Electing to Murder

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“He is a character.”

A police detective, homicide or otherwise, can’t really do his job without confidential sources, people who seemingly have access to otherwise unobtainable information. Sometimes they were the Deep Throat type, honest, hardworking people who just happened to have access to what was needed or were interested in blowing the whistle at that time. They were one time sources and helpful. But what you really needed as a cop were people who always had valuable tidbits of information. Of course, more often than not, the people who had the information a cop needed had it because they walked on the shadier side of life. They were people who occasionally fractured a law on their own. However, for a little quid pro quo, they were usually willing to share information. It was simply how things worked on the street.

McRyan had those kinds of sources around the Twin Cities, cultivated them, kept track of them, and it worked for him. But Mac had a source he could call on that nobody else had. This was a source who seemingly knew everything going down in town. On occasion, when the circumstances truly warranted it, and if he asked right, Mac could call on him.

The source: Fat Charlie Boone.

Back in the day, Charlie Boone ran the dope trade on the north side of Minneapolis. And he ran the trade with an iron fist. His people were disciplined, didn’t sell around schools, didn’t sell around churches, didn’t sell on Sundays and kept the trade low profile and followed the Boone Law: Never put a gun on anyone who was not in the game. That was his one hard and fast rule. If one of his people did that, that person’s fear was not the police, it was Boone.

After a number of years of maintaining a low profile and avoiding the Minneapolis Police, Charlie had made so much money that he’d been able to put several layers between himself and the street. These days, even if the street was kicking money up to him, Boone was so far removed from the action there would be no way to trace it back to him. His money was cleaned now several times over. Fat Charlie Boone was the bank. The Minneapolis Police had long given up on catching him, having been humbled far too many times in their pursuit over the years.

Now Boone was quietly making continuous investments in businesses all over the Twin Cities. He now lived in a thirty-third-story penthouse condo at The Chesterton, a thirty-five-story luxury high-rise condominium overlooking the Stone Arch Bridge and the Mississippi River in downtown Minneapolis. He was healthy, wealthy and wise.

Yet Charlie Boone was still street. He was still plugged in unlike anyone else and he knew everything going on in town. However, as untouchable as he’d become, he did have one Achilles’ heel. Boone had an extremely big family, some of whom were still close enough to the street game. Those family members, usually extended family types, occasionally got into trouble, sometimes in St. Paul.

That’s where McRyan came in.

Sixteen months ago Charlie gave Mac a tip during a double kidnapping that helped him save Chief Flanagan’s life and that of his daughter’s. A few months later, one of Boone’s nephews found himself pinched in St. Paul on a drug charge. Boone reached out to Mac and asked for a little return on his previous investment. Mac went to Flanagan, explained what Charlie was looking for and that the chief’s own daughter was likely alive because of the man’s assistance. The chief gave the little legal maneuver his blessing, but with one proviso. “Let’s get something in return.”

Mac got something in return.

After Boone’s nephew was in the clear, Mac made a late night trip over to the north side of Minneapolis and Boone’s office. Over cigars and a bottle of Wild Turkey, the two struck a little deal.

Mac would never come to him on trivial matters, but if there was something big going on, he could call on Charlie. McRyan figured big would involve a double homicide, cop killing, large robbery, something along those lines. He never envisioned going to Fat Charlie on something big would involve presidential politics. However, if there was in fact a new off-the-books doctor in town, Charlie would know who he was or, if not, how to quickly find him.

Mac gave Wire the short background on Charlie as he drove to a twenty-four-hour gas station on Rice Street just north of the St. Paul capitol.

“Why are we going so far away from headquarters?” Wire asked.

“St. Paul is a big city, but not that big of a city. The farther away, the less likely someone sees me making or taking a call on a payphone. That stuff always looks a little suspicious.”

There were rules when calling Charlie.

Mac had to call from a payphone to a private number and leave a message with the service. Mac went through the routine and hung up.

“So what now?”

“We wait. Give it a minute or two.”

“Even at 4:30 in the morning?”

“Fat Charlie Boone Enterprises is a twenty-four seven operation,” Mac answered. “Someone is always working.”

Sure enough, three minutes later the payphone rang. “This is McRyan. I need to see the big man right away.”

“He can’t just call you?” Wire whispered.

