Subject waved them past the front door and around the south side of the building, past a sign that said “Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.” They walked around the back and down a narrow set of cracking steps. At the bottom, Gerdtz knocked on the door. A large, black bodyguard dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt tight over bulging muscles let them in and walked them through a kitchen and the law offices to a large room. There they found the man himself: Fat Charlie Boone.
Mac remembered seeing video footage of Charlie Boone walking into court six months ago, when the fat moniker fit and he was well over 300 pounds. The moniker no longer fit. Fat Charlie was still a large man, well over six feet, but now, like many, he was just a bit overweight. He sat in a high-backed armchair and wore a gold golf shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a lavender sport coat along with several gold rings and a gaudy gold watch. He held a cigar between the fingers of his left hand and a drink in his right. A haze filled the room, a prime specimen of early “pimp” styling with two round green felt card tables, a large bar with “Fat Charlie’s” stenciled on it in burgundy, and a series of couches and chairs set around a big screen TV. The floor was black-and-white checkered tile, contrasting against the dark-paneled half walls and red shag on the upper half. Two other men, probably Charlie’s sons, watched the cops over their own drinks.
“Detectives Subject and Gerdtz,” Charlie said in a deep but even voice.
“Charlie,” Gerdtz replied evenly. Then, spreading his arms, he boomed out, “What the fuck happened to you? You look like you’ve wasted away, fat man.”
“Had me that gastric bypass by whatchamacallit.” Charlie laughed out loud, standing up and opening his coat, showing the svelte new Fat Charlie and conveniently proving that he wasn’t armed. “What do ya think? A new me, eh?”
“New you,” Subject said. But his next comment took the air out of the room. “Of course, the business is the same.”
“Well, let’s talk bidness then,” Charlie replied flatly, sitting back down in his chair.
“These boys here are from St. Paul,” Gerdtz said.
“I recognize these men,” Charlie replied, a little smile on his face. “I’ve seen them on TV. The young one, I believe, is Michael McKenzie “Mac” McRyan, and the other is detective Richard Lich.” He sounded well prepared for the meeting. “Grab a chair,” he offered, waving them toward similar high-backed chairs. He held up his glass. “Care for a nip?”
Mac waved him off, as did Lich.
“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” Boone asked.
“You know why we’re here,” Mac said.
“About those girls, I suspect. Just saw the report about the chief’s daughter on the big screen over there.”
“I saw you six months ago. You had some pretty harsh things to say about Hisle, our department, and particularly the chief,” Mac said. “I quote: ‘Maybe people like Hisle and Flanagan ought to experience the loss of a child. Then they’ll know what my sister and I are feeling today.’” Mac sat back in his chair. “Now Hisle and the chief are both missing a child. Sounds a lot like payback. What better way to get it than going after the chief and Hisle?”
“You’re right, of course. But I had nothing to do with that.”
“Bullshit,” Mac retorted, turning on the pit bull tone. “You and your people have never feared taking a body or making one disappear. I’ve heard about it for years. Maybe your hands aren’t dirty, you haven’t touched the body directly, haven’t pulled the trigger, but you sit in that throne over there, drink your drink, smoke your cigar, and give the orders on who lives or dies.”
Lich jumped in as if on cue, the good cop.
“Look, my partner here can be a little harsh.”
“Being an asshole is more like it,” Fat Charlie added.
“Fuck that,” Mac countered angrily, playing the bad cop. “What’s taking the chief’s and Hisle’s daughters to someone like you? It’s no different than going after someone trying to move in on your drug real estate here on the north side, like Pinky Miller ten years ago. One day he’s king shit over here, the next he’s gone, never to be heard from again, and you’ve got his ten blocks of real estate over by North High School.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Charlie calmly answered. “But again, I have nothing to do with the disappearance of those girls. It’s not my style.”
“What’s not your style?” Mac said sarcastically. “Killing? Taking lives? Abductions? Your name’s been attached to all of that stuff over the years. It’s the way people like you operate.”
“You’re a pugnacious shit, aren’t you?” A big smile washed over Charlie’s face, his perfect white teeth contrasting with his dark black skin.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Lich said and everyone laughed and the tension eased.
“I like it, no bullshit. We should all operate that way,” Charlie said, and he meant it. “But to directly answer your question Detective McRyan, I’ve got nothing against your chief or Mr. Hisle. I said those things, sure, and I was pissed — I was damn fucking pissed at that department of yours. But Hisle was just doing his job, and from what I know of Flanagan, I doubt he wanted the case to go south like it did.” Boone took a sip of his drink and gestured. “Now I’m pissed at the cops who blew the case and the prosecutor who screwed the pooch. And if I were to be going after people, that’s who I’d go after. Not the people responsible for cleaning up the mess.” Boone paused and then leaned over, elbows on knees, looking at Mac. “But Detective, I didn’t do this, because it’s simply not my style.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mac answered. “Maybe you’re feeding us a line of shit here, and you got the chief’s and Hisle’s daughters. Maybe that’s the price the chief and Hisle pay for screwing the pooch.”
Boone got a serious look on his face. He had enough of McRyan. “No. I have a rule, a rule which is not to be violated, ever.”
“Which is?” Mac asked.
“Never go after a citizen, never put a gun on a citizen, and never hurt a citizen,” Charlie responded. “I’ve never, ever gone after someone who wasn’t in the trade, who wasn’t in our line of business.”
“And you follow that rule?” Mac asked with a skeptical tone.
“It’s the golden rule,” Boone answered seriously, pointing at Mac with his cigar. “I ain’t gonna bullshit you, Detective. We’ve been in some nasty stuff over the years. But not once did any of that ever involve someone who wasn’t in the trade.”
“Cops are in the trade, aren’t they?” Mac asked. “I mean, aren’t we cops up in your shit all the time? And if cops are in the trade, wouldn’t their families be fair game?”
“For some people up here on the north side, maybe, but not me,” Boone answered, falling back into his chair. “Gertz and Subject, if they’re honest, will tell you that I’ve never, ever, picked a fight with the police. In this line of business, you don’t last long doing that shit. You keep your profile low. You buy for a dollar and sell for two is all you ever want to do.” Charlie took a sip of his drink and tacked in a different direction, “And one other thing.”
“What’s that?” Lich asked.
“I’ve got three daughters of my own, plus eight sons. Family is everything to me. I can’t imagine what those fathers are going through, but I sympathize with them.” He took a puff of his cigar and slowly blew smoke. “Taking those girls?” Charlie shook his head. “If I had a beef with someone, I’d go after them, not their wives or kids. What do they have to do with anything? Nothing. They’re just citizens. And I never go after a citizen.”
“So why then,” Lich asked, “is word out on the street that you’ve wanted payback on the St. Paul Police, the county attorney’s office, and Hisle? What’s all that noise about?”
“That’s my competition, I suspect.”
“Fellow drug dealers?”
“I think it might be someone worse.”
“Who’s worse? Lich asked.
“Politicians,” Mac answered, smiling.
Fat Charlie guffawed loudly.