Lady Justice and the Geriatric Gumshoes, page 1
part #27 of Lady Justice Series
LADY JUSTICE
AND THE
GERIATRIC GUMSHOES
A WALT WILLIAMS
MYSTERY/COMEDY NOVEL
ROBERT THORNHILL
Lady Justice and the Geriatric Gumshoes
Copyright July, 2017 by Robert Thornhill
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, incidents and entities included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events and entities is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America
Fiction, Humorous
Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
LADY JUSTICE AND THE GERIATRIC GUMSHOES
CHAPTER 1
Seventy-two-year old Sol Marino crept quietly up the aisle past the mustard and ketchup, pausing at the pickles to get a better look at the checkout counter. Standing on his tip toes, looking over the dills, he spotted his boss, Tony, face to face with Vito, Carmine Marchetti’s musclebound emissary.
Sol had been working part time at Scavuzzo’s Convenience Store and Deli for a month waiting for just this moment.
Vito made regular visits to the store to collect protection money for Marchetti, the big dog in the Kansas City mafia, and Sol’s assignment was to get the transaction on video.
He held his cell phone over the shelving, stretching his five foot, eight inch body as far as possible. By craning his neck, he was just able to see Tony pass an envelope to Vito on the camera’s screen.
Vito had just slipped the envelope in his pocket when Sol’s shaky elbow dislodged a jar of gherkins from the shelf.
“Oh crap!” Sol muttered as the jar crashed onto the floor.
Vito turned toward the sound, his weapon drawn. “What the hell, Tony. You said we were alone.”
“I --- I thought we were,” Tony replied, trembling. “The only other person here is my helper, Sol, and he’s supposed to be in the back, trimming produce.”
Vito rounded the corner finding Sol standing in pickle juice, fumbling with his cell phone camera.
“Gimme that!” Vito ordered, grabbing the phone. “Well, well,” he said, watching the video of the exchange, “look what we have here.”
He grabbed Sol by the collar and dragged him to the counter.
Vito glared at Tony. “Trimming produce! Does this look like trimming produce to you?” he asked, tossing the camera on the counter.
Frightened and confused, Tony turned to Sol. “What’s this? What were you thinking?”
“Just trying to help,” Sol replied, wincing in Vito’s iron grip.
“Mr. Marchetti’s gonna be really pissed when he hears about this,” Vito said, menacingly.
“Don’t blame Tony,” Sol begged. “He didn’t know anything about this. It’s all me.”
Vito looked at Tony. “Is that right, Tony? Was this his bright idea?”
Tony nodded, knowing he had sealed Sal’s fate.
Vito pocketed Sol’s cell phone and pushed Sol toward the door. “Looks like your bright idea has earned you a ride downtown and a meeting with Mr. Marchetti.”
As he was leaving, Vito turned to Tony. “Better put a help wanted sign in the window. Your buddy here won’t be coming back. Oh, and a word of caution. Be more careful who you hire.”
Tony’s heart ached when he saw the look of desperation on Sol Marino’s face as Vito shoved him into the car.
CHAPTER 2
My name is Walt Williams and I’m a seventy-three-year old private investigator.
I know that may sound odd. I’m a bit tardy because I became involved in the world of criminal investigation at the ripe old age of sixty-five.
After a real estate career of thirty years, I retired and was soon bored out of my mind. A series of events that I could never have predicted led me to finagle my way into the Kansas City Police Department where I spent five glorious years with my partner, Ox.
During my tenure on the force, I managed to escape the Grim Reaper more times than I care to remember. Then one day, after taking a bullet in my kiester, I decided to put away the badge and open my own P.I. business with the assistance of my brother-in-law, Kevin McBride.
Kevin had thirty years’ experience sleuthing in Phoenix before returning to Kansas City. Now, as partners, we are the proud proprietors of Walt Williams Investigations.
Thankfully, I do not have to rely on the income from my P.I. business to put food on the table. Only a few of the cases that have come our way have been from paying customers. Most have been pro bono, but that’s okay because they keep Kevin and me busy. Nothing sorrier than two old guys with nothing to do.
My wife, Maggie, age seventy-two, is still an active real estate agent. Her commission income along with my real estate investments and Social Security allow us to live comfortably.
Kevin was in my office and we were commiserating about our lack of paying customers when the phone rang.
“Walt Williams Investigations.”
“Mr. Williams, my name is Benny Berkowitz. We need your help.”
I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Kevin, “We got a hot one!”
He pumped his fist.
“How may we be of service?” I asked in my most professional voice.
“Uhhh, I’d rather not discuss it on the phone. Can we meet somewhere?”
“You can come by my office. My partner and I are both here at the moment.”
“Great! We need to see you right away. This is a matter of utmost urgency.”
I gave him directions. He said they’d be there in twenty minutes.
“A matter of utmost urgency,” I said after hanging up.
Kevin rubbed his hands. “Love it! We can charge more for those.”
Exactly twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
“Prompt!” Kevin said. “I like that.”
