“Uh, thanks. How are you feeling? You look a lot better than you did when you were in the hospital.”
“Yes. Much better. Almost one hundred percent. Bullets? Phuh. They heal.”
“Good. Sorry about getting you shot. I should have been more careful. I should have realized what was going on sooner.”
“You do your job, I do mine,” he said. “My job to protect your mama. If I get shot, that is nothing. Important is to protect her like I promise. A man is no man who does not keep promises.”
“You did that. You can sleep at night.”
He nodded, with that particular self-satisfied expression only a Russian can pull off. “Your mama, she is feeling better now too?”
“What do you mean? She wasn’t hurt.”
“No. But she was…” he screwed up his face while searching his catalogue of English words for the one that fit. “She was very…unquiet. She did not rest easy.”
Cal was impressed with his insight. Had he even seen Starlight? Had Starlight gone to visit him at the hospital like Cal had, feeling guilty for the damage that had been done in the course of protecting her? “Yes. You’re right. She was traumatized by everything that happened.”
She could see his lips form the word traumatized, while he filed it away for future use. “And she’s feeling a lot better now. She’s been spending time with Sergei and he makes her feel safe.”
Why was she telling Rostislav so many personal details about her mother? Shut up, Cal…
“This, I know.”
“You know…?”
“She has been with Sergei. Everybody at Vyazma knows this. It make her happy when she is with him, and it make him happy, but I do not know how she is at home, you see.”
“Are you back at work already?”
A heavy shrug from Rostislav. “Of course. Part time only, another week or two. A man is only as good as what he does.” The risk of getting shot again was obviously of little concern to him. He raised an imaginary glass. “To toast with my comrades. I cannot sit in apartment all day watching boob tube.”
“They must have been glad to see you.”
He nodded. “Time before that when I go back…when I first get out of hospital…last time I would see Jenna.” He said it oddly, like zhen-ya, his dark brows pushed down in a scowl. “I did not know this.”
“No. It was a shock, her getting killed like that.” Cal shifted in her bed. Her chest hurt and her head spun briefly, but for the first time in a while these problems made her feel more alive than dead. “How did she seem, that last time you saw her?”
“Worried,” Rostislav took special care to pronounce the word correctly, giving his assessment extra importance. “She had things on her mind.” He made a gesture indicating great weight.
“What things were on her mind?” Cal watched Rostislav closely to catch all the nuances, forcing her recalcitrant brain to put them into long-term memory. “Did she say what it was?”
Rostislav changed his position, leaning one elbow on the visitor chair, which looked much too small for his body. “She have always money troubles. But lately…not so much, I thought. Other things.”
“That’s what her ex said. But Sergei wasn’t giving her more money, was he? He hadn’t promoted her yet, or slipped her some extra?”
“No. Sergei is slow to make changes. Very careful. He like Jenna, and she is good employee, but sometimes she has…different ideas. The young ones, they can be foolish.”
Cal’s head was hurting with the effort of concentrating and trying to follow Rostislav’s thick accent. Normally laconic, today he seemed positively chatty. “What do you mean, different ideas? You mean she was interested in strange things, like the medieval society? Or that she wanted to do things differently from Sergei’s advice?”
His lips moved, and Cal could see that the words “medieval society” had been too much for him. She tried to simplify it. “You know, the middle ages club. Knights and ladies, fighting with swords, dressing up?”
His expression brightened and he gave Cal a huge smile. “Da! She is very much liking this game. You know at Vyazma she wears…” Rostislav’s big hand brushed the front of his chest as he tried to come up with the right words. “Under shirt. Heavy, metal rings…”
“Chainmail? She was wearing it to work?” Cal shook her head, making herself dizzy. “Why would she wear it to work? She didn’t feel safe there?”
“She say it for practice, for strength. Like weights.” He flexed his arms, miming lifting barbells. “But I think also for protection. Like Kevlar.” He slapped his chest, and Cal realized he was wearing a bulletproof vest under his voluminous suit coat. Made perfect sense to her. Once bitten, twice shy.
