Bad Faith bkamc-24

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  But for the second time that morning, it was too late. David Ellis was dead.

  15

  Heedless of the rats that scurried to get out of his way, David Grale swept through the sewer tunnel cursing the art world. He’d been on his way to Coney Island when he received word that the guardians at one of the entrances had intercepted two graffiti artists. Normally, he would have let his men handle the trespassers-usually by frightening the wits out of them-but this was the closest to the kingdom that they’d penetrated and he wanted to question them himself.

  He wished that the current fad would quickly run its course. Word of the underground artwork had spread-helped by an article with color photographs in The New Yorker magazine-and his world was suddenly popular with artists, their fans, and the media. One of New York’s eccentric high-society mavens had even thrown a black-tie party, complete with catering and champagne, at the “opening” of a show by one of the hot young spray-painters beneath Grand Central Terminal. What had once been a haven for society’s castoffs and rodents, and a playground for teenagers, was being invaded, keeping the guardians busier than they’d ever been.

  And they’re getting closer. Grale seethed as he rushed along in the near dark. The fact that two had made it through the warren of tunnels to one of the main entrances was alarming.

  Arriving at a dimly lit intersection of the tunnels, he found his two men guarding the prisoners, who were seated on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. They looked up in fear as he stalked up to them.

  “What have we got here, Harvey?” he growled, speaking to the older of the two guardians.

  “Artists,” Harvey said scathingly before a coughing spell interrupted him. When it stopped, he added, “Meet Adrian and Chad.”

  “What are you doing here?” Grale snarled at the flinching prisoners.

  “Just looking for a place to paint, bro,” said the one identified as Adrian, nodding at the spray-paint cans and lantern lying on the tunnel floor. “It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  Grale bent over to look more closely at their faces. They were both young, late twenties, with long hair, tie-dyed shirts, and worn jeans.

  “No, it’s not a free country, not here,” he replied. “How did you get to this place?”

  “We just started looking for a wall to work on,” Chad replied. “And we got lost.”

  “You are not welcome here,” Grale warned them.

  “Where is here?” Adrian asked.

  “The third circle of hell,” Grale said. “And if you return, you will never leave again. Am I clear?”

  Both men’s eyes widened with fear and they nodded. “We won’t,” they promised.

  Grale turned to his younger guard. “Brother Louis, please escort these two back to where they can find their way out,” he said. “And if they give you any trouble … shoot them.”

  “With pleasure,” Louis said. “Okay, you two, up and out of here. Let me see your wrists so I can untie you.”

  When the guardian and his prisoners were gone, Harvey turned to Grale. “That’s the farthest any of these so-called artists have made it,” he said. “I don’t like it. Maybe we need to crack down a little harder.”

  “I don’t like it either, brother, but what would you have us do? Do we start killing kids because they want to spray-paint on a subway tunnel?” Grale asked. “But you’re right, we need to do something or find a new home.” He cocked his head to the side as if some new thought troubled him, then shrugged. “We’ll talk later, but I’ve got to go.”

  Pulling the hood of his robe over his head, Grale hurried away. “Artists,” he growled.

  Bruce Knight looked up at the teenage vendor behind the counter at the Nathan’s Famous hot dog stand at Coney Island.

  “Okay, buddy, what will it be?” asked the vendor.

  “Um, I’ll have a regular dog and an order of cheese fries,” Knight replied.

  A few minutes later, he walked away from Nathan’s and headed for the boardwalk that ran along Brighton Beach. He noticed two large, tough-looking men lounging against a wall, wearing identical black leather coats. Aware that they’d fallen in behind him, he kept walking as he’d been told when he had called the number his former employer had sent him to arrange a meeting with Nadya Malovo’s faux cousin, Boris Kazanov. “He’ll tell you where and when. Just listen to what he has to say and let Nadya know,” he was told.

  For the millionth time, Knight second-guessed himself for telling Grale about Malovo. He’d orginally thought that he would inform Grale that she was in town, working for the feds, and had mentioned Kane, and then remove himself as her attorney.

