Indigo Slam (v1.1)

by Robert Crais

“Look in the hag. It won’t bite you.”

  The homeless man said, “Can I look?”

  Dobcek pasted the homeless man with dead eyes. “Leave here before I crush your dog.”

  The homeless man gathered up the dog and scurried away.

  Dobcek said, “Fucking trash.” All heart, these guys.

  “Look in the bag, Dobcek.”

  He glanced at me again, then squatted and opened the bag. He reached in, felt the paper, then closed the bag and stood. “So?”

  “It’s Clark’s new project. Bring it to Markov, have him look at it, and tell him we’d like to work out a different arrangement.”

  Dobcek stared at me, then shook his head. “What do you mean?”

  “Bring it to Markov and have him look at it. I’ll wait here.”

  Dobcek leaned close to me. “We’ll kill the boy.”

  “Have him look at the money, Dobcek. I’ll wait and so will Clark. We’re not going anywhere, and Markov will want to talk about it. Tell him this is a sample.”

  Alexei Dobcek looked one hard long time at the bookstore, then walked away with the bag.

  I watched couples share coffee and breakfast at the little restaurant next to the bookstore, and I thought I might bring Lucy down here. She’d like the bookstore, and we could sit at one of the little outdoor tables and watch the street performers and enjoy ourselves. Read a little, eat a little. Be nice to do if I survived the next ten minutes or so.

  Dobcek reappeared between the street vendor tents, and this time Sautin and Andrei Markov and a fourth man were with him. The fourth man was wearing jeans and a green polo shirt, and he was carrying the bag. Markov was wearing a sharkskin jacket and gold chains, and looked like a second-rate Vegas lounge act. A young woman in a green bikini looked at him as she Bladed past and laughed. Probably wasn’t the fashion reaction he was hoping for.

  When they reached me, Markov made a little wave at the bag. “I always worry when someone change the plan on me.”

  “So why didn’t you just kill the boy and drive away?”

  “Maybe I still gonna do that. Maybe the boy and you and Clark, too.” Markov smiled toward the bookstore, then waved toward the bag again. “Why you wanna show me this?”

  “Clark printed it. He’s going to print more, and we were thinking you might like some of it instead of killing Clark and his boy. We were thinking that you might like so much of it that you’ll forgive Clark for the little problem in Seattle and let bygones be bygones.” They would either go for it or they wouldn’t. We could either convince them it was counterfeit, or we couldn’t.

  The fourth guy put the bag on the ground, and took out one of the hundreds. He snapped the bill and sneered at me. “You sayin’ this is funny?” He snapped the bill again. “My goddamned ass it is.”

  The fourth guy wasn’t Russian. He sounded like he was from Georgia or Florida, and I didn’t like it that he was here. He sounded like he knew about printing, and he might be able to call Clark a liar and get away with it. Maybe he was Markov’s current funny money specialist. I said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “The guy sayin’ you’re bullshit.”

  I smiled at Markov. “You’re not interested, that’s fine.” The homeless guy with the dog had set up shop ten yards down the boardwalk in front of a stand selling African robes. I called, “Hey, dog man.” When he looked over, I closed the bag and tossed it to him. “Have a party.” I turned back at Markov and spread my hands. “Your loss, Andrei. We’re sitting on a couple million more of this stuff.”

  Ten yards away, the homeless guy looked in the bag and shouted, “Yeow! Jesus has returned!”

  Markov sighed and tilted his head. “Dobcek.”

  Dobcek trotted over and pulled the bag away from the old man. The old man didn’t want to let go, so Dobcek punched him once in the forehead. Hard. I kept the smile on my face like it didn’t matter to me. I kept the smile like I didn’t want to take out my gun and shoot Dobcek to death. Like I didn’t feel like a dog because I had brought it on the old man.

  The fourth guy said, “Hey, Mr. Markov, if those bills are righteous I’d like to know how.” Wounded and whiny, as if his feelings were hurt that Markov doubted him.

  I said, “Clark’s in the bookstore. You give him a pass to come out here and talk about it?”

