More Twisted

“Not sure. What’s the scam?”
    “This Kelleher was working with somebody from Florida. They came up with a pretty slick plan. They sell some loser a confiscated boat, only what happens is, there is noboat. It’s all a setup. Then when it’s time to deliver, they tell the poor asshole that the feds just raided ’em. He better forget about his money, shut up and go to ground.”
    That little fucking prick . . . . Schaeffer’s hand began shaking with anger as he stared at Ricky. He told the Homicide cop, “Haven’t seen him for a while. But I’ll ask around.”
    “Thanks.”
    He disconnected and walked up to Ricky, who was working on his second beer.
    “You know when that guy’s going to get here?” Schaeffer asked casually. “The boat guy?”
    “Should be any time,” the punk said.
    Schaeffer nodded, drank some of his own beer. Then he lowered his head, whispered, “That call I just got? Don’t know if you’re interested but it was my supplier. He just got a shipment from Mexico. He’s gonna meet me in the alley in a few minutes. It’s some really fine shit. He’ll give it to us for cost. You interested?”
    “Fuck yes,” the little man said.
    The men pushed out the back door into the alley. Letting Ricky precede him, Schaeffer reminded himself that after he’d strangled the punk to death, he’d have to be sure to take the rest of the bribe money out of his pocket.
    Oh, and the watch too. The detective decided that you really couldn’t have too many Rolexes after all.

    Detective Robert Schaeffer was enjoying a grande mocha outside the Starbucks on Ninth Avenue. He was sitting in a metal chair, none too comfortable, and he wonderedif it was the type that outdoor furniture king Shelby distributed to his fellow hicks.
    “Hey there,” a man’s voice said to him.
    Schaeffer glanced over at a man sitting down at the table next to him. He was vaguely familiar and, even though the cop didn’t exactly recognize him, he smiled a greeting.
    Then the realization hit him like ice water and he gasped. It was the fake Internal Affairs detective, the guy T.G. and Ricky had hired to clip him.
    Christ!
    The man’s right hand was inside a paper bag, where there’d be a pistol, of course.
    Schaeffer froze.
    “Relax,” the guy said, laughing at the cop’s expression. “Everything’s cool.” He extracted his hand from the bag. No gun. He was holding a raisin scone. He took a bite. “I’m not who you think I am.”
    “Then who the fuck are you?”
    “You don’t need my name. I’m a private eye. That’ll do. Now listen, we’ve got a business proposition for you.” The PI looked up and waved. To Schaeffer he said, “I want to introduce you to some folks.”
    A middle-aged couple, also carrying coffee, walked outside. In shock, Schaeffer realized that the man was Shelby, the tourist they’d scammed a few days ago. The woman with him seemed familiar too. But he couldn’t place her.
    “Detective,” the man said with a cold smile.
    The woman’s gaze was chilly too, but no smile was involved.
    “Whatta you want?” the cop snapped to the private eye.
    “I’ll let them explain that.” He took a large bite of scone.
    Shelby’s eyes locked onto Schaeffer’s face with a ballsy confidence that was a lot different from the timid, defeated look he’d had in the cheap hotel, sitting next to Darla, the used-to-be-a-guy hooker. “Detective, here’s the deal: A few months ago my son was on vacation here with some friends from college. He was dancing in a club near Broadway and your associates T.G. Reilly and Ricky Kelleher slipped some drugs into his pocket. Then you came in and busted him for possession. Just like with me, you set him up and told him you’d let him go if he paid you off. Only Michael decided you weren’t going to get away with it. He took a swing at you and was going to call nine-one-one. But you and T.G. Reilly dragged him into the alley and beat him so badly he’s got permanent brain damage and is going to be in therapy for years.”
    Schaeffer remembered the college kid, yeah. It’d been a bad beating. But he said, “I don’t know what you’re—”
    “Shhhhh,” the private eye said. “The Shelbys hired me to find out what happened to their son. I’ve spent two months in Hell’s Kitchen, learning everything there is to know about you and those two pricks you worked with.” A nod toward the tourist. “Back to you.” The PI ate some more scone.
    The