Austin Camacho - Collateral damage

When the door opened inward Hannibal was faced with another surprise, a man wearing only jeans and a belligerent expression.

“Yeah?” was all the man said. He was Hannibal’s height but a bit bulkier. Steel gray hair topped a swarthy Mediterranean face. Ink black eyebrows formed a pitched roof above dark eyes that were always looking for trouble. Hannibal guessed they had seen a lot of it. A mass of steel wool cluttered the man’s chest. A tattoo of a rose covered his left shoulder, and a chain tattoo wrapped his right biceps.

“You must be Mister Irons,” Hannibal said with a small smile.

“So?”

Friendly sort, Hannibal thought. “I need to speak to Mary if you don’t mind.”

The man squared his shoulders, sending a universal message. “She ain’t here. Beat it.” His breath threw the odor of stale beer into Hannibal’s face.

“Look, this is a matter of some importance.” Hannibal held his hands out in a gesture of peace. He hoped it was less obvious that he was also bracing for an attack.

“I said get lost,” Irons said, his voice low. His right foot moved forward and the heel of his right hand slammed out for Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stood his ground and clamped both his hands over Irons’. By twisting slightly he locked Irons’ elbow. Then Hannibal leaned forward, not hard but just enough. Startled, the bigger man found himself driven to his knees.

“Who’s there, Harry?” A woman’s voice called from inside.

Harry looked up at Hannibal and shook his head from side to side. It was a small movement, indicating that he was ready to concede rather than have his woman see him in this position. Well, no point in embarrassing him. Besides, Hannibal wondered how much he knew. He released Harry’s hand and raised his voice. “I’m Hannibal Jones and I’d like just a moment of your time, ma’am. It’s about your photography order.”

Harry snapped up to his full height. Hannibal stood on the other side of the portal in the outside world and watched Harry’s eyes, as Harry watched his. The standoff lasted forever. Then, three minutes later, the woman spoke again very close behind Harry.

“Honey, would you excuse us for a minute? Please?” Harry turned and although Hannibal couldn’t see his face, he could imagine what was there. The woman raised a hand to his cheek, smiled and whispered, “It’s all right. I promise.”

Harry walked back into the shabby room and the woman stepped forward across the threshold.

“Mary Irons?” Hannibal asked.

“Who are you and why are you here? No one knows me here.”

Hannibal handed her his card, and waited for her to read it and try to imagine his purpose. If she did, she was not about to let him know.

“What’s this about, Mister Jones?” she asked, easing the door closed behind her.

“I think you know. You wanted a photo of Dean Edwards. Then you went and visited him. I’d like to know why.”

She took a minute to appear to be searching her memory. “Dean Edwards? I’m not sure I know him. Friend of yours?”

The harsh shadows of twilight didn’t help her one bit. Dark roots held her thin yellow hair in place. Makeup could not conceal the lines of worry, of fear, of living etched into her face. Not a hard woman, he decided, not a criminal. Yet there was a steel rod at her center, deep down. And much of her surface tenderness had been worn away somehow. All that aside, he was certain that she was no confidence woman. She was, in fact, an abysmal liar.

“I’m not accusing you of a crime, ma’am. But I have an eyewitness who says you were at his house Saturday morning from about ten-thirty to maybe eleven a.m. You waited until his fiancee had left for a shopping trip. Shall I describe what you were wearing?”

She was jumpy as a caged hamster, and she reacted to his words as if they were a series of blows. Her china blue eyes appeared chipped. “No, that won’t be necessary. I guess you must mean that boy I saw Saturday. He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

“Really? And who did you think he was?” Hannibal turned away and took a small step away to ease the pressure on her. She followed, maintaining a constant two-foot distance. Then they were walking together.

“Someone else,” she said. “Someone I knew a long time ago. I’ve been away a long time, Mister Jones. People change over the course of a decade.”

Now that she was talking, Hannibal decided to be quiet for a minute to see what fell out. Most people hate silence. It is often the interrogator’s best weapon. While he waited, he examined her body language and posture. She had been a hellcat once, he decided, but something had squeezed that out of her. From what little he knew of Dean Edwards, this woman was more likely to be one of his old victims than his old partner. Someone had hurt her deeply, and it could well have been Dean.

Just as he was about to give up on quiet, she said, “Look, Mister, I don’t want any trouble and I hope you won’t tell that young man where I am. Harry and me, we’re trying to keep a low profile here, okay?”

She didn’t know Dean was gone. She probably thought he sent Hannibal looking for her. They turned and headed back toward the door. It was open a crack and Hannibal saw one of Harry’s eyes in the dark space. When they reached the end of their little stroll, Hannibal positioned himself so that the woman’s body blocked Harry’s view of him. He handed her one of his cards.

“If you think of anything you think someone ought to know, give me a call, okay?” he said. “I don’t know what this Dean Edwards might be involved in, but it could reach out and touch you too.”

Sitting in his car in the gathering gloom, Hannibal took a moment to wonder why on earth he had felt the need for that burst of honesty. He had no idea who Mary and Harry were or how they tied into Dean’s story. He didn’t think they could be hiding him, but they must be part of his past. Unless of course she was telling him the truth.

Hannibal turned the key, listening for a moment to the engine’s smooth purr, but before he could put the car into gear a pair of hands slapped down on the hood. Harry Irons stood in front of him, as if suicide were his only option to prove his superiority. The woman was nowhere in sight. Hannibal turned off the engine, tugged his gloves on tighter, and opened the door.

“Do we have unfinished business?” he asked, stepping out of the car.

“Not like you think,” Harry said. He leaned back against the car and pulled out a Zippo lighter. He dragged hard and deep on a Winston, letting the smoke escape his nose. Hannibal saw Harry as a man of traditions. This was a ritual to set up a conversation. Man to man talk. Hannibal leaned against the door, his arms crossed.

“You ever done time, Jones?”

“Can’t say I have, Harry,” Hannibal replied. “But some close friends have told me what it does to you.”

Harry’s face clouded over and he stared at his feet. He held his cigarette like Sinatra. “You got a woman, Jones?”

“Yes, I have a woman.”

“Love her?” Harry asked, looking at Hannibal out the corner of his eye.

Hannibal grinned. “As a matter of fact I do.”

“He could have any young chippy he wants, you know,” Harry said, his eyes on a cloud in the night sky. “Don’t bring him around here to take mine. I been taking care of Mary for almost a year now. It hasn’t been easy for her. But she’s got what she needs.”

“Then he’s out of her past,” Hannibal said.

Harry nodded and shifted his feet. “She’s crazy about him, you know. I mean, whatever he did to her, he makes her crazy. But he’s too young for her. I could see that.”

Hannibal sighed in sympathy. Harry nodded, and sucked hard on his cigarette.