  “Da.”

  I waved Clark out. When Clark reached us he stood a little behind me, and kept his hands in his pockets. The sun made him squint so much that his eyes were little slits. Markov said, “You look like shit.”

  Clark said, “Hi, Mr. Markov.”

  The fourth guy toed the bag. “This is intaglio, not offset. This is Crane paper.” He shook his head. “My ass you printed this.”

  Clark blinked at me, and I gave him an encouraging smile. “Guy thinks you’re bullshit. Guy wants to know how you did it.” I crossed my arms so that my hand was near the Dan Wesson and hoped that Pike was zeroed on Dobcek because I was planning on shooting Sautin. I would shoot Sautin first, then Markov, and then the fourth man, and hope that I could do all that before someone shot me. We were maybe twenty seconds from all the shooting, and if we survived the boy would still be lost, all because some cracker who knew a little printing just happened to be with Markov.

  Clark blinked at me again, and I said, “Tell the man, Clark.”

  Clark blinked once more, then took a bill from the bag, snapped it just as the cracker had, and smiled at Andrei Markov. “Of course it’s Crane paper. You can’t fake that wonderful sound.” He snapped it again, then held up the bill. “They used to be one-dollar bills.”

  The cracker frowned.

  Clark said, “Real U.S. money printed on real Crane paper.” He held the bill to Markov. Markov took it. “But they were ones. I washed them, Andrei. Bleached the original ink, then washed them and pressed them and reprinted them as hundreds.” Clark’s smile widened. “You wouldn’t believe the wonderful technology we have now, Andrei.”

  The cracker took a bill from the bag and frowned harder at it.

  Clark said, “I bleached eight hundred pounds of paper, and I’ve got an intaglio press. It’s older, but it’s one of the Swiss originals that a printing firm in France had until they went out of business last year.” Clark let the smile turn shy. “Well, it’s not mine, really, but these people I know have it. I’m printing for them just the way I was printing for you.” I was staring at Clark. Staring, and impressed as hell.

  Markov said, “You gonna steal from them, too?”

  “If I have to.” He said it directly to Markov and he said it well.

  The cracker said, “Where’d you get the plates?”

  “Scanned them off a series of mint collector notes, all perfect hundreds printed between 1980 and 1985.1 used a high-density digitizer to get a pretty clean line, then created a photoneg off the digital image and used the photoneg to acid-etch the plates.” Clark pointed at the hundred the cracker was holding. “You can see the inks are a little off, but I think I got pretty close.”

  The cracker squinted at the bill and nodded. “Yeah, a little too dark.” Afraid that Clark was showing him up in front of Markov.

  Markov watched them talk with no more understanding of what they were saying than any of the rest of us, but he seemed to be buying it and that was all I cared about. I said, “It doesn’t matter that the inks are a little off. What we’re talking here is bank-quality notes, counterfeit bills that will fool a bank or a cop or a Secret Service agent. Clark can print some extra for you. You get the money, and he gets his boy and you let them walk.”

  Markov stared at me. Probably thinking about his older brother sitting in prison.

  I rested a hand on Clark’s shoulder. “And when he finishes this job, maybe you guys can go into business again.”

  Markov’s eyes shifted to Clark, then back to me. They went to Clark again. “How much of this paper you have?”

  “Eight hundred pounds, like I said.”

  “When it’s gone,
can you make more, da?”

  Clark shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. The chemicals were very hard to get. I won’t lie to you about that.”

  Markov nodded, thinking, then looked at the cracker. The cracker shrugged. “It’s good, Andrei. It’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

  I picked up the bag and held it out to Markov. “Here. You keep it. You got any doubts, go see how it spends and think about getting more of it.”

  Andrei Markov took the bag but didn’t look into it or think anymore. He said, “Five million.”

  I looked at Clark. “Can you print five million extra?”

  Clark said, “Oh, sure. No problem.”

  I smiled at Markov. “How about letting the boy go as a sign of good faith?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You’ll get the boy when I get the money.”

