by Larry Flewin
I stumbled across acres of tracks and mounds of cinders with a still angry Rita in tow, bitching up a storm. As far as she was concerned, this was some sort of punishment for complaining about the cab. It was. For someone who said they’d just done time in here she was sure singing the wrong tune. She should have been taking point instead of worrying about her nails.
It was at the end of the umpteenth row that I saw a barrel fire going, and a grimy hand waving at me. The two others with him on the bench vanished into the shadows as we approached. Not everybody was happy to see me or been seen with me. Couldn't imagine why. I gave when I could. I didn't rat on nobody that didn't deserve it, but there were some guys in the yards who found even me to be a tough chew.
He hadn't changed much, still the same toothless old greaser. Home was the same old boxcar, and life was still boiled down into jars and bottles. Must have been a sale day. He had over a dozen sitting just inside the door of the car, and another clutched in his grimy mitt.
"Hey big man, long time no see. Pull up a jar. Who's the broad."
"Just a friend."
"No kiddin'. Some friend."
"Tell me about it."
I pulled up alongside him on the bench and took a swig of his jar. I thought she was going to throw up, the look she gave me. Nothing like a little fire in the belly to make you see things more clearly. I took another sip. She took to preening herself again, like any self-respecting feline. I wasn't in the mood, but I kept an eye on her just the same. Answers are not always where you expect them to be.
"So, who's after you this time boy. Law? Rich widder?"
"Michael"
"Oh. Figured it was somethin' like that, else you wouldn't abin here. Been awhile sinst we cracked a jar, you'n'me, so's it figures it’s gotta be sumpin’ like him to get you in here. Who's she, his moll."
He waved his jar at the dancing silks. Man, she was nuts about keeping clean. I'd never met anybody so keen on beating the life out of themselves as much as she was. If she didn't like getting dirty then she was in the wrong racket. And arm in arm with the wrong guy to boot. That guy'd never be clean even after he was dead and buried.
"No, but she knows something I don't. Haven't figured it out yet, but it’s something Michael has a hand in."
"That's not good, boy. We bin down this road afore. Figured you’d a learned by now."
"Oh, I've learned alright, but not what's going on, and not what she knows. Not yet." The jar came my way again. Another thought, and another shot. And just like the last one smooth as lava going down, followed by a real gut burner of a landing. The kind that made your eyeballs start looking for a new brain to live in. If that didn't clear out the cobwebs, nothing else would.
In the meantime, the spitting had taken a hike, and the purring was back in town. Rita sauntered up to where we were enjoying what little afternoon sun had clawed its way through the dusty haze. She declined the invite to join us on the bench, choosing to purr from a distance instead.
"So, is this any way to treat a lady."
"What lady."
"Ha ha. So, what's next on the agenda. A little dining and dancing? I can't say as I approve of your choice of restaurant, but that means I get to choose the bed and breakfast. Interested?"
"Oh, I don't know, I kinda like it here. My kinda people, you know, trustworthy. Open minded. Honest”.
"They aren't exactly boy scouts are they. Come on, let's get out of here."
I shrugged my shoulders. “Why the hurry. Like I said I like it here, it's got everything. Real good fixin’s, a sunny day, you...well, almost everything."
"Right, and I suppose you bring all your dates here. Classy joint like this. A real high stepper you are. Makes me wonder what I see in you. Now, come on, let's blow this joint. I know a much better place. The, uh, fixin’s are just as good, and they come with a cork. That's how you can tell the good stuff."
"Sez you. Well, you may be right at that. It is time to go, I think. You ready?"
"Since dawn. Now let's go will you, this place is starting to give me the creeps."
I looked at Blackie. He didn't move a muscle, but the message was clear.
"You, uh, care to do the honours."
"Shore 'nuff."
He whistled a happy tune and his two customers reappeared. Never seen anyone go that pale that fast before. She was hanging between those two mooks like a side of beef before she could take two steps. And even though she was landing some pretty impressive kicks, it was like hoofing a brick wall. Those two didn't move a muscle, and they were as swift as they were silent. A nod from Blackie, and they dragged her about three cars down and tossed her in like a red silk sack of potatoes. The door slammed shut, and her jailers vanished. She started screaming to beat the band and beating on the door of the car. Kicking it too. Sweetest sounds I'd ever heard.
I sat down beside him and stretched out a little, the jar between us.
“So, what have you heard.”
“Oh, all kinda things. Some about you, some about the Michael, and other things. Nothin’ you don’t already know though’ aside from what you did to his car.”
“He can afford it.”
”Think so? Not what I hear.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, says the Yard boss. Him with the shiny brand-new auto mobile sitting on a flat car just over yonder and him, the mighty one, can’t drive it.”
“Why not.”
“Ain’t got the money. Can’t even pay the yard boss to get it under cover. She’s sitting out there, pretty as you please, and all the leather going to hell in the rain.”
I took a last slug out of the jar, passed it back to Blackie, and got up to leave.
“What do you want me ta do wid her. Toss her, sell her?”
“Nah, let her go. Just give her a couple hours to settle down and then kick her out. That kind of trouble you don’t need, trust me.”
