, Gabe’s brother. He doesn’t know I’m in town. I’d like to surprise him.”

  Andre showed the boy a twenty. “Let me make the delivery. Instead of just a sandwich, he’ll get lunch and his big brother too. What do you say?”

  The boy eyed the twenty. “Well, I guess it would be all right --- you being family and all.”

  He handed Andre the bag.

  “Thanks kid,” Andre said, handing over the twenty. “Boy, will Gabe be surprised.”

  Back in the car, Andre handed the bag to Marcia. “Here you go. Spike the Coke and we’ll be in business.”

  Moments later, they pulled up in front of the payday loan store.

  “Wait here,” Andre said. “A couple of sips and we’ll be good to go.”

  Andre entered the store. “Delivery,” he announced.

  Gabe looked up from his paperwork. “Where’s Billy?”

  “He called in all stuffed up. Allergies I guess. I’m filling in for him.”

  “Too bad. He’s a good kid.” He handed Andre a twenty. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, pal,” Andre replied. “Enjoy.”

  Returning to the car, they watched as Gabe took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a big gulp of Coke.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  CHAPTER 7

  I was watching the five o’clock news while Maggie was putting the finishing touches on our supper. I used to laugh when people joked about seniors eating so early. Not anymore. Now Maggie and I laugh when we’re watching a TV show and the couple plan dinner at eight or nine. By that time, we’re in our jammies.

  The reporter was standing in front of a payday loan store. I took a closer look and realized it was the one on Main just a few blocks from my building.

  I turned up the volume. “Police say the receptionist returned from lunch and found the manager incoherent and disorientated. When she saw the safe was standing open and empty, she called police.”

  A middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair came on the screen. “It was like he was drugged or something. I couldn’t make heads or tails what he was saying.”

  The reporter came back on. “There’s one of the officers that responded to the call. Let’s see if we can get a statement.”

  She shoved the mike in the officer’s face. It was my old partner, Ox.

  “Officer, can you tell us what transpired here today?”

  “Sorry ma’am,” Ox replied, “this is an ongoing investigation. No comment.”

  That was the same line that he and I had given reporters dozens of times.

  I was about to pick up the phone to give Ox a call, but he beat me to it.

  “Walt, Ox here. I wanted ---.”

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “Our pair of con artists hit the payday loan store on Main.”

  “How ---?”

  “I just saw your ugly mug on TV. It’s them, isn’t it?”

  “Sure looks like it. Paramedics took the manager to the hospital. It was several hours before he was coherent enough to talk. He orders a sandwich and Coke every day from Jimmy John’s. It was a different driver today. He said the regular one was sick. The Coke must have been drugged.”

  “Let me guess --- the Coke was nowhere to be found.”

  “Exactly! These guys are good. They’ve left no evidence to prove that they’re using this scopolamine, and there’s no tox screen to test the victims.”

  “How about surveillance cameras?”

  “There was a camera, but the disk was missing. They thought of everything.”

  “I suppose the manager has no idea what happened after he was drugged.”

  “He remembered taking a drink of Coke, and the next thing he knew, he was in the hospital. That’s some powerful stuff.”

  “How about a description? Maybe a Clark Gable moustache?”

  “Those weren’t his words. He’s not that old. I doubt he knows who Clark Gable is, but yes, the guy had a moustache.”

  “How much did they get?”

  “Forty-two thousand and change.”

  “Wow! Has anyone talked to the regular Jimmy John’s driver?”

  “Yeah, we found him. Nothing there. The guy approached him claiming to be the manager’s brother. He said he wanted to surprise him and offered the kid a twenty to let him make the delivery.”

  “That’s a lot of advance preparation and leg work. These guys know what they’re doing.”

  “Now we have a bigger problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The press. We were able to keep Jerry, Penelope Adams and Angus Anderson out of the news, but reporters from the Kansas City Star and the local TV stations were all over this. So far, no one has mentioned Devil’s Breath. If some hotshot reporter makes the connection --- well, you know what can happen.”

  “Indeed I do. If word gets out that there’s a new mind control drug on the streets, it could get ugly. Thanks for the head’s up. Let me know if you get anything else. Jerry’s trial is coming up soon. If we don’t catch them, he won’t have a chance.”