  I nodded. “And after that Clark and his family are done with it. You give them a pass?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll call Dobcek at the same number when we’ve got the money.”

  Andrei Markov nodded again, and then the four of them walked away. I took Clark by the arm and we walked away in the other direction. I said, “You did fine, Clark. We’re going to get your son.”

  Clark didn’t say anything. Just past the bookstore he collapsed to one knee and threw up. I waited until he was done, then helped him to his feet.

  Now all we needed were the cops.

  CHAPTER 31

  Joe Pike reappeared at his Jeep five minutes after us, the long gun in its case. I said, “Anyone follow us?”

  Pike shook his head. “How’d it go?”

  I helped Clark into the backseat and patted his leg. “Fine. Clark, you did fine.”

  Clark smiled, but it was tired and weak, and two blocks later he hung his head out the window and threw up again.

  We drove directly to my office to make the calls. I wasn’t worried that the feds had tapped the phone because that’s who I was calling. We left Pike’s Jeep in my parking spot, then took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Normally, I would walk, but not with Clark.

  I let us in, then opened the French doors for the air. “You want anything to drink?”

  “Uhn-uhn.”

  “You need the bathroom, it’s down the hall.”

  “Thank you.” He sat on the couch and stared at the Pinocchio clock. I took a breath, organized what I wanted to say, then called Marsha Fields. When she came on the line, I said, “Are you familiar with a Seattle mobster named Andrei Markov?”

  “No. Should I be?”

  “Markov and his organization are in your system. A U.S. Marshal named Jasper is down here now because of him. I’d like to call you back in five after you’ve checked this out.”

  She seemed impatient. “Does this have anything to do with your counterfeit money?”

  “Yes.”

  I hung up and leaned back. Pike was standing in the French doors, watching the city. Clark was on the couch, hands in his lap, breathing gently. He was smiling at the Pinocchio clock and the little figurines. He said, “Your office isn’t what I would’ve expected.”

  “Neither are you.”

  He looked at me and nodded, and I nodded back. “Thanks again for doing all this.” He wet his lips like he was going to say more, but then he said nothing.

  I gave Marsha Fields ten minutes, then called. She said, “Okay, your boy Markov is a real sweet piece.”

  “That’s one way of saying it.”

  “I understand Jasper’s down here looking for a printer who turned state’s against Markov’s brother.” Marsha Fields had done a lot in ten minutes.

  “I can give you Markov for possession of counterfeit currency and for kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping who?”

  “Markov is holding Hewitt’s twelve-year-old son.”

  “Well, good Lord.” She didn’t say anything for maybe ten seconds. “Is Clark Hewitt printing?” She had done more than a lot.

  “Markov’s people murdered a guy named Wilson Brownell four days ago in Seattle. They’re using the boy to try to get to Hewitt, and then they’ll kill the whole goddamned family. Do you want Markov or not?”

  “You want something for Hewitt, don’t you?”

  “Hewitt will testify for you, just as he did in Seattle, and he will participate to such a degree as will allow you to bust Markov, but his other activities are not to be investigated and must not be questioned.”

  Marsha Fields said, “No one can agree to that.”

  “That’s the deal.”

  I could hear her breathing on the other end.

  “I will tell you this much: Clark Hewitt is not printing U.S. currency, and his activities involve no other crime, either civil or criminal. It’s a one-shot deal, and you’ll never have to worry about Clark Hewitt again.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “He’s dying of stomach cancer.” When I said that, Clark Hewitt did not react in any way. I guess he was used to it.

  She took a single breath, then let it out. “How do I know that’s true?”

  “Your own doctor can examine him if you want.”

  She hesitated.

  “Come on, Marsha. You’ll get Markov and half a dozen of his people, and maybe his whole operation. It’s either worth it to you, or it isn’t, and all I want you to do is let Clark Hewitt walk away when it’s over.”

  “Where are you?”

  I gave her the number, and she told me that she would call back within the hour. It only took forty minutes. She said, “No one is agreeing to anything at this time, but we’re willing to talk about it. Will Hewitt come in?”

