Chapter 3

"You've got that "working on a case" look," Abby said at dinner. We were at Rigazzi's and I must have been staring at my plate lost in thought.

Abby's statement pulled me back to the present. I nodded and smiled. "You know me too well. I am starting a case but this one is all for me; I don't have a client."

"No client ... what case?"

"I'm gonna prove that Jonathan Robinson had his wife killed; probably had George Hamilton hit as well."

"Why makes you think Mr. Robinson had anything to do with his wife's death or with Hamilton's for that matter?"

"You remember what I found out about Cynthia and Hamilton?" Abby nodded. "At the fund raiser I told you I thought they'd gotten past it but you said they hadn't. You even pointed out the way Cynthia was acting toward her husband."

She nodded again and said, "Mrs. Robinson didn't want to dance with him or hold hands or anything; she gave off an angry vibe." Abby gave me a small smile and added, "Most men wouldn't see it or if they did wouldn't understand it. You were no different."

"You're right; I didn't see it until you pointed it out to me. But later when Cynthia was killed I started to think about the way she acted and then about Hamilton's accident. Like I told you I don't believe in coincidences and I had a friend dig into Robinson's background."

"I hope you didn't have your "friend" do anything illegal."

"Most of what he found is public record ... maybe hard to find but it is in the public record." I motioned to our server for the check. "C'mon, let's get out of here." As we stood to leave, I quickly kissed her. "I want to get back to our date and let the rest of it go away."

I handed Abby into my Cadillac CTS coupe. This was my 'meet clients and put on a good front' vehicle. I had two other cars; a beat up looking old Chevy pickup that was my work vehicle and had the heart of a NASCAR racer. The other chariot was a 63 Corvette Split Window Coupe; I drove it on weekends and on special occasions.

The windows were down and the warm spring breeze brought in the scent of several fresh cut lawns in the neighborhood around Rigazzi's. We were driving slowly as I didn't especially want to get to our destination. I was taking Abby back to her apartment instead of to my place. She was going on a business trip at zero dark thirty the next morning and would be gone for two days. At her door I held her for a few seconds, kissed her and turned back toward my Caddy.

The next morning I met with my realtor and finished the paper work on two deals. One, we closed on the sale of the house I'd gotten in my divorce. Seems the people renting it fell in love with the place. They approached my realtor, who managed the place for me, about buying it. I told him to quote some inflated price and they'd forget about it; they didn't blink and accepted the price. It was a case of someone being money whipped all over again.

The second deal was closing on the house that I'd bought, hopefully for Abby and me. We had been talking about and sort of halfway looking for a place for several months. I'd always been a fan of the stately homes in several older neighborhoods of St. Louis built and developed in the late 1800's and early 1900's, so I bought a big house in the historic Compton Heights section of the city. It had been built in 1897 for a railroad tycoon but it had fallen onto hard times over the years.

I was planning my surprise for Abby's return as I walked back to my truck when my stupid cell phone gave its blaring ring. I didn't recognize the number on the screen. "Matt Steele," I answered.

"Hey Mr. Steele, it's Ricky Willard."

"Yeah Ricky."

"You said you owed me one, any chance I might collect on that Mr. Steele."

"I'll help you if I can. What's going on?"

"A friend of mine, Stella Reyes, is in trouble. You know that young lady who got that information about the Robinsons for us; the one that works for Mrs. Robinson's attorney?"

I nodded and then realized he couldn't see me. "I remember but you never told me her name. Did she get in trouble for telling you the stuff she did?"

"No sir, it's something else. Stella's family is kind of on hard times. She's the only one working and her mother is sick and needed some kind of special medical equipment so Stella tried to raise the money. She'd only been at her job for a year and they are renting a sort of rundown apartment and the banks and finance companies wouldn't help ... so she went to a loan shark for the money."

"Not the best thing to do Ricky. Those guys are like vampires; they'll suck the life right out of you."

"Yeah, I know. Anyway Stella is struggling to make the payments, what with the high interest rate and all. If she misses the payment date by even a day, the guy charges her a week's vig. Oh, vig is the interest the guy charges for the loan."

"I know what vigorish is Ricky, remember I was a cop. How much is the shark charging and how much is Stella into him for?"

"That ass is charging her 2% a day on the $4000 she borrowed; that's over $500 a week. Even then he claims he's giving her a special rate and keeps making hints that she could work off her debt in a much more personal way. She's making the payments but she doesn't clear much at her job so the principal itself never seems to decrease. Stella doesn't know what to do ... I thought you might have some ideas."

"Who is the loan shark?"

"Guy named Tom Ladue. He's called..."

"Tommy the Turtle; yeah I know Tommy. I busted him a couple of times when I was a detective. Somehow he always got a plea deal or beat the rap." I thought for a few seconds. "Ricky, find out how much vig Stella has paid and where she meets Tommy; I'll have a talk with him.

"I'll get right back to you Mr. Steele." An hour later, he called again. "Stella says she meets him at D's Place on Barton; that's down in the Soulard area. She's been paying him $200 dollars every week for two months but she's been late a couple of times and still owes him $3800 dollars; she'll never get him paid off at this rate. She told him she wouldn't pay the high interest but Ladue said he'd hurt her mother if she quit paying."

"Like I said, I'll go have a talk with Tommy and get him to cut Stella some slack Ricky. Let you know how I make out. See ya."

Abby was going to be out of town that evening so I thought I'd go to D's Place for a burger and a beer. "Might even meet some old friends," I said to my truck.

