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Red House
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Red House
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First she was a beat cop, then she was unemployed. Now, Kenneth Wishnia's dynamic Filomena Buscarsela has apprenticed herself to a New York City P.I. firm. Trouble is, she often agrees to take on sticky neighbourhood cases pro bono rather than handle the big-bucks clients her bosses would prefer. When she witnesses a marijuana-possession arrest that nearly turns into a shoot-out with the police, Fil is roped into finding out what went wrong. Trying to balance charity cases like these with bread-and-butter cases, not to mention single motherhood, Fil is quickly in over her head.
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CHAPTER ONE
Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation.
SOMETIMES I FEEL like my work is never done. Like the two weeks of madness that started when the elder Mrs. MarĆa MuƱoz walked into the office one November morning, plunked herself in front of me and said,
āNo sabemos de Pablito.ā
āExcuse me, do you have an appointment?ā asks Katwona.
āIāll handle this,ā I tell her, and switch into Spanish. āĀæQuĆ© estaba diciendo?ā
The other trainees look up, because itās always a sign of something. Trouble, usually, and no money. Somehow, none of the cases with Spanish-speaking clients ever lead to money.
Well, Iām here to change that.
Supposedly.
āPablito is missing,ā says Mrs. MuƱoz, her earthy roundness supporting an old, gray cardigan.
āFor how long?ā
āThree days.ā
I close the file I was reading and open a pale green steno pad to a clean sheet.
āWhereād you last see him?ā
āHe was working in West Cove, on Long Island? Thereās a train station near thereāā
āI know where it is.ā
Thereās a faint tremor below her blotchy skin as Mrs. MuƱoz reacts to the slight harshness in my voice.
I donāt want to go out to LI. It costs too much, and itās a pain in the ass. And I hate how working for money forces you to be ruthless.
āSorry,ā I say. Wednesday of a rough week. Dead-end cases dragging me down into the cold, black heart of next Mondayās performance review.
āBut you know that I donāt have the time or the authority to do it for free, and I doubt that you have the money to pay us,ā I explain in Spanish, as politely as possible. āDid you try calling the police?ā
āNo police,ā she says. āHe doesnāt have papers.ā
Of course not. So sheās scared to call the police. Scared the Suffolk County cops will kick his ass instead of asking if heās getting enough hot meals. Scared the money will dry up and there wonāt be enough blankets to get through the long winterāgray, endless, and cruel to a family that once embraced the rich girdle of sunny, volcanic soil that carries the Saviorās name. Scared the unforgiving, icy Nordic sky will fall on her head. And that the West Cove cops donāt have the manpower to investigate a simple disappearance without evidence of a crimeālike, say, a body.
āIām not my own boss,ā I say. āI canāt get to it for a couple of days, and I canāt do it for free.ā
Eventually she accepts. āHow much?ā
Try seventy-five dollars an hour.
āA hundred dollars a day,ā I say. āTwo days for a hundred and fifty.ā
āOh. So much.ā
āItās the best I can do.ā
And the bossāll skin me for cutting his price by ninety percent.
I get the details, sign the contracts and lead SeƱora MarĆa MuƱoz to the door. She grips my arms, confirming the bond between my flesh and hers, and thanks me for my offer of help, to which I am now committed. Now Iāve got to tell the man in the corner office.
āDavis and Brown, please hold,ā says Katwona three times in rapid succession, patching each caller in with quick flicks of her two-inch, bright green nails dancing with abstract black squiggles that, when observed closely from the correct angle, represent ten different sexual positions.
āMs. Brown is on another line, would you like to leave a message with her voicemail?ā
Flick.
āYes, sir. We are located at 147-02 Hillside Avenue and Sutphin Boulevard in Jamaica. Our office hours are 8:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M., Mondays through Fridays, and 9:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. on Saturdays. No, you donāt need an appointment, but it would probably go quicker if you made one.ā To me: āWhat precinct are we?ā
āOne-oh-seven,ā I say.
Katwona relays the info.
Flick.
āThis is Miss Williams. One moment, Iāll see if heās available.ā Flick. āChip, Bobby Kane on line one.ā
āPut him through,ā says the boss.
Flick.
āWeāre on the dividing line between the One-oh-three to the south and the One-oh-seven to the north,ā I tell Katwona.
āāKay.ā Flick. āDavis and Brown Investigations. One moment, please.ā No intercom this time: āKaren, got a Mrs. DiNapoli asking for you.ā
āSend it over,ā says Karen.
āPlease hold while I transfer you to Ms. Ricci.ā
Len Hrabowski looks up from his screen. āWhat? No phone calls for me or Filomena?ā
He says it with a long āe.ā Fil-o-meen-a. Wrong.
