Without a Trace

by Michael Cross

  That bit of information is totally unexpected and hits me hard. I immediately think this man can fill in all the gaps in my memory. It’s a thought, though, that he immediately blows up.

  “I see that look in your eye, and let me stop you right there,” he tells me. “I was already on my way out the door when I got your file. I ain’t got all the answers you’re lookin’ for. I retired and opened my bar. Wanted a simpler, less complicated, and stressful life, if you feel me.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I feel you.”

  As disappointing as that is, I don’t think all is lost. At least I know now how I got the number in the first place. I look at him closely, studying his features.

  “You said you don’t have all the answers I’m looking for,” I note. “Which implies you’ve got some.”

  A sly grin curls the corners of his mouth upward. “Said I got your file, didn’t I?” he asks. “Yeah, I skimmed some of it.”

  “So what can you tell me then? Anything you’ve got—”

  “Hold up, son,” he holds up a hand to stop me. “I think this is one of them situations where we can help each other.”

  That would explain his unexpectedly warmer demeanor; he wants something from me. I suppose that’s fair, given what I’m asking from him.

  “What is it you want?” I ask.

  He gives me a small grin. “We have a problem in this area I think you can help with,” he said. “Wannabe mafia thugs are collecting protection money from the local businesses, among other bullshit. They come in bi-weekly, demanding their payment.”

  “Just refuse to pay,” I shrug.

  “Last person that did that ended up chained to a chair and burned alive,” he replies. “I ain’t tryin’ to go out that way.”

  “You’re a big, strong guy,” I point out. “Why haven’t you shut this all down?”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “I’ve got one leg, son,” he replies. “How far do you think I’m gonna get with a group of thugs? I’m good at breakin’ up bar fights, but taking on street gangs? Those days are long behind me, man.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “Damn right it is,” he presses. “They’re gettin’ bolder. Demanding more money. It’s gettin’ to the point a lot of us can’t stay open for much longer. We all got bills to pay back home too.”

  “And the cops—”

  “When’s the last time you trusted a local cop?” he deadpans.

  I nod. Point taken.

  “Hell, seems like most of ‘em are paid to look the other way.”

  I sigh and lean forward, my elbows on my knees as I look at the ground. I kick at a couple of small stones, sending them skittering across the grass. I already got myself involved in one gang war back in Chicago. But that was small-time stuff. This is a whole other level. I know if I get myself too involved, it’ll piss off Delta. She’s made a point to tell me to avoid local entanglements and to keep a low profile. It’s a point she’s made repeatedly.

  But how else am I going to get the information this man has unless I take on this side job? Maybe if I’m careful and don’t draw too much attention to myself, I can make it work. I don’t need to raze the earth. All I need is one solid foothold to blow their cover wide open. And once they’re exposed, the damage is already done.

  “What do you say?” he asks. “Straight up trade?”

  I scrub my hands over my face. “If I do this and get these guys off your back, you’ll tell me everything you know?”

  “You have my word.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Done,” I tell him. “When’s the next shakedown date?”

  “Tomorrow, as it turns out. Your timing’s impeccable,” he says. “They usually stop in around noon.”

  I’ve got a real bad feeling about this. It is not going to be a smooth op, and I can already see how many different ways this can go sideways. I have a sinking feeling that it’s inevitable that people will die. But, there’s nothing for it. Not if I want the answers to fill the gaps in my brain.

  “Great,” I nod. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Chapter Five

  The following day, I’m sitting at the end of the bar, nursing a beer, and doing my best to be unobtrusive. I’m just another guy having a midday drink. Hey, it’s happy hour somewhere, right?

  Leonard Graves—aka Bob Smith—is leaning against the opposite end of the bar, doing some paperwork. I follow his eyes as he looks to the door. I casually glance over and see a couple of twenty-somethings come in.

  At first glance, they look well-dressed, in tapered suits and flashy jewelry. But the closer they get, the more I can start to see through their images. Their suits are cheap, their shoes clearly knockoffs, and the jewelry they casually flout is clearly either fake or stolen. Both are tall and musclebound, with tattoos on their wrists and hands, probably all the way up their sleeves too. Both of their heads are shaved completely bald.

  I casually watch them as they saunter over to the bar. Bob stands up straight, his expression darkening, and his frown deepening.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asks, trying to keep appearances up for the other customers.

  “Two beers,” says the bigger of the two, his voice low. He lays his hands out on the bar. The middle finger of his right hand is boasting a huge ring fashioned to look like a skull.

  “We’re thirsty,” says the smaller man, fingering his slick, greasy goatee. “Put it on our tab.”

  Bob doesn’t say a word. He simply walks to the tap and pours out a couple of beers. He walks back and sets them down in front of the pair. The big one with the skull ring looks around the bar, his eyes lingering on me for a moment, before dismissing me and moving back to Bob.

  “Now, we would like to discuss business with you,” says Skull Ring.

  “We’re here on behalf of the orphanage,” says Goatee, with a particular inflection in his voice. “Funds are short this time of year, so we’re asking for some—charity.”