Cal felt a chill. Why wouldn’t Jenna have felt secure at work? Rostislav and other bouncers were omnipresent. Sergei confiscated weapons from his patrons for safekeeping. There were few places in the Tenderloin where a person could feel safe, but Vyazma had always been an oasis for Cal. Jenna was a strong girl. A fighter. What had she been afraid of?
“No,” Rostislav reconfirmed. “She was jumpy. She expect trouble, even at Vyazma. Nowhere safe. Someone could stab her. She say it like joke.” Rostislav’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “But I think no joke.” He let out a slow exhalation. “No joke.”
As it had turned out, Jenna hadn’t been stabbed, she’d been shot. The chainmail couldn’t protect her from bullets. Yet, she hadn’t been expecting bullets. That seemed significant. And she had a gun in her apartment. Or at least, Randy had. Did Jenna have access to the bedside safe? It would be a weird living arrangement for her to not know the combination.
“Did she say who it was she was afraid of?”
Rostislav shook his head. “No, she not say.”
If she was being stalked or threatened, why hadn’t she talked to the police? Or more to the point—lots of people didn’t go to the police, as cops were almost always reactive, not proactive—if she was worried about someone at Vyazma, why hadn’t she told Sergei? Sergei might have been able to warn off any danger with his contacts in the underworld.
“You said she had other ideas. Different ideas. What did you mean?”
He scratched the back of his neck, scowling, muttering in Russian under his breath too low for Cal to make out what he was saying, even if he was using any of the words in her limited Russian vocabulary.
“She thought Sergei should run things differently at Vyazma?” Cal guessed haphazardly, just to get him talking. “A different menu? Hostess responsibilities?”
“It was not over who served which tables,” Rostislav growled. “She say, ‘What you do when boss says to do something wrong?’ Not she don’t want to serve some drunk. What if boss wants you to do something wrong?”
Cal rubbed her tight forehead. “Sergei wanted her to do something wrong? Are you sure?”
“She said, ‘boss.’ Who else is her boss? But Sergei not ask her things like that. He not get girls in trouble. They like his daughters, not whores.”
In her gut, Cal had to agree with Rostislav’s assessment. Sergei might walk on the shady side of the law, but he had a code, and he’d been good to Cal. Kind, generous, always wanting what was best for her. But she knew he wasn’t a harmless old man. He was the kind of tough they didn’t make so much anymore in America. Ruthless about his business and anyone who broke his rules or tried to get in his way, not afraid of a bit of judicious violence to solve his problems, but only toward those who he thought had it coming. Not the innocent.
Had Jenna gotten on his wrong side somehow? He surely wouldn’t have asked Cal to investigate if he’d had something to do with her death, but if he’d set something into motion that got out of hand…
Meat and Manson had been certain that Sergei was Russian mob and there might be territorial issues with Potoczek. First, Jenna was killed, and then Potoczek. Had Potoczek’s death been retaliatory? Had Sergei marked Pete the Potter for death? An eye for an eye, a life for a life?
; She stared at Rostislav until he protested and looked away. “I do not know,” he insisted. “She did not say what was about.”
“Does Sergei deal drugs?”
“Sergei?” Rostislav let out a bark of laughter. “No, not drugs.”
“You’re sure? He doesn’t have drugs around the bar? Even for personal use?”
He looked at her, pursing his lips. “No. Not at Vyazma. It makes trouble for the business.”
“But somewhere else? Starlight said something about pot. Does he have marijuana?”
“Pot? Maybe. This is of no importance. Nobody care about pot in this city.”
“Unless they deal. Does he deal it?”
A shrug of Rostislav’s massive sloping shoulders.
“Marijuana is better than pills for pain and nausea, Mom said. He didn’t offer you anything to help speed your recovery? Maybe some steroids, some speed, some extra painkillers to help you get back on your feet faster?”
