Grabbing the donuts and coffee, I ambled past a sporty little red Mercedes convertible. It was the kind I’d dreamed of owning as a kid. Of course, I’d also planned on being rich and famous, happily married, and living in a New York City penthouse. Who knew I’d be hanging out with an overweight dirt magnet who didn’t believe in putting on underwear, and his brother, the cross-dressing rapist?
I wandered up a pathway adorned with plastic pots, broken rakes, and a swing missing its seat, to step inside a shop whose every square inch was crammed full of bric-a-brac. But the sensory experience didn’t end there. Dust balls covered the floor like a ghostly clan of down-and-out Okies, and eau de mildew filled the air. I kicked my way through the aisles until I spotted the queen of junk herself.
Mavis Newcomb appeared just as she did in her commercials, with a helmet of blond hair piled high. Not only was she probably destroying the ozone layer with a full can of spray-on lacquer each morning, but by the looks of it, her hair would be the one thing left standing after a nuclear attack. Bent over a hefty stack of paperwork, she was adorned to the hilt in an eye-catching array of baubles, bangles, and beads.
A stunning pair of diamond earrings sparkled on Mavis’s lobes, clearly meant to complement the five-karat ring that lodged like a lethal weapon on her finger. A thick gold necklace hung down over her breasts, where it brushed against the solid gold Rolex strapped to her wrist. This was obviously a gal who believed in wearing her weights, rather than lifting them.
She was dressed in a lemon-yellow pantsuit, and sported high heels that were as bright as the sun. To say the effect was overwhelming would have been selling her short; especially since Mavis was as wide as she was tall. What she most resembled was an overgrown marshmallow chick that had successfully escaped from its Easter basket.
Mavis glanced up, examined me through her rhinestone glasses, and then focused back down on her work.
“Sorry, sugar, but I ain’t buyin’ any junk today. One more item and this place of mine is gonna explode.”
“What I’ve got in mind won’t take up much room. I was wondering if you might be in the market for some roe?”
I placed the Krispy Kreme bag in front of her, along with a cup of black coffee. Popping the lid on my own container, I took a sip, then opened the sack of goodies. Mmm. The glazed donuts were still hot and gooey, their aroma almost sweet enough to overpower the scent of mildew. I pulled one out and took a bite.
“So, what do you say? Are you interested?”
Mavis slowly put down her pen and looked back up. “In case you haven’t noticed, what I’ve got here is a junkyard.”
I pushed the bag closer toward her. Mavis daintily reached in and extracted a donut. She held it between her thumb and index finger, keeping her pinkie curved ever so properly in the air. The sugary glaze spread smooth as Chapstick over her lips as she began to nibble on it.
“What makes you think I’d be interested in something like that?” she asked, polishing off the donut.
“Because your ex, Virgil Hardy, told me so.”
Mavis popped one finger after the other into her mouth, and scrupulously sucked off all remnants of icing. Then she peered back inside the bag and eyed another couple hundred calories.
“Well, you don’t look like any kind of fisherman to me. So, what’s in it for you, even if I did happen to be interested?”
She’d just begun to reach for another tasty morsel when I broke the good news. “Plenty. You see, I’m your friendly U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent.”
Mavis’s fingers flew out of the bag as if they’d just touched a burning ember.
“Goddammit to hell!” she exploded. “That lowlife, scum-sucking piece of turd! Did he send you out here to harass me?”
Hmm. Those were familiar fighting words. I wondered what else Mavis and Virgil shared, besides a fondness for colorful adjectives. A dress or two, perhaps?
“I understand that you and Virgil’s brother Woody are in the caviar business together—which presents a problem, since neither of you has a license. Come to think of it, that gives me enough probable cause to get a search warrant executed on this place, and have all your records removed.”
Mavis pinched her mouth tightly closed and glared at me.
