Chapter 3
Lloyd Ledbetter was a cocksure motherfucker, but that only served as an enticement for me, both as my attorney and as someone I fantasized shoving my cock balls deep into his mouth or his heat, whatever served my demands at the moment.
I was always up for a challenge, and Ledbetter presented himself as a tantalizing candidate for just that. Growing up outside of Detroit, in the rural area of Northville, our unconventional family had boarded horses on the farm for income. We had also trained horses for sale. Pop was genius with all types of strays. I’d grown up around them and by the time I was fifteen, Pop had taught me how to break wild horses so they were marketable.
These weren’t American Saddle Horses. No way. Pop rescued wild Mustangs from Central and Northern Nevada that were starving to death. He and my Uncle Raymond would take two pickups with long trailers once a year, when the Bureau of Land Management opened adoption of these feral horses, provided the applicants for adoption had proof of licensing for horse boarding within the state and county they lived, along with a certified letter of approval from a local veterinarian. Pop and Uncle Raymond would return a week later with anywhere from eight to ten Mustangs.
On more than one occasion, I’d had the challenge of separating the harem stallion from the rest of the bachelor herd. It had been interesting to observe the change in behavior. Once removed, the harem stallions changed from aggressive to subdued. And that’s when my work started. Gaining the trust and respect of the beast was paramount. Once established, I would proceed to mount and train the horse to accept the bit and reins and learn my body signals. All these memories were swirling around in my brain as I absorbed the fact that Lloyd Ledbetter was on board with assisting me and, if my instincts served me correctly, there was a good chance he would provide me with additional relief on demand.
“Full disclosure and trust it is,” Ledbetter acquiesced, tossing the folder down onto his desk. He buzzed for his assistant. It didn’t take her more than thirty seconds to present herself in his office. “Yes Mr. Ledbetter?”
“Erin, get the standard forms of representation, attorney-client privilege, NDA, and rate schedule. Once we get these executed, Mr. Gunner becomes my client. Create a client folder, and then enter him into our system.”
“Whoa, hold up there, Lloyd,” I barked, causing both of them to turn quickly to gape at me. “Nothing goes into the computer. It’s all on paper. That’s the way I work.”
Lloyd clasped his hands together on the top of his desk. I presumed he was irked at my demand, but that was non-negotiable and I had my reasons. I didn’t nor would I ever start leaving any type of digital footprint. It was prudent not to do so. That had always been my policy and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to change now with the shit storm brewing. How the hell did Lloyd think I had stayed under the radar for so long?
“Just bring the forms in, Erin. No input into the system. Thanks.”
“Sure,” she replied, exiting his office.
“Care to explain your reluctance in coming into the 20th century, Mr. Gunner? People started using personal computers back in the 1970’s and the Internet, well, I’m sure you know its roots as well. We’re now fifteen years into the 21st century, so enlighten me on your idiosyncrasy here—not that I don’t have a few of my own.”
“It’s Luke, now that I’m your client. It’s Luke. And you’re to address me as such. I will be addressing you as Lloyd. I like the way it rolls off my tongue, by the way. As far as your question about my reluctance, it’s a valid question, so I will explain. Actually, it’s quite simple: the information highway leaves footprints—and handprints for that matter. Everyone who has half a brain can surf, hack, spam, or worm their way into one’s personal business. I happen to embrace keeping my business private. Call it one of my idiosyncrasies, Lloyd.”
“Tell me then, Luke, how are you able to conduct your...business without benefit of electronic systems?”
“Well, Lloyd, owning a DVD rental shop in Syracuse doesn’t require all that much technology—know what I mean? I have a printed inventory list that has a serialization listing for the titles, and we process by pen and paper inventory going out and inventory coming back in. I do make use of a cash register, of course, but it doesn’t have any online features,” I finished, giving him a sexy wink. “My business is called ‘Gunner’s Rentals.’ I’m sure it’s all there in the dossier you’ve pulled up on me, am I right?”
