by Brett Baker
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m just in town for a couple of days, but I expect to be back next month, so maybe I’ll give you a call then.”
“Please do.” Portnoy smiled at her as if she desired his approval more than anything else in the world. “Can I show you around? There are great nooks and crannies in this place. If you like what you see now, just wait until you see it all.” Mia couldn’t tell if Portnoy was still talking about the house.
“I’d like that. But before we get started on that, I need you to tell me everything you know about Tony Howe and why he was in that warehouse near LAX.”
Portnoy’s face fell. The smile that he’d hoped would help charm Mia disappeared, his brow furrowed, and he set his jaw. The transformation reminded Mia of a bull getting ready to charge seconds after galloping in grass for the first time. He took a step back and looked around the room as if he needed something or someone to step in and help him.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. As I’m sure you know, dead men take their secrets with them, so I’d prefer that you not join their ranks. Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll be on my way. Otherwise, you could be in for a long day.”
“What do you want to know?” Portnoy asked. He no longer seemed interested in talking to Mia. He looked at the ground and alternated between nodding his head in comprehension of the situation, and shaking his head in disbelief.
“Everything.”
“Who are you?” Portnoy asked.
“That’s not something you need to worry about. I’ve already told you that my name is Mia Mathis. Feel free to Google me after I leave. But I’m not leaving until you tell me who you work for, who Tony Howe works for, and why he was guarding an empty warehouse.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Portnoy said, taking two steps toward Mia. “I invite you into my house, give you the inside track on purchasing it, and this is the way you repay me? How about some fucking gratitude?”
“Golly fuck, Gabe,” Mia said, not giving an inch, as Portnoy took another step toward her. “You seem a little slow so I’ll explain this to you. I don’t care about your house. I’m not buying it. You made some assumptions, and I went with them. But that’s unimportant. What matters now is whether you’re going to tell me what I need to know.”
“And if I don’t?”
Mia chuckled. “Why waste time with hypotheticals?”
“Because it’s not hypothetical. I’m not telling you anything.”
“Fair enough. That’s your choice. But before I go, let me tell you that I was sent here as a goodwill ambassador. They were going to send a different guy, but I told them you didn’t require that sort of muscle. I figured I could make you understand certain things. You’ve been around, Gabe, you know what’s good for you and what’s bad for you. I thought you’d make the best decision for yourself, but I guess I was wrong. So I’ll leave. But I tried to make it easy on you, Gabe. I really tried. Take care.”
Mia walked to the door, opened it, and had one foot over the threshold before Gabe cried out, “Don’t go!”
Mia smiled to herself, stepped back inside, and said, “Did you say something?”
“Who sent you?”
“You know who sent me, Gabe.”
Gabe ran his fingers through his hair, spun around once, and yelled, “Fuck!”
“Relax, Gabe. It’s fine. I told them you were reasonable, so be reasonable and you’ll be fine.”
“What do they want to know?”
“Everything. You’ve got something going on here, and they want to know what it is. Maybe that’s the end of it. But you’re doing something, and they’ve heard it’s big, and given your past they want to know what it is.”
Gabe began pacing, and Mia couldn’t help but marvel at how he seemed like a different person. The confident ladies man disappeared now that he assumed a more powerful group, capable of violence, demanded something from him. His work with the mafia had taught him certain lessons, like those who resist end up in a worse position than those who cooperate. He was ready to talk.
“I don’t know much,” Gabe said. “I’m being honest. I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not very much.”
“Just start talking, Gabe.”
“A couple weeks back I got a phone call from a guy I worked with on Wall Street. Neil Driscoll is his name. He’s a big deal. Not like a billionaire or anything, but he’s well known. He’s a money market genius. Somehow he turns these ridiculous profits and no one can quite figure out how. Part of the reason no one can figure it out is because of the work that your people do.”
Mia looked back at Gabe, but didn’t say anything. He remained silent, as if he expected her to ask a question, or interject with a comment, but she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Anyway, I’ve done some work for Driscoll in the past. I’m sure the people who sent you here know all about Driscoll. He’s clean for the most part, but I’ve helped him out of trouble a couple of times when he’s become too cozy with your people and attracted unwanted attention. Driscoll called me because he knows that I’m in L.A. now. He said he had a location that attracted some unwanted attention from the Feds. He had arranged to clear out the warehouse, but he wanted someone to watch over it for him. He figured the Feds would be back, and he’d suspected he’d be able to tell how much they knew about his plans depending on who showed up. ATF means one thing, Secret Service means another. FBI means something else. He asked me to find someone to watch the place. That’s it. I’m a staffing company for him.”
“A staffing company?” Mia asked. “Why wouldn’t he just call a staffing company? I’m sure they have plenty of people who are capable of working as a security guard at an empty building.”
“Too messy. He didn’t want any records. He’s not looking for a brain surgeon, but he did need someone reliable who could keep his nose out of trouble.”
“So you hired Tony Howe?”
“Yeah, I’ve known Tony a long time. He’s a hard luck guy, but he’s reliable.”
“Well I can tell you first-hand that his nose gets him in plenty of trouble.”
