On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) by Al Stevens Read Free Book Online

know what you’re up against. Let’s see what Rodney can come up with.”
    I pulled out my cell, put it on speaker and called Rodney.
    “Where are you?” I asked.
    “The Cheap Peeper Emporium.”
    “Jesus, kid. Don’t get a sore wrist. You got your laptop with you?”
    “Always.”
    “Can you get into the Marshals server again?”
    “Yep. I’ll have to get near a wi-fi router. There’s a McDonald’s near here. You see, without a signal—”
    “Just do it. Go in there, and see what you can find out about Mario Vitole. See if the feds have anything on him. Call me when you have something.”
    “And if I can’t find anything?”
    “Call me either way.”
    Buford fidgeted in his easy chair. He downed the drink, and Ramon was there right away with a refill. That guy was always there when you needed him, Johnny-on-the-spot.
    “He knows my limit,” Buford said. “When I reach it, he stops bringing more.”
    “What if you insist?”
    “Then he brings more.” He took a sip of the new drink. “Why don’t I go see this Vitole hump right now? I can probably straighten things out with a few well-chosen words. His main defense is that I’m not supposed to know who he is.”
    “Wouldn’t you like to get your twenty grand back?”
    “Sure. How would I do that?”
    “Rodney.”
    “Jesus, is there anything that kid can’t do?”
    “He can’t get money that isn’t there. You go shoving Vitole around and he’ll pull all the cash out of the account. Wait till we get the dough. Then you can let him know he’s been busted.”
    “In more ways than one.”
    Buford had a look in his eye that I had not often seen in a man. Not an adversary to be reckoned with.
    “Okay,” he said. “We can wait. But not long.”
    My cell phone rang. Rodney was calling.
    “Uncle Stanley, I have what you need.”
    “What’d you get?” I asked.
    “Mario Vitole is a retired U.S. Marshal. His last duty station was the witness protection program in the New York corridor. He retired about a year ago.”
    “Vitole is a retired fed,” I said to Buford. “He had access to your files when you were active. Now he’s shaking you down I suppose to supplement his pension.”
    “Dirty rotten son of a bitch.”
    That’s what I would have said.
    “Might you know him by another name?” is what I did say.
    “No. We didn’t use nicknames. I knew my handlers by their real names, and they knew mine.”
    I spoke into the phone again.
    “Great job, Rodney.”
    “That’s not all, Uncle Stanley. I’m hacked into that OnlinePay account. What do you want me to do with it?”
    “What’s the balance?”
    “About fifty grand.”
    I whistled. Vitole must have been shaking down other well-heeled protected witnesses. Or selling antiques on ebay.
    “Stand by again.” I turned again to Buford. “You want your twenty grand back?”
    “Hell, yes.”
    “Got an offshore account somewhere that the feds can’t see?”
    “Of course.”
    “Get me the account numbers.”
    Buford got up and went to his desk, a huge mahogany behemoth with ornate carvings and inlays and not much clutter.
    I said to Rodney, “I’m getting you a bank routing number and the client’s account number. I want you to transfer twenty grand from Vitole’s account into the client’s account.”
    “Can do. I can get it all if you want. Put it in your account?”
    I must admit I was tempted. “No. Just the twenty grand.”
    The feds might not know about Buford’s account in Grand Cayman , or wherever, but my bank was in town with my name on file.
    Buford returned with a slip of paper.
    “Here they are.”
    I read the numbers to Rodney. I waited while his fingers did their tap dance on the laptop keyboard.
    Then he said, “It’s done.”
    “Great work, Rodney. I’ll try to get you a bonus. Maybe a new shirt.”
    We hung up, and I said to Buford, “You got your twenty grand back, you got the name of the shakedown artist, and you know where he is. What else can I do