Avon Calling: Tommy Avon Mysteries, #1

By charles fisher

Retired from the Chicago PD, Tommy Avon decides to clean up Chicago. It begins when his niece Sarah  is attacked by a limousine driver. Nobody is safe when his niece Vicky, who likes to feed hit men into a wood chipper,  arrives  with her Iranian friend Tara. They transform Sarah from a meek attorney into a killer elite, and wage war on several criminal gangs. Lots of action and lots of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524298609

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Table of Contents

Avon Calling | A  Tommy Avon Mystery

The End | Tommy and the Angels will return in Maximum Insanity.

Avon Calling

A  Tommy Avon Mystery

Englewood, Chicago, Illinois

January

Mr. Thomas Avon? the soft voice said, a mild sense of urgency hidden in the background.

Tommy sat up in bed and looked at the clock radio. It was 2 AM. George Noory was softly droning on in the background on Coast to Coast AM. Only a few people had Tommy’s number; this was not one of them. He looked at the caller ID and saw Mercy Hospital and Medical Center.

This is he, he said. Who is this?

My name is Margaret Kaminsky, the voice said. I am the head nurse at Mercy Hospital’s Emergency Room. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but you are listed as the next of kin to a Sarah Avon.

Tommy got up and walked over to the windows facing the parking area in front of his............his what? His hideout? His fortress? He stared out at the raging blizzard that was tearing at Chicago. Next of Kin. She’s dead.  He shook off the feeling of dread and answered the nurse.

Tell me, he whispered. Is she dead?

No, she is not. I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear. She is doing well.

What happened to her?

She was assaulted. It is a police matter, so that’s all I can tell you. I’m sure you understand.

I do, he said. Twenty years on the Chicago PD will teach you not to ask questions. What is her condition?

Stable, the nurse said. Her injuries are not life threatening.

Not to her, he thought. Okay, thank you for calling. Tell her I’ll come see her when the storm lets up and I can get out of here.

Mercy Hospital and Medical Center

Chicago, Illinois

January

––––––––

Hi, Sarah, Tommy said softly as he sat down on the edge of his niece’s bed. How are you feeling?

Better, Sarah said. Thanks for coming.

You knew I would, he said as he looked at her chart. It was obvious that someone had tried to assault her, and she had received a pretty good beating when she had resisted. Who did this to you?

Limo driver, she said. I stopped at the Woodlawn Tap, then I stopped at the Cove Lounge for a drink, and this guy noticed I was a little tipsy. He offered me a ride home. Stupid me, I took it because it was starting to snow. He jumped me. I got lucky. I kicked him in the nuts and was able to escape. There was a cab nearby, so I got away. I think I lucked out. This guy wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Did you get  his name?

No, I didn’t ask. Guess I should have, huh.

It would have helped, Tommy said. What kind of car was it?

Black Lincoln Town Car. Gray seats.

And the guy? What did he look like?

"Maybe 30 years old, a dead ringer for that actor.......what’s his name....oh, I remember. He was in Saving Private Ryan. Matt Damon. He had a scar over his left eye parallel to the eyebrow. Short brown hair. That made it easy to remember him, like you. Remember how many people said you look exactly like Roy Scheider from Jaws?"

Yeah, lucky me. Somebody even got him to send me an autographed picture. You tell the cops anything?

No. Nobody showed up yet. The hospital called them, not me.

Did you give the hospital any details?

No.

Lose your memory, Tommy said. Don’t tell them anything. Either one of them. I’ll take care of this.

I don’t want you to get in trouble, Sarah said. You’re all I have. You and my sister Vicky. We’re the only surviving members of our family.

I know, he said as he got up and went over to a window. The rest of the family had perished in the Lockerbie plane crash in 1988. Don’t worry, I won’t get in trouble.

You’ll go after this guy, though. I know you.

Hard habit to break, going after bad guys, Tommy said. You worry too much.

I always did. I’m not like you and Vicky. I guess I’m timid at heart. I don’t like violence.

Me neither, Tommy said as he looked out at the bleak Chicago landscape. But it doesn’t matter what I like. All that matters is doing the right thing. I don’t make the rules. The bad guys do.

You can let the police handle this.

Sure, Tommy sighed. It’ll be his word against yours, and no witnesses. He’ll come up with some garbage story like you came on to him, and you got rough when he turned you down. He’ll plead out to third degree assault and he’ll get a year probation. Then he’ll go do this to somebody else. You can bet he’s done it before.

And what will he get from you?

Justice, Tommy said. Some day you’ll understand that.

Why are you like this? Sarah said.