Lloyd was getting impatient, and he made no bones about it.
“We’re not talking about your front, and I think you know that. We’re talking about your lucrative business and I’m not the fucking IRS, Gunner, so let’s not play cat and mouse here. If you want my help, you need to answer my questions honestly.”
I shifted back in my chair, locking my hands behind my neck, and studied Lloyd for a moment. Damn if he couldn’t be strict when the job required it. This just might have some sort of a silver lining after all.
“Look, I get what you’re saying,” I replied, “but I can’t really separate the two, if you catch my drift. How do you think I’ve managed to stay on the outside? I don’t leave digital trails on my shit. I don’t allow Big Brother to peek into my activities. You read my files, right? Did you see any computer forensic expert testimony? Did you see any confiscated hardware or software? I don’t own a computer, Lloyd because I don’t need one.”
“I see,” he replied, a sardonic twist graced his full sensual lips. “What’s your secret, Luke?”
I leaned back in the leather chair, and allowed my legs to spread out in front of me. His eyes immediately darted to my crotch for about the fifth time today. I chuckled. “My transactions are non-electronic. They are maps encased in simple code that I understand, and my customers understand, because it’s all up here,” I answered, my index finger tapping at my right temple. “Photographic memory. Can’t be subpoenaed. Ain’t it great? Plus the fact that I practice KISS—that’s ‘Keep It Simple Stupid,’ my customers only need to know a set number of codes based on the movie selection I offer them to rent. So, all of the bookkeeping? Yeah, it’s all done in my head. All of the details of the currency amounts my customers need help with? Yeah, that’s in my head as well. So even you, Lloyd, have to appreciate the beauty of this system, right?”
He cleared his throat, and the doubt was evident. “Are you seriously telling me you have nothing to hand over to me right now? You are at the top of some Federal Prosecutor’s list as the perp behind Hastings’ disappearance!”
“It’s why I booked two hours, Lloyd. I can access anything you need to get started. Now what say you hand me a fresh legal pad and a pen and tell me what to access first?”
Lloyd sighed and got to his feet. He grabbed a legal pad from the stack on top of a file cabinet, and pulled a pen from the holder on his desk, handing them over to me. Erin knocked on the door and entered, handing her boss a new file folder and stack of forms.
“Thanks Erin,” he said. “Can you bring a carafe of coffee in please? We’re going to be here for a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lloyd turned back to me. “Since you’ve never met Hastings, you must have some idea as to why you’ve become the central focus in his disappearance, at least within the prosecutor’s office in Albany. So, please, spill it.”
“I’ve had nothing to do but mull that very thing over the past several days. I’m being set up. I know it. It has to be one of my past customers.”
“What would be their motive? What, you failed to deliver, Luke?”
I gave him a lazy smile. “Oh, I always deliver Lloyd. But understand this: my clientele is diverse. They all have their own specific reasons for hiding their money, and the means by which they received the money is just as diverse. The problem is, I don’t know the minute details of the source of their monetary windfalls. I know just enough to select the appropriate shelters or channels to ensure anonymity and security in disbursement. Now, I’m just betting you have a top-notch, trust-with-your-own-life PI on your payroll. We’re gonna need him—or her, whatever the case may be.”
“Even the most talented PI needs something to start with, Luke…”
I stopped him right there. “How far back do you want me to go?”
“Pardon me?”
“I presume you want my client list. How far back to you want me to go?”
He rubbed his hand over his perfect chin. “Let’s start with the last twelve months. How long will it take you?”
“I’m working on it now. My client list for the past year. Let’s see if you can’t get that coffee in here while I start.” I flashed Lloyd a smile, and tossed him a wink. And then I did what I do best. I accessed my photographic mind, and I started writing.
Fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee later, I ripped the top page of paper from the legal pad, and shoved it across the desk to Lloyd. I sat back, my arms crossed against my chest and waited for him to review it.