“Virgil also informed me that you’re buying roe from fishermen who are poaching paddlefish in closed states. I’m sure you’re aware that’s a big no-no.” That ought to help loosen her up a bit.
“Oh, he did, did he? Well, that sonofabitch ought to know what he’s talking about. Except I’m not the person who’s doing it!” she barked.
“Then maybe you’d like to tell me who is?” I cordially offered.
Mavis’s scowl relaxed into a Cheshire cat grin as she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out three packets of Nutrasweet. She gave the bags a precise tap before meticulously ripping each one open and carefully pouring its contents into her coffee. Then she took her time scrutinizing the remaining donuts before choosing one to her liking.
“First of all, you do know Virgil is crazy, don’t you?” The tip of her tongue licked the glaze off her lips as her eyes studied me with almost as much interest as they did her donut. “Besides, if you really had something on me, you wouldn’t be standing here talking. You’d already have a subpoena in your hot little hands and be tearing through the place.”
I wondered how Virgil had ever managed to hook up with her. Newcomb was one smart cookie.
“You’re thinking about this the wrong way, Mavis. I can make your life a living hell, or decide to give you a break,” I conned.
Mavis wet a finger and picked up the crumbs scattered on the table. “And why would you want to do that?” she asked with feigned indifference.
“One simple reason: information.”
“Oh, yeah! That would be a real smart move on my part,” she scoffed. “Like I told you, I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. Either we come to an understanding, or you’ll have a lot more than just me to worry about.”
Mavis continued to smile, but a look of worry had begun to take root behind her rhinestone glasses. “What are you going to do? Have me picked up on littering charges?” she mocked with forced laughter.
“No, I’m thinking more along the lines of murder. I understand that you had quite the hefty life insurance policy taken out on your husband.”
“What smart woman doesn’t?”
“Yeah, but it’s not every wife who’s suspected of murder,” I countered. “I just might have to get permission to exhume his body.”
“If every wife were investigated because her husband accidentally died, the police wouldn’t have time for anything else. But if you still insist on taking a look at George, be my guest. His ashes are right over there.”
She pointed with her thumb to a cloisonné urn that sat on the shelf behind her.
“Excuse me. But is that a price tag I see on it?” I asked in disbelief.
“Hey, if someone wants to buy the jar, I’ll take him out and stick him in another container.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll pay a visit to the hunter who mistakenly shot him,” I warned.
Mavis removed her glasses and methodically began to polish the lenses, as if she were practicing a form of meditation. “Sure. You can find Frank Hayes sitting in the next aisle. Talk about your bad breaks—seems he was so distraught over hitting poor George that he offed himself the very next day.”
“You didn’t also happen to have a life insurance policy out on him, did you?” I inquired dryly.
Mavis didn’t bother to answer. But then, she didn’t have to. She so clearly resembled the cat who ate the canary that I was tempted to reach over and pluck the feathers out of her mouth. It was time to skip straight to hardball.
“All right. Let’s cut the crap and get down to business, Mavis. I happen to be privy to a little-known fact that would have the IRS attached to your ass faster than your husband hit the ground.”
“Oh yeah? Anything you care to share?” she nonchalantly asked.
Her fingertips were the giveaway; all ten nails dug into the desk like miniature jackhammers.
“Just that the profits you report don’t come anywhere near your actual take.”
“People love to spread rumors like that about those of us who run our own business. Especially when the owner is female. You should know that,” she chided. “By the way, what did you say your name was, hon?”
It was a blatant attempt to corral me into a guilt trip of “We women have to stick together.” I had to hand it to her; Mavis knew how to play every chord.
“Rachel Porter.”
“Well, Rachel. I’m sure you face the same sort of thing in your own line of work. It was probably a man who passed on that nasty piece of tittle-tattle. Am I right?” Mavis purred with a knowing glance.
“Actually, it was a woman,” I replied.
She instantly turned tail. “They’re even worse! They can’t stand to see one of their own kind make it!”
