Lucky Town

by Peter Vonder Haar

  The “investigation,” if you wanted to call it that, into the accident was short and sweet. Ray, Charlie, and I and about a dozen other witnesses all told the same story: that a red Ferrari barreled up on us and Charlie did her damnedest to recover from it, as well as trying to avoid damaging other cars. The proceedings were probably hastened by the fact none of the cops recognized me.

  The EMTs were loading Charlie into their rig. The one I’d spoken with came back over as the cop was finishing his notes.

  “We’re going to take her to Waterway Hospital for X-rays, but it definitely looks like she was right about the ribs,” he said.

  I just nodded. Not much point in bringing up the fact she had her own EMT certification.

  “Do you have a way to get to the hospital?” he asked.

  I was about to say yes, but then I remembered Charlie’s car. A wrecker was backing up to it and lowering its ramp as it prepared to haul off the Audi’s carcass. The rear passenger side was crumpled in from where the van hit it, and the left rear corner was completely sheared off. The mirror on the driver’s side had been sheared off, while there were huge gouges all down the side from where she’d scraped the retaining wall. The rear right tire was leaning in at an angle that indicated — at the very least — a bent rim. Worst case: bent rear axle.

  Maybe not a total loss, but definitely out of commission for a while. Charlie was going to be pissed.

  “Hey man, you need a ride?”

  I turned. It was Ray. He’d been talking with the police but they appeared to have finished with him.

  “I couldn’t impose.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No, it’s no problem. I already told the wife what was going on. If they’re taking your sister to the hospital, you need to be there.”

  In the end, I accepted his offer. Sheepishly, because I’d harbored murderous thoughts toward the fellow not thirty minutes earlier.

  Excusing myself for a second, I walked over to the wrecked car. The firefighters were satisfied there was no fuel leak and the police had moved the rest of their interviewees to the access road. The wrecker driver handed me his card as I was starting to walk over to the ambulance. I made a mental note to call our insurance company to send an assessor out to police impound, though he’d have to wait until the cops were done looking at it.

  “Do you need to get anything out of the car?”

  I was about to tell him he could keep the barbecue when I remembered Charlie’s gun. I retrieved it from the glove compartment, along with a few personal items I had no idea if she needed or not; were three mascaras too much? Mankind may never know.

  The cops had already told me they’d be in touch if they had any more questions. I didn’t envy the report that was going to come out of this. A hit and run that shut the entire North Freeway down for almost an hour? Oof.

  Satisfied things were wrapping up, I finally made my way to the ambulance and leaned against the back door next to where Charlie half sat, half lay.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Sore. You okay?”

  I said, “Think so. Tired after the adrenaline rush.”

  “How’s the car?”

  I shook my head, like a doctor in the movies letting the hero know his faithful sidekick didn’t make it.

  She punched the gurney, then flinched in pain. “God damn it! And I guess the Ferrari got away.” It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded. “Guy must have been a hell of a driver to disappear in rush hour traffic. The police have alerts out for it. He’s most likely gone to ground at this point, but if he hasn’t, a red Testarossa is going to stick out like, well, a red Testarossa.”

  The EMT came up and said they were ready to go. I gave him a thumbs-up like a doofus, and he shut the rear doors. The driver started the engine, and they were off.

  I could visualize the wrecker driving off with the ruins of the Audi and the fire truck pulling away as the police prepared to reopen the freeway. The backup was probably all the way to the Loop by now and likely the top story on local news, judging by the number of helicopters buzzing overhead.

  Happy Thursday. Hopefully nobody got shot.

  I walked back to Ray's truck and clambered into the passenger seat. The vehicle was high enough off the ground that I had to use the step, but I kept my mouth shut. The guy was doing me a huge favor.

  “All squared away?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yep. They’re going to Waterway Hospital”

  “I know that place. My cousin had to get her finger amputated there.”

  I silently cursed the TABC for not allowing passengers to drink in cars anymore.

  If there’s one good thing about arriving right behind the EMTs, it’s that you immediately get taken into the emergency room. Coming in on a gurney is like a VIP laminate at a concert, and while I felt a little bad for walking in with Charlie past all the mopes in the waiting room, none of them were going to be haggling with their insurance company about covering the cost of an ambulance ride later.

  They took the X-rays. Sure enough, fractures of the seventh and eighth ribs on her left side with a bonus chest contusion. The doctor wanted to keep her overnight to make sure there were no complications involving her heart and lungs. Charlie wasn’t happy about it, and while I wasn’t going to say it, I’d be a lot happier with her under observation in the hospital than alone at the house while I was meeting with Steranko.

  My brother Don arrived as they were moving Charlie to her room, having been dispatched by our mother to both check on her only daughter and to keep her apprised of the situation. I gave him the rundown (poor choice of words) on what happened and explained my concerns about leaving her alone.

  “Have you talked to the cops about posting a guard?” he asked.

  I said, “I did, but they’re waiting on approval.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A guy with a gun breaks into your house this morning and now this, and they’re still not convinced?”