  But Grale had other ideas. “I cannot force you to stay on as her attorney or report on what she says,” he said, “but you’ve seen the evidence against her; you know she has committed great evil and it is in her to do more. I can’t do anything about her at the moment, but ridding the world of Kazanov would be a blow for righteousness.”

  Grale had not told him what he had planned for Kazanov, but he was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. It has to be better than what he’s done to Kane, he thought, shuddering at the image of the insane former mayoral candidate. However, now he wasn’t sure who would win a confrontation between Kazanov, his henchmen, and Grale, especially after seeing the size and demeanor of the men who were following him. He suspected that if Grale lost, Kazanov wouldn’t think too kindly of the man who set him up.

  Although he had been aware of Grale’s vigilante activities when he lived with the Mole People, Knight had never committed any illegal acts, much less murder. He knew that others went with Grale on some of his hunting forays, but he’d never been asked to participate. Until now.

  “I understand that this form of justice isn’t in you,” Grale said. “But perhaps if I recount some of his past deeds, you’ll feel better when he is gone.” His friend had then gone on to describe several of the brutal, sadistic murders allegedly committed by the vicious Russian hit man until Knight was sick to his stomach and agreed to go ahead with the meeting. “But that’s as far as I’ll go and-” he began to say.

  Grale had interrupted with a smile, his eyes bright with anticipation of the meeting. “I wouldn’t ask you to do more, brother,” he said. “This is between me and one of the Evil One’s minions.”

  When Knight called the number he’d been given by Malovo, a man with a heavily accented Russian voice answered, “Da?”

  Knight responded as he had been instructed. “Nadya Malovo wishes to send her greetings to her cousin Boris,” he said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation on the other end of the line and then another voice-this one deeper, rougher, and somehow more malevolent-spoke. “Who are you?” he asked gruffly.

  “Um, I’m Nadya’s attorney, am I speaking to Boris?” he’d replied.

  Instead of answering, the man had given him an order. “In two nights, go to Nathan’s in Coney Island,” he’d said. “Buy a hot dog and fries and then walk down the boardwalk toward Coney Island Avenue. You will see two men, my men, but do not be alarmed. They will follow you … for your protection.” Knight could have sworn that the man chuckled when he said those last few words, then added, “The bitch’s ‘cousin’ will contact you when he is sure you haven’t been followed.”

  “Okay, I-” Knight started to reply.

  “No more talk,” the man snarled. “And, Mr. Attorney …”

  “Yes?”

  “If this is a trick, your client’s cousin will slit you open like a hog and eat your liver as you watch.” Then the phone went dead.

  The thought of being slit open and cannibalized was foremost in his mind as he approached a particularly dark area of the boardwalk where the lights on the path seemed to have been removed. Knight remembered how he had once read that the Brighton Beach area was also known as Little Odessa for its large number of Russian immigrants. The article had also noted that it was the New York home of the Russian Mafia, which it claimed was more violen
t than the worst street gang.

  As he moved into the dark area of the boardwalk, Knight noticed that although it was a pleasant night for early spring, just a little cool with a slight ocean breeze, there were no strolling couples, or joggers, or anyone else coming toward him. Glancing behind, he could not see anyone following beyond the two hulking figures of Kazanov’s men. He was alone.

  Suddenly, a dark shadow separated itself from the stone wall on his left. A man larger than either of the two behind him stood in front, blocking his way. He could just make out the man’s scarred and brutal face in the light of the half moon that had risen out to sea; his nose looked like a misshapen potato, bright feral eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows, and his breath stank when he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Mr. Attorney,” the man sneered. “What word do you bring me from my ‘cousin’ Nadya?”

  “I … I …,” Knight stammered, suddenly weak in the knees. He’d never felt such a palpable presence of evil before and his only thought was to escape. Where’s Grale? Why am I alone? His terror threatened to consume him.

