Lucky Town

by Peter Vonder Haar

  In the meantime, I got to enjoy some really high-quality stink-eye. Let me tell you, if you’ve never gotten a contemptuous once-over from a rich person, you’re missing out. The dress code was apparently evening formal, and my chosen combination of Costco jeans, sneakers, and Men’s Wearhouse sports coat clearly wasn’t cutting it with these folks.

  I returned a few looks with a smile accompanied by an upraised middle finger. That got boring quick, so I looked around for a drink. There were at least two servers circling with trays of champagne, but I was in the mood for harder stuff. Chancing a look into the next room, I saw an ornate bar staffed by an attractive, yet bored-looking black woman. Nobody named Steranko had approached me yet, so I hurried over.

  “Evening,” I said.

  She assumed a more professional demeanor. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “This an open bar?”

  Her raised eyebrow was the only indication I had that I was possibly the dumbest person on the boat.

  “Excellent,” I said, scanning the racks of booze. “Is that Macallan the eighteen year?”

  “The twenty-five year,” she said.

  “Make it a double,” I said.

  “Neat?”

  “Is that a trick question? Who puts ice in twenty-five-year-old scotch?”

  She glanced around the room by way of an answer, and I couldn’t tell if she was smiling at my cheek or grimacing at my lack of couth. I took out my wallet as she retrieved the bottle. There was a pint glass on the bar sitting in the usual location for a tip jar, but it was empty.

  “Are you allowed to accept tips?” I asked.

  “In theory,” she said, handing me the tumbler. “Enjoy your drink.”

  I dropped a five into the pint glass. Big spender. “Thanks. I hope your evening’s not too shitty.”

  She gave me the two-fingered salute I recognized from my brief Cub Scout career and returned the bottle to the shelf. I turned, raising the glass to my lips. There was a short-ish fellow in a gray suit standing in front of me.

  “Mr. Clarke?” The accent was distinctly Slavic, but not overpowering in a “moose and squirrel” sense.

  I swallowed my drink (holy hell, was it good). “Mr. Steranko, I presume?”

  He offered his hand and I took it. I don’t know why, but handshakes have always bugged the hell out of me. Nothing like an outdated mode of greeting to help transfer cold germs and bacteria from men who didn’t wash after taking a leak. And that’s not counting the guys who view each shake as a personal challenge to see how many of your metacarpals they can try to grind into dust.

  Still, it beat cheek-kissing.

  Steranko’s handshake was firm, but not desperately so, and he didn’t pull me toward him for the one-arm bro hug, for which I was grateful. His hair was close-cropped, the dim lights picking up gray streaks along the sides. He was fit and his suit looked like it cost only slightly less than his shoes.

  I tried to remember the last time I’d washed my jeans.

  “What is that you’re drinking?” He looked at my glass.

  “The Macallan,” I said, then added “Twenty-five.”

  He nodded. “An excellent choice.” He looked at the bartender. “I’ll have the same.”

  She didn’t roll her eyes this time. Smart girl.

  When Steranko had his drink, he turned and started walking. I followed.

  “Have you had a chance to explore the boat?” he asked.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Please, come with me.”

  He led me toward the front of the boat, or what you call the “bow,” I guess. I was never in the Navy.

  “You seem to have done well for yourself,” I said, looking around me and acting like I knew anything about boats.

  He smiled. “That’s not really why you want to talk to me, is it?”

  If nothing else, I respected his desire to get to the point, “I’m just trying to find out what happened to my brother,” I said. “I don’t really give a shit how you make your money.”

  Steranko opened a sliding door that led to a deck. We were on the middle level of the Konev, and, as he closed the door behind us, I couldn’t help noticing we were the only people there.

  “Why do you assume I had anything to do with his disappearance?”

  “I don’t assume anything,” I replied. “Someone gave me your name and I’m just doing my job by following the lead.”

  He walked to the railing and leaned on it. We could see tankers and container ships moving through the Houston Ship Channel a short distance away.

  “Do you know who I named my boat after?” Steranko asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?

  He took another drink. “Ivan Konev was one of the greatest generals in Soviet history. He helped the USSR win the great Battle of Kursk in World War II and defended Moscow when the Germans invaded.”

  “Impressive.”

  He said, “Very impressive. He was twice named Hero of the Soviet Union and also awarded the Order of Victory, which was the highest decoration given by the USSR and only given to sixteen individuals.”

  “My uncle has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame,” I said.

  Ignoring me, Steranko continued, “The great Zhukov won it twice, and it was also given to Eisenhower and Montgomery, in thanks for their … eventual service.”

  What was I supposed to say? I’d studied the Second World War enough to know the Russians bled by the millions while the western Allies readied the eventual invasion of Europe.

  “I’ve heard of Zhukov, but I’m guessing there’s a reason you didn’t name your boat after him.”

  “Konev’s military prowess can’t be denied,” he said, “but I am possibly more of a fan of his survivability in the post-war years.”

  I said, “He never ended up on Stalin’s bad side?”

