Chapter 13

An expert interrogator I’m not. I don’t have the heart for it, or, as it turned out, the supplies. What I’ve always lacked in preparedness though, I make up for in resourcefulness.

Or, as Uncle Higheagle sometimes says, Boy, you don’t plan for shit, but you sure can fake your way out of trouble.

One furniture dolly with squeaky wheels, one full roll of duct tape, and three ratchet straps later, I was ready to begin.

Phil stood strapped to the furniture dolly like some particularly scuzzy work of art, The Stinker, maybe, instead of The Thinker. Bound to the dolly at the chest, waist, and knees, ankles taped together, his hands lost in a ball of silver tape, my guest was as cozy as he was likely to get.

I began with coffee, for me, not him. It was the next best thing to actually being able to go home and sleep.

Phil bitched and moaned pretty much non-stop. It had been a good quarter-hour since I’d had to hurt him, and it seemed prolonged substance use had fucked up his short-term memory. Or maybe he was just born stupid. Once I stepped back into his line of sight his recall kicked in and he mellowed out a bit.

“I thought you said you weren’t gonna kill me.” He managed to sound petulant rather than fearful. His demeanor was dour, his gaze accusing, his bottom lip pooched out like a child who has encountered his first injustice.

Not fair was the story his face told, unintentionally amusing, but in no way productive. I resisted the urge to remind him that life wasn’t fair, thanks in large to assholes like him and his boss.

“I said I wouldn’t unless you made me,” I corrected him.

If anything, the pout hardened on his face. His eyes told me clearly what he’d like to do to me if he wasn’t busy being tied up. He reminded me of the kind of parking lot tough-guy who likes to pose and threaten, posture and lunge, but who is never quite able to free himself from his girlfriend’s restraining grip.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to explain in one hundred words or less why Mr. Finke might possibly be...” I paused for a moment, appearing to consider my next words carefully, in reality giving Phil a few seconds to reflect on his situation and his transgressions. If he thought Finke had sent me to punish him for something, he had probably done something worthy of punishment.

“Unhappy with your services,” I finished.

He swallowed. His petulance was gone. We were back to fear again.

“You do work for him.” He looked ready to weep.

“I want you to be perfectly honest, perfectly frank. I want you to assume that Mr. Finke already knows.” I spread my arms wide and grinned, as if to say Why else would I be here, “Remember, one hundred words or less. Feel free to use whatever words you have left to apologize.”

* * *

Phil, as it turns out, had been a very bad boy.

His confession actually went quite a bit longer than a hundred words, but I let it slide. The more the better, I thought. Skimming drugs and money for personal use was only the start. Phil’s main job was to keep his ears to the street and make sure Finke knew all the vitals of his competitors, and his lucrative sideline was funneling information on Finke’s operation to those competitors, small-time guys trying to stay unnoticed while working the same territory.

Phil had been running that scam for a few years without getting pinched by Finke or squashed by his sideline customers, which meant he was either extremely smart, or extremely lucky. My vote was for lucky, and I think he felt the same way. He behaved like he’d expecting something like this for a while.

He was giving me some solid information on Finke’s organization in the mix; names of connections and clients, the particulars of at least one company belonging to his aunt that he used to launder profits. I wasn’t sure if he’d given me enough to build a case on, but he’d certainly spilled enough to get the feds interested.

And it was the feds I needed.

All of it while I stood off to the side, just out of his peripheral vision, recording the session with his cell phone’s video camera.

When he at last came to the apology portion of his confession I stopped recording and saved the file.

“That’s good enough,” I said, swinging my chair back in front of him and taking a seat. “I’m sure your boss will find it very educational.”

Confusion dawned across his face, but he seemed to shake it off with minimal effort. He had more pressing concerns.

“You gonna let me go now? Was that the deal? You think Cam will give me another shot?”

“Not going to let you go, but I’m not going to kill you either, so you’re still ahead of the game.”

Phil’s sullen look was making a comeback.

“As for how Finke’s going to react when he finds out you’ve been fucking him, there’s only one way to find out.”

Sullen made a hasty retreat, and confusion once more slipped neatly into its place.

I opened his cell phone’s recording feature and played back the first few seconds of his confession.

Phil listened and watched with growing confusion, thoroughly failing to produce the expression I most wanted to see. I decided I didn’t have the time to wait for it and helped him along.

“I don’t work for Finke. Tonight I’m working for me.”

And Phil finally produced the emotion I wanted to see. It was immediate and satisfying.

Big deal, you might say. Butch pulled a fast one on a guy who spends his nights in a Goodwill donation bin.

Satisfaction is a rare thing. I take it where I can get it.

“Ah, fuck me!”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Why would you do that, man?” He looked close to tears. “What did I ever do to you?”

I declined to answer that question on grounds that he was in no position to compel me.

But now that our interrogation had evolved to the point where I ask my real questions, I found myself lacking any real questions to ask. Phil had already answered all the good ones.

I drained my coffee, thought about getting another cup, and a question did occur to me.

“Does Honey Beloi work for Finke?”

“Go fuck y’self.” The parking lot tough guy had made his comeback.

I opened Phil’s cell phone, checked the memory, and selected one of Cameron’s missed calls.

“What’cha doing? Gimme my phone back. Let me outta here!”

“Cameron’s been trying to get hold of you for a while now. I should give him a ring. Let him know you’re doing okay.”

“Hey...no!”

“I bet he’d find our interview...illuminating.”

Silent. Sullen.

“Does Honey Beloi work for Cameron Finke?”

Finally, grudgingly, “No. She works for herself, just like you.”

Fantastic, now the sore loser was putting in an appearance.

“She fuckin’ hates him. That’s why we always use Candy.”

“Where does she live? And don’t tell me you don’t know,” I added, sensing that he wanted to be a pain in the ass. “It’s your job to know shit like that.”

“Man, whoever you are, you should stay away from Honey. After tonight she won’t matter to your business, whatever it is, one way or another.”

Phil had just confirmed what I already knew.

“Where does she live?”

“I’m telling you man, it’s probably already too late. She knows where Candy was tonight. When Candy doesn’t turn back up, she’s going to start asking around. Cameron’s gonna to get rid of her before she can start shit.”

“Where?”

“Fuck it!” Something in his face, his frustration, made him look halfway bright. Made me wonder if maybe I was the dummy between us. “She lives in the studio apartments above that spic restaurant downtown. The one with the big fucking hat.”

I nodded. I knew the one.

“But if you get pinched man, you don’t say a thing to Cameron. I didn’t tell you nothin!”

“If I get pinched, it’ll be a very long time before anybody finds you.” I grinned, began to pull tape from a second roll on the arm of my chair. “You won’t have to worry about Cameron anymore.”

I’m a cup half full kind of guy.

Okay, that’s a lie, but I digress.

And before he could make too much of a fuss, I unwound half the roll around his mouth, and pushed him into an out-of-the-way corner next to the desk.

The bad-boy corner, the perfect place to consider what a bad boy he’d been.