  “No.”

  “You’re really being a prick.”

  “He’ll come in after you agree to the deal, but not before.”

  “My office at noon.”

  We phoned Dak and told him we were on our way in. Pike dropped me at my car, then he and Clark went back to the safe house while I made my way downtown to the Royal Building. I got there at three minutes after noon. Reed Jasper was there with his red-haired pal from the LA office of the U.S. Marshals, along with a muscular balding guy with little square glasses named Lance Minelli. Minelli was Marsha Fields’s boss at Treasury. The last person there was a chunky African-American woman with gray-flecked hair from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. She was wearing a dark green linen business suit, introduced herself as Emily Thornton, and from the way everyone kept glancing at her you could tell she was the one with the juice. I said, “Man, Jasper, you get around.”

  Jasper didn’t offer to shake my hand, and neither did the other marshal. “I knew you had something going with Hewitt. I could smell it on you like stink.”

  Emily Thornton cleared her throat. As soon as she sat, the others sat, too. She said, “Special Agent Fields indicates that you have information regarding a man named Andrei Markov.”

  “Did the special agent describe that information?”

  Jasper said, “Describe. Can you believe this guy?”

  Thornton’s eyes flicked to him and her eyebrows went up maybe an eighth of an inch. “You’re here by invitation, I believe, aren’t you, Mr. Jasper?”

  Jasper frowned but said nothing. I was liking Emily Thornton just fine. She came back to me. “Ms. Fields did tell me the situation, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  I went through it again, telling her that I could offer them Andrei Markov on a count of possessing counterfeit U.S. currency with intent to distribute and defraud, and for the more serious charge of kidnapping a minor. I told them that I could offer Clark Hewitt as a witness to both counts. Thornton listened without speaking until I was done, and then she said, “Who is this minor?”

  “Hewitt’s twelve-year-old son.”

  She wrote something on a pad. “Is Hewitt now printing this money?”

  “Hewitt is in the Los Angeles area.”

  Jasper’s pal said, “Oh, to hell with this guy!” He put his forearms on the table and made a face at Minelli. “
Christ, Lance. Fuck this guy.”

  Thornton’s eyes went to him. “Would you get us coffee, please?”

  He blinked at her.

  Emily Thornton repeated herself. “Coffee for everyone, with sweeteners and a creamer of some kind.”

  Jasper’s pal’s face went dark red, and he forced out an angry smile, like she was confused about something and he was going to set her straight. “You want coffee, lady, I think you oughta ask someone in the hall.”

  Emily Thornton didn’t move, but Lance Minelli said, “Step out of the room, please.” His voice was quiet and his face said absolutely nothing.

  The red-haired man opened his mouth, closed it, then abruptly walked out and closed the door. He closed the door so softly that you could barely hear it. I guess he was the one confused.

  When he was gone Thornton pursed her lips, and tapped one immaculately enameled nail on the table. “I would think your Mr. Hewitt would come to us anyway, with his son in danger.”

  “We’re going to get his son back with or without your help, Ms. Thornton. Your help will make it easier.”

  A microscopic smile touched the corners of her mouth. She said, “You were involved with Ida Leigh Washington, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ida Leigh Washington was a woman I’d helped a few years ago. I’d proven that a small group of corrupt police officers had murdered her son, and then I’d helped her recover damages from the city.

  The smile broadened for just a moment, then vanished. “Yes, well, I imagine you could get the boy back.” She tapped the nail again. “What is it you want?”

  “Clark Hewitt is dying of stomach cancer. He is currently engaged in an activity to earn money to care for his children after he dies. I want him to be able to complete that activity free of investigation or prosecution.”

  Emily Thornton shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly agree to that.”

  “Then we have no deal.”

  Jasper said, “How about we just throw your ass in the tank?”

  I spread my hands. “On what charges?”

  Jasper frowned and Minelli shrugged. “We could probably think of something.”

  “So play it that way if you want.”