  He shook his head. “He kept his head down. Where Zhukov became embroiled in scandal and ran afoul of Stalin’s security forces, Konev emerged from that era even more popular, allying with Krushchev and eventually becoming Commander in Chief of all Warsaw Pact forces during the Cold War.”

  “You’ll forgive my saying this,” I said, “but he seems like an odd person for a man of your, let’s say, free market tendencies to idolize.”

  “I am a poor Communist.” He chuckled. “And I wouldn’t say I ‘idolize’ Konev, but I very much admire both his prowess as a tactician and his survival skills.”

  I said, “Sounds like a fitting role model for someone in your line of work.”

  “What do you know of my ‘line of work’?”

  Easy now. “Just rumors, mostly. I used to be a cop, but I don’t have access to that kind of information anymore.” Not official access, anyway, I didn’t add.

  Steranko turned to face me. “You wouldn’t be so stupid as to come onto my boat wearing a wire, would you?”

  “You think this is a sting?” I raised my shirt to show my electronically unadorned torso. “Your boys already frisked me before I came aboard.”

  “For guns,” he said. “And probably not very well. They were hired for the party. I thought it best to leave my regular detail out of sight.”

  “Too ugly?”

  “Too unlikely to show restraint,” he said. “I’m the one who maintains a civilized façade, throwing charity cruises and opening restaurants and whatnot.”

  “But they’re the ones breaking kneecaps and feeding guys to pigs,” I finished for him.

  He sighed. “I wish we had pigs. So efficient. The Brazilians, now; you want to disappear, piss off the Mob in São Paolo.”

  The dull hum of the engines grew louder, and I felt the deck shift under my feet.

  “What’s going on?” I tried to sound nonchalant. The talk of flesh-eating pigs made that difficult.

  Steranko said, “Did you miss the part about this being a charity cruise? We’re going out into the bay for a bit. Let the rich folks feel like they’re gett
ing something for their donation.”

  This was exactly what I was worried about, and I could practically hear Roy saying “I told you so” all the way from Houston. If things went south while we were still docked, at worst I’d be looking at a short swim back to shore. Heading out the open sea (or the bay, whatever) changed things considerably.

  As I was contemplating the sudden shift in my immediate future prospects, the door behind us slid open. Steranko and I both turned to watch the figure who was emerging.

  The bulky dude coming through the door must be one of the “regular detail” he mentioned. I took little comfort in noting he was just as ugly as I’d assumed.

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  “What’s this about, Ster … ” I looked at him. “Is ‘Steranko’ your first name?”

  “No,” he said, with a faint smile on his face.

  “Do you have a first name?”

  He was looking over my shoulder. “Yes, but you should probably attend to the matter at hand.”

  I turned to see the large fellow had covered the distance between us with surprising swiftness and I barely had time to duck his punch, a hard right that grazed the top of my head.

  Throwing an elbow that connected solidly but otherwise appeared to have no effect, I rolled to my right and mostly avoided a knee that bounced off my shoulder and sounded like it cracked the railing behind me.

  I came to my feet a little less gracefully than I’d have liked, and shed my sports coat. If I’d known Steranko was inviting me to the Kumite, I’d have worn a cup.

  Speaking of my host, he’d retreated to a corner and was watching us with interest. Sell some tickets next time, you prick.

  Tiny — we hadn’t been properly introduced so I was obliged to come up with a nickname for the guy — closed in again. Large as he was, his style was compact: slight crouch, arms in, moving with purpose and confidence. He had some training, which wasn’t good for me. Unlike the guy whose clock I’d cleaned at the bar the other night, this guy wasn’t relying on his bulk. It was a potentially unpleasant combination.

  I feinted with my left and probed his defenses with a right jab. He blocked that easily, but not the shot to the solar plexus I immediately followed up with, again with the left. He grunted, but if I did any real damage, it wasn’t apparent.

  He went in low to grab me and I dodged left, dropping an elbow on his right shoulder blade. He swung out with his own elbow and caught me in the thigh. It wasn’t a clean hit, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.

  We separated and Tiny assumed his defensive posture a trifle more slowly than before. As for me, my shoulder was throbbing from the one knee that didn’t even fully connect and I was going to be walking with a limp for the next week or so.

  The guy wasn’t scoring any solid shots, but he could keep wearing me down with glancing blows and eventually I’d be too slow to get out of the way or too tired to keep my guard up. I needed to end this now.

  Dropping my guard a little on purpose had the desired effect as he swooped in with a right cross that would’ve taken my head off if I hadn’t been prepared for it. Instead, I lowered my head and as his fist passed harmlessly over me, I rushed forward and shoved him into the cabin wall.

  If his feet were set, he might have been able to stop us, but coming up off his back foot like he did meant I pushed him a good 15 feet with almost no resistance. I applied the same philosophy of aiming your punch behind your opponent’s head and tried to knock him through the wall.

  I didn’t succeed, but we put a hell of a dent in it.

  His arms dropped, but he wasn’t out yet. I did my best to rectify that, working his body with my fists and his face with my elbows. Finally, after my arms had started screaming in pain and I was nearly out of breath, he slumped to the deck.