  Bob practically trembles. With the two men watching him, he slips an envelope out of his apron and tosses it on the bar in front of them. I can see the round orange sticker I’d told him to put on it from where I’m sitting. That’s good. Makes it easier to identify the envelope.

  Skull Ring picks it up and rifles through the cash inside. According to Bob, it’s three grand every two weeks.

  “Hm,” grunts Skull Ring. “I’m not sure this will be enough for this donation cycle. The—orphans—were hoping for more.”

  “It’s all there,” grimaces Bob, rage barely contained in his face. “Three thousand.”

  “Seems to me, we’re a couple hundred short.”

  Bob’s face turns a deeper shade of red, and his whole body tightens. He rifles through the cash register and pulls out a fistful of twenties and hands it over

  “Your continued patronage is truly appreciated,” smiles Goatee as he slips the extra cash into his coat pocket. “You’re doing an excellent service for the community.”

  Bob lets out a deep sigh. “Always glad to help the orphans.”

  The two men nod and start to drink their beers. I finish mine and head out of the bar. My car is parked across the street, so I move to it quickly and pop the trunk. I pull out a black jacket and a ballcap, throwing them both on and taking up a position near the bookstore doorway. It’s unobtrusive and gives me a clear line of sight to the entrance of the bar.

  The two gangsters come out about ten minutes later. I hold my position and watch as the pair strolls into the other shops on the block, telling their fake sob story about poor little orphans. They walk back toward me, passing Bob’s bar, and look like they’re heading for a car. They approach an older model Camaro that may have been red at one point. Between the patches of rust and large spots of Bondo, it’s hard to tell.

  I get into my car and start the engine as they climb into their ride. Even with my windows closed, I can hear them fire up the engine. It squeals and shudders, belching out a dark cloud as it coughs its way to
life. That car has seen better days, and they should be flogged for letting a classic like that fall to shit.

  With loud, angry punk-rock music blaring through the open windows, they pull away from the curb and flip a U-turn, which makes it easier for me. I give it a fifteen count, then put my car in gear and pull away, following the Camaro at a safe distance. These two clowns are so oblivious to the world around them they probably wouldn’t be able to pick up a tail if mine was the only car on the road and I was riding their bumper.

  But still, I’m not somebody who likes to take chances, so I hang back, keeping a car or two between us. The good news for me is that the car is such a heap of easily recognizable garbage, I don’t think I could lose it if I tried, so I can afford to keep my distance.

  I follow them along a circuitous route with stops at a dry cleaner, another bar, a liquor store, and a burger joint for lunch. After that, we head into one of the tonier, more upscale parts of downtown. Their shitty old Camaro really stands out among the Beemers, Jags, and Mercedes that fill the area, which makes me wonder what they’re doing here. It’s easier to shake down business owners in lower-class neighborhoods than it is in areas like this.

  I see them pull into a parking lot, so I find a place along the curb on the opposite side of the street and park. I watch as the pair of clowns walk out of the lot and to a two-story red brick building with white trim. The front of the building is made of two large plates of smoked glass with a doorway in between them, and there’s a long portico that extends from the doors to the edge of the sidewalk. The building is eclectic, looking like a mishmash of different styles, but it has a certain flair to it, I guess.

  It’s not the building itself that draws most of my attention though. It’s the flags that hang outside of it. The tricolor flag—red, blue, and yellow—are familiar to me. I recognize it right away as the Armenian flag. On each of the two large front windows is a stylized Armenian Wheel of Eternity surrounded by the words, ‘Agajanian Social Club’.

  “Now what in the hell would two white skinheads be doing in an Armenian social club?” I mutter to myself.

  As I turn the question over and over in my mind, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Although I try to resist it, not even wanting to think about the ramifications, my mind continues to be inexorably drawn to one answer. I bang my fist on the wheel, wanting to reject it but realize I can’t. It’s enough to send a cold chill slithering down my spine.

  The theory of Occam’s Razor basically states that the simplest answer is usually the right one. And in this case, the simplest answer is that Bob Smith was wrong. This isn’t a matter of street gangs shaking him down for protection money. This is a matter of organized crime. These aren’t wannabe mafia thugs. This is the actual Armenian mafia, and they’re making moves to take over half the city.

  “This is great,” I mutter. “Just fucking great.”

  Chapter Six

  The Armenian mob angle is just a theory right now. I need to be certain. It’s a pretty solid theory, to be sure, but still just a theory at this point. I also want to get a lay of the land because I have no idea yet how this will all play out.

  I get out of my car and head across the street. I pull open the doors of the Agajanian Social Club and step into a small foyer. To my left is a coat check room, and the young woman with dark eyes and dusky skin eyes me strangely but quickly recovers herself.

  “May I take your coat, sir?” she asks.

  “No,” I reply.

  I walk through the small foyer and step through an archway into a large room decorated in rich, dark oak. Traditional Armenian music plays softly from discreetly mounted overhead speakers. There are overstuffed chairs and sofas upholstered in dark green fabric are arrayed around the main room. Even standing where I am, I can feel the heat roaring from the oversized fireplace to my left.

