Fool's Run

by Sidney Williams

  That would certainly be believable.

  “When the individual you’re dealing with, Mr. Alexeeva, was a younger man, he worked with a mentor, you might call him, someone who was a bit more heavy-handed. He had ties to true members of the Vory-v-Zakone, the thieves in law you spoke of.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Filipp Popkov. Have you heard of him?”

  “Rings a bell, mostly from the papers, not any of my personal work. Leather jacket, gold-chain, tattoos.”

  “That would be him. He was prosecuted and deported on a number of charges from your federal agents. He’s long passed away now, but when he was here, he wanted to use our firm. He had money….”

  “I can get a general picture. He needed laundry services.”

  Vitalievich nodded.

  “My children were young. He sent pictures of them playing at their school, getting into the car that took them to school. He showed he could find them anywhere.”

  “Threat of abduction?”

  “Absolutely. We hired extra security and were frantic until he was arrested for something else, dealings with someone else, but he knew how to strike terror.”

  “So, other than being this guy’s pupil, did Alexeeva have a direct role?”

  “He was a messenger, a very subtle messenger. He never voiced an outright threat. He never touched the photographs. He didn’t do anything but chat with us, caught us in the lobby of a Midtown hotel after a meeting. And he started to speak not of the Vory but of the Volkhvy. He said it was because we came from the same background and wasn’t the Volkhvy’s history interesting.”

  “I don’t remember Volkhvy coming up in any FBI bulletins.”

  “You’ve had crimes in New Orleans tinged with voodoo, no? Was that actually discussed much?”

  “You use what helps a case. If you get too far into hoo doo the jury rolls its collective eyes.”

  “So, you that’s why you haven’t heard of the Volkhvy. They were part of a pre-Christian order in my homeland, priests, sorcerers maybe you’d call them. It might all sound like superstition.”

  “Did Alexeeva suggest this Popkov would call on a wizard to curse you or something if you didn’t pony up some funds?”

  “There’s no real magic implied, but there is a certain, let’s say, subset of individuals, who have adopted the verbiage to make themselves seem more fearsome. He alluded to a line of volkhv priests or sorcerers carrying traditions forward. The church, as it tried to make inroads into Russian in the tenth or eleventh century, struggled with the Volkhvy,” he said. “Persecuted them in some cases. People were slow to stop consulting them for predictions and guidance, and they’d quickly turn back to a volkhv priest at any sign of crop trouble or other difficulties.”

  “So just an extra tint of menace?”

  “Essentially. If you dig a bit, and we did, you can find reference to volkhv being consulted well into the nineteenth century, and like with any superstitions there are sad stories, old women practitioners burned upon blame for illness outbreaks and the like. But Alexeeva noted that someone who had a line on something ancient like the strength of the volkhv might wield dark power.”

  “Intimidation?”

  “I thought about that. He said sometimes the Volkhvy could see grim things in a person’s future. Of course, grim predictions could be made real.”

  “Without it actually being claimed as a threat.”

  “Something like that. An added little chill, icing on the threat cake? Also an indication of his philosophy, I suppose. It says deep down nothing is really over or buried.”

  “Maybe so, maybe a suggestion of subtle and insidious power and secret knowledge. He said many things had been handed down, things not recorded in history books but passed forward in families. He mentioned that the Volkhvy had been called on in the old days to deal with many problems in the old world. They would pinpoint people whose grim spirits supposedly caused problems, crop failures and the like. They would pinpoint these people and kill them.”

  “That’s cheerful and upbeat,” I said. “Maybe I will have that drink.”

  He rose and poured a generous splash into a tumbler.

  “He implied then that much more can be done in the present to deal with an individual who is a source of difficulties.”

  “How’d he avoid the sweep that got his teacher?”

  “He was smart then. He was already always thinking ahead. Maybe he just stepped away in time and looked clean. I wouldn’t rule out his having turned in his mentor, or provided details that law enforcement utilized and in turn looked on him favorably. He’s always several steps ahead, Mr. Reardon. And I think he developed a taste for striking terror the way his mentor taught him. Playing twisted games like the one you’re involved in with the Holsts.”

  All the criminals in the world, and I had to find the one who was taking things to the next level.

  Chapter 23

  On that cheery note, I knew I’d better get my act together, make some amends and put a plan in place, The Putting Things Right and In Order Tour. First stop while I waited on Arch, a liaison with Crystal. She greeted my call with words she wouldn’t have used in a girlfriend experience.

  Once she calmed down, we set up a meeting. She showed up in faded jeans with rips at the knees and a loose-fitting blouse color coordinated with her baseball cap. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail that bounced through a small opening in the cap’s back, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup. Incognito.

  She joined me on a bench in Jackson Square, and we watched tourists drift past.

  “Didn’t expect the evening to turn out the way it did,” I said. “It was a reconnaissance mission, and Arch and I wouldn’t have made it through the door without hot girls. I had to act when the opportunity presented itself.”

