[Gina Mazzio 06.0] Bone Crack

by JJ Lamb

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Brichett said with menace. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Tallent, soaking wet, collapsed into his desk chair and looked across at the fuming Brichett, normally the best-humored of the three doctors in the three-man practice. “I’m sorry, Jon. I had to leave.”

  “Just walk out without telling anyone—without having someone cover your patient? Are you insane?” Brichett leaned forward. “Kat Parker almost lost her leg. She could have died.”

  “She was fine when I left.”

  “You’re a liar,” Brichett screamed at him. “I back-tracked this. You have no idea what kind of condition she was in. You just walked away. Left the Parker woman high and dry.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No thanks to you, you fucking bastard. Thanks to people more caring than you, she still has two legs to walk on.”

  Tallent covered his face with both hands. His whole body shook.

  “What’s going on?” Cantor asked, his head sticking into Tallent’s office, one hand on the doorframe. “I could hear you shouting all the way down the hall, Jon.”

  Brichett turned to face Cantor. “Our friend here decided to finally come back and check on the mess he left behind.”

  “What happened to you?” Cantor demanded of Tallent.

  Tallent looked at his two partners, knew he should feel some kind of warmth toward these men, with whom he’d share a practice for many years. He felt nothing ... nothing other than an urge to stand and run from the office.

  “You know things have been difficult for me since Annie died. Well, it’s become too much. I’ve decided to leave the practice in a week or two, or as soon as I can get everything tidied up. I think it’s best for all of us.”

  Cantor and Brichett looked at each other.

  “You’re going to walk out on us with only a week or two notice?” Cantor snapped. “That’s it?”

  Brichett sat in his chair, looking at Tallent and shaking his head.

  “Yes, that’s it.” Tallent slipped out of his wet jacket and laid it across the top of his desk, ignoring the papers underneath that were absorbing the moisture.

  “Mort, at least give us six months,” Brichett said. “We need some time to conduct interviews and find someone who might fit into the practice.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Tallent said.

  He stood and snatched up his jacket, scattering papers everywhere. He gave a curt nod to Brichett, pushed past Cantor, and walked out.

  Chapter 44

  Alex sat in his car most of the day, watching, waiting for the man he had to kill. He thought about those years—time lost chasing shadows, wanting to leave and return to his homeland, his wife and children—living on the dribbles of money his people doled out to him.

  An empty life bound by his gang’s obsession to kill one meaningless person—the man who was once a boy, and Alex had to kill him.

  Why did it matter after all this time?

  It was the code. The fucking code that even required proof that he had killed the boy/man.

  He read American magazines, looked at streaming movies on his laptop, and studied pictures of his grown children. He thought about the things that were once his—pictures all flashing before him on the small computer screen.

  During the past twenty years, he’d spent searching for the son of Nadya and Ivan Antonev, he’d lost any sense of what had been his real life—a life he’d loved and left behind in Russia. There, he’d been someone who had all the money he needed, had real opportunities in the organization. The head man liked him; the people he worked with liked him.

  All that changed the day he didn’t find and kill Dimitri Antonev, who became, Karl Pushkin, and now, he was sure was Vlad Folo.

  Dimitri’s parents had double-crossed the Russian Mafia, refused to continue to store the gang’s illegal narcotics in their warehouse. The Antonevs had taken one, fatal step that had sealed their doom—they stole and sold the last shipment of drugs to finance their escape from Russia and live fugitive lives in America.

  A death warrant had been issued and Alexander was put in charge of finding and carrying out the family’s death sentence.

  When he failed to kill the boy, he’d been given a choice: find the boy or forfeit his own life. That was his only choice.

  Alex had a family to support in Minsk. How much time could it take to find a Russian boy alone on the streets? A boy with no family, no connections should have been an easy snatch.

  He’d been wrong. He’d had no idea of how large the San Francisco Bay Area was, or how many run-aways roamed and survived in the streets.

  Over the years, he’d paid and found out information about a hit man that Alex suspected had to be the boy. At times he was right on his heels—the kid managed to escape every time. The hit man may have started out as a boy, but he turned into a man. A man who had learned to change his identity, his address, and become the mist in the morning dew that disappeared in the heat of the sun.

  Alex was forced to do menial jobs for the Russian mob, not only in San Francisco, but also New York while he continued to search for Dimitri Antonev/Karl Pushkin. But there still was no retreat from the decision—he could not return home until the matter was settled.

  One year, two years ... twenty years disappeared while he sought to redeem himself and follow the shadow of the boy.

  * * *

  It was four p.m. and Vlad, the suspected Antonev son, had not been to the health club.

  Alex watched the receptionist step out of the building, leave for the day.

  What was her name?

  Saw the name tag pinned on that ample bosom of hers when I made the appointment for a massage.

  He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, and tried to close out every other thought, every nearby noise.

  Rosia! Da, that’s it! Rosia..

  He opened his eyes just as she started down the sidewalk. He continued to watch her walk straight as an arrow, in high stiletto heels, swaying her ample hips. In the middle of the block, she got in the driver’s side of a gleaming black, late-model Chrysler 300.

