THE SWEEPER
The Second Installment in the Continuing Series

ANGEL OF JUSTICE

Lew Stowe

I was in a hurry, but when I found Mrs. Harris weeping on the steps to her building, I had to stop. She's a nice old African-American lady that I like a lot. As I sat down beside her, she gave her head a sad little shake.

“It's my son,” she said. “They caught him dealing coke, and now they gonna put him away. Plus, they want to take this building.”

“The building?” I said. “What does it have to do with your son?”

“All one big picture, Sweeper. Everything tangled up together. But I ain't crying for the building--no worry there. It's my son. I tried to raise him right, but it sure didn't turn out that way. He ain't been nothing but trouble since he was a teenager.”

I looked at her. “Let's back up a second,” I said. “You didn't sign over all your property to your son, did you?”

“Yeah, I did. About six months ago.”

“So now he's the owner. And the law can confiscate any property of a convicted drug felon.”

“Guess that's how it works.”

“Mrs. Harris, you asked me last year if you should turn everything over to your son. What did I tell you?”

“You told me not to do it. I should have listened. But I getting old, Sweeper. Josh said he'd run the place like a business should be run, take all the worry off my shoulders. That's why I did it.”

I sighed. Josh was as worthless as they come. Letting him get his hands on his mother's property was like handing a wino a bottle of rotgut red.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked. “Have you got relatives you can live with?”

“Ain't living with no relatives! I staying here. Ain't the building I'm worried about. My son's the only worry I got. The building's gonna be okay.”

Although in the middle of the territory, which is a decaying inner-city area and the worst place in the state, Mrs. Harris's building had twenty comfortable apartments, and was well-maintained, and the tenants were somehow all fairly stable and responsible. She had owned it for about forty years. No other place like it--or anywhere close--in the territory. An oasis in the middle of a sweltering desert.

“What do you mean by okay?” I asked, already suspecting what the answer was.

She frowned impatiently. “The Angel of Justice, Sweeper! The Angel's gonna take care of me. The Angel's gonna save the building.”

“Now, Mrs. Harris, I wouldn't count on--”

“You gotta have faith, Sweeper. The Angel's helped lots of people around here. Can't help my son, but sure can help me. Wait and see.”

I sighed. Now I had to take action. Nobody could call on the Angel of Justice without pulling me in headfirst. Especially friends like Mrs. Harris. The Angel of Justice would have to work another miracle.

Except . . . I had no idea how that was going to happen.

* * *

Martin Berman was a former defense attorney who decided one day that he'd made enough money, manipulated enough laws, and gotten off enough guilty people, and it was time to try something else. So he opened a free legal practice in the territory. Anyone could drop in and he would do whatever was needed, free. The service was great, and you sure couldn't beat the price.

“Explain how property confiscation works,” I said. “Is it legal?”

Martin leaned back in his chair. He was bald and slightly plump, with dark, penetrating eyes. He said: “When someone is convicted of a major drug offense, the arresting party--the state or the feds--has the option of confiscating any property that person may own. The objective is to recover whatever gains were derived from drug activity. If real estate, it's usually sold back to the city, which then auctions it off. And, yeah, it's as legal as it needs to be.”

“When was the last auction?”

“Over a year ago, I think.”

“And a conviction is required prior to confiscation, right?”

“Right.”

“Then how could anyone be planning to take Mrs. Harris's building when Josh Harris was just arrested a month and a half ago?”

“Good question, Sweep.”

“Does something here smell fishy to you?”

Martin smiled. “Let me make a couple of phone calls.”

In a few minutes, he had the information he wanted. “In the first place, the last auction was over three years ago,” he said. “And there have been a number of confiscations since then, plus some tax foreclosures. All of these are handled by one person at city hall. But here's the clincher. Most were sold to the same party: Abraham Rubenstein, who has an office not five blocks from here. The title transfer on Mrs. Harris's property--or rather, her son's property--went through last week. It's now officially owned by Rubenstein, even though a trial date for Josh Harris hasn't even been set.”