  “In degree of hazard, my job ranks somewhere right below ice road trucker anyway,” she said. “I know how to take care of myself. Your conscience is clear.”

  “I’ve actually got a ways to go to achieve that,” I said.

  “Well, if you’d filled me in, I could have done more. I started out as an actress.” Her eyebrows arched up, anger still boiling in her eyes. “Nice of you to settle up. Did you want anything else?”

  “Couple of things. My work’s not finished. I’d like you to keep an eye out for this girl. Sister of the one we found at the club.”

  I passed a photo of Dagney over to her. She’d be ten now, so we’d had a portrait aged by computer.

  “I don’t think I attract the same clientele.”

  “God willing that’s not the situation. We’re not sure what she might be doing, but every set of eyes around town might help. I can’t put her on a milk carton or Facebook given the circumstances. The photo’s not for you to pass around. It’s to help you to be on the lookout.”

  “Aren’t you a cop? Can’t you squeeze this guy, or get some current cops to squeeze him? Kidnapping’s kind of serious, no?”

  I’d explained some generalities on the phone, after the swearing.

  “He can say Dahlia, the one we grabbed the other night, just wandered into his club and that he knows nothing. The old phone call to the parents was a bad joke. He’s not from around here. Doesn’t understand our culture. Headache for him, maybe, but with influential friends, he’d walk. Then he’d hide her even deeper, if he hasn’t already shipped her to the Ukraine or an Emirate. We need to try and ferret her out before we go the professional route and the Missing Children Information Clearinghouse.”

  I’d thought of the clearinghouse for Juli as well, but I couldn’t do that yet. Not given either set of circumstances.

  “I’ll keep my eye out at parties. What else?”

  Time for the real reason. I kicked back a shot and smiled.

  “I might need you in a slightly modified professional capacity. Especially since you’re an actress. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Working with this guy?”

  “No, the road to this guy, but you’
d be in less danger.”

  “Hazard pay’s going to need to kick in anyway. I’m not sure I need the stress. I asked around about this guy once I found out who he was. He’s not just a club owner.”

  “I’d kinda picked up on that myself.”

  “If I’d known, I would have told you to fuck off the other night.”

  “Your friend okay?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think we were made. There are a lot of ladies who date in this town.”

  “I’d heard that too.”

  “This work, it’s to help the kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s the one you found? “

  “Jury’s still out on that.”

  “How’s your client feel about having a call girl on retainer?”

  “I don’t think they’re checking my budget by line item.”

  “So, who do I have to blow?”

  “It may not come to blows. I’m working on it. I might need you to be friendly to a shady businessman. Again, not the club owner.”

  “That’s all in a day’s work. So, okay, on retainer?”

  I slipped her an envelope with some of the Holts’ money. “For the other night too. There’s some in there for your friend also. Buy yourselves something pretty.”

  “Like body armor?”

  “Your choice.”

  Chapter 24

  I asked Arch about setting up a computer. He told me I needed his friend Jael. “They’d be a big help.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  “Don’t pull at the thread. Just use the name Jael and accept the help.”

  The meeting was set up in a coffee shop. It was not quite as cookie-cutter as a Starbucks. The tables were dark brown and a little worn around the edges, showing cigarette burns left over from days you could smoke inside, but the aroma now came from strong brews and chicory.

  As I entered and looked around, I saw a wave from a small Asian in black jeans and a long-sleeved tee that matched the obsidian lenses of round workman’s shades, the kind John Lennon or steampunks always wore. The haircut had taken off most of the growth on the sides, leaving a straight copse of black on top. I sensed I was being studied too, and the obsidian lenses made me feel even more like I was getting a cold stare.

  I had made an effort toward incognito with my jaunty charcoal gray hat they’d called a Trilby in the vintage shop where I’d bought it. With cultivated stubble, I thought I looked like I might fit in a jazz combo and definitely looked different than I had at the club. Here we were, just a couple of hipsters out for lattes.

  “So, you’re good with computers and research,” I said as I settled into a facing seat.

  I apparently couldn’t have broken the ice with anything more boring.

  “Hashtag puh-leeze. That’s what you were told isn’t it?”

  “It came up.”

  “Whatever you need is probably easy eno….” The dark lenses bored into me, or it felt like it. “What?”

  I’d been studying the curves beneath the tee and jeans, mostly out of curiosity.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did Arch tell you I was trans or something?”

  “I was just told to go with the pronouns provided.”

  “I’m bigender. Do you know what that is?”

  “I witnessed a lot in prison, but the term’s not one I picked up.”

  “I’m probably not what you saw there. I’m just not tied to gender, so don’t ask what I was born as.”

  “It’s not really an issue. Internet, research, that’s all neutral. I’ll write up an equal opportunity policy if you like.”

  “Whatever.”

  A few questions arose about what access I had to email and data, and I fumbled a bit. A guy had come by to set up a router for me, but I was as unclear on some of the language in the questions that followed as I was on gender terms.

  “Jesus, you better just let me check out your setup.”

  This coffee shop was not far from my new place of residence, so I suggested we walk there and take a look.