Things happen, Tommy said. I joined the Marines at age 17.  I spent four years in combat. When I got out, the Chicago PD recruited me, and I spent the next twenty years in Hell. I saw the absolute worst side of humanity. I don’t know how I survived it. I put my service weapon in my mouth seven times in the first ten years. Do you know why I didn’t pull the trigger? You and Vicky.

I never knew that. Was the job that bad?

Yes. But I wouldn’t give in. I took it, and I did what I had to do because I was the best there was at it. After a while, I noticed that things weren’t bothering me as much. It was like I got numb or something. After all, you see one baby with a bayonet through its head, you’ve seen them all. Now, nothing bothers me, he sighed. There are no more surprises.

Why didn’t you stay on the job then? Was it the money? I know you won Powerball, but if you liked the work......

I never liked the work, Tommy said. There were too many restrictions. Do you know how many guys walked after a good arrest? About 80 percent. Of the remaining twenty, half never saw a jail cell. I got tired of wasting my time and putting my life on the line for a corrupt system.

So now you live in that old factory, which is weird. You could live in Beverly Hills if you wanted to.

I don’t want to.

Why not?

Tommy turned to her, a faint smile on his face. Because I’m going to clean up Chicago.

You and my crazy sister, Sarah sighed.

Yeah. Me and Vicky. Wanna help us?

I can’t. Not on any level. I’m a lawyer, and I’d be disbarred if I got involved in anything illegal. I know the system isn’t that great, but it’s all we have.

No it isn’t, Tommy said. You’re a litigator, not a prosecutor. You don’t understand criminal stuff.

I was an ADA out of law school. I did over 100 cases in Springfield.

Yeah, I forgot. I was struggling with a few decisions at the time, like whether I’d blow a drug dealer’s head off or my own. Win any of those cases?

All of them.

How many did you take to trial?

None, Sarah said. They all pled out.

Any of them do time?

The repeat offenders did.

And the rest walked, right?

Yes.

Mine don’t walk, he said. Not any more. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, I mean, I’m not James Bond or anything, but I know my stuff. This is what I do best.

Maybe you should go retire on some beach with the Swedish Bikini Team, Sarah smiled.

Nah, not my thing. I like brunettes.

Some Scot you are, Sarah said.

Aye, Tommy laughed. I’m William Wallace. I eat thunder, and crap lightning.

That was Rocky, Sarah said. Wallace killed his enemies with bolts of lightning from his arse.

Ouch, Tommy said. Okay, you get some rest. I have to do a little legwork and call Vicky.

Don’t get caught, Sarah said.

Englewood, Chicago, Illinois

January

––––––––

Hi, Tommy said. We have something to do. Stop by. It’s important.

He hung up the phone and waited. Ten minutes later, a black 1970 Dodge Charger R/T with Florida  plates pulled up in front of the gate. He hit the button, and the gate slowly opened against the sub zero weather. The Charger came in, and he closed the gate behind it and opened the rolling metal door that led to the heated inside parking facility. The pounding of the 440 Six Pack engine subsided, and he watched the lights over the elevator. There was a soft ding dong as the door opened.

Avon calling, Vicky grinned as she came out and hugged Tommy.

How’s it going, bad girl, he said.

Who, me? Vicky said. I’m an angel.

Sure. Angels always dress in black fatigues and carry a .45.

Colt Delta Elite, .40 caliber, Vicky said.  Silvertips  and Glaser Safety Slugs mix. With a .45 Officer’s Model backup, polished and cut feed ramp with Black Talon ammo. A girl has to be careful these days, this is a dangerous town."

You can outrun all the bad guys in town with that Charger.

You should know, she said. You paid for it.

Yeah, don’t remind me. Have a seat.

What’s up, Vicky said as she sat down on a sofa.

Sarah was attacked. She’s all right, she’s  in Mercy. She got faced and took a ride from a limo driver in the Cove Lounge. He tried to nail her but failed, but she got her ass kicked a little bit.

Vicky gave Tommy a look that made him think of all the evil he had ever seen on planet Earth. It was just a dead stare.

Name, she said.

Don’t have one. We have to do some digging. I got a good description of him and the car.

Okay, give it to me. I’ll do the rest.

Need any help?

Yeah. I don’t handle a shovel well. I may need some help digging the grave.

Chicago Limousine

January

––––––––

It didn’t take long for Vicky to find out that only one limousine company in Chicago used black Town Cars.

Oh hi! Vicky gushed from a burner cell phone. This is Rebecca Garfield from United Celebrity Roast Impersonators. We have  a dinner scheduled next week for Tom Sizemore at the Plaza. I hear you have a driver who is the spitting image of Matt Damon. Do you think he’d be interested  in picking up a grand? All he’d have to do is dress up like Private Ryan.