āHey, I get your name right, Mr. Hrabowski. Itās Fil-o-men-a. Men. Got it? Tell me whatās so hard about āmenā?ā
I regret that as soon as itās out.
āWell, let me tell youāā He begins half-rising out of his seat like heās about to strip down and strut around with the big hand on his Viagra-fueled clock pointing to 11:35. Possibly 11:40.
āItās a short āe,ā like in demented,ā I say directly into his leering eyes.
āOh, I get it. Filomena. Short āe,ā like in semen.ā
āRight, Len. Like in semen.ā
āSo what was all that Spanish about?ā
I look over to see if Chip Davis is off the phone yet. Len gets the hintāanother charity caseāand sits back down, shaking his head, and continues cruising the infobanks.
āDonāt undersell, Filomena! It pisses off the competition,ā Chip admonishes me, hanging up the phone.
āWhat competition? Thereās only a dozen Spanish-speaking PIs in the whole borough.ā
āThatās because the latino cases donāt make any money.ā
āThey will. Cases like this buy a lot of good will.ā
āYou ever try to put āgood willā between two slices of bread? It tastes like bread.ā
āIām building rapport with the community,ā I say. āGive me the rest of today and tomorrow afternoon off. Iāll hit the biggest latino businesses in the area and give āem my best pitch. If I donāt bring back a solid-gold case within two weeks you can go ahead and can me.ā
That changes the energy. Chip leans back in his high-backed leather chair, glides his thumbs under his suspenders and stretches them into a nice pair of Vs away from his chest. I think this actually increases the blood flow to his brain.
āLook, Fil, you know I aināt gonna can you. You were collaring mopes before Morgan Stanley had their own Web site.ā
āThanks for reminding me.ā
āI mean youāve got street smarts,ā he says, pointing a finger at me while his thumbs stay hooked under the suspender straps. āYouāve hunted āem down the old-fashioned way, plus you know your way around a database.ā
He snaps the straps back and sits up facing me. āBut weāre supposed to be charging six hundred dollars a day, not fifteen dollars an hour.ā
āThe last defense attorney you tossed at me only paid twenty an hour.ā
āWeāll get more next time. Lawyers have money. And big mouths. That means repeat business, Fil, with clients who actually pay money.ā
I glance past his shoulder out the window at the dirty, light-blue diesels and the gleaming metal elevated trains pulling into Jamaica station above the block-long piss-filled underpass. Two worlds of darkness and light, of crime and money, with a dreary stairway running between them. Itās my job to know the face of every janitor who sweeps those stairs.
āI need time away from this case, anyway,ā I say.
āWhat case? Itās just a background check.ā
āYeah, but the guyās coming up clean, and Iāve got a feeling heās dirty.ā
āA feeling? How the fuck do we bill the client for a feeling?ā
I lean in closer. āYou better learn to start trusting my instincts.ā
Not the way a first-year trainee usually talks to the top half of Davis & Brown, Private Investigations, but Iāve got fifteen years of back street bloodhounding to his three under a civil investigator at a white shoe and powder-puff law firm.
āIāve reread the reports several times, and I need to come at them from a fresh angle.ā
āOkay,ā he says, checking his watch. āGive me an hour of courthouse duty and Iāll think about it. Fair?ā
āFair enough.ā
Ms. Abigail Brown calls to me as I walk past her door. āFilomena? Are you going to the courthouse?ā
āYes.ā
I lean in. Abbyās a trained professional with two decades of experience as a black woman who has to dress sharply at all times or else sheāll be followed by store security on suspicion of shoplifting. Abby does forensic accounting and sheās good on the phone, and she doesnāt know the street stuff from a tub of Shinola.
āCould you take this over to Tim Gallagher for me?ā she says, holding up a thick manila envelope.
āSure. Tell him to meet me on the steps.ā
She looks at me a moment, then acknowledges my request.
When going to the courthouse to troll for business, one tries to look professional. I pull one of the in-house trench coats off the hook, so I wonāt get followed by security.
Karen stops me with her arm. āFil, my client has some underwear that she wants tested for DNA and, uh, I guess youād call it āsubstance ID.āā
Len makes a face and says, āEeeww.ā
āSo send it to a freaking lab. How much does she want to spend?ā
āOh. Iāll check.ā
āYou do that.ā
āI knew that dame was trouble the minute she walked in,ā says Len, giving his tight-lipped imitation of a doomed B-movie detective.
Enough of this. I step out too soon into the cool, bright air of a brisk November day and cross the street while buttoning up the trench coat. Halloween came and went, but I really didnāt have much stomach...