  “This is Montgomery County,” I said. “Their sheriff’s department has to talk to HPD. I have no doubt they’ll get it straightened out eventually, but in the meantime …”

  “In the meantime, you need someone to babysit because neither of you told Mom how bad things really were,” he said.

  Apologetic, I said, “If that’s not too much trouble.”

  He gave me a funny look. “She’s our sister, you idiot. Besides, your little excursion already canceled the only real plans I had tonight. Carlos and I were talking about going to the movies, but I’m pretty sure he’ll understand.”

  “Thank him for me.”

  “I will,” Don said. Then, “Can I ask what you’re going to be doing?”

  I told him about our Russian suspicions and that I was meeting someone to discuss them. I didn’t mention Steranko’s name — no need to drag another family member into this — or anything else about the case.

  He said, “Anything to help find Mike. We’ll be fine.”

  I didn’t doubt him. Don was in the Green Berets before he was discharged under circumstances he refused to discuss. From what Charlie had pieced together, it involved him reacting negatively to a superior’s homophobia.

  Said superior spend several weeks in traction as a result.

  “I have another favor to ask,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Can I borrow your car?”

  He looked at me. “Finally gave up on that heap of yours?”

  “No,” I said. “But it’s still back at the house. And even if I didn’t have a bit of a drive ahead of me, I don’t trust it outside of AAA’s rapid response radius.”

  He fished in the pocket of his jeans, removed a key from a ring of several, and handed it to me. “You know my old Range Rover. I parked near the ambulance bay.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I could be wrong, but I think this is Charlie’s first time in a hospital since she had her tonsils out. She’s not going to show it, but I bet she’s nervous.”<
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  “I got it covered.”

  I made sure no one was looking and handed him Charlie’s gun, a Browning 9mm. He looked around for a second, then took it and slipped it into his back waistband.

  We both went to Charlie’s room. She brightened considerably when she saw Don, which I didn’t take personally. He was much nicer than me.

  “Don!” she exclaimed. “Cy didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “Cy didn’t know,” I said. “He’s going to hang out with you while I check out a lead on Mike.”

  We exchanged a look Don didn’t notice. She understood: keep Steranko close to the chest until we know more.

  “I appreciate it,” she said. “But I’m afraid there’s not much to do besides watch TV.”

  “Au contraire,” he said, and he produced a deck of cards from his inner jacket pocket. “As I recall, you’re into me for about a thou. Time to see if you can erase some of that debt.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. Gin was the closest thing to a combat sport the Clarkes indulged in when they weren’t actually participating in combat sports.

  Don started dealing cards onto the bedspread and I backed out of the room, shutting the door behind me. Family time was over. Now I had to go see about a Russian.

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Traffic going north was still jacked up from our crash. Luckily, I was heading in the opposite direction.

  The island of Galveston is about 50 miles from Houston as the crow flies. As with any place in the greater metro area, of course, it’s generally best to allow a good hour to 90 minutes travel time.

  Just in case, I don’t know, some asshole in a Ferrari decides to run two perfectly nice people off the road.

  I elected to avoid taking the freeway straight through downtown and hopped on the East Beltway. It was two hours before I was scheduled to meet Steranko, so there was no hurry. The Range Rover pre-dated Bluetooth, so while I cruised through Houston’s less-than-picturesque eastern reaches, I picked up my phone and called DeSantos.

  “You’ve had a busy day,” he said by way of greeting.

  “You heard.”

  He laughed. “Kind of hard not to when every channel is showing aerial footage of Charlie’s car holding up ten miles of freeway traffic. Is she okay?”

  I said, “Couple of busted ribs and a bruised chest. They’re keeping her in the hospital overnight for observation.”

  “That’s good news,” he said.

  “I’m fine, by the way.”

  “I figured, or you wouldn’t be able to make annoying phone calls.”

  Asshole. “Roy, I’m about to meet a guy who might be involved in Mike’s disappearance.”

  I could almost hear him straighten up over the phone. “Really? Who?”

  “The only name I have is Steranko,” I started.

  “Steranko?” He mulled for a bit. “The casino guy?”

  Part of the plan for the island entertainment district Charlie had looked up included plans for a casino, though gambling hadn’t been legalized in Texas yet. “So you’ve heard of him?”

  “Sure,” Roy said. “He’s an up-and-comer, and then there’s the Russian Mafia rumors.”

  Steering away from that, I said, “He seems to keep a pretty low profile.”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “He mostly keeps to himself. Doesn’t do the club thing and doesn’t come into town much. He prefers to hang out on his boat.”

  I thought for a second. “The Konev?”

  “Is that what it’s called?” he asked, then, “Wait, how do you know that?”

  “Because that’s where I’m going to meet him.”

  Roy said, “Is that a good idea?”

  I said, “I don’t think I have any choice. And anyway, this is all your fault.”

  “How the hell is it my fault?” Indignant now.

  “Because your contact gave me his name.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, hell,” he said. “Then I guess you really don’t have a choice.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How have they not promoted you yet?”