Portnoy laughed, and nodded his understanding. “He’s had drug problems in the past, but he told me that he’s got that under control.”
“He lied,” Mia said. “What else did Driscoll want from you?”
“Nothing,” Portnoy said. “Very simple. He had a building that needed a guard and he knew that I could find someone to do it.”
“And you didn’t ask him why the Feds were investigating?”
“He didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. It didn’t seem relevant, and with those guys it’s best not to know too much.”
“What else?”
“What do you mean ‘What else?’” asked Portnoy. “That’s it. There’s nothing else to say. Cut and dry.”
“I’m going to talk to Driscoll, and if he tells me that you know more than you’re telling me, I’m going to come back here. And I won’t come back alone, and I’ll be angry. So before I go I want you to think real hard about whether you know anything else.”
“That’s it. I’m trying to distance myself from everything back east, so I didn’t want to know more than that. The only reason I even took the call is because I did a lot of work for Driscoll.”
“I hope you’re telling me the truth,” Mia said. “I don’t want to come back here, regardless of how nice the house is.” Portnoy nodded, but said nothing. With nothing more to say, Mia walked away, but Portnoy stopped her.
“Are you the reason I haven’t heard from Howe today?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Mia said.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Take it how you want it. But Howe’s silence is just as likely a result of whatever he’s snorting up his nose as it is from anything I might have done. For Driscoll’s sake I hope he’s better at running the rest of his operation than he is at choosing a staffing agency.”
Mia didn’t wait for a response, instead walking a
way, closing the door behind her.
She passed through the narrow opening in the privet hedge, and followed the path back toward her car. She’d just passed around a sharp corner on the path when Portnoy emerged from within a less dense type of bush that Mia couldn’t identify. She always prided herself on being ready for anything, but Portnoy’s emergence startled her. Instead of taking a step back, or cowering in place, as most people’s instinct would have driven them to do, Mia’s training from The Summit came into play, and she took a fighting posture.
That posture, defensive with the expectation of a quick, explosive offense, is the sole reason that Mia could use her right hand to swipe Portnoy’s hand away as he lunged toward her with a knife, intending to sink it into her neck. After swiping his hand, Mia landed a hard left to his sternum, which sent him to the ground. Mia kicked the knife away, and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Portnoy rolled on the ground in pain, his sternum cracked. Mia looked ahead and behind her on the sidewalk to ensure that no one else planned to attack. The curve of the sidewalk hid them from both the street and the house. The wall of bushes on either side hid them from the neighbors. Mia bent down and grabbed Portnoy by the ears and kneed him in the face, his nose breaking with a splatter of blood, and his cries piercing Mia’s ears, and also ensuring that neighbors heard the violence.
“What didn’t you tell me?” Mia asked. “You’re holding something back. You better start talking.”
Portnoy said nothing. His cries morphed into a long, constant, thunderous moan, and Mia wanted to knock him out just so he’d shut up. Instead she bent over and grabbed him by the arm to lift him to his feet and lead him back to the house. She had hoped to avoid a physical confrontation with Portnoy, but since he’d chosen it she wouldn’t back off.
“I’m going to get you inside,” she said, draping his left arm around her neck and supporting his weight with her right arm. “Don’t fucking try anything stupid or I’ll kill. We’re going inside and you’re going to talk. If you don’t, I’m going to kill you. And if you have nothing to say, I’m going to kill you.” They started walking toward the house, Portnoy limping, trying to collapse to the ground, Mia’s strength the only thing keeping him on his feet. “The only way you live is to talk,” she said.
She had dragged him through the narrow opening in the privet hedge, feet from the front door, when Portnoy swung the second knife, which he’d carried in the side pocket of his cargo shorts, toward Mia. She felt the change in his body angle before he even swung his arm, and she’d started to turn her body toward him to better defend herself. So when she saw his right hand, and the eight-inch blade it held coming toward her face, she had no difficulty avoiding it. But this time, instead of knocking the knife out of his hand, Mia used her left hand to sweep Portnoy’s hand and the knife past her, and back toward him. With the knife’s momentum redirected, Mia grabbed his hand, and before Portnoy could react or understand what had happened, Mia plunged the blade into his neck, in the middle of the left carotid. The blade’s sharp surface made a quick, clean cut, and a fountain of blood soaked Mia as she backed away. Alarm overtook Portnoy’s face as he realized what happened in the instant before he collapsed to the ground for the last few seconds of his life.
Mia didn’t wait for him to die, dragging him by the feet, off the sidewalk and into the grass, his blood leaving a trail, and then pooling in a low spot on the ground. She peeked back through the narrow opening in the privet hedge, and saw no one. She stood in complete silence, waiting for footsteps of a nosy neighbor, trying to decide whether she’d have to eliminate the neighbor, or portray herself as the victim. After five minutes, content that no one planned to investigate, she dragged Portnoy away from the sidewalk, and hid him between two large bushes at the corner of the house. She hosed off the sidewalk and the pool of blood in the yard, the look of summer rain cleanliness replacing the carnage in seconds.