I knew Rubenstein. He was a loan shark with a big, mean bodyguard named Tyler , who was very effective at extracting payment from debtors. Someone was obviously being paid off to let Rubenstein have his choice of properties at, no doubt, way below market value, not to mention making the transfers as fast and smooth as possible.

“Fishy is an understatement,” Martin said.

“I think I'd better have a talk with Rubenstein.”

“Whoa, Sweep. That could be hazardous. Do you know that Rubenstein works for Jack Nogle?”

“I've heard that,” I said.

“Nogle is nobody you want to fool around with. I'm serious. You could end up disappeared.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Martin looked at me thoughtfully. “Sweep,” he said, “how come you sound retarded sometimes and not others?”

“I have good days and bad days.”

“And this is one of the good ones?”

“As good as any.”

“Whatever happened to your face?”

“Got burned. A long time ago.”

“How?”

“Don't remember.” I stood up. “Well, Martin, thanks as usual. Got to run.”

“Still got your dog?”

“Snarl? Yeah, he's outside, waiting.”

“Be careful now, Sweep.”

“Always,” I said. “It's how I keep from getting disappeared.”

* * *

Abraham Rubenstein looked like a mild-mannered Jewish grandfather in his sixties, with gray hair and trim beard, and a soft voice that conveyed an impression of perpetual amusement. He seemed especially amused by me as I sat in front of his desk in his office.

“What do you do, Sweeper?” he asked, looking at my canvas shoulder bag. “Sweep the streets around here?”

“Among other things.”

“I guess that makes you sort of a real estate expert. You get to know where the good properties are.”

“It just makes me a sweeper,” I said.

“So you want to buy this . . . Harris property?”

“Nope,” I said. “I don't want to buy anything. Mrs. Harris wants it back.”

“Just out of curiosity, does she have an offer?”

“A dollar.”

“Sweeper, are you pulling my leg here? You call that an offer?”

“I call it one you can't refuse.”

Abe rolled his eyes and looked over at Tyler, who stood like a tree against the wall next to my chair. Man, was he big! He was watching me closely, as though trying to decide which window to toss me through. “Can you believe this ugly little fart?” Abe said. “Sitting right here in my office and threatening me. What do you think, Tyler ? Should we call the police? Or just kick him out?”

Tyler didn't say anything. Neither did I.

“Okay, I'll consider the offer, Sweeper,” Abe said. “But don't hold out any hopes for a favorable answer. Now I've got things to do. I'll have Tyler escort you out. He wants to show you what we do with visitors who talk bad to us.”

Tyler made a quick movement toward my chair, ready to lay his big paws on me. No way could I allow that. I whipped my two-foot piece of iron pipe out of my shoulder bag and smashed him in the kneecap as he stepped forward. He gave a sharp moan and bent at the waist. I stood up and brought the pipe down on the base of his skull. I knew it was too hard when I felt the impact, but this guy had murdered several people in the territory, plus inflicted various unpleasant damage on a lot of others. Tyler had been on my list for a while, and I didn't have much restraint where he was concerned. Still, I hadn't intended to kill him--not yet, anyway.

Too late.

I looked down at the body, then back at Abe. His eyes were big, and he didn't seem amused any more. I pointed the pipe at him, and he shook his head and spread his hands on his desk to show he didn't have a weapon.

Good thing Killroy had tagged along today. I went to the door and whistled for him. Killroy was a homeless Vietnam vet who somewhere along the way had lost the power of speech. The only sounds he made now were various grunts. He lived under overpasses and ate garbage and drank anything with alcohol in it, and had to be in his fifties. Still, he somehow maintained enormous physical strength. And he enjoyed helping me out from time to time.

He came trotting into the room, burly and dirty and smelling like a two-week-old corpse. His buddy, Weasel, was right behind him, followed closely by Snarl. Whistling for Killroy and whistling for Snarl tended to sound pretty much alike. Weasel got his name from a loose, slouching way of walking that suggested he'd be more comfortable on all fours. Killroy and Weasel were almost always together, and if they didn't start off that way, it was usually how they ended up. I pointed toward Tyler on the floor.