“Time’s up, Mavis. I know you’ve got two different sets of books for this shop. Either you decide to work with me and start supplying information, or I place a call that will end up costing you a lot more than your life insurance stash,” I warned her.
“It’s your word against mine,” Mavis countered. “I’d like to see anyone try and find two sets of books.”
“Why, did you cremate them? Or is that in your plans for the near future?”
She nonchalantly shrugged and reached for another donut. I abruptly jerked the bag away.
“Perhaps you don’t realize it, but you’ve made more than your fair share of enemies in this world, Mavis. One of them managed to ‘borrow’ the evidence and had it photocopied. And guess what? They were nice enough to give me a duplicate,” I bluffed.
Mavis caved. “Was it that bitch niece of mine?” she asked angrily.
Wynona was turning out to be quite the popular family member.
“You know, I can’t seem to remember who it was. There are just too many people out there who don’t like you. So, do we have a deal?” I pressed.
Mavis’s fingers began to play a drumroll on the table. “What do I get in return?”
“What! You mean besides the fact that I won’t investigate your husband’s questionable death any further, or sic the IRS on you?” I asked in mock amazement.
“Junk’s not the only thing I sell, sugar. If you want information, we gotta bargain for it.” She punctuated her point with a wise-ass smile, producing two dimples that burrowed themselves deeply into her rotund cheeks.
“I guess that all depends on what you have to offer.”
Mavis leaned back and kicked off her shoes. Even her toenails were painted yellow. “Okay, here’s a tidbit for you. Both Virgil and Woody used to work for me. That is, for the little bit of paddlefish roe I ever bought,” she cautiously added. “But all that ended the day another dealer moved into the area and stole them away.”
“How did that happen?” I asked.
Virgil was even dumber than I’d imagined, sending me here. Either that or he never dreamed Mavis would actually spill the beans.
“Easy: he’s paying them more than the going rate. Every caviar dealer in the area is up in arms about this guy. He’s swiping fishing crews right out from under local dealers’ noses. All a fisherman has to do is agree to work only for him, and he’s automatically put on the payroll,” Mavis revealed.
The idea seemed both brilliant and unbelievable.
“You mean fishermen won’t sell paddlefish roe to any other dealer but him?”
“You got it! The bastard’s screwing us all. Meanwhile, he’s on his way to cornering the entire Southern caviar market—and I’m talking both the legal and illegal trade! Thanks to him, I can barely manage to make ends meet. That’s the only reason why I’m still sitting in this hellhole! You wanna know what happened to the American dream?”
I nodded my head, not wanting to interrupt her verbal vendetta.
“I’ll tell you what happened! I used up all my husband’s life insurance money trying to break into the caviar trade, hoping to mingle with a better class of people. Instead, I got wiped out by some goddamn foreigner!”
She had just fully lassoed my attention.
“Who is this guy?” I questioned.
“Uh-uh! First we gotta come to an agreement.”
“I’ve already made a more than generous offer,” I reminded her. “What else could you possibly want?”
“Full immunity and protection.”
Now I knew I was on to something good.
I slowly shook my head and sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Mavis. That’s an awful lot to ask for. What you’ve told me so far is interesting, but it’s not enough to cut that kind of a deal.”
Mavis smirked. “Okay, Porter, I’ll give you a bit more. After all, I’m nothing but a small fish. There’s a much bigger barracuda out there for you to hook onto your line—namely, that sonofabitch dealer I just told you about. He’s now got an entire network of good ol’ boys going out each night, poaching paddlefish. And I’m not just talking about here in Tennessee; I mean where the waters are closed in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Then he’s tinning the paddlefish roe right here in Memphis and passing it off as genuine Russian caviar.”
Mavis had dropped her bomb with the precision and timing of an expert. I only hoped that she couldn’t see my pulse pounding straight through my skin; my body felt like it had turned into a giant tom-tom.