Before leaving to call The Summit’s removal team, she searched Portnoy’s house. She didn’t know what she hoped to find, and after ten minutes, already armed with Driscoll’s name and Portnoy’s paranoid reaction, she left the house.
32
Chapter 32
Buster’s assistant knocked three times, and after she got no response, she did something she never does: opened the door to his office without his permission. She could tell from her desk that he was on the phone, but the man who dropped off the note told her that it was urgent, and she should interrupt Buster to make sure he got it. She had packed up her things, already signed out of her computer, and had a busy evening planned, so she wanted to get the note to Buster and leave. When she came through the door Buster glared at her, acknowledging the unusual break in protocol. His assistant ignored his obvious displeasure, handed the note to him without a word, and left the office.
Written in rigid, precise penmanship typical of the English writing of native Chinese speakers, the note said, “Eight o’clock. Brickyard.” Buster understood the clear, precise meaning of the message. Brickyard referred to the first American brewpub to open in Quanzhou. Popular with tourists and American businessman, it provided a safe, westernized environment in which Buster often met with potential partners or contractors.
At seven o’clock Buster left his office, took the elevator down to the lobby, and made a point of passing in front of numerous security cameras. At that time of night the drive to The Brickyard was unpredictable at best, a disaster at work. With millions of cars on the road, navigating Quanzhou always presented a challenge, and since the meeting required promptness, he didn’t want to be late.
The drive took about as long as he expected, and parked in a garage two blocks away at ten minutes before eight. He walked to The Brickyard, told the hostess that he was meeting someone, and that he suspected they already had a table. She nodded, smiled, and he passed. He walked around the perimeter of the restaurant, looking this way and that, each table occupied, the din of voices and clanging plates drowning the low-key music that played in the background. After wandering each section of the restaurant, he returned to the hostess, told her that his friend hadn’t yet arrived, gave his name, and would wait outside for a table to become available.
He walked one block back toward the parking garage, and saw the man as he approached an alleyway just beyond a breakfast café whose sign illuminated the sidewalk. The man ducked into the alleyway as Buster approached. When he passed on the other side the man jumped out behind him, grabbed him around the neck, and pulled him into the alleyway. Buster didn’t scream, but his eyes scanned the street to see if anyone noticed what was happening.
A quick punch to the kidneys made Buster cry out in pain, and the man spun him around, punched him in the stomach, grabbed his arm, and led him deep into the alley. Behind the protection of a large dumpster, the man threw Buster to the ground, kicked him in the back half a dozen times, and then straddled his chest, punching him in the face. Blood spattered from his nose, and the man landed four quick punches to his right cheek. Buster felt his bone shatter, and covered his face with his hands, as he tried to move into the fetal position for additional protection, but the man had him pinned.
When the man stood up to look over the dumpster to ensure no one planned to come to Buster’s rescue, Buster slid out from beneath him, and tried to turn on his side. The man placed a foot on Buster’s shoulder to stop him, and then lifted his foot, stomping down on his shoulder. Buster felt it separate, cried out, and turned the other way, guarding his shoulder with his opposite hand, ending up in the fetal position he’d tried to establish moments before. The man landed three kicks to the side and back of his head, before picking Buster up, supporting him against the wall, and punching him a dozen times in the chest, shattering his ribs. Buster crumpled to the ground and put up both hands in passive resistance.
A car squealed to a stop at the end of the alleyway, and the man turned and ran toward it. Buster heard the door close as the man got inside, and the car drove away
.
Buster remained on the ground for half an hour trying to find the least painful way to move without aggravating the throbbing in his head and the sharp pain in his chest. He rolled onto his stomach, got his feet under him, and staggered down the alley.
Thirty minutes later he sat in the emergency room at the hospital, after taking himself there in a taxi. X-rays showed a separated shoulder, cracked ribs, and despite the shooting pain in his face, no broken bones. A police officer greeted him in the recovery room, as he waited for a second dose of pain medication before his release.
“I’m Officer Wei. It looks like you’ve had a bad night.”
“You could say that,” Buster said, his eyes still closed.
“I understand someone assaulted you?”
“I didn’t get this way by magic, and I wasn’t hit by a train, so that leaves assault.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been assaulted. Or hit by a train.”
The officer asked for details of the assault: time, location, did the attacker have weapons, did the attacker threaten him, did the attacker take anything, did anyone else see the assault, had he encountered the attacker prior to the assault. And then Officer Wei asked the question Buster was waiting for.
“Do you know the person who attacked you?”
“Yes, I do. He’s a business associate. We’ve done deals in the past, but nothing for quite some time. His name is Yuzhan Li.”
“Yuzhan Li,” Wei said, writing down the name. “And why would Mr. Li want to attack you? Have you had a falling out recently?”
“We haven’t. He helped me when I built my building, but we haven’t done anything since. I’m surprised he attacked me, but I was surprised to see him at all. He’s been missing. His wife called the police and a couple of your guys have been investigating. Sun and Gao. They came to talk to me a few days ago because Li left his car in my building. I don’t know if this is related to that or not. It all seems rather coincidental. Or not coincidental, I should say.”