“Wrap him in a rug,” I said. “And dump him down the manhole behind the vacant lot on Morgan Street . That's a half block from here. Know where it is?”

“Unh,” Killroy said.

“Go through the alley and don't let anyone see you. Then get back over here.”

He rolled Tyler up and hoisted his 250 or so pounds over a thick shoulder--not without some effort, though--and he and Weasel left. The manhole I specified had swift water running through it, and Tyler would be miles away by sundown. I had placed a couple of my Angel of Justice cards in his pockets. These showed an angel holding the scales of justice, with a caption that said: “JUSTICE FOR ALL .” When they found the body, any publicity the cards got would tell Tyler 's victims that retribution was still alive.

I turned back to Abe. “Open the safe,” I told him.

“I-I can't,” he stammered. “That's all Jack Nogle's stuff in there. I'm not supposed to open it unless Tyler is here.”

“ Tyler is no longer with us,” I pointed out. “So open it. Or do you want to have your fingers broken one by one the way Tyler did to a customer of yours last year?”

That was all the persuasion Abe needed. He crouched in the corner and twirled the dial on a big black iron box that looked a hundred years old. When the door swung open, he looked back at me. “You want the cash?”

“No,” I said. “Keep it. Let me see everything else.”

The stuff he handed me included thirteen deeds. I spread them out across the desk. One was for Mrs. Harris's building. Most of the others were for miscellaneous junk properties you couldn't have given away. But there was one more that drew my attention: for the burned out building next to the Pritch Circle Soup Kitchen. I knew the soup kitchen well because it's where I take most of my meals. The owners of the kitchen thought the building next door was abandoned and had put a lot of work into renovating it. Next month it was to open as a homeless shelter. They obviously didn't know Abe Rubenstein owned it.

“Abe,” I said. “Sit down and let's talk. I assume these properties were purchased with Jack's money. Why are they all in your name?”

“Because the city has an escalating tax rate based on the total value of all real estate holdings. The more you own, the higher your rate. Jack hates taxes, so he spreads everything out in other people's names.”

I placed the two deeds that I wanted in front of him. “I've got purchasers for these two. A dollar each. Any problems?”

Abe closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Jack will never let those two go,” he said in a low voice, “They're the only ones with any value in the bunch. Sweeper, you're getting in way over your head here. You don't want to piss Jack off. Believe me, you really don't.”

“Too late to worry about that,” I said. “How do you think Jack's going to feel about Tyler getting offed? Tyler was Jack's man, wasn't he? Thought so. Anyway, I don't see Jack's name on these deeds. But I sure see yours.”

Abe looked like he was going to cry. Being caught between Jack Nogle and me wasn't a comfortable place to be. He stared out the window for a while. Then he said something odd. “Did he really do that? I mean, Tyler ? Break a man's fingers?”

“Well, hell, yes, he did! You trying to pretend you didn't know?”

“I didn't. I made a point of not knowing what Tyler did. Never stayed around to watch. I just told him when money was due, and he brought it in. What he did to get it wasn't anything I was interested in.”

“Maybe you should have watched. The fingers weren't the worst of it. There's a woman who'll be in a wheelchair the rest of her life, and--”

He held up a hand. “Stop. Please. I don't want to know the gruesome details. Been kidding myself so long, no point in facing reality now. I'm really a wimp in a violent business. That's why Jack put me here--I only had to loan out his money, collect it back, plus ridiculous interest, then do it all over again. Under Tyler 's watchful eye, of course.”

“Poor misunderstood gentle Abe.”

“Weak,” he said. “Always been my problem. Never could do the right thing because it was too hard. Would you believe I come from an orthodox family? But orthodox was too hard, as well. So . . . here I am.” He frowned and looked down at the desk. “What now, Sweeper? You're going to kill me, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not,” I said.

“No?”

“I've got a feeling about you, Abe. You're going to get a shot at redemption. We're going to have a face-to-face with Jack Nogle. You and me.”

“Are you serious? Jack will take us home, hang us up on meathooks and invite friends in for the entertainment.”

“Mean guy, old Jack.”

“What the hell are you after, Sweeper? What's the objective?”