  I had a brief urge to throw him overboard, but gassed as I was, I doubt I could’ve followed through with it (and I’ve never killed anyone, that I’m aware of). I rubbed the sweat off my face. Now that I’d already ruined my clothes, I might as well pound on Steranko until he told me what I wanted to know. I turned around.

  The mobster hadn’t moved from his observation post. He had, however, been joined by two more dudes. Each bigger than the guy I’d just put down.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

  Steranko laughed. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  I raised my arms into defensive posture and waited. Maybe if I was lucky I could catch one of them with a kick to the nuts. Though given the way my night was turning out, they were both wearing cast iron codpieces.

  He put his hands up, palms out, and said, “Please, enough. It is not my intention to make you fight any more. These gentlemen are just here as a precaution.”

  I kept my arms up, but my heart rate decreased. Poking Tiny with my foot, I said, “And this gentleman?”

  “I had to see how serious you were.” Steranko said. “If you had killed Ignatius, then clearly you had more treacherous reasons for being here than simply trying to find your brother.”

  Ignatius? Nigel? Where the hell were these names coming from?

  “You have an interesting way of establishing motive,” I said, finally dropping my hands. “You’re better than those psychics the cops sometimes use.”

  He tapped his head. “A criminal I may, ah, allegedly once have been, but I am still a keen judge of character.”

  At this point, I didn’t care if the guy’s compass was missing a few points, it was just a relief not to worry about getting my nose broken again.

  I straightened my collar in a futile attempt to make it look like I hadn’t just been in a brawl and bent over to retrieve my sports coat. “So now what?”

  Steranko beamed and walked over to me, his bodyguards keeping a few paces behind him. “Now we have another drink and talk about your brother.”

  You had to hand it to the guy, he didn’t always make you feel welcome, but he was a hell of a host when he put his mind to it.

  We were seated in what I assumed was his private receiving cabin, and my mind reeled momentarily when considering how much money it took to have such a thing on a goddamned boat. The chairs were leather and extremely comfortable, and pieces of art I guessed cost more than my entire house were hung at tasteful intervals on the walls.

  The rest of the reception was a dull murmur through the walls, except for the brief moment of noise when the door opened to admit a young woman in a black top and what I think Charlie refers to as a “midi” skirt. She brought two more tumblers of what I hoped was delicious Macallan.

  It was. Unfortunately, the booze stung the various cuts on the inside of my lips, and the signature sherry cask sweetness was tempered by the taste of blood. Still, Macallan 25, man.

  The woman left, and it was just Steranko and me in the cabin. Well, and his goons. They’d retreated to the shadows but were about as easy to ignore as a couple of rhinos in turtlenecks.

  He began, “It seems you’ve been led to believe I had something to do with your brother … what was his name again?”

  “Michael. Mike.”

  “Something to do with Mike’s disappearance. Is that correct?”

  I said, “Your name came up. I’m just doing what a private investigator does: following leads.”

  “And what has your investigation turned up?” he asked.

  “Honestly? Not much,” I said. “I agreed to meet you out here,” I waved the tumbler around, careful not to spill any, “on the high seas, to try and figure out if you had anything to do with it.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Did you send someone to my house to kill me?” I countered.

  Steranko frowned. “When was this?”

  “This morning,” I said.

  “I am not in the habit of sending assassins in broad daylight,” he said, and I didn’t follow up by asking when the optimal time of day for murder was. “Do you have a reason to think I’m involved?”

  “He was carrying a Russian pistol.”


  He asked, “A Makarov?”

  I nodded.

  “These are not so difficult to obtain. They’ve been produced for decades, the world over. Still, it would not be my first choice.”

  I said, “A Glock or SIG makes more sense. The fact it happened to be a Russian gun can’t be a coincidence, and has the possibly unintended effect of making me think you actually had nothing to do with it.”

  Steranko seemed gratified, though not overly so. “Is there any other reason to think him connected to me?”

  “Not that I know of.” Then I remembered something. I retrieved the lighter from my pocket and tossed it to him. “He was carrying this, but unless you’re a big Batman fan I don’t see what it has to do with anything.”

  He caught it and turned it over in his hand. The look on his face didn’t fill me with confidence.

  “What?” I asked.

  He held it up to me. “You don’t recognize this?”

  I shook my head. “I thought it was some promo thing to go with the old Tim Burton movie. Maybe along with that Prince album.”

  His smile was without humor. “Mr. Clarke, this is a Spetsnatz lighter. It was carried by Russian special forces.”

  “You sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  I took another sip of scotch and tried not to appear agitated. The Spetsnatz were no joke, and had a well-earned reputation for being utterly ruthless. My gut feeling has been telling me the Russian was a diversion, but maybe my guts were full of crap after all.

  Finally trusting them after all, I said, “Not buying it.”

  “No?” He’d put the lighter down and was watching me carefully.

  “If you were behind it, why tell me where the lighter came from?”

  “You could have been bluffing.”

  I said, “If I was, you had nothing to gain by telling me the truth. No, the more I think about it, the more I think this is a red herring.”

  Steranko sat back in his chair and contemplated his scotch. “How can you be sure?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not. For all I know, you’re going to go out in the Gulf, cut my throat, and dump me over the side.”