  “I’m going to run to the drug store,” Maggie said when supper was over. “I need some personal things.”

&
nbsp; I’ve learned from experience that a woman’s ‘personal things’ are none of my business. It’s better that some things are left a mystery.

  As Maggie descended the steps from her third-floor apartment, she was accosted by Walt’s father.

  “Maggie,” he whispered. “Come inside. We need to talk.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” Maggie asked, stepping into his apartment.

  John looked up and down the hall, then closed the door. “We need to talk about Walt.”

  “What about him?”

  “His seventy-fifth birthday is just around the corner. We have to figure out what to do for him. A surprise party? Maybe a picnic? Should I rent the teamsters hall?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so. You know Walt. He doesn’t like people making a fuss over him.”

  “But it’s his seventy-fifth!” John protested. “A diamond year! It’s special! We have to do something!”

  “How about this?” Maggie replied. “Don’t plan anything yet. Let me talk to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  John sighed. “Oh, okay, but don’t let him wiggle out of this.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  An hour later, Maggie returned from the drug store.

  “We need to talk,” she said, depositing a bag full of stuff on the kitchen counter.

  It’s never a good sign when a woman says, “We need to talk.” It invariably involves something unpleasant.

  “About what?” I asked reluctantly.

  “Your father.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What’s he done now?”

  “It’s not what he’s done. It’s what he wants to do.”

  Knowing my father, that could be most anything. “What now?”

  Maggie sighed. “He stopped me in the hall. He wants to plan a party for your birthday.”

  I was right. It was something unpleasant. “Maggie! You know how I feel about that stuff.”

  “I do. That’s why I told him not to do anything until I talked to you. He wants to do something. You know he missed so many of your birthdays when he was on the road driving. It’s important to him.”

  I groaned. “But I know what it will be. I’ll have to listen to Jerry telling jokes about old people. Bernice will bake snickerdoodles and make me eat a dozen or so. Somebody will bring little weenies in cocktail sauce and Ox will dribble the sauce down the front of his shirt. Been there, done that so many times. I just don’t want all the fuss.”

  “Okay then, Mr. Grouch,” Maggie replied, “what would you like to do?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Of course, silly.”

  “I’ve given it some thought. The Manhattan Transfer is coming to the Kauffman Center. I’d like to have a nice quiet dinner, then go to the concert. Just you and me. Is that unreasonable?”

  She thought for a moment. “I guess not. I suppose I should be grateful you want me to tag along. But what about the others? They’ll be so disappointed.”

  “They’ll get over it. Dad has a ninety-fifth coming up soon. We can make that a big bash. I just don’t want people fussing over me.”

  “Okay, I’ll spread the word, but they won’t be happy.”

  The next morning, Maggie knocked on John’s door.

  “Well?” he asked expectantly, “did you talk to him?”

  Maggie sighed. “I did, and I’m afraid it’s not good news. No party. In fact, he’s already made plans to go see the Manhattan Transfer for his birthday.”

  “The what?”

  “Manhattan Transfer. It’s a quartet that sings everything from the oldies to du-wop. It’s one one of his favorite groups. They’re coming to the Kauffman Center. It’s what he wants.”

  “Well damn!” John said, shaking his head. “We wanted to give the old boy a real barn-burner. Everyone will really be disappointed.”

  “Thanks for understanding,” Maggie said, patting John on the arm.

  As soon as Maggie was gone, John was on the phone. “Jerry, get the Professor and come to my apartment. There’s been a change of plans.”

  John called Bernice, and soon the four of them were huddled in John’s apartment.

  “I have good news and bad news,” John announced. “The bad news is that Walt doesn’t want a party.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “The good news is that we’re going to give him one anyway.”

  Bernice clapped her hands. “Oh goody. I love parties.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jerry said. “How are we going to give him a party when he doesn’t want one?”

  “Maggie told me they’re going to the Kauffman Center to hear some singing group called the Manhattan Transfer.”

  “Fantastic group!” the Professor said.

  “You know them?” John asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” the professor replied. “They’ve won multiple Grammys, and for ten years straight were voted the Best Vocal Group.”

  “Okay,” Jerry said, confused, “so he’s going to the Kauffman Center for his birthday. What’s that got to do with us?”