Oh, you mean Mark Lerner? He does look like him, that’s for sure. I’ll pass this along to him. I’m sure he’d like to make some extra money. How about us? Can we get a few bucks?

Two hundred for the referral, Vicky said. Have him call me and I’ll arrange a contract signing. You have my number, thank you.

Half an hour later, Lerner called.

Hi, he said. Matt Damon calling.

OHHHH! You are so funny, Vicky laughed. I hear you look just like him. Would you be interested in our gig? You get to meet Tom Sizemore. And you get a grand.

Sure, he said. When is it?

Next week at the Plaza. Meet me at Dunkin’ Donuts on South Kedzie Avenue and we’ll sign the paperwork. I’ll bring a check. What’s a good time for you?

Seven at night, Lerner said. That’s when I get off.

Perfect! Vicky chirped. I’ll see you there tonight. I’ll be the brunette in the black fatigues. Too cold to dress normal, she laughed. Bye. She disconnected the call and nodded. And they won’t show the blood stains when I cut your fucking head off. She called Tommy. All set, she said. He’s mine.

Be gentle, Tommy laughed.

I always am, Vicky said, the visions of what she would to  Lerner reeling across the demented movie screen that lived in her head. Where do you want the remains sent?

The beach is nice this time of year, Tommy said, and hung up.

Understood, Vicky whispered to herself.

Dunkin’ Donuts

South Kedzie Avenue

Chicago, Illinois

––––––––

Hi! Vicky gushed when Lerner came in. You really look like Matt. That’s great. Come on, let’s have a coffee. I have the contract all set.

Thanks, Lerner said. I always thought I could cash in on the resemblance. I tried Hollywood, but they didn’t need any stunt doubles.

Oh, Vicky said casually. "Why would you want to be a stunt double? Do you have training as a stunt man? Do you know martial arts or anything? I do. And you’re going to find out just how much I know.

No, nothing like that. I just thought they might want somebody who looks like him.

It doesn’t work like that unless you can do the fight scenes and the dangerous stuff. Our agency is your best shot, we hire people who look like celebs. They make good money. Ever hear of Robert Nash? He impersonates Robert De Niro. He has been on TV a few times.

Yeah, I saw him. Better than driving a limo, Lerner said.

Yeah, he’s making a score. Do you like to score? Vicky said.

Yes, he said, looking her up and down. Do you?

Sure, she said. I always had a thing for Matt Damon. Wanna go?

Sure, he said. Got that check?

Right here, Vicky said, pushing a very official looking contract across the table, a bank check stapled to the first page. Sign your life away, she grinned.

Lerner signed, and pocketed the fake check. Now your ass is mine, he said.

My favorite expression. Let’s get out of here.

Jackson Park

Chicago, Illinois

January

––––––––

Jesus, what the hell happened to this guy, Detective Lieutenant Domenic Torello said as he pulled his coat up around his ears to protect himself from the raging wind and sub zero weather. He looks like he went through a fucking meat grinder.

The remains of what used to be Mark Lerner were 10 feet from the shore of Lake Michigan.

The Coroner here?

Yeah, Detective Sergeant Al Polinski said. Paul Martin. He says the cause of death is  inconclusive because of all the damage. He’s in the meat wagon if you want to talk to him.

Inconclusive, Torello sighed. This whole fucking mess is inconclusive. Is he sure it’s even a human?

Yeah. He identified it as human. There was some parts that looked familiar, Polinski grinned. He found a dick a few feet away from the rest of the pile. Said it was removed with a sharp instrument.

Jesus, Torello said. Maybe it was my ex-wife. Okay, get somebody to bag this mess and ship it back to the Coroner’s office.

Where do we start? Polinski said.

I don’t know, Torello said. Let’s see if we can ID this clown first.

Think we got a serial killer, LT? Polinski said.

I hope not, Torello said.

Across town, Vicky made pasta for herself, which she covered in a delicious home made red sauce. The sight of the sauce reminded her of something, and she smiled as she ladled it onto the freshly cooked spaghetti. She doused it in olive oil and sat down at her kitchen table. She bowed her head and prayed, then began to eat. Nothing she had done bothered her, because it was right. In her world, only right meant anything. Wrong put you on a beach in Michigan. When she finished eating, she called Tommy.

Done, she said, and hung up. She then took a shower and went to bed, her conscience clear.

Chicago Police Department

First Division

Office of Lt. Domenic Torello

January

––––––––

What do we have? Torello asked.

We got this, Martin said as he dropped a file on Torello’s desk. This is my finding.