  “When did he contact you?” He was back to being all business now.

  “Right after a goddamned Ferrari Testarossa ran Charlie and me off the road.”

  He whistled. “A Testarossa, you say.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why, does that mean something to you?”

  “Steranko is known to have quite the sports car collection,” he said.

  “Ferraris?”

  “Don’t know specifics,” Roy replied. “But I can check.”

  Something was nagging at me. “Does this all seem terribly convenient to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean: mysterious caller with Russian accent; your contact drops Steranko’s name; a sports car runs me and Charlie off the road, and Steranko just happens to have a sports car collection?” I paused. “Doesn’t seem a little convenient to you?”

  “You’re not thinking like a cop anymore,” he replied.

  “I’m not a cop anymore,” I said, and hung up.

  He’d meant it as an insult, but he was more right than he realized. Cops, especially detectives, are interested in one thing above all: the clearance rate. If a solution to a crime gifted itself to them, as appeared to be the case with Steranko and the now multiple attempts on my and Charlie’s lives, so much the better.

  Thinking like a cop would mean going along with Steranko as the person responsible for Mike’s disappearance. If I was still a detective, at the very least I probably would’ve paid him a visit with a few uniforms and asked some “friendly” questions.

  So, in effect, exactly what I was about to do. Only without backup, or legal sanction, or any force of law behind me. What could possibly go wrong?

  My meandering drive to Galveston — including stops at Whataburger and to refuel the Range Rover (the least I could do after eating in Don’s car) — took about an hour and a half. I had looked up the Galveston Yacht Club and Marina while in the Whataburger drive-through. It was on the east end of the island, past the end of the famed Seawall and near the cruise terminal, where tourists willingly imprisoned themselves on floating sardine cans for the privilege of getting blackout drunk on “booze cruises” out of Cozumel.

  I’m not a cruise fan, in case you were wondering.

  The marina was big enough to employ golf carts for those unwilling to walk half a mile or so to their boat’s berth. I parked in what I hoped was a public lot (getting Don’s car towed would be the perfect cap on a shitty day) and set off on foot.

  It was full dark, but several other people were visible walking to and from the dock. A couple men in those ridiculous shirts with the flaps on the back lugged a cooler that one assumed was full of redfish and speckled trout out to the parking lot, while an older couple walked up to a large sailboat, presumably for a twilight cruise. If security had any problem with my roaming, they didn’t make their presence known.

  The boats ranged in size from Sunfish-style sailboats to catamarans on up to yachts that by rights should have led to the reinstatement of the guillotine. I assumed Steranko’s would be one of these.

  I was more right than I could have hoped. The Konev was the very last boat. It occupied its own dock, far enough from those of the lumpenproletariat to ensure it couldn’t be missed.

  The fact it was also the biggest one around didn’t hurt.

  It was over a hundred feet long, with three decks and a communications array that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an AWACS. I could see people moving back and forth and inside the brightly lit main cabin. There were a number of limos and town cars lining the drive leading to the pier, and two men who were big enough to moonlight as Bigfoot impersonators flanking the ramp leading up to the boat.

  It was early yet, so I kept walking.

  I wandered past the pier and looked out across the water to Pelican Island. I was shielded from the sea breeze on this side o
f the island, but the wind never really died down. From my vantage point, I watched as the Bolivar Ferry took another load of cars and people to the peninsula. Ten years after Hurricane Ike had essentially razed the entire place, and there was almost no trace remaining to show it had happened.

  People would keep building there. The beach life really must be something else if it was worth potentially having your house leveled to the foundations every summer.

  It occurred to me that Roy might be right: This was an extraordinarily bad idea.

  I didn’t like boats to begin with, and a big reason for that was an inability to leave. It was the cruise issue writ small. Sure, it wasn’t like I’d be out in the middle of the ocean, but the problem remained: The only way off if someone didn’t want you to leave was over the side.

  The presence of other people was somewhat comforting, at least. Not that any of them would lift a well-manicured nail to help me if shit went sideways, but I could at least be reasonably sure Steranko wouldn’t straight-up murder me in front of them. Even the rich had limits.

  Or so I hoped.

  I heard footsteps approaching and turned around warily. One of the sasquatches had detached from the pier and was approaching. I kept my hands at my side and tried to calm the latter part of my fight or flight instinct.

  “Mr. Clarke?” He was surprisingly articulate for a missing link.

  “That’s me.”

  He turned so his side was facing me and held his arm out in the direction of the Konev. “Mr. Steranko would like a word.”

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  The interior of Steranko’s boat was right out of Casino Royale. It was furnished with a degree of opulence I’d never experienced in the flesh, and just standing in the main cabin made me feel shabby.

  And that was before I even looked at the crowd. There was quite the soirée going on. People (mostly couples) drifted through the various rooms, murmuring in what I assumed was appreciation for the furnishings.

  The bodyguard, or whoever he was, had ushered me in and left me to my own devices. Eager as I was to explore the Konev, I felt the more prudent course of action was staying put. Steranko would find me when he was ready.