Rostislav shrugged again. “That is different.”
“How?”
“That is not dealing.”
“He offered it for free?”
“Not free…but between friends…that is not dealing. That is help. That is being a father to us all. And this is small-time shit. Why you care, Cal? You never care before.”
“Nobody died before. What else? What else is Sergei into?”
“What?” Rostislav shook his head. “You are his friend, Cal. Like a daughter to him. Why you accuse him?”
“I’m not accusing. I just want answers. Jenna’s dead, Potoczek’s dead, I’m lying here half-dead. I need to know if Sergei made a mistake, or did something he shouldn’t. I’m not trying to bring him down, Rosti. I’m trying to understand. What did he want her to do that she thought was wrong?”
“You know Sergei. He is not drug dealer, not pimp. He would not tell Jenna to do something wrong.”
“You said she said he wanted her to do something wrong.”
“No!” Rostislav pushed himself to his feet and towered over her. He made a motion as if to wipe away their entire conversation. “You are hurt in the head, Cal. You misunderstand. Sergei is good man. He never hurt Jenna, or you.” His eyes turned sad. “I forget you say this. You are hurt and angry. I forgive you.” He crossed himself in the Orthodox manner. “Das vadanya.”
“Rostislav—” Cal tried to call him back, but the big man’s long legs carried him quickly away.
Chapter Seventeen
Sleep fled from her. When Rostislav left, Cal couldn’t drift back to continue the healing work of drowsy unconsciousness. Her mind stayed active as a hamster on a wheel, whirling, whirling, whirling and getting nowhere fast. Even the periodic painkillers didn’t put her out. She supposed that was a good sign.
The whole thing didn’t compute. Every time she tried to add up the clues, she was left with Jenna’s accusation of Sergei, telling her to do something wrong. Rostislav seemed to know it was something serious. He knew how worried Jenna had been, how she’d feared for her own life. He might not like Cal’s questions about Sergei’s involvement, but he hadn’t had any defense against them.
Except, “Sergei is a good man.”
What if your boss wants you to do something wrong?
Sergei was a good man. Cal knew that. He’d stood up for her, had stepped in to help her, had picked her up when she stumbled and fell. Without a father to lead and guide her, he’d been there when she needed him. He’d asked her for help.
Maybe it was something Jenna felt was wrong, but Sergei didn’t? That could be it. A simple clash of values.
But Starlight had begun spending her time over there and implied Sergei got her some pot, or maybe money for pot. Rostislav worked there, went there for drinks, and was more like a son or a brother to Sergei than an employee. And it seemed Sergei had also gotten something for Rostislav.
He’s not a dealer. So Rosti had said. Yet he had drugs, or easy access to them.
Of course he had easy access to drugs. Everyone in the Tenderloin had easy access to drugs.
What if your boss wants you to do something wrong?
Jenna had died. Not because of a fight with her boyfriend. Not because of a jealous lover. Because she had gotten herself involved in something she shouldn’t have. Maybe she’d gotten herself in too deep and didn’t know how to get herself back out again. A disagreement between the Russians and the Poles? But the Polish were never big in San Francisco organized crime. A street-level argument over territory? Or was it some business even dirtier than drugs, and more lucrative? Jenna had been happy for the extra money that she could put into her son’s therapy and a few new Renfaire toys for herself. Yet, she’d come to a line she wasn’t willing to cross.
What if your boss wants you to do something wrong?
By morning, Cal was a wreck, trying to figure it out and only half succeeding. She needed to pursue a line of questioning and she wouldn’t be able to rest until she did. That meant getting the hell out of the hospital.
It took fifteen minutes just to get her clothes on. By the end of her effort, she was soaked in sweat. Her head whirled, and every so often her heart gave an extra palpitation that sent a bolt of pain through her chest, but she managed to get on her feet and ready to go before the hospital staff caught her.