“I just want these two properties, that's all. You're the owner, so you're going to sell them to a couple of friends of mine. But we can't do it and have Jack prowling in the

background plotting our destruction. We've got to make a deal with Jack. Or kill him.

One or the other.” I picked up the phone. “Here, give him a call.”

Abe recoiled, as though I was trying to hand him a snake. “I don't want to talk to Jack! What would I say to him?”

“Tell him everything. And set up a meeting for tomorrow. At the prairie. You know where that is? Good. 1:00. Oh, and tell him to bring his accountant. He might need some on-the-spot financial advice. Make the call.”

And he did. He got Jack on the line, and although he was terrified and stammered a lot at first, he soon calmed down and made the arrangements. Tyler 's fate was mentioned. Abe had to hold the receiver away from his ear a few times while Jack bellowed on the other end. But he got the job done in a fairly objective, straightforward manner. When he put down the receiver, he was very pale.

“Holy shit, Sweeper,” he said. “We are two dead men. Jack is going to squash us like a couple of bugs.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Have you got a family?”

“Just a daughter who won't have anything to do with me, with a couple of kids not allowed to see their grandfather. My wife died about ten years ago. So I guess the answer is no.”

“Then you have nothing to lose. You're out of a job, and Jack's going to be hot after your ass regardless. So I'm the key to whatever future you have.”

“Great.”

“Better than nothing, Abe. Now put the deeds back and let's get out of here. We're going to get you a new will, so if you're killed, my friends will get their properties. Then the two of us need to do some planning and rehearsing for tomorrow. Okay?”

Abe nodded.

“Tonight,” I said, “you'll be at a special place, with a trio of bodyguards: Killroy, Weasel and”--I nodded toward Snarl--“my little friend here. Just a brief warning. Snarl is a freak of nature. See that oversized pit bull type head? He's got tremendously strong jaw muscles that can snap an arm like a twig. See those thick little legs? Those are really rockets that give him a very high vertical jump. He'll be watching you closely, and he doesn't trust you yet, so no quick movements that make him think you're reaching for a weapon. I'll leave you a cell phone where you only have to press one button to get in touch with me." I stood up. “Let's go.”

Abe definitely didn't look pleased, but, after all, what choice did he have?

* * *

The prairie was about twenty acres of broken up, pockmarked pavement where old factory buildings had once stood. They had been bulldozed and the rubble piled up some fifty feet high along one edge.

On top was where I placed Killroy, with an M-16 with telescopic sight that I had “borrowed” from the Gladston Armory. He had been a sniper in Vietnam . Rifles were old friends, and he grabbed the M-16 out of my hands as soon as he saw it, moaning like a child suddenly reunited with his mother. He took a few practice shots and was dead on every time, as always. Shooting straight is one thing, but being able to instinctively process multiple factors such as shifting wind velocity, humidity and weapon peculiarities, then make adjustments and shoot with pinpoint accuracy within a split second from two hundred or so yards--well, there's a skill that has always impressed me. We worked out a few signals and were ready to go.

At 12:35 everyone was in place. We didn't look like much. The welcoming committee was a frightened Jew, an ugly little man and an ugly little dog--not exactly anything to pound terror into Jack Nogle's heart. Killroy was on top the rubble pile far behind us, Weasel inside the manhole directly in front. I had a yellow-tipped stick and a red-tipped stick, and my .22 automatic with silencer rested inside my canvas shoulder bag.

We waited, as ready as we could be. There sure wasn't much room for error.

I had talked to a few people and learned quite a bit about Jack Nogle's tactics. He always tried to negotiate from strength. I knew he would arrive in a long black limousine that had once belonged to Al Capone. It had a special compartment in back where two men would probably be lying, ready to shoot through false tailpipes. The driver was a sharpshooter who would fire a handgun on command.

One other item: Jack had a sentimental attachment to the limo, and a sure way to propel him into a murderous frenzy was to damage the vehicle in any way.

Jack likely would spring at least one additional surprise--such as a carload of armed men suddenly arriving from an unexpected direction. Except that there was only one route through the prairie to where we waited, and I had marked it with orange cones. If the extra car came into sight, Jack would get shot and I planned to take out the car with a grenade launcher, which was under a tarp just behind me.