  John smiled. “We’re going too! I’ll bet they’ve never had a birthday cake with all the candles at intermission.”

  “No,” the Professor quipped, “I’m sure they never have.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Andre put down the calculator and smiled. “Three jobs and our take is almost forty-five thousand. Not too bad.”

  “I agree,” Marcia replied. “I think we should take a break and start enjoying our ill-gotten gains.”

  “You must have something in mind.”

  “I do. The Manhattan Transfer is coming to the Kauffman Center. They’re one of my favorite groups. I’d love to go.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m so looking forward to it. I just know it will be an exciting evening.”

  Marcia had no idea how prophetic that would be.

  The big day was finally here, the seventy-fifth anniversary of my arrival on this old planet.

  All things considered, I was still in pretty good shape for someone three score and fifteen. I could still see, hear, and pee, and I still had all my own teeth.

  Ever since Maggie had warned me that my friends and family wanted to throw a party, I halfway expected them to ignore my wishes, but it was beginning to look like I was going to get a pass. In fact, I had seen very little of any of them. Maybe they were pissed at my rebuke and were just giving me the cold shoulder.

  “Ready to go?” I asked as Maggie entered the room.

  She gave me the once-over. “You clean up pretty good for an old guy.”

  “So glad you noticed. Not only did I shower, I used the roto-rooter to clip my nose and ear hairs.”

  “About time!” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  We were off to dinner.

  Since it was my birthday, I got to choose the eating establishment. I chose Mel’s Diner, of course.

  It’s not Maggie’s favorite place. Mel sells comfort food. Everything is cooked in butter and smothered in gravy. Maggie prefers things broiled or steamed.

  Maggie groaned as Mel set my plate filled with chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, all covered in gravy, in front of me. “If you keep eating like that, you may never see seventy-six.”

  “If I can’t eat what I want,” I replied, “maybe I don’t want to see seventy-six.”

  As soon as that snarky comment was out of my mouth, she gave me ‘the look.’ Every woman seems to have ‘the look’ down pat. It must be a genetic thing.

  “Sorry,” I replied, sopping up the last drop of gravy.

  At that moment, Mel appeared with a huge piece of chocolate cream pie. Sticking out of the top of the three-inch merengue was a single candle. Maggie must have called and given him a heads-up.

  “Happy birthday,” he said. “The pie’s on the house.”

  “Aren’t you gonna sing to me?” I asked as he walked away.

  “If yo
u wanted a serenade, you should have gone to Chucky Cheese,” he replied without turning back. “They have Ski-Ball too. Maybe you could win yourself a prize.”

  Mel’s such a card.

  Full and happy, we headed to the Kauffman Center.

  I love the Manhattan Transfer. I couldn’t wait to hear their rendition of Bobby Darin’s Dream Lover. It’s one of my favorites.

  The Kauffman Center was packed. They have something for everyone. The harmonies of the quartet are impeccable.

  Naturally, they didn’t disappoint. They sang old favorites like Tuxedo Junction, and the audience gave standing ovations for Alan Paul’s falsetto rendition of Gloria, and when Janis Siegel belted out Operator, their first national hit.

  After an hour, it was time for intermission. I was ready for a potty break and a trip to the snack bar.

  When we walked out into the spacious lobby, I was surprised to see my dad.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  In the far corner of the lobby was a card table with a huge cake. There were so many candles, I was afraid it might set off the sprinkler system.

  Gathered around the table were all my family and friends, Bernice, the Professor, Jerry, Willie, Mary, Ox and Judy, and Kevin and Veronica.

  “Happy Birthday, Son,” Dad said, clapping me on the back.

  I looked at Maggie. She appeared as bewildered as I was. “Did you know about this?” I whispered.

  “Not a clue,” she replied.

  I was about to say something when the Manhattan Transfer appeared and began singing Happy Birthday.

  My mouth flew open in shock. I must have looked like a real goober.

  When they finished, each one shook my hand. “Thank you for your service. We’d love to stay and chat, but we only have a few minutes until the second half of the show.”

  When they were gone, I turned to Dad. “How in the world did you pull this off?”

  “Easy,” he replied. “I just sent them an email saying that a retired police officer who was wounded in the line of duty and was the recipient of The Medal of Honor twice, was coming to the concert to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday. How could they refuse?”