“Tell me they caught him.”
“Boy lives a charmed life,” Ronzini said. “Bank reported a loss of three hundred grand. I figure they padded by about a third. You’d think that was the big score for this jamoke, but his crew stayed in business, stealing cars, shaking people down, doing odd jobs for the local mob. Then a couple months later he’s driving the getaway car for more home invasions out on the island. That seems to have stopped after they found someone home. A woman was shot in the head. Not sure if it was him or one of his crew. Anyway, I think the crew fell apart after that.”
“Even the bad guys don’t want to hang with this wacko,” Hannibal said. He and Ronzini lifted their cups at the same time, sipped, and put them down. Something about that made Hannibal uncomfortable.
“Don’t know much about 1995. He got busted for beating up a guy, so maybe he was working protection or enforcement for somebody. Anyhow, he pleads guilty to lesser charges again, but now the cops are watching him. Less than six months later he whips up on a club bouncer.”
“Isn’t it usually the other way around?” Hannibal asked.
“The way I get the story, Mantooth tried to get into a club that was too exclusive for him. The bouncer went after him with a club. Mantooth not only took it from him, but cracked him in the head with it. And this is when he decides he ought to get out of New York.” Ronzini shuffles more papers, puffs, and sends another stream of acrid smoke Hannibal’s way. “We pick him up in Miami in ’96, accused of stealing a Lexus and changing the VIN number. He paid the owner off to get him to drop the charges. And it’s apparently about this time he gets deep into this dom-sub stuff.” Ronzini looked up. “You know about that stuff?”
“He dominates submissive women,” Hannibal said, nodding. “He’s pretty good at manipulating women’s feelings. Makes me crawly.”
“Good,” Ronzini said. “It ought to. Our boy apparently meets a woman down there with money, takes over her life and makes her his slave.”
“Patient zero,” Hannibal said under his breath. “Or victim zero. The trail of broken women starts right there.”
“From all reports he did her pretty bad before he emptied her bank account and kicked her to the curb. Then he bought a little club down there and life got good for him. Don’t know if you know much about Miami, but at that time down on South Beach things were pretty rough.”
“Miami Vice,” Hannibal said. “Art deco and big boats.”
“Yeah, and biker gangs and drug addicts and derelicts all over. Right about the time he got this club going, it started to get cool for sports stars and rock stars to hang out there. He had three or four girls at this point, and he had them waiting on him and on whoever he told them to service. Real dominant types didn’t like what he did to his women, but they just stayed away from him. Then he put the word out that he was connected to the mob. The real crime bosses didn’t like that but it seemed harmless and they let it slide. The rumor made him and his place cooler to the rap and rock crowds. They all think they’re gangsters. The mob sent a man to make contact, you know, explain the rules to him. Set up a cozy little live-and-let-live deal. He let the dealers do their thing in his place, the right people drank free, girls worked in there without giving Mantooth a cut, and like that.”
Hannibal reached for his cup, only then realizing that his jaws were clenched so tightly that it required a conscious effort to open his mouth. The brew was still hot, still strong, but it now had a bitter taste. Ronzini was quiet, as if waiting for Hannibal to digest the information.
“This guy’s no businessman,” Hannibal said after a moment. “Even with the mob nod, I can’t believe he ran a club successfully.”
“Didn’t last long,” Ronzini said. “Less than a year later the club is destroyed in a fire that looks mighty suspicious to me, but the insurance company paid. He dumped the money into a bigger, better place, subsidized by another woman of means, and managed by a girl who knew the bar business but I guess didn’t know much about men.”
“You’d think hanging with the big guys would have smoothed this clown out,” Hannibal said. “If the Madonnas and K.D. Langs didn’t change his behavior toward women, somebody like 5 °Cent should have shot him. How’s he still walking around doing this stuff?”
“Guys like this don’t change. Look here,” Ronzini said, pulling individual sheets of paper from his folder and flipping them aside. “Accused of beating up an employee because the guy took a break without permission. No charges filed. Smashes a pro football player in the face with a beer bottle in his own VIP lounge. No suit filed, thanks to some nasty threats. Oh, this is nice. Gets in a fight with a professional weight lifter. The guy was the ex-husband of one of Mantooth’s subbies. The weight lifter left town right after that. Later claimed that Mantooth flew a bunch of guys down from New York to go after him. Let’s see, caught driving a stolen car. “
“Charges dropped,” Hannibal said. Ronzini nodded.
“Beat up patrons in the bar.”
“Charges dropped,” Hannibal said again.
“Arrested for assault and attempted murder after he stabbed paparazzi multiple times for taking his picture.”
“My God. Charges dropped again? What the hell sat this guy behind bars?”
Ronzini chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t until 2001. Guess he shouldn’t have told that undercover FBI agent about the neighbor he wanted to have whacked. Turns out the guy was a witness to a crime one of Mantooth’s pals committed. The feds did some digging and turned up enough to threaten charges for murder, robbery and racketeering. That was enough to make him turn in some pals in exchange for a three year vacation in a minimum security cell.”
“Which is where he meets Vernon Cooper, and where the story begins for me.” Hannibal hated the indiscriminate way luck got handed out in the universe. Career criminals get their share just like heroes do.
“In what way?” Ronzini asked. “What is your business with this man?” Ronzini leaned back and drew hard on his cigar. For the first time it occurred to Hannibal that Ronzini had done all this research without really knowing why Hannibal was chasing Mantooth. He knew this was business, knew it was about recovering stolen property, but little else. Hannibal smiled, nodding in recognition of his obligation. But at this point he was no longer begging for help. They would now speak as equals.
“Okay, Tony, here it is. Mantooth had a cellmate in the joint. The man was a chemist who developed something very special. Mantooth found out where the formula was hidden, and sometime after that this man died suddenly in prison. When he got out, Mantooth stole the records of the formula from his old cell mate’s daughter.”
“A new pharmaceutical?” Ronzini asked. “I ask this because drug people have expressed an interest.”
Hannibal looked at the floor. “Not a drug.”
“If not a new narcotic, then what?” Ronzini sat still, exuding calm, but Hannibal felt the pressure of his eyes. It wasn’t his secret to share. It wasn’t any of Ronzini’s business. It wasn’t something a career criminal ought to know. But he felt an obligation here. And in some ways, this was a man he could trust. He took a deep breath, and let it out while saying, “Shit” under his breath.
“From all reports, it appears to be the beginnings of a cure for addiction.”
Ronzini’s mouth dropped open, and a small smile curled his lips. “So. In Hitchcock terms, this is the McGuffin. Drug dealers undoubtedly want to destroy the formula. Drug manufacturers want to own it. Or, even this could be dealt illegally. Imagine being able to use cocaine without worrying about getting hooked.”
“I don’t care who wants it,” Hannibal said. “It belongs to the girl.”
“Unless Mantooth sells it to make his big score,” Ronzini said, pointing his cigar at Hannibal. “This, we can expect soon. One of the friends he made in Miami is on his way up here with a great deal of cash. He must mean to trade it for this secret formula.”