And what did you find?

Not much. This guy was fed through some kind of machine. Either a wood chipper, or a lawn mower.

Lawn mower? Torello laughed. I been a cop for almost thirty years. I never heard of anybody getting killed by  a lawn mower.

Ever see the big ones they use? You know, to mow the grass in stadiums. Ever see those reels they have? There you go.

But how? You think they ran this asshole over with a lawn mower on the beach? There are no tracks. Nothing, not even a trace. It’s like he materialized there.

That’s your problem, Martin said. I just tell you how it could have been done. You could take one of those reels and connect it to a big motor, and you’d have the perfect food chopper. The angle of the blades on these lawn mowers is the same as a wood chipper. Take your pick. Somebody grabbed this guy up and gave him the Veg-O-Matic. I don’t know how, I just know that they did.

Thanks a lot, Torello said. Just what I need.

Yeah, Martin said. You got a big problem here if whoever did this is picking out random people. I’ll see if I can ID this dude, but don’t count on it.

Dental records or prints? Torello said.

Nope. The head and hands were missing, so were the feet. That eliminates any possibility of ID through medical records. We’ll run the DNA database, you run missing persons. Maybe we’ll get lucky. You’re up against somebody who knows their shit. Good luck, he said as he headed for the door.

Chicago Police Department

First Division

Office of Lt. Domenic Torello

January

––––––––

Here we go, Polinski said. He printed out the report and headed for Torello’s office. Look at this, LT, he said. Limo driver reported missing. Dude never showed up for work. Went missing the same day we found those remains on the beach. Could be him.

Got a name?

Mark Lerner. We got his address. We asked around in his building, nobody has seen him lately.

Get a warrant, and we’ll do a DNA match.

Torello sat back and tried to think if any previous cases matched the specifics of this one. He couldn’t think of any. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind that fit the scenario. Finally, he put it out of his mind and went on to his other cases. After all, it was Chicago, the land of the free and the home of the dead.

Chicago Police Department

First Division

Office of Lt. Domenic Torello

January

––––––––

"It’s him, Martin said. 100% match. We got DNA from his apartment. Need anything else?

Got a perpetrator for me? Torello grinned.

Nope. That’s your job.

Thanks, Torello said. He called Polinski into his office. We got confirmation on the ID. It’s Lerner. Check him out.

Will do, Polinski grabbed a couple of uniform officers and headed for Chicago Limousine.

How you doing, he said as he strolled into the manager’s office. He showed his badge and closed the office door behind him, the two bulls standing guard. I’m Sergeant Polinski, Chicago  PD. I got a few questions for you.

The manager, Ricky Delmar, stared at the scarred face of the monster before him and nodded.

Sure. Anything you want.

Mark Lerner, Polinski said. When’s the last time you saw him?

Few days ago. When he didn’t show for work, we called his apartment and his cell. There was no answer. That ain’t like him, so we called it in to you guys. You find him?

Yeah, what was left of him. He’s dead. Know much about him?

Regular stuff, the manager shrugged. Just what’s on his job application. We ain’t drinking buddies or nothing. I got a lot of drivers.

He got a sheet? I forgot to run his name.

Nope. Clean record, no motor vehicle stuff, either. Good driving record.

Any bad habits like booze, or coke, or gambling?

Not that I know of. We do random testing. He’s always clean.

Ex-wives? Anybody don’t like the guy?

Nope. Single, never been married. Nobody ever complained to me about him. He’s a good earner.

Lerner the earner, Polinski said. How about a copy of whatever you got in his file? It might help us solve this.

Sure. See Sheila, my secretary. She’ll give you whatever we have.

Sheila took out the file and gave Polinski an odd look. I heard some shit about this dude, she said as she handed him the file.

Like what? The boss said he never got a complaint about him.

Girl stuff, Sheila said. Some of the female drivers commented about him. He’s got a way of looking at you that creeps you out, they said. A little too free with the hands, too. They never said nothing to Ricky, because the guy has connections and they were afraid of him.

What kind of connections?

Mob connections.

With a name like Lerner? He was a Jew, right?

Yeah. It’s the remnants of Meyer Lansky’s bunch. I know he didn’t have a record, but I’d take a look at that side of his life. He spent an awful lot of time in bars, for a guy who doesn’t drink.

Okay, I’ll check it out. Thanks for the tip.

Polinski reported back to Torello, who listened to what the sergeant had found out.

So he’s an abuser? Got any girls willing to talk? Now that he’s dead, shouldn’t be a problem.

"I didn’t ask, but I’ll go back and see. Maybe he was just chasing pussy, you know? Girls