The gleaming limo crept into sight at 1:05 , followed the route I had marked and swung into the only parking spot available. The driver made sure that the rear of the vehicle faced us. It hadn't stopped moving before Weasel pushed aside the manhole cover underneath and got his skinny body out. He quickly tested the tailpipes to determine which were the false ones. Then he pulled the pins on two small tear gas grenades, stuck one in each pipe, placed metal caps on the pipes and slapped them tight. Couldn't have done it better myself. Weasel was back inside the manhole, cover replaced, before the doors even opened on the limo.

Jack and his accountant got out. Then the driver, wearing a nifty blue double-breasted uniform. He closed his door and leaned casually against it, watching us. I nodded to Snarl, who padded over to the driver and sat slightly to the side of him. The driver smiled.

In suits and ties, Jack and his accountant were dressed way nicer than we were. We had the edge in moral character, though. Before they reached us, a commotion erupted inside the limo. A door swung open and two men tumbled out, coughing furiously. They fell to the pavement and choked and thrashed around for a while before eventually quieting down.

Jack glared at them, then back at us, not quite sure what had happened.

“Jack, Jack,” Abe said. “Playing dirty, are you? I suggest you tell them to sit against the car and stay there.”

Jack made an impatient motion, and the driver helped move the two to the designated spot. Snarl now had to watch all three and carefully paced back and forth. Jack turned to face us, angry at having his men exposed so quickly. He sort of looked like Jimmy Hoffa, except taller, and his eyes were scary in their ice-cold intensity.

“Let's get started, Jack,” Abe said. “You know the two properties we want. The one goes back to Mrs. Harris. The other will be a homeless shelter. What do you think?”

“What I think,” Jack said through clenched teeth, “would scare you so bad you'd shit your pants. When I get through with you, you sniveling--”

I raised my left hand with the yellow-tipped stick and tilted it forward. The left taillight on the limo exploded. It was a big taillight, so it made a sizeable sound, like a window shattering, but more on the hollow side. Jack's mouth dropped open.

“You need to take us seriously, Jack,” Abe said. “We really want those two properties.”

Jack was so mad now, he was nearly dancing. He couldn't believe we'd have the balls to damage his vehicle. He had trouble deciding if he wanted to stare us down or keep an eye on the limo. His accountant looked as though he wished he were somewhere else.

“Jack, what about the properties? They're peanuts for you. What do you say?”

Jack tried to speak, but he just sputtered. “No!” he finally yelled. “No! No!”

I raised the stick again and tilted it forward. The right taillight on the limo disintegrated with a louder sound than the left one. Flakes of red glass drifted through the air, some landing at Jack's feet.

That, oddly, seemed to have a calming effect on him. He was finally realizing that he had seriously underestimated the opposition and needed to reevaluate. He took a deep breath.

“What do I get in return?” he asked.

“A lot. You get to keep your operation intact at city hall. And the city doesn't get advised that you are the true owner of many millions of dollars worth of city real estate that should be taxed at a much higher rate. And our Attorney General, Norvell Marks, who wants to be governor and is looking for local crime figures to stomp on, doesn't find out that you are a prime candidate for his attentions. We don't care about any of your current business. All we want are the two properties.”

Jack seemed to be thinking about it. He glanced over at the accountant, who nodded at him. But I noticed that Jack's eyes were dancing back and forth, as though searching for something. Or waiting for something.

Then I heard the helicopter in the distance.

I nudged Abe, dropped the yellow-tipped stick and transferred the the red-tipped stick to my left hand. I raised it. My right hand was inside the canvas bag, ready to pull out the .22 automatic.

“Jack,” Abe said, and his soft voice carried a hint of menace this time. “If that helicopter gets anywhere close to here, Sweeper is going to tilt the stick, and the top of your head is going to come off. Then we're going to launch a heat-seeking missile to blow the damned thing out of the sky. You'd better wave it off-- now. ”

Jack, watching me, made a nervous gesture toward his throat. I slowly started to withdraw the .22. His eyes darted toward the dark helicopter bearing down on us, then back again at me.