The Soulard neighborhood of St. Louis was basking in a resurgence of development. As in other historic areas of the city people were moving back to the old neighborhoods; they were revamping and rebuilding the houses. Most of the newer residents were young up and coming couples, a few senior citizens that had lived there for years and because of the inexpensive houses larger families were coming back as well.

Of course as the areas drew more people, the housing prices rose. Because the people were coming back, the businesses and the shops were returning. D's Place, a sports bar, was one of the recently places. It had been a home at one time in the past but a new large picture window had been cut into the brick wall and a carved wooden door led into the dimly lit interior. There was the typical long bar down one wall with tables and chairs against the opposite wall only ten to fifteen feet away.

Walking into D's at 7 PM, I saw Tommy sitting in a sort of side room. He was called Tommy the Turtle because he always ducked back into his shell when trouble started; like a turtle. If the city police got too interested in his business, he'd change the bar he worked out of and cut back on getting new customers. I knew he'd have to be there fairly early if he was collecting from people when they got off work.

Tommy was sitting in a wrap around booth against the back wall. He was dressed to the nines wearing a deep blue silk shirt, a lot of gold chains around his neck and cream colored linen pants. C'mon Tommy, I thought. Nobody wear linen pants in St. Louis. Next to Tommy was his enforcer Jimmy Rice, who was called Sarge. He said he'd been a Master Sergeant in the Army during Desert Storm. I think the closest Jimmy ever got to being an NCO was working at the NCO club as a bus boy. Although he was so big I thought he might have been a tank.

Where Tommy dressed up in what he thought of high fashion, Rice wore a chambray work shirt unbuttoned down to below his massive chest and a pair of Army BDU black pants similar to what the Seals wear. He did have one gold chain around his neck with a sort of charm that was the stripes of a Army sergeant's emblem.

"Hello Tommy," I said. "Robbed any old ladies lately?"

"What'da you want Steele? You ain't a cop no more so we got no business between us."

"That's your second mistake Tommy; first, we do have business to discuss."

"Take a hike Steele." Tommy motioned to his leashed giant employee. "Get rid of this guy Jimmy," he ordered.

Jimmy was slumped in the booth and took up one whole side. Man's got to be 6'6 and 350 pounds I thought as I stopped at the front edge of the table. He looked to be almost as big around as he was tall. Jimmy stared at me in a 'don't screw with me' attitude; then at Tommy's order he started to get up.

Since moving into my new office and trying for better clients I had started dressing a bit better. Instead of St. Louis Cardinals or Rams satin jackets over a sweat shirt I wore collared shirts and sports jackets when the weather permitted. During the hot, humid summer months I usually wear Hawaiian type shirts and don't tuck them into my pants. I flipped back the side of the sports jacket I was wearing which allowed the butt of my Glock to show. I put my hand on the on the gun.

"No need to get up on my account. Why don't you just stay put," I suggested. I thought for a couple of seconds the behemoth was going to stand up anyway. Might not be a good thing to shoot him, I thought; it might piss him off. Jimmy solved my problem by sitting back in the booth.

"You said I made two mistakes," Tommy said. "What was the other one?"

"Tommy you've got a customer named Stella Reyes; she's a friend of mine. She borrowed four grand from you and has been making weekly payments, but after two months, she's only paid off $200 of the principal. That's because of the vig you're charging. That was your second mistake or maybe it was your first cause I wouldn't be here if you hadn't got your hooks into Stella."

"So?"

"That's gonna stop Tommy." I held up my hand to halt his complaint. "I don't expect you to forgive the debt; she'll pay you what she owes you ... but there won't be any more vig charged to Stella. You've been charging her over 5 bills a week for two months. That's 4 grand in profit for you; that's enough."

"You can't tell me how to run my business Steele. You got no, no ... jurisdiction here; got no proof I did anything wrong."

"Like you said earlier Tommy; I'm not a cop anymore. I don't have to prove anything to a court. I don't have to follow the rules anymore either so I'm gonna give one warning. Let Stella off the hook."

Tommy pointed at my Glock. "What'da you gonna do if I don't; you gonna shoot me?" I gave Tommy a grim smile and winked at him. Seeing the look on my face Tommy sat back and sort of deflated. "Okay Steele, you're just crazy enough to do me. I'll stop charging the bitch the vig, but she better damn well pay what she owes."

I tossed my business card down on the table in front of him. "If she doesn't pay, call me. Don't deal with it like you usually do; don't break her fingers or an arm, call me. Because you've been so understanding, I'll see that you get paid." I stepped back. "Good to see you Tommy and nice doing business with you." I nodded at Jimmy and walked out of the bar.

As I drove back to my apartment at 10, I used my cell to call another less than legal citizen. "Hi, is Jake there?" A few seconds later he got on the phone. "Hey Jake ... Matt Steele. Like to talk to you tonight." I listened to him for a while and said, "Meet you tonight at Molly's around midnight."

Returning to my apartment I changed into something a little rougher. Molly's would not be featured on a Chamber of Commerce tour of the fine establishments of St. Louis; it wasn't an upstanding place. Over the years it had been closed down more than once by the police. The bar was on the less than upscale end of the DeBaliviere Strip; the street had once been an important Mecca for blues and fine dining. Now the Strip was one step away from being a Demilitarized Zone between the haves of the grand houses along Forest Park and have not's north along DeBaliviere Street.

Jake Steadman, aka Jake the Snake, was a snitch of the highest caliber as well as a con man and a thief. If anything even slightly illegal went on in St. Louis, Jake knew or could find out about it. He did his dirty work in such a way that the rest of the people in his world knew nothing about his activities. Jake was called the Snake because of his luck or ability or whatever in slithering out of charges and actions by the authorities.