A Mighty Fortress (5 page)

Call me impatient, but I followed her onto the dining deck. There were four picnic tables covered by a hint of shade in the form of beach umbrellas. Being a floor closer to the sun really made a difference in the heat. I slid on my sunglasses and felt my neck burning. Val grinned at the sight of me following her as she darted across the deck to deliver her drinks.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” The voice came from the table closest to me, a foursome of pale twenty-somethings with faded T-shirts and bright tattoos. I guessed if I were ever to move to Seminole Heights, I’d have to get some body art myself.

“I do not. But I slept in a Holiday Inn last night.”

They apparently didn’t get the joke, but fortunately Val arrived and took over. They ordered another round of mimosas and wanted to know if the restaurant offered a gluten-free menu.

I followed Val back into the barroom, where the cold air reminded me how much I had just sweated outside in one minute. Val dropped off the order and glanced at me again. “You get a break anytime soon?” I asked.

“I told you I’d be finished in the early afternoon.” She was busy, but her azure eyes showed me some pity and affirmed that she missed me as much as I missed her. It took all I had not to plant one on her delicate lips, or those soft cheeks that never needed cosmetics.
 

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about your brother. But now I’m curious what I did wrong.”

She sighed, and then threw the bartender a stare that said this was private. “Yeah, apparently he wasn’t happy that you made such a big deal about the ads he put around town.”

“The ads saying come train with a Navy SEAL? Are you serious? How petty.”

She nodded, trying not to laugh.
 

“Val, give me a break. I wasn’t a SEAL …”

“But you trained them.”

“I trained
with
them,
sometimes
, and I worked with them sometimes. Regardless, I don’t want to use my military background like that. I want to leave it right there, in the background.”

She was still smiling. “I know, Milo, but he thought people would line up in droves to train like that. It could have helped him pay the bills. I’m not arguing with you, but you know Rico.”

“Yes, I know Rico.”
 

 
“Poor Milo, and poor Rico. You two big, tough guys are just a couple of sensitive babies, aren’t you?”

I let her rub my cheek, and asked if she wanted to get a drink tonight.

“I thought you were working.”

“I should be done after dinner.”

She looked across the deck at another table waving for her. “I have to go.”

But I wouldn’t let her. “This job today pays what I make in a week. So I say we take a long weekend next weekend, get away from the heat, and spend some time together, head up to Asheville?”

She kissed me and said, “Call me after dinner. I have to go.”

She pulled away, but I wouldn’t let her. “One more question.”

Her glare said,
Don’t push it
.

“You’ve lived in Tampa a lot longer than me. So where would the grandson of a former mob boss take his stripper girlfriend to dinner for a special occasion on a Sunday night?”

She thought about it for a quick moment, answered, and rushed away.

I liked her answer.

The Italian restaurant Val recommended on Dale Mabry had no reservations for a Chad Scalzo, so I had opened the Open Table app on my iPhone and gone about calling every restaurant I’d ever heard of in Tampa. The latest call rang five times before a woman answered curtly.
 

I sat up on my barstool and repeated the drill: “Yes, I’m trying to confirm my reservation for tonight.”

She told me to hold. I waited about ten seconds, just long enough to tell Sean to pour another Guinness. Then she was back. “What’s the name again?”

“Scalzo. Chad Scalzo.” I lowered my voice, even though the barroom was practically empty except for a homeless bugger playing darts, and a biker couple sharing fish and chips across the bar.

“Hmm, I’m sorry. I don’t see any reservation for you tonight. When did you make it?”

I said, “My bad,” thanked her, and hung up.

Yet another strikeout. I’d realized there was no guarantee Scalzo had made the reservation in his name or that he and Angie were going anywhere that required reservations. If I couldn’t locate their dining locale, I’d have to go back to SkyGate and wait for him to show. But even then, there was no guarantee Scalzo would be picking Angie up—Kiki could be driving her from her latest date to dinner, or she could be taking a cab or Uber. And if tracking them down tonight failed, I’d have to resort to trying to serve Scalzo at the airport the next day, which would not please Mr. Wilcox or his irritable bowels.