Our new clients were two old gents about the same age as Kevin and me.
“Benny Berkowitz,” one of them said, extending his hand, “and this is my friend, Tom Dooley.”
“Come in. I’m Walt and this is my partner, Kevin McBride.”
I led them into the office and offered them seats on two chairs I had swiped from the kitchen. Our office was one small room in my apartment which we shared with Maggie’s real estate business. Since most of our clients never paid, we couldn’t justify paying rent for something more professional. Certainly not pretentious, but it served our needs.
“So how may we help you?” I asked, after we were seated, “What’s the urgency?”
“It’s our friend Sol, Sol Moreno,” Benny replied. “He’s been taken.”
“Taken? By whom?”
“A big ape named Vito. He’s an enforcer for Carmine Marchetti.”
Kevin and I exchanged glances. I had a bad feeling about what was to come.
“Carmine Marchetti! What could your friend have possibly done to incur the wrath of the Italian mafia?”
“It’s a long story,” Benny replied.
“Then you’d better get started,” Kevin said. “If Marchetti is involved, it’s not just urgent, it’s critical.”
“Right! Sol was working undercover at Scavuzzo’s Convenience Store and Deli and ---”
“Stop right there! What do you mean undercover? Is Sol Moreno a cop?”
“Heaven’s no! He’s just part of our club, Crime Fighting Seniors.”
“Good Lord! How many more are in your club?”
“So far, just the three of us.”
“Exactly what was Sol doing at Scavuzzo’s that got him in trouble?”
“Sol’s lived in the Northeast Neighborhood all his life. He knew that the mafia had always been involved in drugs, prostitution and protection, and he believed it was finally time to do something about it. He knew that Tony Scavuzzo was paying protection money to the mob, so he got a part time job so he could get the evidence to put Marchetti away once and for all.
“This morning, Vito came by to collect. Sol was hiding by the pickles, recording everything on his phone. He accidently knocked a jar of gherkins off the shelf, and --- well --- that’s when he got himself in a pickle. Vito heard the commotion, found Sol, and dragged him away. Tony told us Vito was taking him to Marchetti. That’s all we know.”
“So how old is Sol?” I asked.
“Seventy-one,” Benny replied. “We’re all over seventy, hence the name, Crime Fighting Seniors.”
“So I assume you all have had experience in law enforcement,” Kevin said.
“Actually, no,” Benny replied. “Sol managed a neighborhood grocery, Tom was a locksmith, and I was an electrician.”
“I’m confused,” I said. “What in the world possessed the three of you to get involved in crime fighting?”
“It was you,” Tom replied. It was the first words he’d spoken. “You were our inspiration.”
“ME? What in the world are you talking about? I’ve never met any of you.”
“That’s true,” Tom replied, “but we know a lot about you. You are my grandson’s hero. He’s told us so many stories about your adventures while you were on the force.”
Suddenly it struck me. Dooley!
Officer Dan Dooley was one of the young cops in the Midtown Precinct. He was a wiseacre whose passion in life was to give me good-natured ribbing from the moment I set foot in the door. He was constantly badgering me about my age and calling me Grandpa, but after Ox and I put together an impressive arrest record, he was the one who dubbed us The Dynamic Duo, and the name stuck. After I thwarted an attack on a doctor and his wife by throwing a cat on the perp’s back, he was the one responsible for blasting Cat Scratch Fever throughout the precinct the next morning.
“Dan told us about all your undercover assignments,” Tom continued. “Like the time you and Vince went undercover as a gay couple. The time you pretended to be a dead guy to catch the organ snatching ring. The time you ---.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the idea.”
“We even have photos of you in drag,” Tom said, proudly.
“Swell.”
Kevin was trying his best not to bust out laughing.
“We figured if you could become a crime fighter at your age, so could we,” Tom continued. “First you were a cop. Now you have your own P.I. business.”
“Look,” I replied, trying not to burst their bubble, “there are some major differences here. First, I had to go through the police academy before I became a cop. Then I was partnered with a twenty-year veteran. Even now, my partner, Kevin, has over thirty years’ experience as a P.I. Plus, I was sixty-five when I started, not seventy-two. Big difference.
“I appreciate what the three of you are trying to do, but this is a dangerous business, and frankly, you’re in over your heads. Sol’s current predicament is a perfect example.”
“Speaking of that,” Benny said, “can you help us? Can you get Sol back?”
“I might have some ideas,” I replied.
“Great,” he replied. Then he bit his lip. “About your fee. How much will this set us back? Tom lives in a small cottage at John Knox Village. That takes most of his check. Sol lives in his son’s basement, and I have a little bungalow in Waldo. We don’t have a lot, but we could pay you some each month after we get our Social Security checks.”
I looked a Kevin. He rolled his eyes and shrugged. This had all the earmarks of another freebie.
“Let’s not worry about that right now,” I replied. “Let’s work on getting your friend back.”
“See!” Tom said, proudly. “Danny was right. Walt is a stand-up guy!”