“What are you doing?” demanded her day nurse, Becky Lindt, who’d come in to check her vitals.
“I’m checking myself out. Go ahead and yell, but get me the waivers and let me out of here. I have to go. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“It is,” Becky said. “Your life and death. You’re not well enough to leave yet.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how great I feel, so I’m not going to try. I’ll go home and rest. Not jump into things too quickly.” Cal forced a smile at Becky. “There’s no reason to be worried.”
Becky motioned for Cal to sit on the side of the bed, and when Cal obeyed, took her pulse. “I don’t know if you can even make it to the front door,” Becky said. “Who’s picking you up?”
“Uh…a friend. I’ll be fine, really.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m on the mend. I’m tons better than I was when I came here. I promise not to get into any more sword fights.”
“You need to be in bed. You’re still having arrhythmia and effects of concussion. It’s dangerous.”
“For me to lie in bed at home? It’ll be better than here. I didn’t sleep all night.”
“You look it.”
“I need my own bed. You know how hard it is to sleep at the hospital.”
“You were doing fine until today.”
“Until last night, you mean, now that I’m not doped up. I guess I’ve healed enough to be annoyed by my environment. I need to go home.”
The nurse turned her back on Cal and marched out of the room with a dramatic sigh, but she returned with documents to sign, including the one that sternly warned that she might die if she checked herself out, and the hospital waived all liability.
Cal signed them all.
She made it outside the front door before she had to sit, downwind of the smokers. It was a mixed blessing. It made her want a drag, but that would probably be going too far in her condition.
She called a cab and rested, enjoying the secondhand cancer fumes until the taxi showed. She took so long—or looked so frail—reaching the vehicle, the driver actually got out and opened the door for her with concern on his face.
“Are you okay, miss? Are you sure you should be leaving? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine. I was just here visiting a friend.”
He gave her a skeptical look before he shut the door. Obviously not fooled, with good reason. Cal hadn’t combed her hair in several days. Her face was slick with sweat. If she looked in a mirror, she’d probably find her skin had turned a sickly shade of green, like a character in a cartoon.
She gave the driver her address and resisted efforts at small talk. Af
ter several attempts to chat, he turned the radio on to KNBR, where the sportscaster optimistically prattled about the Forty-Niners’ chances of making the Super Bowl this year. Given that the team was having its worst year in its 60-year history, and were rated the worst in the NFL, she figured they had as much probability of reaching the big game as Donald Trump had of ever becoming President.
Cal worried about having to explain to Starlight what she was doing out of the hospital, but she needn’t have. No one was home when she got there. Well, no human, which usually consisted of only her mother.
After letting the dogs out into the tiny back yard, she sat in a kitchen chair for a few minutes, sipping from a glass of cool water until the shaking started to subside. A quick rummage in the kitchen turned up some tea—real black tea, not herbal—and she made herself a strong cup, with a generous dollop of half-and-half to give it substance.
Snowflake deigned to come greet her and complain about some unknown cat-concern. A check of his litter box and food dispenser showed nothing amiss. Probably the Russian White was saying the kitty equivalent of, “Where the hell have you been?”
When Cal felt better, she showered, changed, strapped on some backup gear from her gun safe—that reminded her to get her other stuff from the M&Ms’ truck—she brought the Pekes back in and found her way to the garage.
Normally, she would have walked over to her office to pick up Molly, but normally she could make the short hike without passing out and falling on her face. So she would take Madge, her classic ’68 Mustang convertible, instead. The car could do with a little use anyway.
It was too early for Vyazma to open, officially at noon. Sergei worked through the night, and then slept until he felt like walking downstairs from his apartment. Today, though, he was going to have to wake up from his beauty sleep and answer her questions. Fair was fair, after all. He’d woken her from a sound sleep to put her on the case. Good for the goose, and all that.
She sat in her car in front of Vyazma and rang his phones, cycling through all of the numbers she knew until he finally picked one up.
The Girl In the Morgue Page 19
