Free Beyond Blue by Austin S. Camacho

Champ, playing with our new little visitor.”
    â€œYou home?”
    â€œYeah, Paul. We went to Irv Jerome’s office today, and we ran into a little situation.”
    Gorman closed his eyes and leaned back in his office chair. He had heard too many stories that started that way, and they never ended well. “What sort of situation, Stone?”
    â€œSome guys interrupted our search. Obvious mob muscle.”
    â€œOh God,” Gorman moaned. “That wacko partner ofyours didn’t kill anybody, did he?”
    â€œRelax, Paul, we never even drew on these guys. Just had to rough them up some. I’m sure they think they interrupted burglars from a rival gang of bad guys. The monkey wrench in the gears is, Jerome’s secretary came in while we were there. She’d have taken the heat for our break-in, so we couldn’t just leave her there.”
    In the background Gorman heard a flurry of rapid-fire conversation, beginning with one woman snapping “Sam!” and another saying “So I’m a monkey wrench now?”
    Now Gorman’s voice rumbled in a low chuckle. “So, you took her to your place. Sherry must love that. And your dog’s playing with her?”
    â€œNot with her. She’s got a kid.”
    Now Gorman was laughing out loud. He could picture the scene, and it was priceless. “A kid? Sherry must reeeeeally like that!”
    â€œThe good news is, if we can keep the girl alive I think she’s got some information that can help us bust this case, and maybe bring down the guys Jerome works for, now that we know for sure that he’s mobbed up.”
    Behind Mason’s voice, Gorman now heard “Sam. Rickard. Come to dinner.” That would be Sherry, very good indeed at lining up the troops.
    â€œHey, Paul, I got to go,” Mason said.
    â€œI’m sure you do,” Gorman replied. “Have a good dinner. Think I’ll be heading for the house myself.”
    Gorman spun his chair to see the odd purplish layer that hangs on the New York horizon some days just as night falls. As he reached to cut the connection on his call, a new button began flashing on his phone.
    The intercom said, “That’s Sanchez,” in that voice Gunny often used that sounded just like “Here comes trouble.” Gorman punched the button.
    â€œWhere the hell are you?”
    â€œDon’t get your panties in a knot, white boy,” Ruby said. “If you must know I’m sitting on the toilet in a nice Mexicanrestaurant trying not to get
my
panties in a knot.”
    â€œDo you suppose you could be a little more specific?” Gorman asked.
    â€œWell, it’s a thong actually. They get twisted up so easy when you…”
    â€œI meant about your location, smart-ass,” Gorman snapped. Why did he even talk to this woman?
    â€œI’m in a place called Maria’s in Brooklyn, having dinner with the mark. You want me to turn on that homing dingus you gave me?”
    â€œIt would be nice to have the telemetry, but it’s up to you if you think you’re safe. Are you making any progress with this guy, what’s his name?” Gorman heard the muffled cantina music, at least confident that Ruby was giving him the straight story.
    â€œRafael Sandoval. Colombian immigrant who is helping a whole passel of his countrymen join him in the good old
    U. S. of A. Of course, he doesn’t know I know that bit. Boss, I just know this guy’s a player, and I think I can get him to open up to me if I just give him enough rope. Whatever his smuggling deal is, it’s got me stumped. If he don’t tell us, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.”
    Gorman slid Ruby’s folder closer to himself. “Did you get a read with a different set of dogs?”
    â€œShee-it, you think I’m stupid as your white boy detectives? Got them to switch out the mutts this afternoon. New hounds wasn’t no different