Sean returned with my stout. He was among my favorite bartenders at Four Green Fields, an Irish pub a stone’s throw away from downtown. All the bartenders here hailed from the mother country and had names and accents to prove it. More importantly, they poured the perfect pint of Guinness, a feat which usually took no less than five minutes. Stepping in here was like traveling to Ireland: a thatched roof overhead, barn planks for a floor. The walls were littered with photos depicting Irish political and cultural history: pictures of everyone from James Joyce to Gerry Adams. During Happy Hour on Fridays, the place was crawling with lawyers, judges, and other Hillsborough County justice workers. You’d rarely find me there during such a time unless duty called. I liked visiting during the down times, like a quiet afternoon when I had some work to accomplish.

“So what are you working on?” Sean asked as I sipped my beer.

“Just some research.”

“Sweet fucking fuck!” The voice was loud with a hint of Scottish. I turned on my barstool and noticed that the homeless man seemed irritated with his performance on the dartboard. His beard was of respectable length and gray. His wiry hair was the color of ash, and greasy. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt that the Salvation Army couldn’t give away, khakis a size or two too big, and slip-on loafers with a hole worn above the right toe. He pushed his scraggly hair aside to show a wizened, wrinkled face that struck me as familiar. I figured I’d probably seen him working a corner around town. Then he caught me staring at him and turned an evil eye on me. “What the hell you looking at, you hairy ass tart?”

I turned all the way around on my barstool to face him. “Do I know you?”

“I sure as shit hope not.” He shook his head and took aim at the dartboard.

Sean gestured for me to ignore Mr. Grumpy.

I shrugged and turned back around on my stool. “So tell me, Sean, you enjoy fine dining?”

He pointed both thumbs up. “You paying?”

“You help me figure this out, I’ll buy you dinner anywhere in town.”

That brought a smile to his face. “Go for it.”

“So I’m trying to track someone down to serve. This guy sounds like he’s pretty slimy. I won’t say his name, because it might just distract you. But let’s just say he grew up in a family with connections.”

“Like La Cosa Nostra connections?”

“Exactly. But it seems he’s been trying to lead the straight life, like a legit businessman, at least Tampa legit. And he’s taking this girl out tonight for some special occasion. I saw her today. She’s amazing by anyone’s standards. I have her pegged as a high-end escort.”

“Shit!” the homeless man screamed three times.

Sean rolled his eyes and told me to proceed.

I took another drink of my pint and continued: “So the question is, where would this guy take a lady like that out for a special occasion?”

“I’d say Bern’s.”

Bern’s was Tampa’s steakhouse par excellence, and also home to one of the largest wine cellars in the United States. Naturally it was one of the first places I’d called. “Sorry, try again.”

He shrugged. “Side Bern’s?”

“Strike two. They’re actually closed for remodeling.” Sean started to speak again, but I stopped him to save his strike three. “And don’t say the Epicurean.” That was the restaurant at the foodie-haven hotel built across from Bern’s. “I already called there, too.”

“Did you just offer him a free dinner?”

I turned. The homeless man was aiming his dart, waiting for me to answer his question.

I glanced at Sean again. He nodded.

“Sure, buddy, a free dinner.”

The dart flung from his hand and hit a bull’s eye. He turned to me with the confidence of a heavyweight boxer. “I bet your tart ass didn’t call Armani’s, did it?”

I’d never heard of it, but I was concentrating more on why this scraggly man looked so familiar and what could possibly be stuck up his ass. “Are you sure I don’t know you, tough guy?”

Sean leaned over the bar and whispered to me: “That’s Judge Pinkerton.”

The name was familiar. Then I pictured him wearing a black robe and sporting shorter, clean hair and a trimmed beard. “Judge Pinkerton?” I said aloud. “The Honorable Frank Pinkerton?”

I didn’t need anyone to answer, because as soon as the old codger walked a little closer, I could picture him clear as day presiding over hearings in his courtroom on the fifth floor. He had preceded Judge Sanders as the Chief Judge in Hillsborough County, a position he’d held, it seemed, for decades.
 

He cleared his throat. “The Honorable
Francis
Pinkerton.”

“I’ve been in your courtroom.”