  After the lenses glared at me, I assured them I understood there was no implied invitation and that I had no designs on what might reside beneath the jeans and tee.

  “Okay, God knows what kind of vulnerabilities you have.” A little sneer formed. “With your computer.”

  With a little cash to flash around—also from the Holsts—I’d moved to a spot the real estate website called new construction. Advanced payments always make landlords happy, and they ask fewer questions.

  The place was in a house that looked pretty much like the houses on either side, frame structures refurbished by the same firm with fresh pale blue paint and white trim. My rooms had a side entrance with a little white railing on the steps. The paved street in front was a little spotty and rugged, and a vacant lot a few paces down was unkempt and littered, in some cases with things I didn’t want to know about, but I could skip to the Quarter from there. All in all, the location was not bad for what I needed.

  And the spot should make me at least marginally harder to find for a while, especially since I hadn’t closed out the guest house. It was already listed on too many documents for the courts as my official residence.

  I’d spent a little time sitting on a new futon wondering where I could find an orange crate to add to the ensemble. I plopped back onto the futon while Jael found the new router and gave it an outside inspection. “You’re going to want a VPN if your work is like Arch’s.”

  “Let’s go with not quite.”

  “Let’s go with it’s nobody’s fucking business regardless.”

  “Good way of putting it.”

  I produced my new laptop for analysis and downloads.

  Fingers danced across keys, some prices were explained, and in a while, I was set up with what I was promised offered a degree of anonymity in whatever I was browsing. I was given to understand quite a few items of interest might be out there in the cloud somewhere.

  After a brief tutorial on using a virtual private network, I got a lecture about the world and the grid in general as well as mentions of Jael’s “meddling fucking parents.”

  “What else do you need?” Jael asked. I detected the mental itemizing of the work so far.

  “I can do some here, but on the research front, whatever you can find on a guy named Ryan Moates.”

  “Spell it.”

  I did, and it seemed to process and imprint somewhere behind the lenses.

  “I’ll spend a little time with it. Won’t take long. Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  Jael had my email. I provided my burner number and got a handshake.

  I’d earned a few points for not prying it seemed. I kept that in mind and didn’t analyze the bounce of the ass in the departure with too much scrutiny.

  Arch called while I was picking up lunch at a little kitchen in the Quarter. I guess my call for a recommendation had put me at the front of his thoughts.

  I pressed the burner to my ear with my shoulder as I accepted a foam take-out plate with a poor boy roast beef sandwich and dirty rice.

  “Jael work out okay?”

  “We found a way to work together,” I said.

  “The work will be solid.”

  “I’m secure in the knowledge that I have a VPN now.”

  “Word up’s you can hire a hit man on the dark web.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I said.

  There was a bit of silence.

  “Speaking of that, I’m not scared of this guy,” he said. “What are you paying?”

  “What do you get for guiding a group of businessmen?”

  He named a figure.

  “We’ll up that. Hazard pay,” I said recalling the conversation with Crystal.

  “I’ll squirrel it away for Kenny.”

  “I’m in the process of doing some ground work. I’ll give you a call when I’m in need of your services.”

  “I can’t always be at your be
ck, you know.”

  “I’ll try to plan ahead.”

  “You know my uncle’s a…you know my uncle. That’s him. I’m not like him. Not as bad as he was.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you get the little girl back then.”

  Chapter 25

  You’ve heard a lot about New Orleans cuisine and great places to eat if you come to the Quarter. Cops and reporters have many choices of watering holes and restaurants, some with music, and other forms of entertainment you’ve also heard about.

  Some feature Creole specialties, some Cajun trending toward blackened. Still others offer Italian and Irish specialties, and some focus on local standards like fried shrimp poor boy sandwiches or muffulettas or andouille sausage. I’ve already mentioned poor boys.

  Most of Big Crescent magazine’s online operation had moved out to offices in Metairie, part of cost-cutting moves, but the writers had to venture into the city now and then to write about the music and other matters.

  When the guy I was looking for drew an assignment that took him to the Vieux Carre, I learned, he had lunch not in a gumbo hole-in-the-wall nor a great sandwich shop, but in a health-friendly restaurant just off Canal. The place was in a little freestanding building under a shady oak, adjacent to a shop that sold even more healthy foods you could take home, and it offered lectures and yoga classes.

  Gluten free, vegan, all the things you think of when you think New Orleans cooking—hashtag: sarcasm—were on the menu in the spot. That meant I had to eat it too to get close to the guy. A chalk board featuring the specials including the veggie smoothie blend of the day hung over the order counter where various bean sprouts and bean and corn salad mixes that would have caused a prison riot at David Wade were on display under glass. I chose a chicken sandwich with avocado slices along with a flavored tea in order to blend in. Best meal I could put together under the circumstances.

  The guy I was looking for was seated on a barstool near a front window. Wisps of white curled up from a cup of soup in front of him on the wooden counter. Interesting meal choice given his lumberjack’s beard and curled mustache.