  “‘I … I … I …, ’” Kazanov mimicked. “Come, little mouse, before the cat swallows you or you piss in your pants, what did she say? Or do I have to cut the words out of your mouth?” As he spoke, the Russian pulled a long, wicked-looking straight razor from his coat.

  Somehow, Knight managed to squeak out the words he’d been told to say. “The Halloween party this year will be in the Village. And your cousin hopes you will bring the family.”

  Kazanov furrowed his brow and then laughed loudly but without humor. “Tell my cousin that we will be happy to attend,” he said. “However, we will need assurances that our traveling expenses will be covered. Do you understand?”

  Knight nodded. “Yes, I’ll tell her and-”

  Out of the gloom behind Kazanov’s men, a voice spoke. “Booger hong-ree,” it said. “’Pare some change, misters?”

  Kazanov snarled. “Beat it, you piece of crap.”

  “By St. Peter, this poproshika smells like rotting meat,” one of the men gasped as he and his comrade turned to face the large shadow that had materialized behind them. “Get away, scum.”

  In spite of his fear, Knight smiled slightly and even welcomed the stench of the Walking Booger, though he wondered what one man-even one as large as this one-could do against three. He quickly learned when with surprising speed, Booger stepped toward one of Kazanov’s men and with one hand around his throat, lifted him off the ground like he was a bag of cotton. He then dropped the man to the boardwalk, where he lay choking and clawing at air, his larynx having been crushed by the immense hand of Booger.

  The second of Kazanov’s men moved to attack Booger but suddenly an arrow appeared in his back, and then another and another. He too fell to the boardwalk; he shuddered once and died in a pool of blood.

  “You set me up! You die,” Kazanov growled, and began to move toward Knight with his razor. But Knight felt himself lifted off his feet and tossed to the sand beyond the boardwalk.

  It was now Kazanov facing off with Booger, who was as large as the Russian and fifty pounds heavier. But Booger had no intention of engaging him. Instead, he left that fight for the man who jumped to the boardwalk from behind the wall.

  “Kazanov, your evil is at an end!” David Grale shouted.

  The Russian whirled to face the new threat. “So, I will have to kill three now,” he spat.

  “You won’t be killing anyone,” Grale replied. “And don’t worry about my friends, I am all that is needed to send your soul to hell, from whence it came.”

  “I will slit your throat and pull your beating heart from it, ghoul!” Kazanov screamed, and lunged at Grale, slashing with his razor.

  Lying in terror on the sand, at first Knight wondered why Booger merely watched his friend being attacked by the much larger man. But then he was reminded of his own feeble attempts to ward off Grale when they first met.

  The Russian found himself cutting at air as his opponent moved easily beyond his reach. Ducking and weaving, Grale moved in quickly, slashing with his own crescent-shaped blade. He cut-an arm, a leg, across the big man’s face-before Kazanov could react except to grunt in pain.

  After several minutes of this, Kazanov stood panting, weaving slightly, now holding his razor as if to ward off another attack. “I will pay you beyond your wildest dreams to go,” he offered.

  “My wildest dreams are to see you and your kind gone from the world,” Grale said. “In case you are wondering, you are experiencing what the Chinese call death by a thousand cuts. Your evil blood is draining from your body, and the more you exert yourself, the faster the Reaper approaches and the time of your returning to your master arrives.”

  Kazanov stumbled a bit forward, then caught himself. He seemed spent, his arm with the razor dropping to his side. He stumbled a bit more toward Grale, as if on his last legs, but it was a trick. Fiercely, he slashed at the robed opponent in front of him. “Die, you bastard!” he screamed.

  The move nearly caught Grale as the razor cut through a sleeve of his robe. But it was not fast enough. The attack threw Kazanov’s balance off and he fell to his knees.

  As quick as a panther, Grale jumped behind him and, with one swift movement, cut the killer’s throat from ear to ear. Kazanov dropped his razor and his hands went to his neck as though he could stop the blood that spurted from his arteries and veins. There was a gurgling sound as blood poured down his windpipe, and then he collapsed, his body twitching.