“Jack,” Abe said. “You're straddling eternity. Better decide.”

The copter continued on in, engine noise enveloping us. I could see it was full of men. I began to tilt the stick. I visualized Killroy's finger tightening on the trigger of the M-16.

But Jack, voting on the side of caution, took a couple steps back and began waving frantically. He kept it up until the copter made a big turn about a hundred yards from us and headed back. Jack wasn't finished, though. His right hand, half hidden by his leg, was making odd little motions. Over at the limo, his driver slipped his hand inside his jacket.

He was smooth, but Snarl was faster.

The man screamed and let out a string of obscenities, broken right arm dangling uselessly. Snarl, back on the ground, watched him intently. In a rage, the driver aimed a ferocious kick at him, which Snarl dodged easily. While the man's foot was still in the air, Snarl grabbed and yanked. The driver screamed again as he tumbled and his tailbone hit the pavement.

I felt a surge of pride. The little mongrel had sailed through his first serious test with a perfect score.

Disgusted, Jack turned back to us. He was staring at me. “What's with Quasimodo here?” he said to Abe. “How come he's not saying anything?”

“He's retarded. He doesn't talk too well.”

“Retarded? A retard killed Tyler ?”

“An accident, Jack. Tyler tried to grab him, and Sweeper overreacted.”

“There's got to be more to all this than I'm seeing. I never figured you to be smart enough to set up something like this. Or have enough guts.”

“A lot of things about me you don't know. Now do we have a deal or not?”

Jack looked at his accountant, who gave him another nod, anxious to wind things up.

Jack sullenly passed it on to us. They turned and walked back to the limousine and everyone piled in. The accountant was the only one beside Jack in good enough shape to drive, and Jack didn't feel like it. I took a deep breath as the limo headed away, all the occupants hanging out the windows to avoid the tear gas residue inside. It was over only for today--that I knew. Jack Nogle was a crocodile--mean and smart and utterly ruthless, and he had to already be plotting grisly ways to kill us. I was sure I'd have to deal with him again later.

I turned to Abe, who was grinning foolishly, and shook his hand.

“Nice going,” I said. “You were great. But a heat-seeking missile? Where did that come from?”

“Just thought I'd throw it in,” he said. “Figured you must have one someplace.”

He was still grinning when I walked over to retrieve the M-16. I climbed to the top of the rubble pile and found Killroy and Weasel sound asleep, three empty wine bottles between them. Killroy was holding the rifle to his chest as though cuddling a baby. I wondered how long they'd been drinking, how long they'd been asleep, and what would have happened if I'd given the signal to shoot Jack.

Best not to think about that, I decided.

* * *

It's really hard to find fault with this one.

I rate it a nine out of a possible ten. Only one person died, and he richly deserved it. Mrs. Harris got her building back, and the Pritch Circle Homeless Shelter will open on schedule. And Abe is moving toward a reconciliation with both his daughter and the Jewish faith of his youth. Not bad at all.

Even the threat of Jack Nogle has faded. His experience with us made him so paranoid he decided to put all real estate in his wife's name until his accountant could find a better place. But tax time sneaked up on him and socked the missus with a huge tax bill. Jack then made some angry threats to the wrong people at city hall, drawing Norvell Marks' interest. Now the heavy artillery is swinging toward him, and Jack has far bigger concerns than getting even with Abe and me.

I saw Mrs. Harris yesterday, and she was really wound up. I tried to get past with just a good morning, but she followed me down the street, talking a hundred miles an hour.

“See?” she said. “What did I tell you? Didn't I say the Angel of Justice would take care of me?” She reached out and punched me on the arm. “Look what I found in my papers after I got home,” she said, holding up an Angel of Justice card. “Is that proof or what? You just gotta have faith, Sweeper. Ain't no need for grieving if you believing. You understand, Sweeper? You hear me?”

I flipped up my trash receptacle and emptied it into my bag. I smiled at her, except on me it's more like a grimace. “Yes, ma'am,” I said. “I sure do.”