“So how are you gonna take on Marchetti and his goons?” Benny asked, expectantly.
“I’m not going to ‘take them on.’ I’m going to have a conversation with Mr. Marchetti and see if we can work something out. Why don’t you two head on home. We’ll give you a call when we have some news.”
Reluctantly, they rose and headed to the door.
As they were leaving, Tom grabbed my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. You’re not just Danny’s hero. You’re ours too.”
“You can call me Walt,” I replied, “and I’m not a hero. Just an old guy trying to do what’s right.”
Kevin had watched Tom’s parting remarks. “Looks like we need to get you a cape. All heroes should have a cape.”
“Don’t get snarky. The last thing I want is to get one of those old guys hurt or worse trying to impress me.”
“Old guys? Really? You do realize they’re the same age as us?”
“Again, big difference. We know what we’re doing --- most of the time.”
“Speaking of that, what do you have in mind for Carmine? It’s very possible that old Sol is being fitted for cement shoes as we speak.”
“Like I told our friends, I’ll talk to Carmine. I think I can persuade him to listen to reason.”
“You want me to come?”
“You know my relationship with Carmine. He cuts me some slack. You, not so much. I’d better go alone.”
“Your call. Just be careful. Cement shoes come in your size too!”
CHAPTER 3
I don’t usually consort with mafia bosses, but during the past year, fate had thrown Carmine Marchetti and me together on four separate occasions. On two of those occasions, Marchetti had saved my life, and on the other two, I had saved his.
That didn’t make us bosom buddies or Facebook friends, but we did develop a mutual respect for each other. We had enough of a relationship that I felt comfortable approaching him about Sol without fearing for my life.
I had learned from past experience that Carmine usually had lunch at Antonelli’s Italian Restaurant on Baltimore.
I had also learned that one doesn’t just barge in and disturb the mafia don’s lunch. You ask politely for an audience.
I approached the maître d'and handed him my card.
“If Mr. Marchetti is dining with you today, please give him this and tell him I’d like a moment of his time.”
The guy looked like I had just asked for his first-born child.
He was about to hand my card back when I played my hole card.
“Carmine and I are old friends. I’m sure he would be disappointed if he knew I was this close and we didn’t get a chance to catch up. We really wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Marchetti, now would we?”
He thought for a moment, then turned without a word, and ramrod straight, marched into the restaurant.
A few minutes later, two of Marchetti’s goons appeared, frisked me, then escorted me inside, an iron grip on each arm.
Carmine was at his usual table, a gorgeous blonde on either side.
“Well, well!” he boomed “Walt Williams! My favorite gumshoe. What brings you to Antonelli’s today?”
“Thank you for seeing me,” I replied, rubbing my bruised arms. “It’s about Sol Marino.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, nodding. “Sol Marino. Thought he was Cecil B. DeMille, filming a gangster movie. Not a good idea. Vito just wasn’t interested in a movie career. What about him?”
“I was hoping we could work something out. Sol didn’t understand the implications of what he was doing. He’s really quite harmless. I’m sure if I could talk to him, he’d see the error of his ways. You’d never see or hear from him again.”
“Actually, I had already taken care of that,” he replied, “the part about never seeing or hearing from him again.”
“I thought that might be the case,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. Knowing you to be a man of compassion, I hoped we could work out an alternate plan that wouldn’t involve cement.”
Carmine roared with laughter. “Walt, you silver-tongued devil. I’ve always liked you. You’ve got a big set of balls for an old guy.” He thought for a moment. “Tell you what. I’m gonna give old Sol a reprieve because you asked real nice and polite, but make sure he understands that Carmine Marchetti doesn’t give second chances. Get my drift.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Marchetti. Looks like I owe you another one.”
“That you do, my boy. We were even-Steven, you saving me and me saving you, but now you owe me one. I like that. Never know when I might need a good gumshoe.”
He turned to one of the goons. “Vito, take Mr. Williams to where we’re holding Sol Marino, and treat him with respect. He owes me and I might need him someday.”
Vito nodded, taking me by the arm. “Sure, Boss.”
Even though he was supposed to be treating me with respect, I knew his grip was going to leave a mark.
I followed Vito to an old warehouse in the West Bottoms, just a few blocks from the Missouri River.
Inside, Sol was tied to a chair with tape over his mouth. A few feet away, two guys were mixing cement in a huge wheelbarrow.
Seeing me, one of them said, “Another one? Shall I get a second bag of Redi-Mix?”
“Naw, stand down,” Vito replied. “Mr. Marchetti’s letting this one go.”
The guy was bewildered. “Then what are we gonna do with this stuff?” he asked, pointing to the cement.
“Just keep adding water and stirring,” Vito replied. “I heard Nicky’s bringing in the guy who hit Northeast Liquors last night. It won’t go to waste. One size fits all.”
Vito took out a switchblade and advanced menacingly toward Sol.
Seeing the behemoth approaching with the razor-sharp blade, Sol’s eyes grew wide and I was afraid he was going to pass out.