  Grale stood for a moment over his opponent before bending over and wiping his blade on Kazanov’s coat. Standing back up, he announced, “Thus another evil leaves the world.”

  Looking over at Knight, who was slowly picking himself up, he smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Are you okay?” he inquired.

  Knight shook his head and then leaned over and retched. When he finished, he looked again at Kazanov and then Grale. “This was revenge, not justice.”

  Grale looked back for a moment and then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “But I’ll leave the niceties of bringing evil men into courts, trying them, sending them to prison, and then letting them out again a few years later to brutalize and butcher more innocent people to the legal system.” He then turned to Booger, who’d stood motionless the whole time. “Ready to go, my friend?” he asked.

  The giant nodded. “Booger hong-ree.”

  Grale smiled. “So am I. What do you say we go get a hot dog at Nathan’s?”

  Booger smiled. “Yum, ’ot dog and fries.”

  “Sure, a hot dog and fries. You deserve it. Going to join us, Bruce?” Grale asked. “My treat.”

  Knight looked up at the stars and then shook his head. “No. I seem to have lost my appetite. I’m just going to go home.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Grale replied. Then he and Booger walked off toward the bright lights of Coney Island.

  16

  “Taking Gilgamesh out for a walk, babe,” Marlene called out over her shoulder as her 150-pound presa canario guard dog bounded around her legs like a puppy. When Karp didn’t answer, she turned around to where he was sitting on the couch in the living room of their loft, apparently lost in thought. “Butch?”

  Karp looked up suddenly as if he’d been dreaming. “What?”

  “Dog. Walk,” Marlene replied, holding up a leash.

  “Oh, uh, no, thanks,” he said absently, then pointed at the papers on the coffee table in front of him. “I want to look these over again.”

  Marlene sighed inwardly. She knew he was referring to the detective investigative reports, known as DD-5s, from the murder of David Ellis, which included the shooting of ADA Kenny Katz and subsequent killing of the shooter, Kathryn Boole, by one of the Reverend C. G. Westlund’s bodyguards, Frank Bernsen.

  What a week it had been for the media. First there were the shootings in front of the courthouse, which had been followed by a whirlwind of stories and editorials, some of which had eve
n blamed her husband’s insistence that the Ellises be tried for fostering the environment that pushed Kathryn Boole over the edge. Of course, Westlund had picked up on the theme and run with it.

  The shootings had been followed two days later by the bizarre killings of a notorious Russian hit man, Boris Kazanov, and two of his known associates on the boardwalk along Brighton Beach. According to the medical examiner’s report, Kazanov had been cut dozens of times, none of them fatal, “but enough to cause the victim to lose a significant amount of blood while still living.” The fatal wound had nearly severed his head.

  If that hadn’t been weird enough, one of the other victims-a man with a rap sheet as long as he was tall-had suffered a broken neck and crushed larynx. The coroner’s report had noted bruising on the victim’s neck, “consistent with finger and thumb marks left by a human hand … a very large human hand.” And, perhaps the oddest death of the three, the last victim had been pierced by three arrows, “any one of which would have been fatal,” according to the ME.

  Curious, Marlene had called Butch’s cousin Ivgeny Karchovski, a Russian gangster living in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach, to ask if he might know something about the murders that the newspapers weren’t reporting. Although involved in illegal activites, especially smuggling Eastern Bloc and Russian immigrants into the country and bootleg caviar and furs, Karchovski did not deal in drugs, weapons, or prostitution, which made him okay in her book. He carried on his business quietly and without bloodshed unless threatened, at which point the former Russian Army colonel could be quite ruthless with his competitors.

  “If it was a gang hit, no one is taking responsibility for it,” Ivgeny told her. “It is good riddance though to a brutal monster, but it would take some-how do you Americans say … gonads to take on Kazanov and his men. To be honest, I think he must have pissed off a madman to have met such a fate.”

  Marlene had told her husband what his cousin said, but his response had been, “It’s the Brooklyn DAO’s problem.” It was an atypically short retort for him, but she understood that his mind was on the shooting-and Westlund.