Dinkins studied the sidewalk, relaxed. “Oh, that’s right.”
Harry and I started to the car. Dinkins remained in the box, looking down, fascinated.
“Hey, you guys,” he called.
We turned. “What?” I said.
“You sure I can say anything in the free space, not get in trouble?”
“You got it,” I said.
Dinkins said, “You fuckers are flat-out goofy.”
“Don’t press your luck, Leroy,” Harry said.
CHAPTER 20
Of the two Hooley brothers, Harry said Darryl was the one to work on, a goofed-out stoner. Darryl lived in a single-story ranch in mid-Mobile, an aging suburb of expressionless boxes, anonymity with a mailing address. Harry parked a block away, lifted the binocs to his face.
“Oh my,” Harry grinned. “There is a God.”
“What?”
“Darryl Hooley, all by his lonesome. Sitting on the porch and toking on reefer. Let’s park in the alley, come around from behind.”
We crept through the backyard, snaked around the side of the house. I jumped up over the porch rail, grabbed up a baggie of pot, tossed it to Harry. Hooley tried to stand but my hand encouraged him to remain sitting. Hooley was a small guy, bony shoulders, soft eyes. He wore faded jeans and a black KISS T-shirt, the band that wouldn’t die.
Harry held the bag delicately, his pinkie sticking out, like he was sipping tea. “Lord have mercy, Darryl, what’s this greenish substance?”
“It’s fuckin’ pot, what the hell do you…Hey, Harry Nautilus! Been years. You’re looking good, dude, few extra pounds…”
Harry reached to the back of his belt for handcuffs. He shook them in Hooley’s eyes like he was ringing a bell. “Let’s go Darryl, you know the routine.”
“Huh? You serious?”
“This is an illegal substance, Darryl. A no-no.”
“We both know that bag’s not going to be heavy enough to get me on trafficking. This is a roust.”
Harry rattled the cuffs. “Hands on the house and spread ’em, Darryl. Time for some hooking and booking.”
“You’re Homicide now, right? Why are you doin’ this to me? It’s harassment.” Darryl had a nasal voice and sounded like a kid whining about being fed spinach.
“It’s a night in the bag, Darryl,” I said. “And a court appearance. And a shyster to warm your side at morning court. It’s pissant bullshit, I know, but it’s also a pain in your ass and a drain on your wallet.”
“You’re right, Darryl,” Harry said, “it’s harassment. I’ve got a couple of new hobbies, and harassing you is one of them.”
The curtains parted in Hooley’s cannabis intoxication. He sighed.
“You want something. Right, Harry? You always wanted something.”
Harry laid his hand on Darryl Hooley’s shoulder, leaned close.
“You got a guy just started boosting for your operation. Has or had Wookiee genes, hairy everything. Am I correct?”
Hooley stared at his shoes, mute. Harry stood back and jangled the cuffs. “Damn, I love a new hobby. The thrill of repeating something over and over until you get good at it. Did I ever tell you how long it took me to learn to play tambourine? Don’t think in days, Darryl. Months either.”
Hooley shot a glance over his shoulder. His voice became contemplative.
“I’m in a kind of gray area here, Harry, admissions and all that. Might be best to just take the misdemeanor, my man. Don’t want to have any translation problems here, find out you’re saying one thing, but I’m not catching the meaning, y’know?”
It was the ready-to-deal voice, one I’d heard a hundred times. I winked at Harry.
“You remember me ever lying, Darryl?” Harry said.
“You were always straight, Harry. Hard, but straight.”
“Here’s the deaclass="underline" You get a pass on the pot this time around. And anything you say is dust the minute we leave. Guaranteed.”
Hooley nodded. “Good enough for me, Harry. Can I sit down, get comfortable? Finish my doob?”
“You get two outta three, Darryl,” Harry said. “Guess which two?”
Hooley sighed, turned and sat in the chair, pushed his hippie hair back behind his ears.
“Harry, the guy you’re looking for is crazy.”
“How about starting on page one, Darryl?”
“It was last week. Guy came by our, uh, establishment. My brother said, ‘What you want, my man?’ The guy said, ‘I want to schedule a presentation.’ My brother said, ‘A fucking what?’ The guy said, ‘I think we can work together, a limited partnership.’ I thought to myself, This fucker’s crazy. Danny said, ‘Here’s how we work together, partner, you bring us merchandise limited to just high-end stuff, we give you money.’”
“You and Danny didn’t think he was a setup, a cop?” Harry interrupted.
“The guy was too fuckin’ crazy, like I said. Talked weird, used ten-foot words. And he didn’t look like a plant. You guys stand out like parrots on a shit pile.”
“What happened?”
Darryl Hooley shook his head, a dreamy pot smile on his face. “He came by the next day in a ’58 Mercedes, a classic. Handed me the keys.”
“What’d he do next?”
Hooley clapped his hands in delight. “Got on a fucking bus. Comes back an hour later with a 2004 Beamer seven series. Does it again and brings in a ’97 Porsche turbo. The man had a gift.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
Hooley’s face dropped. “He dropped off the turbo, tossed the keys, and grabbed thirty-five big ones. I said, ‘What’s next?’ He said that was it, he was done.”
“Done?” Harry asked.
“I said, ‘Brother, we can put you on staff, you got a natural talent.’ You know what that crazy fuck told me?”
“What?”
“Said he’d made all the money he needed. Who in their right mind has all they need, Harry? See what I mean about the guy being crazy?”
The next stop in our blind passage was Crimes Against Property, Vehicle Theft Division, one floor down. Vince Raines ran the squad, but Vince was out of town and we spoke with Mitch Burdon, second in command.
“Nineteen ninety-seven Porsche turbo, 1958 M-B Roadster, a 2004 Beamer seven?” Mitch said, pecking at his computer. He shook his head. “No hits on those models. Got a few Lexuses, Infinitis, upscale SUVs, Caddys. All gone in the same week you’re talking about.”
Another dead end. Harry said, “Word is the Hooleys were on the receiving end. That do anything?”
“All that means is efficiency. The Hooleys only take high-end and keep it in hand for less time than it takes most people to sneeze.”
“We’re sure the cars came from town,” Harry said.
Mitch nodded. “A few ways it could happen. Your thief got them from a stash of previously stolen vehicles, from a place where they’re stored and not yet missed, or from long-term parking at an airport, and no one knows they’re gone yet. I’ll stay in touch, guys.”
We headed upstairs. Harry stopped to pull a drink from the water cooler and I headed to my desk. There were just a few detectives in attendance. Roy Trent was on the phone asking someone about credit card purchases, following a trail. Larry Barnes sat at his desk with fluorescent-pink diver’s plugs in his ears, staring at the ceiling and squeezing a tennis ball, his deep-thought mode.
I passed the Logan-Shuttles cube. Logan was at his desk, Shuttles behind him, looking down at Logan’s desk. They were studying an 8 x 10 photo. I couldn’t make out the subject.
Logan said, “She don’t look sexy, but she looks hot, don’t she, Tyree?”
“Jesus, Pace,” Shuttles said. “That’s sick.”
“Keep you warm on a cold night, I’ll bet. Smokin’!” Logan laughed, a wet gurgle.
I poked my head over the divider.
“What’s up, guys?”
Shuttles shook his head. “Pace is losing it.”
“Have you seen our latest case, Ryder?” Logan grinned. “Take a look, it’s my dear old mummy.”
He held up the photo. It was a charred corpse, looking mummified, if that’s the way you wanted to see things. It was a morgue photo, after the body had been transported.