  When the car pulled away from the curb, Alex, on a hunch, pulled out and followed.

  * * *

  Rosia was feeling pretty smug. She’d snapped up an extra C-note today and all she had to do was deliver a dumb message to Vlad from a man in a cheap suit that made appointments for body work with Vlad.

  At least Vlad was good for something.

  What an idiot she’d been to pick him up that night—a beaten down, penniless, whipped puppy.

  All she ever wanted was to be with strong men who would take care of her, but she always seemed to end up with loser after loser. Not that Vlad ever wanted her—he’d made that pretty plain the first time she came on to him. Right now, she couldn’t remember what she’d ever seen in him. He was very ugly now.

  Stupid man!

  She’d wanted to take him to a doctor when he was all broken up with his smashed nose. But he refused—said she’d done a good enough job on him. Well, maybe so, but that banged up nose of his wasn’t going to improve with this last beating just by her tape job.

  And those scars all over his back. My God! Wouldn’t talk about them. Said it was none of my fuckin’ business. Sponges off of me and it’s none of my business? What a mess!

  Helluva way to treat someone who saved your ass.

  She walked into the apartment, expected Vlad to be asleep, but there he was doing push-ups in the living room in his underwear—the same shorts she’d had to go buy at the thrift shop after he refused to let her go to his apartment to get his clothes.

  “Well, well, here you are, up and around. You must be feeling more like yourself. It’s about time.”

  He ignored her and kept on with his pathetic exercise routine, which pissed her off even more.

  “I see the place is still a mess,” she said, looking at the kitchen, where his dirty dishes were strewn aro
und the sink and table, like he expected some maid to come in and clean up after him.

  “Hey, you! Vlad! I’m talking to you.”

  He moved like lightning, up from the floor, hands encircling her neck. “Listen, bitch! Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. You hear me?”

  She nodded, her head moving like a bobble doll.

  After he released her, she looked into his eyes. There was nothing there. Not even hatred.

  Rosia glared at him, rubbed her neck, and hissed, “I have a note for you.”

  * * *

  Vlad found the pain irritating as he forced himself to work out. He knew he had to exercise. His ribs obviously had been badly bruised, although not cracked, in the beating because they started healing right away, like the rest of him.

  In the past few days, he’d begun to improve rapidly, especially after he started staying under the hot shower until there was only cold water coming out of the shower head. Then he forced himself to remain under the icy spray until he was shaking. He disliked it intensely, but he could feel himself growing stronger, almost by the hour.

  When he read Tallent’s note, he knew things would start going his way again. He would kill the nurse and make another easy fifty grand.

  Vlad now accepted the signs, the ones that warned him it was time for a new identity and a new place to live. He’d been Vlad Folo for too many years. He could almost feel the dragon’s breath of a stalker burning his neck.

  The last time it happened, someone crashed in his door. He was out the window and down the fire escape in an instant. There’d been signs then, but he’d been comfortable then, too.

  Slow to react—almost too slow.

  * * *

  “What are you making for diner?” Vlad asked Rosia. He was dressed in grubby clothes, more of what she’d gotten for him at the thrift shop. “I’m hungry.”

  She wanted to hit him up alongside the head, but those dead eyes of his made her hold back. When he turned away from her in disgust, she grabbed a steak knife from the counter and slipped it into her pocket.

  “I don’t have enough money to feed both you and me.” Rosia fought to keep her voice even. “We’ve gone through all my pantry supplies and I’m broke.” She gave him a nasty look. “We both know you haven’t contributed a cent, so I guess its soup for dinner.”

  His stride was strong again and in two long steps he was at her purse, rummaged in it until he found her wallet. He pulled out the C-note, then also peeled off several more bills, the smallest a ten.

  “You bitch!” He pocketed the money.

  She tried to calm herself, but she was scared. “Look, Vlad, I was happy to help you out, but I think it’s time you left. You’re strong now and I can’t afford to have a ... an extra person hanging on.” She tried to soften her words with a smile.

  He pulled a magnet off the refrigerator that advertised a local pizza delivery joint, tossed it to her. “Order two large ones with everything.”

  “You’ve got all my money. You’ll have to pay for it.”

  He opened the freezer door and pulled out packet after packet of frozen cash.

  “I think you can afford it.”

  He looked at her stunned expression and hated her. He knew the only reason Rosia picked him up that horrible night when he was beaten and down was in the hope she could get money out of him.

  Didn’t work out that way, did it, little Rosia? Instead I’ve got your three thousand dollars.

  Her eyes were wide with terror and her blouse dipped down over those big boobs. He felt a stirring in his groin. He’d never thought of her as someone to have sex with, but now he wanted to see what was under her clothes.

  He started stripping his pants off. “Get undressed.”

  “No, Vlad! I’ve been working all day. I’m too—”

  “—did you hear what I said, bitch?”

  “Come on—”

  Her resistance was making him hard. He’d only wanted to intimidate her, but her fear, the smell of her sweat, was making his blood stir.