Mac shook his head and put his hand over the mouthpiece, “Everything is face to face with Charlie.” He then took his hand off the receiver. “Twenty minutes? Okay. Tell him I will have a lady investigator with me… Yeah … Trust me, the old man will love her.” He hung up. “So now we drive over to north Minneapolis.”

“He couldn’t just tell you over the phone?”

Mac laughed. “Charlie doesn’t believe in phones, cellular or otherwise. He never let his street guys have a cell phone. Cell phones could be tracked, traced, hacked and monitored. Charlie is old school, like Paulie in Goodfellas. Everything is face to face with Charlie Boone.”

The two went inside the gas station and bought fresh tall coffees for themselves, two extra tall coffees and a bag with four bear claws and started on the trek to the north side of Minneapolis. Mac motored south on Rice Street and maneuvered his way to Interstate 94 and cruised west towards Minneapolis. As he turned a sharp bend to the left on 94 and took the long highway bridge crossing over the Mississippi River, he took in the impressive well lit downtown Minneapolis skyline.

“St. Paul and Minneapolis are so different,” Wire said as they crossed the bridge.

It often amazed Mac that downtown Minneapolis and St. Paul could only be a few miles apart yet be so different from one another. St. Paul was like an East Coast city, brick and mortar, working class, union, dirt on its elbows and knees, a name tag on the left upper chest. Minneapolis, by contrast, was all West Coast, tall glass towers with the beautiful people frequenting orchestras, playhouses and the sprawling restaurant and bar scene in a city, clean, trendy and stylish. One wasn’t more right than the other and each had its own distinct character. The two cities were just both so different yet separated by a thin ribbon of water.

Mac cruised around the south side of downtown, through the Lowry Tunnel and then north on Interstate 94 until he reached the West Broadway exit and then took a left down the north side of Minneapolis’s main artery.

“This looks a little more like it, at least like DC or Baltimore,” Wire noted as she took in West Broadway with the iron bars on the businesses, the occasional boarded up building and the dilapidated nature of the residential dwellings. While many of Minneapolis’s trouble spots had been the subject of revitalization in recent years, the north side remained largely ignored.

“The foreclosure crisis hit the north side especially hard,” Mac said. “It’s too bad, really. There are some really great old neighborhoods and classic houses in this part of town that could thrive again with a little TLC.”

Mac took a right on Penn Avenue and headed north five blocks and did a U-turn in the intersection with Lowry Avenue and pulled up in front of Charlie’s building. Two very large and very intimidating black men were waiting out front for Mac. Omar and Vincent were not to be trifled with. Both well over six feet, arms the size of most men’s thighs and menacing looks. Standing with their arms crossed, they conveyed one message: STAY AWAY.

The two were always in front of Charlie’s place when the great man was present. You’d have to be a fool to mess with these two. Vincent smiled and fist bumped Mac when he walked around the front of his Yukon with the extra coffees and the bag of bear claws for the two men. Meanwhile, Omar opened the passenger door for Wire and gave Mac the usual greeting in his Barry White voice, “Mac, we’ll watch your riiiide while you’re insiiiide.”

Fat Charlie’s building was an old, non-descript, red-brick, one-story rectangular office building that sat on the corner of Lowry and Penn. At one time, a small law practice occupied the south half of the building. Now, the entire main level was the Penn-Lowry Hardware Store, of course owned by Charlie. The law offices, which were operated by two of his sons, were now in the basement which led to the amusing sign on the end of the building: Attorney’s Entrance in the Rear.

That entrance was also how you were admitted to Charlie’s office. Mac led Wire around the back of the building and down the narrow cement steps where the door was being held open by one of Charlie’s sons. Having been in Charlie’s subterranean basement office a half dozen times now, Mac knew the way and found the big man in his expansive office that contained a conference table with six chairs, a large seating area with couches, arm chairs and a large flat screen and then the bar area. The floor was black and white tile with paneling halfway up the walls and a light red shag around the top. It was the office of a gangster and Charlie was, and to a certain degree always would be, one. Charlie himself was a big man, although not as hefty as he once was when he truly was Fat Charlie, before he had gastric bypass surgery. However, even with the surgery he still tipped the scales at two hundred fifty pounds. As Mac expected, Boone was nattily attired in a dark purple pin stripe suit but with his salmon colored dress shirt open at the collar. Charlie was an early riser, but 5:00 a.m. was even a little early for him, so there was no tie or cigar, as of yet.

