Sergei shrugs. “I can’t tell one creep from next. You Americans all look same.”
Trent Fallow pulls a card from his front pocket and hands it to Sergei. “You see him, you call me, understand? You call me first.”
Sergei pops his bridge off his lower teeth with his tongue, flips it in his mouth, fits it back in place before taking the card.
“You tell Aboud if he gives me this creep, I’ll take care of his tax for the next twelve months, and he knows I can do it, too. You tell him that. Twelve months.”
“I tell him.”
“He doesn’t even have to give me the whole guy. Just the head is enough.”
Fallow rises on his tiptoes and shouts over Sergei’s shoulder, “Hey, Aboud, you hear that?”
From behind Sergei comes a voice. “Yeah, I heard that. Now get your fat ass off my walk before you dent the cement.”
Fallow nods and turns to leave and then turns around again. He leans in close to the door. “Hey, Aboud,” he says softly. “Is Shelly on tonight?”
“Maybe,” says Aboud, still behind Sergei.
“I’m a little tense right now. She got any openings?”
“Not for you. Not after last time.”
“It was an accident.”
“I don’t want to hear about no accident. You stunk the place up so bad I had to get it fumigated.”
“It was that thing she did, what with the rubber and the ice. It was too much.”
“Get out of here.”
“She does things like that, what does she expect?”
“Get lost.”
“Come on, Aboud. She can do anything she wants. Even that thing again. Especially that thing again. I been having dreams about it. I’ll be good. I promise. It won’t happen again. I’m all cleared out. Give me a break. I’m begging here.”
“Beg somewhere else.”
“Hey, fuck you, Aboud. I got my ass kicked outside your place last night. I tell the right cops, they’ll close this dump down. You see the creep, you tell me, dammit. And if you’re caught helping him, so help me, I’ll make sure they stuff you feetfirst down a garbage disposal. Stuff you alive, you understand? There’ll be nothing left but your head, screaming and screaming and screaming.”
Sergei growls before he slams the door.
Fallow slaps the newspaper on his thigh once, twice, kicks at the door, and then continues on his way.
When Trent Fallow, PI, realized his mistake, when the order came down to get that file back, an order relayed by that asshole Remi Bozant, Fallow had called his lawyer, with Bozant on the extension. He was told not to make a big deal out of it, not to create suspicions, just to inquire.
“Hey, J.D. How’s it going?”
“I’m busy, Trent. I’m in the middle of a trial, in case you haven’t heard. What’s up?”
“You ever get a chance to eyeball that file I sent?”
“Yeah. Sure. Interesting stuff. What about it?”
“I was just wondering whether you still need it. I might want it . . .”
“Look, Trent. I got your court date delayed until after the Breest trial. We’ll talk about it then, all right? But I just don’t have the time now. Caleb’s case is swamping me, and all I have helping is an intern. We’ll talk after, all right?”
“Sure, J.D. Sure. No problem.”
No problem. Sure. No problem. And fucking isn’t fun, and Diamond isn’t rich, and Bozant isn’t a sadistic son of a bitch who will fillet him alive if he doesn’t make it right.
The shadows grow longer hour by hour until all of Crapstown is covered in darkness and only the thin drizzle of the streetlights falls upon the asphalt along with a soft rain. Trent Fallow, PI, has passed out all the cards he had available, has spoken to everyone he could collar, and he has come up empty. But while he gained no information as to Scrbacek’s whereabouts, he had learned disturbing information about the girl.
“Yeah, I knowed who you be talking about, I knowed that number,” had said a junkie named Tic-Tac-Toe. “Short little thing with broad shoulders and a luscious smile. Carries that AK when she working. Sweet little bird without an ounce of fear. Not an ounce.”
“Who is she?”
“Daughter of some special-ops vet that taught her all the dark arts so she’d be prepared for the end times. She learned to take apart a Glock while she was still on the bottle. Name is Nightingale.”
“Where does she live?”
Tic-Tac-Toe did something strange then. He looked up at the roofs, like someone was up there, and then shrugged his shoulders.
