Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

The lawyer arguing the case for the sporting-goods store was named Lance Jennings. He had promised me on the phone that we could talk at ten-thirty. I was giving him until eleven. The judge called a break at ten-fifty-two. I introduced myself to Jennings.

“She’s wearing stiletto heels,” I said.

“Oh, I know. The champagne’s already cold on this one. I’m going to ask the judge to have her go up into the witness stand in those beautiful stupid shoes, then step back down. In front of the jury. I just know she’s going to wobble.”

We went to a coffee shop. “I don’t drink coffee anymore,” Jennings said, shooing my money away. “Acid reflux.” He asked for a cup of hot water and produced his own tea bag from a small container in his briefcase. “Green tea. I’m becoming a damn Chinaman.” I ordered a cup of the acid reflux.

I had told Jennings on the phone that I wanted some information about the Roberto and Gabriella Diaz divorce. After dunking his tea bag in his cup, the lawyer produced a blue manila folder from his briefcase.

“Sweet women marry assholes. Don’t ask me why. This Diaz was a real hard-on. Paranoid, a classic. Thought everyone was out to persecute him and rip him off. First thing out of his mouth in court was that his wife and I were ganging up on him and we were out to get him. I think he eventually included the judge in the conspiracy. Or maybe it was his own lawyer, I can’t remember. He would just go off. A real trigger temper.”

“I understand you were able to get a restraining order on him.”

The lawyer poked at his tea bag with a spoon. “Piece of cake. History of violence, no inkling of remorse. Plus, I was the prime witness to the beating he gave his wife.”

“With the vacuum-cleaner hose?”

“These were no love taps. It was hard plastic. The prick was really whipping her with it.”

“He supposedly also beat Gabriella with an iron.”

“She told me. This is a man who cannot be trusted with domestic appliances. When I intervened, he turned on me. I still have a buzzing in my ear from it. I’ll take it to my grave. The bastard.”

“So what did you think when you heard it was Diaz who shot up the parade the other day?”

Jennings answered immediately. “I felt good that I helped separate him from his wife and daughter. I felt maybe I saved their lives.”

“So then it didn’t surprise you?”

“The shooting? I was horrified, of course, like everyone else. But when I heard it was Diaz? That’s what you’re asking? What can I tell you, it made sense to me. This guy had rage, Mr. Malone. Serious rage. I feel horrible for the people he shot. I guess you can’t put out a restraining order to keep someone away from everyone else in the world. I guess that’s called prison.”

“Or the grave.”

“Right.” He took a sip of his green tea. “The final restraining order.”

I told the lawyer what I was looking for. Angel. I didn’t tell him why, only that I needed to track down Diaz’s former colleague. Jennings caught on immediately.

“You think this Angel guy was involved?”

“I don’t know if he was. I can only tell you it’s important that I locate him. I was hoping maybe you could help. But I’m guessing Diaz didn’t call in a gangbanger like Angel as a character witness at his trial.”

“That would be a good guess.”

“What about the woman? The one Diaz brought to your office, with the rose tattoo. Gabriella told me she and Diaz were an item. She also said she’s obliterated the woman’s name from her mind. She doesn’t want to remember it.”

Jennings smirked. “You mean the hot tamale? I had her called as a witness in Diaz’s assault on me. As I’m sure you can imagine, she was not too cooperative.”

“Hostile witness?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” He rifled through the papers in his file folder. “Here we are. Donna Bia. Ah, that’s right. The lovely Miss Bia. How could I have forgotten?”

I wrote the name down. “Have you got an address?” He did. It was in Brooklyn, not far over the bridge. I wrote that down as well. “Job?”

“The official term is ‘no visible means of support.’ Except take one look at this one, and the means of support is pretty damn visible. Miss Bia was a hustler from the word go. I’m not going to use the term ‘arm candy,’ but I could.”

“Candies like that usually prefer their arms to have some money,” I said. “Diaz sounds a little short in that department.”

Jennings shrugged. “Drugs are candy, too, and our Miss Bia had herself a big appetite. I’m pretty certain Diaz was into some low-level dealing. Aside from the candy itself, dealing lets you flash a decent-sized bankroll now and then.”

“How good do you think this address is?”

“Who can say? She might have made it up on the stand.”

I flipped my notebook closed. “At least Bia isn’t a dime-a-dozen name. I’ll find her.”

Jennings smirked again. “When you find this one, your fripping eyes are going to pop out. She’s a twenty-something wearing dresses built for a ten-year-old. Seriously, you’ll think she paints it on. I guess a person is supposed to lead with their strengths. This hellcat’s got ’em in spades.”

“Oh boy,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

Jennings sipped his tea. His gaze went deep into the liquid. “Hellcat,” he murmured again.

I TOOK A CAB OVER THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE. HELL OF A PIECE OF work, that bridge, with its towering cathedral-window supports and the swooping rows of cables. There’s a story that Annie Oakley and Diamond Jim Brady threw a big party on the roof of a bar down on Water Street in 1883, the night the Brooklyn Bridge was officially inaugurated. Legend has Miss Oakley shooting the hat off one of the attending officials as he came down from the bridge and was heading into the bar. The thing is, you read up on Annie Oakley, you get about a thousand shot-the-hat-off stories. Put me in her day, and I’d have simply removed my chapeau whenever I was in the woman’s presence. The way a gentleman is supposed to, anyway.

The address Jennings had given me for Donna Bia was just off Atlantic Avenue, near the Brooklyn Academy of Music. They call it BAM. Margo’s a big BAM fan. I’ve probably logged a dozen shows there with her. I saw one there once that featured a chunky man dancing in a wool skirt. That one didn’t exactly top my entertainment list for the year, but generally speaking most of the offerings are quality goods.

I stood on a warped porch and tried to shoo a cat away from my leg as I waited for someone to respond to my knocking. The cat had a bald spot near its tail and a mustache like Hitler’s. The house was pale green. Two stories, the second one sagging a bit. There was a red glider couch on the porch, losing a battle to rust.

Donna Bia didn’t live here. Not anymore. A plumber named Ray lived here. He answered my knock in jeans and bare feet, pulling on a dirty white T-shirt. The vibe he put out was that I was interrupting something and he was eager to get back to it. I asked him about Donna Bia, and he told me that he and his wife had bought the house from a family named Bia nearly eight years before. I showed him my PI license and told him it was a matter of life and death that I locate the Bias. He didn’t seem impressed, but he told me to hold on. He shut the door. The cat and I looked at each other for two minutes, then the door opened again and Ray handed me a piece of paper with an address on it. “The Bias called me a couple of years ago to replace an elbow joint.”

A woman had drifted into sight in the dark hallway behind him. She was in a fuzzy bathrobe, smoking a cigarette. I thanked Ray and accidentally kicked the cat as I turned to leave.