“Mac, my friend, how are you?” Boone greeted enthusiastically.

“I’m okay, Charlie,” Mac answered as they shook hands. “It’s been a loooong night.”

“So I’ve seen on the flat screen. I’ve been monitoring events so I’m pleased to see you still in one piece. How is your partner?”

“Dick Lick will be okay. Took one to his left shoulder, a through and through. He’ll have some rehab time in front of him, but he should be okay.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear that. And I thought all the excitement happened on our side of the mighty Mississippi,” he added with a deep laugh. Then Charlie got his first extended look at Wire. “Mac, who is this lovely lady?”

“Charlie, meet Dara Wire and you mess with her at your own risk,” she extended her hand and Charlie took it and bent down to kiss it. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Mizzz Wire.”

“Mac’s told me all about you, Mr. Boone,” Wire replied with a smile and Charlie’s mood playfully darkened.

“Mac’s full of shit, but you are so very lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Mac, I assume, as usual, we need to cut to the chase.”

“Yeah, Charlie, we do.”

“Well let us sit down then.” Charlie led them to the seating area of a black leather couch and two black leather chairs situated around an expansive mahogany coffee table. A pot of coffee and four black ceramic coffee cups sat on the table along with several newspapers awaiting Charlie’s review.

“Can I at least offer you coffee?”

“I’ll take a regular coffee, but not a Boone Special,” Mac answered and then to Wire he said with a wry smile, “A Boone Special has a little Crown Royal in it.”

“Ah,” and then to Boone she said, “just black.”

Boone feigned disappointment, “As you wish,” and he poured coffee.

As they each took a sip of their coffee, Boone asked. “So what can I do for you?”

Mac gave Charlie a quick rundown of the night’s events, even dropping in some of the political components. He gave Boone just enough so that he appreciated the stakes and Mac could tell that Charlie understood. “He has for sure two and likely three bodies on him. Ms. Wire put three in his upper left chest. His friends tried to kill Ms. Wire, yours truly, Lich, Sally and Judge Dixon in front of my family’s bar. If this guy is still alive, Charlie, I want him. If he is still alive, it’s because someone provided some serious surgical intervention. We’ve gone around to the usual off-the-books doctors and nobody has seen our guy, but we’re getting wind there’s a new guy in town that might have the ability to handle this. I was thinking you might know who this guy is.”

Charlie sat back in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left and stroked his beard with his right hand. “I think I know of whom you speak, Detective. Excuse me for a moment while I make an inquiry.”

Boone pushed himself out of his chair and left his office walking down the hall and they heard a door shut.

Wire leaned over and whispered, “He is a character.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mac replied quietly. “And he is smart, and not only street-smart but business smart. He is a very wealthy man for a reason.”

They heard the door open and footsteps coming back down the tile-floored hallway and then Charlie strolled back into the room.

“Mac, the man you want is Dr. Michael Lupo.” Boone handed Mac a note with an address in Edina along with a phone number.

“What’s his story, Charlie?” Mac asked.

“One of my people mentioned him to me a few weeks ago. He was a doctor in New York City who offered his services to those engaging in nefarious activities, of course, and then he did some of that concierge doctoring like you see on that TV show.” Charlie walked over behind his bar and poured some Crown into his coffee. It was time to start the day. “Anyway, Lupo made a lot of money out east but was starting to feel the heat from your brethren in the NYPD. So about a year ago he skedaddled west and quietly settled in Edina.”

“Where is Edina?” Wire asked.

“Wealthy inner-ring suburb just southwest of Minneapolis,” Mac answered.

Boone nodded. “That’s right. I suspect once he got the lay of the land around here he started putting out feelers. He’s doing the concierge thing again for the beautiful people out in Cake Town, but word is he also is doing some surgical work if the price is right. Apparently for work like that you have to have six figures wired to an offshore bank account to get in his door.”

Lupo sounded like their guy.

Mac took one last sip of his coffee and pushed himself out of the chair. “Charlie, if this is good, I will definitely owe you one.”

Charlie Boone shook his head and gave a dismissive wave, “Mac, given the night’s events, this one is free of charge.”