“Who does she hang with? Who does she work for?”
“Free agent, from what I hear. Though she’s tight, they say, tight with the F’s.”
Trent Fallow spun around at that. He didn’t want to hear Scrbacek was in any way mixed up with the Furies. He didn’t want to have to tell that to Remi Bozant, no way, no how. If Bozant found out that Fallow had brought together, however inadvertently, Scrbacek and the Furies, Bozant would slice his cock off with that knife, toss it in a freezer to stiffen, and then stick it up his ass.
“She tough, this Nightingale?” said Fallow.
“She is stone-cold, man,” said Tic-Tac-Toe, in a voice that sent a shiver up the squashed amorphous blob that was Trent Fallow’s neck. “Stone-cold.”
31
THE MAD RUSSIAN
Scrbacek hid behind a bruised metal trash can in a dank alley at a forlorn crossroads in Crapstown. The alley smelled of rot and burning rubber. An inexplicable hissing spurted from the dismal darkness behind him. The rain had halted for the moment, and the street was now a shiny black, catching the harsh city light and reworking it into a smeared pastiche of color, soft and lovely. Beyond the mouth of the alley were two abandoned lots with a single black building standing between them. Above the closed entryway was a camel, a pyramid, a pair of high-kicking legs, a motto, and a name—all lit in neon that twittered and spit into the night.
Nomad’s.
It was 12:23 in the morning.
The door swung open, and a man staggered out, singing. The man reached in front of him for something to grab, found nothing, and fell like felled timber, smack into a puddle. He rose, dripping, to his hands and knees, and started crawling across the street, as if toward Scrbacek, still singing. A woman in a short fur jacket and long heels stumbled out after the man, shouted out what might have been the chorus of the man’s song, swayed over, and dragged him to his feet. After she wiped the smeared blood from his chin, she let him put his arm over her shoulder, her back bending from the weight, and together they made their way down the middle of the street, singing now a plaintive duet.
Nomad’s.
It was 12:24 in the morning.
Scrbacek had watched with the Nightingale from a rooftop facing that mural of the seaside as he placed the call to Surwin at midnight. The first assistant county prosecutor had followed instructions, arriving at the phone booth by the mural alone. The conversation had been short and to the point. Scrbacek wanted to meet. He wanted Surwin to tell no one about the meeting and to come alone. He wanted Surwin to promise not to arrest or detain him. He wanted Surwin to agree to all of these conditions before he told him where.
“Let me take you in,” had said Surwin. “I’ll put you in protective custody.”
“And who’s going to protect me?” said Scrbacek. “Dyer?”
Pause. “Point taken. But even if I don’t take you in, I’ll need to ask again about the murder.”
“Understood.”
“And about the fire at your building.”
“Of course.”
“And there have been reports about an attack on a fence named Freddie Margolis, and another fire that destroyed a house on Ansonia Road, and a gang fight behind some diner with one dead and two seriously injured. Apparently, all these things are connected to you.”
“Apparently.”
“And you’ll talk about all that, too?”
“I’m willing to answe
r your questions if you’re willing to answer mine.”
“And what is it you want to know, Scrbacek?”
“You’ll find out,” he said. “Nomad’s. Have you heard of it?”
“Twisted little dive.”
“Twelve thirty.”
He waited for Surwin to hang up, swing his head to either side, walk alone back to his car. And then Scrbacek had made his way the half dozen blocks to this spot, intermittently turning on the phone to check the time, waiting to see if any surprise showed up for the meeting.
Nomad’s.
It was 12:28 in the morning.
Slowly, from down the street, a spreading double fan of headlights approached. Scrbacek pulled himself further behind the trash can. The car drove up to the entrance to Nomad’s and then slid past. It was small, blue, cheap. Scrbacek watched as it continued on its way, turning the corner. A few moments later, from the same direction, a man walked quickly down the street, leaning forward, one hand in his pocket, the other shielding the side of his face, his heavy-soled shoes dropping flat on the street with each step. Scrbacek watched as he stopped at the entrance to Nomad’s, looked quickly around, pulled open the door, and disappeared inside.
