Angola LaGrange: Lucky Day Part 3

Looking the beginning of this story? Find it and the rest Here.

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I spent the night on the couch, mostly looking into the case on my phone, though I dozed for a bit out of necessity. It would have been easier with my laptop, but I could make do.

Hooray for technology.

My first search was for one Robert “Lucky” Haskins Jr. There wasn’t much: a few social media accounts, none of which were very active, and some old news stories about a “delinquent youth.” Nothing stood out as different from what he’d told me about himself. It did explain his skill at opening locks, but called into question his story of just where he got the money to pay off his debts.

Most of the results that came up were actually for Robert Haskins Sr., a small business owner and property manager downtown. It wasn’t a rich neighborhood by any stretch, but it was a hell of a lot nicer than where I lived.

Content, for the moment, with the little extra I’d learned about my newest client, I turned my attention to the actual job. “Bob Silver” was either an alias, or some sort of business guru based out of Denver. It seemed a long shot, but I left a voicemail with his messaging service just in case.

“Bob, Lucky has the payment. If this makes any sense to you, call this number back.”

It probably wouldn’t lead anywhere, but if not it wouldn’t hurt. And if for some reason that was the guy, my job just got a lot simpler.

But I wouldn’t count on it.

Then I resorted to scouring police reports and news articles about local crimes. Specifically, I wanted to find anything linked to extortion, or the kinds of assaults that come from it.

Rusty the biker showed up in a few, and I took special note of them. Lucky had identified him as one of Bob Silver’s goons, so his crimes could have been part of the loan shark’s business plan. But without more concrete data, it was hard to put together any kind of pattern from the reports.

Before I knew it, the morning sun was peeking through the windows. I made myself a cup of coffee, picking at random from the fancy options the hotel had supplied. It was better than the cheap swill I normally had, but whatever subtleties it was supposed to have were lost on me.

My taste buds were burned out from years of suffering through stale office coffee.

It wasn’t too much later that Lucky came out of the bedroom, yawning. He looked a little more disheveled than before, but otherwise rested.

“Man, I’ve never slept in a bed that nice. You really missed out.”

“Maybe some other time.” I stepped aside so he could make his own coffee. “I need you to tell me more about Bob Silver. A description, places you’ve seen him, anything like that.”

“Sure.” He picked one of the coffee flavors from the basket. “I first met him outside of the laundromat on Sixth, but he didn’t have any laundry with him. He set up shop in one of the rooms behind Striker’s Bowling Alley. Made a helluva racket whenever I had to talk to him.”

I nodded.

There were seedier parts of the city, but not many. Definitely not a neighborhood you’d want to walk around in after dark.

“And a description?”

“I can do you one better.” Lucky started flipping through his phone. “Ah, here it is.” He passed the device over to me.

He’d pulled up a grainy photo of himself posing with a blonde. Behind them, tucked almost out of frame, stood a clean-cut man with salt and pepper hair. His expression was a deep scowl, and the lines on his face suggested that wasn’t uncommon.

“This him?”

Lucky nodded as he sipped his coffee.

“Who’s the girl?” She might have seen something that Lucky missed.

He shrugged. “Stacy…or Lacy maybe. I’m not sure. She was from out of town and got turned around. I offered her directions in exchange for the picture.”

“You’re a great guy.” My tone was dry and icy.

“It’s not like that.” He protested. “Bob has a thing against photos, so I thought if I could sneak one, it might give me some leverage to actually get out from under my debt. I’ve heard the horror stories about guys getting hounded for ‘interest’ long after they’ve paid back what they agreed to.”

I had to admit that the picture was useful, though Lucky would never hear me say it. I passed his phone back to him. “Send me that.” I pulled my shoes back on and made for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To check some leads. Stay here, and don’t open the door for anyone other than me.”

I got a cab from the concierge desk. My appearance drew some unwelcome stares from staff and guests milling about the lobby, but no one questioned me.

The cabby, on the other hand, had no qualms about speaking up. “Miss, you look like you’ve had a rough night. Is everything alright?”

“It’s fine, I just need to go pick some things up.”

“Sure, sure. Where to?”

I gave him my address.

“Really?”

I chuckled. “Afraid so.”

“If you say so.” He pulled the cab out into traffic.

The short drive was filled with mindless, pleasant chitchat. Both of us stayed well clear of the subject of what kind of business someone might have at both the swanky hotel and the ghetto.

“Here you are, Miss.” The cabby said as he pulled up to my curb.

“Thanks.” I tipped him a few bills. “Keep the meter running, I won’t be long.”

“Good thinking.” He smiled as he took my money.

There weren’t any obvious watchers as I approached the outer door, so I hurriedly unlocked it and raced up the steps to my own apartment. The lock was still set, and there were no signs of forced entry.

Good. Rusty, or whoever else is chasing Lucky hasn’t tied me to him, or to this place. But that won’t last.

Inside, I grabbed a beat up old suitcase and started stuffing it with various odds and ends that I thought might be useful. Some fresh clothes, a toothbrush, makeup, my expandable security baton, and an old voice recorder topped the list. My gun and phone could do most of what those last two offered, but it never hurt to have options.

I changed quickly into a cheap, black suit—it still fit—and grabbed my old pair of aviators. The outfit felt incomplete with out the FBI badge in my pocket, but it would do.

Hauling the suitcase back down to the taxi, I considered the case. Typically, there were two reasons a criminal would disappear: police action, successful or otherwise, and another criminal muscling in. And of those two groups, only one was known for keeping records.

Down at the curb, the cabby helped me throw the bag into the trunk. “Where to now?”

“The police station.”

To Be Continued…HERE