He looked me up and down. “I hope I threw the book at you.”

“You were in civil at the time. I testified about an investigation I did. I think it was about a non-compete.”

He shrugged again. “If you’re supposed to be some kind of investigator, you’re doing a real bang up job here today. Now do we have a deal?”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve been listening to your game all hour, sonny boy. You’re trying to find where this Scalzo fella’s dining.”

I nodded. “You got any ideas?”
 

“Get the fairy dust out of your ears, you sour ass tart. I already said Armani’s. I’d bet my left nut that’s where he’s at, only I don’t have one.” He erupted in raspy laughter that lasted too long and devolved into a gurgling cough.

Sean laughed too, so I chuckled uneasily a few times for good measure.

“Armani’s,” he said again, and this time spelled it. “Just give it a try. This Scalzo, if he’s related to Alfonse Scalzo as I suspect he is, and he’s really gone straight, he’d want to go somewhere upscale, but not downtown and certainly not SoHo. This is his kind of place.”

I checked Open Table again. It wasn’t on there, so I opened Safari and ran a Google search and found the number. I wanted a little context before I placed the call. The reviews on Yelp were good. Overlooking Old Tampa Bay, it was connected to the Hyatt on the Courtney Campbell Causeway, the highway that connects Tampa to Clearwater. Close to the airport. Why not? I hit the dial button.

A man with a deep voice answered.

With Judge Pinkerton hovering over my shoulder, I told the man on the phone why I was calling. There was a pause while he searched the computer. “You said Scalzo for a party of two?”
 

“That’s right.” I was happy to hear some doubt in his voice.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Scalzo.” I felt a flutter of relief, but Mr. Baritone continued:
 
“We have you down for a party of four at eight P.M. Do you want to change it to a party of two?”

I felt sucker-punched, but did my best to hide it from Pinkerton. “You’re right, it was a party of four. My bad.”

“Is that still going to work, sir?”

“Absolutely.” I thanked him and hung up. Then I picked up my Guinness and did my best to ignore Pinkerton.

“Well, what I’d tell you?” he gloated.

I nodded in defeat. “Armani’s it is.”

“Great, I’m famished.”

“What?”

“You said dinner of my choice. Sounds like you’re going to Armani’s tonight. That works just fine for me.” Pinkerton grinned, revealing lower teeth that were slightly crooked and heavily stained.
 

“Let’s take a raincheck. I’ll be working tonight.”

“Hogwash,” the judge said. “There’s no guarantee I’ll be walking this earth tomorrow—or that you will for that matter. You can time dinner so we’re done when you do your business.”

I gave it some thought. Having company might not be a bad idea; I would probably stick out dining alone in such a restaurant. Not that I would exactly blend in with the likes of the Honorable
Francis
Pinkerton sitting at my table.

“So be it,” I said, and as if on cue, a rip of thunder rumbled outside.

After giving Pinkerton and his Schwinn a ride home in the afternoon thunderstorm, I returned home and toyed with the idea of taking a nap, but my thoughts were racing too much. I’d had difficulty concentrating since I left the war. Stress usually makes me think about the war, but Dr. J says I get stressed when I’m
not
thinking about it, too. Sleeping does not help. Running does.

The sky was still gray and the air sticky-humid, but I could tell I had a good thirty minutes before another downpour would hit. So I ran my usual light route: south to Columbus, west to Dale Mabry, and then a loop around Raymond James stadium, where the Tampa Bay Buccaneers lose a lot of football games every year. By the time I was heading east on MLK, my thoughts were lining up well and I came up with a game plan for the evening. The rain started picking up sooner than I expected, but at least it brought a rarity for a Tampa August—a mild breeze. Running in the rain at this temperature felt like I was back in Coronado, California. Except I was alone and running for myself.

Back home, I pulled off my drenched clothes and hung them over the shower. I put on clean gym shorts and called Wilcox.
 

He answered by asking, “Is it done?”

“Just checking in,” I told him. I explained I knew where Scalzo was having dinner that night, and that I intended to see him there. “By the way, expenses are going to be higher than expected.”

“Eat whatever you want. Just keep it to one bottle of wine.”