It was 12:30 in the morning.
Scrbacek waited a moment, and then a moment more, before emerging from the protection of the alley. He walked up the street, on the opposite side of that which Surwin had taken, crossing only when he came to the intersection. A few feet down was parked Surwin’s crappy little car, the one Scrbacek had seen pull up in front of Jenny’s, a Hyundai, further proof that Surwin was not on the take. Scrbacek approached it carefully, slowly, and peered inside. Nothing, just a bright-red Club fastened to the steering wheel. It seemed a comical, almost innocent gesture, that Club fastened to that cheap little car in that neighborhood. If anyone here wanted the Hyundai, Surwin would find the car gone and only the Club, still locked, sitting in the parking spot. But then again, even in Crapstown there were standards.
Satisfied, Scrbacek turned to the rooftop, waved at a silhouette just visible against the night sky, and then followed Surwin’s route to the club.
Inside the front door was a small alcove, with a beaded curtain, through which Scrbacek could glimpse the outlines of a narrow red-tinged bar with stools on one side, ratty booths on the other, and a little stage in the center, fronted by a pool of round tables, mostly empty. On the stage a woman, old and thick, in loose pants and veils, snapped finger cymbals and shook her ample belly in an exhibition Scrbacek found only mildly less erotic than watching his mother take a sitz bath. Beside the beaded curtain, a large man, bald, with hands like bricks and green plaid pants, sat on a stool.
Scrbacek eyed the man warily before stepping forward to pass through the beads. The man’s arm shot out and barred his way.
“Ten-dollar cover for you,” growled the man in a heavy Russian accent.
“Is there a band?” said Scrbacek.
“No band.”
“A singer? A piano player?”
“No singer. No piano. Nothing but girl and cover,” said the man.
“I don’t think she’s been a girl for a number of decades.”
“She hot to trot, I promise you. Ten-dollar cover.”
Scrbacek thought a moment and then reached into his pants and pulled out the small bills he had folded into a roll. He slipped out a tenner and handed it to the man, smiled, and started again through the curtain, but the man’s arm didn’t drop.
“You the one we looking for?”
Scrbacek froze and turned his head slowly to stare at the man. “No. No, I’m not.”
“Yes. Yes, you are. I recognize you face from picture in paper.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Mebbe. But even so, I still take you to boss.”
Scrbacek took a step back and braced himself. “You’re not taking me anywhere.”
Like the attacking head of a cobra, the man’s hand darted forward and grabbed the collar of Scrbacek’s raincoat, winching both lapel ends together tight to the neck. The man jerked Scrbacek close to his huge glabrous head and said, slow enough and close enough so that Scrbacek could smell the cumin on his breath, “No offense, mister, but I take you to boss.”
Scrbacek tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar was a vise. The man rose from his stool until he towered over Scrbacek, who felt himself being lifted off the ground.
“No offense,” repeated the man.
“And none taken,” said Scrbacek cheerily.
The man in the green plaid pants opened a door hidden in the wall to the right and, with his grip still firm on the raincoat’s collar, pulled Scrbacek through the door, closing it softly behind them both.
32
NOMAD ABOUD
The Russian dragged Scrbacek down a steep set of stairs, along a narrow hallway, and into a basement office, windowless, ruthlessly plain, with a metal desk and a few folding chairs. A number of closed doors led out from the office. Behind a sign on the desk that read BOSS sat a little man with a porkpie hat, counting money, licking his thumb as he went through the bills.
In a chair in front of the desk sat another man, leaning back casually, skinny legs crossed, hands folded atop his potbelly, as if all were as normal as could be even though he was sheathed crown to toe in thick brown leather, with brown gloves, brown booties, a brown mask with holes for his eyes, a leather thimble for his nose, and a slit for his mouth, the edges of the slit sewed almost together with leather straps.
“I told him I can’t do it,” said the boss as he continued to count. “It’s too much. But the bastard told me I had no choice.”