  “Did you hear what I said, Rosia? Did you?”

  She was watching him grow—she stepped back, pulled the a puny kitchen knife out of her pocket and held it out in front of her.

  He laughed, pulled off his shirt, and stood naked before her. He was pleased the bruises that had covered most of his body had faded to yellow and he knew in a couple of days they would be gone.

  Her hand was shaking as he grabbed her wrist; the knife fell to the floor. He twisted her arm almost to the point of breaking, stopped when she cried out in pain.

  “Please don’t hurt me anymore!”

  He picked up the knife, bounced it in the palm of his hand. “This is the best you could do to defend yourself? You’re pitiful.”

  “I’m sorry, Vlad. You were scaring me.”

  He grabbed her around the waist, lifted her, carried her to the counter, sat her on the edge with her legs spread apart.

  “Open yourself!”

  “Please—”

  “I’m the one who needs pleasing, goddam it!”

  She leaned back, spread herself, he tore off her panties, and rammed into her—over and over. She was just a thing to be used until he exploded with a roar.

  Tears gushed from her eyes, just like his mother’s that day long ago.

  He pushed her off the countertop to the floor, grabbed her by the hair, and pulled her toward the bedroom.

  He’d only just begun.

  * * *

  He took a long shower to wash away the blood that covered his chest. It felt good to put on the clean clothes Rosia had purchased.

  Vlad did another search of Rosia’s apartment for anything that might be of use to him. There wasn’t much. He stuffed a few pieces of jewelry, a razor, and Rosia’s money into a used grocery bag—he snatched up her car keys and quietly left the apartment.

  At the doorway to the building, he looked up and down the street but didn’t see anything suspicious. He moved to Rosia’s Chrysler and, keeping low, crawled in on the passenger side. After a moment or two, he scooted over to the driver’s seat, continued to keep his head down, started the car, and slowly drove away from the curb.

  Chapter 45

  Alex found it easy to follow Rosia when she left the health club.

  He trailed her to a sketchy neighborhood; there were homeless people almost everywhere. Many were already setting up sleeping spaces behind garbage cans. He was surprised at the rundown neighborhood because it was only a short distance from where Rosia worked—which was in a decent part of town.

  Alex parked and sat in his car, watching the building Rosia had disappeared into. After a while he wondered if perhaps his instincts were off. He began to question his actions—what was he doing here? Why had he followed her?

  Mostly, it was because of the way the receptionist talked about the man in the photograph she’d shown him. He sensed a connection. Besides, she was his only lead at the moment.

  He was deep into one of the Mission Impossible films, sneering at the definitely impossible stunts, when he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner one eye. He snapped his head up just in time to see Rosia’s black Chrysler coming slowly in his direction. When it was along side of him, he saw that it wasn’t the receptionist driving.

  It was Vlad Folo, who turned to stare at Alex for an instant.

  He was angry with himself as he started the car and made a u-turn to follow his target.

  Careless. Fucking careless. If he’d gone the other direction, I could have missed him all together. Then what? Another twenty years?

  But that hadn’t happened and he felt a jolt of pleasure pass through his belly. He’d been right to follow the receptionist and wait.

  The Russian killer was now certain he’d found the damn kid.

  Always in the eyes. They never change. And they were the same eyes that were in the finger-smeared picture he had of the boy with his parents.

  He’d finally found Dimitri Antonev/
Karl Pushkin/Vlad Folo. Up until now, he’d outsmarted Alex every step of the way.

  Maybe he could finally complete his assignment and return home to Russia to his wife and children.

  * * *

  Vlad couldn’t dare go back to his old apartment. And even if he was willing to risk it, he knew the twenty-five thousand he’d stashed was no longer waiting for him—the Pai Gow people would have taken it. Unfortunately, the money he’d taken from Rosia wouldn’t last very long. He desperately need the fifty thousand from Tallent.

  He could feel the walls closing in. He detested that trapped feeling. Why had he ignored the signs for so long?

  When he was a little boy, his mother would talk about the signs. It was only after his parents were murdered that he truly understood what she meant.

  The signs weren’t really there—they were nothing you could see, or hear. You felt them in your gut, and they were usually right.

  The signs had been screaming in his brain for a long time. He’d just ignored them.

  I need to run! Get as far away from San Francisco as possible. Maybe get out of the U.S.

  But—he needed the Tallent money.

  With Gina Mazzio dead, he could take his money and run.

  He asked himself again why he was struggling so hard to survive. Why fight it? In the end, did any of it really matter?

  It was an old habit. He knew about habits better than most people.

  * * *

  Mort Tallent was sitting in his darkened living room, staring at the actors moving back and forth across the television screen. The sound was on mute because he wasn’t all that interested in what the characters had to say. Still, he tried to read their lips, a thing he’d picked up as a child when his parents didn’t want him to hear them talking about him, and other things.

  While he watched, he tried again to think about what he was going to do with the rest of his life. If he left medicine, how would he make a living? How would he spend his days?

  Fool, you have plenty of money—if you didn’t work another day, you’d still be raking in greenbacks from investments.