“I think I can pretty well guarantee that we have a deal in that case. I’ll just have to get my boss to sign off on it,” I said casually. The trick would be getting him to agree. My mind was working on the best way to approach Hickok. “Now will you tell me who the guy is?” I prompted.
Mavis eyed the sack of donuts, and I placed it back on the table. Reaching in, she pulled out another glazed wonder and began to munch on it.
“The new guy in town is a Russki by the name of Sergei Galinov. The bastard is strong-arming most of us local dealers right out of business.”
Talk about your intrigue! Ninety percent of the world’s finest caviar has always been produced in the Caspian Sea—at least when strict fishing quotas were rigorously enforced by the Kremlin. But all that changed when the Iron Curtain fell and the communist government came tumbling down.
Poachers have taken control of the billion-dollar trade, maintaining their hold through the use of guns and missiles, helicopters and speedboats. Bandits have turned the Caspian Sea into the wild, wild West, and shoot-outs are common occurrences as they plunder the area. As a result, the species has nosedived as prices skyrocket, causing the rape and pillage to become more rapacious than ever. Consequently, the sturgeon and its highly prized roe are expected to vanish within the next two years.
Having depleted their own stock, these black marketeers were now looking for the next stop on their gravy train. Paddlefish eggs were a dandy substitute, making it easy for a smart dealer to pass them off as the pricier Russian caviar.
“If this Galinov is playing dirty, why haven’t all the local dealers banded together and figured out a way to fight back? You know, strength in numbers?” I asked.
“We already thought about that, but it ain’t gonna work in this case,” Mavis replied sullenly.
“Why not?” Southern dealers were generally a scrappy bunch.
“Because the guy’s got too much firepower on his side. He’s backed by the Russian Mafia.”
The words turned my blood icy cold. The Russian Mafia is considered not only the cruelest of all crime organizations, but also the smartest. They’d already been linked to an international money-laundering scheme involving a major bank here in the U.S. In addition, they traffic in weapons, refugees, nuclear materials, and drugs. The mob’s reach is now global, running from Moscow and Budapest, across the ocean to Mia
mi, Brighton Beach, and Los Angeles, in a multibillion-dollar enterprise. Still, who would have guessed they’d set up a base in Memphis?
“Are you certain that he’s part of the Mafia?” I questioned.
I suddenly found myself short of breath due to pure, unadulterated exhilaration. Though part of me prayed that Mavis was wrong, the other part wanted total mob participation. This case could be the one that bumped me up to an entirely different level! Maybe even onto a playing field where I’d be able to hobnob with the big boys.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure. He’s already sent the message by knocking off a few of our illegal dealers who made the mistake of crossing him,” Mavis said. “You remember that drive-by shooting a few weeks back? When Jimmy Bob Tucker got whacked in his driveway? Everyone thought it was gang-related, but it wasn’t our own boys—it was the work of that damn commie pinko!”
I’d suspected Jimmy Bob of being involved in the illegal trade. It appeared I’d been right.
“What makes you so certain it was the work of Galinov?”
Mavis shot me a look that suggested I’d been born yesterday. “Because he gave the rest of us a broad hint that the same thing would happen again if we pissed him off. I heard that Galinov also wiped out two dealers down in New Orleans. Check it out, if you don’t believe me.”
She’d made her point.
“But you know what really burns my panties?” she asked.
I looked at the woman sitting across from me, and wasn’t sure I really needed that kind of information.
“It’s that some lousy foreigner is getting away with all this. If there’s a fortune to be made off paddlefish roe, it damn well should be an American who reaps the rewards!”
No one could say Mavis wasn’t a patriotic kind of gal.
“And I’ll tell you something else: there used to be plenty of paddlefish around these parts before the Russkies knocked off their own supply. Now they’re sashaying over here, taking whatever they want. There aren’t gonna be any fish left soon unless you get off your fanny and do something about it!” Mavis exclaimed indignantly.
Black Delta Night Page 7