The man in brown leather replied with evident sympathy, his voice muffled by the mask, “It’s getting crazier out there, everyone’s telling me.”
“So now I got to find an extra two thou a month,” said the boss. “Every month. It’s gotten so bad, I have to charge a cover even though all I can afford to put onstage is my aunt Gethsemane, and believe me, she wasn’t so hot even before the menopause. It’s killing my business.”
“We could sell some of your mutual funds,” said the leather man.
“Not when the market’s down.”
“What about your insurance annuity?”
“Maybe. With Blaze leaving me for that trucker asshole, what’s the point?”
“Plus, your returns have been disappointing.”
“Excuse me, boss,” said the bald Russian, hand still gripping Scrbacek’s collar. “Remember guy fat private eye with busted face he said we should be looking for?”
The boss stopped his counting and glanced up at Scrbacek and then turned back to his money. “That’s not him. The guy we’re looking for is bigger, and there was nothing about no bandage on his nose.”
“Still, boss, this is guy.”
“And he was supposed to have some class. This guy’s a bum. Look at that schmatta he’s wearing. Forget about it, Sergei.”
“I’m not the guy,” said Scrbacek.
“See,” said the boss. “He’s not the guy. Let him go.”
“Fat private eye showed picture in paper, boss. Picture had beady eyes of chicken thief. See this guy? In Russia, he would have feathers in his teeth.”
The boss stopped counting and turned his attention to Scrbacek. “Remember what I heard about him?”
“Yah, boss. I remember.”
“So show me.”
The bald man spun Scrbacek until he was facing the front of the desk. With one hand firmly on Scrbacek’s shoulder, he pulled apart Scrbacek’s coat, and jerked up his still-buttoned shirt along with the T-shirt underneath, exposing his chest.
The boss put down his money and leaned forward. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”
The man in leather twisted stiffly to get a view. “Talk about odd.”
“Just like we was told,” said the boss. “J.D. Scrbacek, the man with three nipples.”
Just then, one of the doors opened, and a tall, d
rawn man in a suit walked slowly out, a fedora tilted forward to cover his face. The man took small pained steps, ignoring everyone as he made his way to the stairs. A tiny drop of blood fell from one of his cuffs.
“Hey, Mr. Posey,” said the boss, “you’re dripping.”
The man started, looked down at his wrist, and clasped it tightly with his other hand. Then he smiled meekly and said, “Sorry, Mr. Aboud.”
“Just be more careful next time, all right? I’m running a business here.”
“Yes, Mr. Aboud.”
In the lull, Scrbacek made his run for it. He twisted out of Sergei’s grip, brushed by Mr. Posey, headed for the stairs. He was just hitting the hallway when he felt a hand clamp around his neck, pulling him back. Scrbacek kept churning his legs, but he wasn’t any longer getting anywhere.
Suddenly a loud crack shot through the room.
Scrbacek, sure he had been shot, winced so violently he almost fell to the ground, despite Sergei’s grip on his neck. When he recovered enough to look up, he saw a woman leaning against the frame of the doorway out of which the sanguinary Mr. Posey had just departed, and the sight of her froze him in place.
She was big, with piles of blonde hair and breasts like great mounds of saltwater taffy. She stood with a whip in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her right leg propped against the opposite doorjamb. It was hard to tell if she was pretty, because she wore a black leather mask, which matched her black leather bustier and long black boots. It was hard to tell if she was pretty, but she sure as hell was something.
“Himmelfarb,” she sneered.
“Yes, Mistress Brewster,” said the man in leather, dropping to his knees.
“Have you been a bad little accountant?”
“Yes, Mistress Brewster.”
“Well then,” she said as she casually snapped her whip, loosing another loud crack. “It’s time for your punishment.”
“Yes, Mistress Brewster,” he said before scurrying, still on his knees, to the doorway and crawling under Mistress Brewster’s outstretched leg.
Mistress Brewster inhaled deeply from her cigarette, winked at Scrbacek, pushed herself off the doorframe, neck arching back, and closed the door behind her.
The Four-Night Run Page 20