  There are about fifteen older men with dark hair in various stages of graying spread out around the room. Many of them are enjoying a drink and an Armenian-language newspaper; others are engaged in quiet conversation with each other. It’s all very staid and respectable. On the surface, it seems to be above board. But, of course, I know better than that.

  Through another archway to my right is a dining room. I only see a few people scattered about in there, but I do see Skull Ring and Goatee, looking more like Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, sitting at a table near the back wall. They’ve shed their jackets and shirts and are reclining in their undershirts. I turn and am about to head into the dining room when a voice stops me. I turn to find a young woman with long dark hair, caramel eyes, and olive-colored skin standing behind me.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she says with a small smile. “Are you a member here?”

  “You need to be a member to come in and have a plate of khorovats?” I ask, flashing her a small smile in return.

  “I’m afraid so,” she replies.

  I look into the dining room and point to the two men. “They’re members here?”

  “Yes they are,” comes a man’s voice.

  I turn around to find a tall, slim man with black hair flecked with silver, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard walking up from behind. He’s wearing a very expensive looking three-piece suit, dark with a white shirt and metallic blue tie. The hint of a matching pocket square stands out on his breast, and he’s got a silver Rolex on his wrist. The girl gives me a small smile before ducking her head and quickly scampering away.

  I give the man a nod. “They’re members here? Really?”

  “Just paid their monthly dues, in fact,” he replies, his voice carrying the slight hint of an accent.

  “Huh. Interesting,” I note. “Not the kind of clientele I would have expected to find in an establishment such as yours.”

  He shrugs. “Who am I to discriminate? If they want to pay their dues to come in and have some of our delicious food, why would I stop them?”

  I nod and give him a small smirk. “I didn’t know Armenian food was a hit among the skinhead demographic.”

  The man’s jaw clenches, and he narrows his eyes at me. “You smell like FBI to me. Perhaps DEA.”

  “Then your sense of smell is off.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Very off,” I reply. “But even if I was, do you have something to hide?”

  He stands straighter and clasps his hands in front of him, looking at me unflinchingly, his face completely blank.

  “I have nothing to hide. But you people have been harassing me for years,” he spits. “The only thing I do is run a social club that caters to my countrymen.”

  “Mostly,” I note, nodding my head at the two skinheads.

  His shrug is languid. “This is a private club. I can admit anybody I wish,” he says and levels his gaze at me. “And deny entry to anybody I wish. So in that vein, I must ask you to leave.”

  I purse my lips and nod. “Just like that, huh?” I ask. “Not going to give me the sales pitch? Don’t want my monthly dues to be a member?”

  “I do not think you are the sort of person who would—fit in,” he says. “I do not think you would be a welcome member.”

  “And why is that?”

  He smiles graciously. “In my country, we never trust law enforcement,” he says. “They are corrupt. Violent. They kill without cause or provocation.”

  “I told you, I’m not law enforcement,” I tell him. “I just came in for some khorovats. It’s impossible to get good ones anywhere.”

  “And yet, I am afraid you will have to try,” he says, motioning to the door. “Please, it is time for you to go.”

  I sigh and shrug. “Okay. I’ll go,” I reply. “Just know I’m going to give you a bad review on Yelp for this.”

  “Somehow, I think we will survive,” he says. “We always do.”

  He walks me to the door, holding it open for me, and watches me every step of the way as if he thinks I’m going to turn and bolt back inside. I walk across the street and climb back into my car. I look up and see
him still standing in the doorway of his social club watching me. The man is paranoid. But he’s also intuitive and intelligent. And worse than that, he’s unafraid of me.

  This is going to be far more complex and dangerous than I imagined. Far from being simply a ‘crack some skulls together, intimidate some punks, and be on my way’ type of job. And as I pull away from the curb and drive out into traffic, I have to wonder if good ol’ Bob Smith knew that when he tasked me with it.

  Chapter Seven

  “So you’ve gone full moron then, right?”

  I flash her a grin. “I prefer to think of it as flexing my steely determination.”

  “Right. So you’ve gone full moron.”

  I laugh and lean back in the chair. Justice’s face fills the computer screen as she scoops some noodles out of her take-out box and munches away on them.

  “You know, there’s a full kitchen in the house. You could cook your meals,” I point out, not missing the irony as I stare at the remnants of my fast food dinner.

  “Hey, I cooked this morning.”

  “What, toast?”

  “Oatmeal and Pop-Tarts.”

  I roll my eyes. “The microwave and toaster don’t count as cooking, Justice.”

  “Yeah, well, in my defense, I’ve got a lot going on,” she shrugs. Her eyes light up. “I got my first op.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing big really. A hack job on some private security firm who handles a lot of diplomatic missions,” she tells me. “I’m stealing some information and building a back door into the system so we can get in whenever we need to.”

  “Nice. And how’s it going?”

  “It’s child’s play,” she admits. “But at least they’re starting to give me some real work. I’m not sitting there analyzing data all day anymore.”

  “That’s great, kid,” I say. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Well, I guess I have you to thank for it.”