Lloyd’s eyes perused the list and then he raised his eyes to mine. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I never kid when my sweet ass is on the line, Counselor. That’s my client list for the past twelve months. Most of them are repeat business.”
“Tony the Torch?”
“It’s code. Anthony Taranovo. Lives in East Orange, New Jersey. Loves to play with matches, but only on insured warehouses with faulty sprinkler systems in and around Newark and Philly.”
“An arsonist. That’s rich.”
“Different strokes for different folks, Lloyd. Surely you embrace diversity.”
“Let’s move on,” he said, lowering his eyes from mine. “Sonny the Snitch?”
“Ah, yes. Dwight Lawson. Small-time dealer that got tired of being small. Ingratiated himself with some major gangbangers in Detroit. He cut out the middlemen by narking them out to local authorities. Now he is the middleman, and he got a huge bonus for saving the big guys money by taking less royalties. But, you see, he makes up for it in volume. He cuts the shit with fillers, if you know what I mean, so a pound becomes twenty ounces and so on.”
“Johnny Four Fingers?”
“John Bateman. A whiz at cooking the books at a major corporation. Lost a finger in an industrial accident he purposely caused in order to collect a payout through his employer’s Accidental Death and Dismemberment Insurance. Then the employer gave him a desk job where he continues to skim profits for a lucrative retirement.”
“Wiley Coyote?”
“Runs guns from the U.S. to Mexico. He’s connected seven ways from Sunday to some top militant groups in South America. Has connections internally, too. That’s all I know because I didn’t want to know anything more than that.”
“I can imagine,” Lloyd scoffed. “Your client list doesn’t exactly read like a Country Club membership roster. Ann Tique?”
I chuckled. “That chick is like a modern day Robin Hood. Except that she steals from the rich, to give to herself. Mostly conducts heists at antique and fine art showings. Poses as an aristocratic old lady. I bet she’s all of thirty-five.”
“Lenny the Shark?”
“Oh, yeah. Leonard Nettleman. Big loan shark on the East Coast. He loans at a high interest rate, but throws in some extra services, too. His client list includes some high profile lobbyists—mostly international, that he helps by tossing in fake identification. Social security cards, birth certificates, that type of shit.”
“Trish the Dish?”
“Ah, Patricia Dishman. Lovely lady with a penchant for marrying wealth…old wealth. She outlives them all, mostly because they’re past eighty when they say their nuptials. She funnels shit out before they kick the bucket; heirlooms, cash, coin collections, crystal, jewelry, fine art. Basically stuff that her husbands’ surviving children can’t pinpoint to her.”
“And, thankfully, that brings us to “Freddie the Fence.”
“Yeah, you know Trish the Dish referred Fred Applegate to me? He lives in East Hampton. Well, I think his code name says it all, right? That dude fences everything except humans. Now that’s where I draw the line. Human trafficking? No fucking way.”
“I’m relieved to know that. Now, the question is, do any of these particular clients strike you as having some motive for setting you up if, in fact, it is one of them?”
“Here’s the thing you need to consider, Lloyd. These clients aren’t exactly the crème de la crème of society. So, in effect, those that they consort with are no better, and quite possibly even shadier, catch my drift? That’s why your private dick is going to help unravel this quagmire for us. It’s got to be teamwork, Lloyd. Now, how about I fill out these forms, dot the i’s and cross the t’s all prim and proper, and then we grab something to eat and head back to your place.”
Lloyd was clearly taken aback by my last statement. I knew he would be, but damn if I didn’t enjoy yanking his chain.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need a crash pad. I’m in hiding until this gets cleared up. You haven’t made any calls yet, Lloyd. I’m a sitting duck out here. Besides, I don’t take up that much room, dude. You do have your own place, right? I mean, shit, you don’t look like you’re doing half bad for yourself with these office digs and all. Tell me, you don’t still live with your mother do you? Because that would seriously cramp my style.”
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