“I hear ya.”
I slipped Blackie a C-note for his soon to be troubles and took off. She'd be out in an hour or two, dusty as hell and spitting fire, but I was glad to be rid of her. Every time I turned around there she was there, and it was starting to wear on me a little. If this was the best Michael could do then he was losing his touch, and I didn’t think that was possible.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I poured out the last of my scotch and gulped it down. This sure as hell had been an interesting day. Learning that Mr. Panychkin was slowly going broke was news worth losing breakfast over. No wonder he was back in my life. Without his connection to Zane, he was running short of cash. That had to hurt, a guy like him all flash and smooth talk, forced to slum it with a guy like me.
Somebody had looked at little more closely at the newspapers from the tin box. What had they found was nothing, obits, advice, and want ads. Just random pages from the local rag dated to about three months ago. And then they burned them in the sink, just in case.
My cracker jack prize was more interesting. It was a small, gold cross, set with red and green gems that winked in the noonday sun. It hung off a short chain and came with its own little bag. No idea what it was worth, but every time I touched it there was an increase in the value of the destruction it was causing. Hung it around my neck, the cross inside my shirt.
Figured I’d take it out to lunch. I needed a drink stronger than coffee while I thought this through some more. Downtown was sure to be crawling with the law by now, and I don’t suppose Stella was in any good mood right now, so I headed west across town. It was not a neck of the woods I travelled in much. Most of my work kept me downtown or in the south end, where all the new money was. Somehow the sun shone brighter, and the air was cleaner, the farther south the money went, it just didn’t improve their attitude any.
I landed on a quiet tree-lined street right at the streetcar’s most westerly stop. Neat and tidy with newer shops, better paving, and nicer cars. The diner I wandered into was the usual chrome and tile outho
use, but the beer was cold and the steak sizzled on my plate. And for an extra five he slid a mickey of amber gold across the counter.
All to the good, but it was the cross on the wall that got my attention. It was the same as mine, only ten times bigger.
I flagged down the cook.
“Hey, what’s that”, I said, pointing at it.
“Uh, it’s a cross, mac.”
”Yeah, I can see that pal, but what kinda cross. You Ukrainian or something.”
“Beats me. Guy I bought the place from left it here. Said it was good luck. Why, you want it? Ten bucks.”
“No thanks. I’m just curious is all. Got a friend who lost one and she seemed kinda attached to it. Figured if I could find out what kind it is, I could get her another one.”
“Well I don’t know nothing about that but the guy across the street might.”
”Yeah?”
“Yeah. Runs the bookstore place over there. Sells all kinda books and pens and crap like that. Comes in here all the time and drinks tea if you can believe that. I have to buy it special just to keep him coming in. Bet he could tell you a thing or two about that,” he said pointing to the cross with his thumb. “Go see him. Tell him Andy sent ya, he’ll do ya right.”
I flicked a ten-spot onto the counter. His eyes lit up. “Thanks pal, much obliged.”
“Thanks yourself.”
I felt a little hinky going into a place like this. Last time I’d read a book I’d got my knuckles rapped for drawing a moustache on some poet or other in it. Then I got a licking for that when my old man got home because he had to pay the school for a new one. That was the last time I saw him or the school. Worked my way east until I was old enough to join the army. They were the only ones who showed any interest in me and didn’t care much about poets or schooling. A month later all hell broke loose. I wasn’t back for five years.
My new friend was a regular bookworm alright, a proper gent right down to the three-button waistcoat and pocket-watch. And didn’t his pudgy little eyes just light up when I pulled him aside and waved the thing under his nose.
He looked at me quizzically. “You’re not a padre, are you.? You surely aren’t dressed like one.”
“No, I’m not. And I’m not interested in becoming one either. I just want to know what this is. Andy sent me. Said you might be able to help me out a little.” I waved it under his nose and watched him go cross-eyed trying to study it. Finally, he just grabbed it, held it up to his nose and stuck a jeweller’s glass in his left eye.
“It’s a cross,” he said after a few minutes. “I’m pretty sure it’s a type of cross called a fitchee. See the pointed end here, and all these little bars here? That’s makes it so, and I dare say, a very expensive one too. Those have to be real emeralds and rubies.”
“Really. And you know all this…how.”
He made a clicking noise with his tongue, looking offended. “My dear sir, this is a bookstore. Everything from ancient Assyria to Sherlock Holmes. What do you think I do in my spare time?”
“Right, I forgot. So, you what country maybe, what religion, that kinda thing?”
“Oh, ah, it’s… um…uh… I’m pretty sure it’s Russian. Here, let me show you.” He wandered off to pull a book off a dusty shelf and flip through the pages. He set it down open on the counter beside the cash register and turned it around to show me a page. It was covered in crosses.
“See. There it is there. The book doesn’t actually say what it’s called; it sort of looks like this one a little. It says here that it…most… probably…. belongs to or is somehow connected….to…the old style Russian Orthodox church. They use all kinds of crosses and icons and things like that. Yours looks rather like that one there.”
I peered at the symbol just below his fingernail and kinda recognised what I was wearing. Not an exact match but close enough.
He babbled on excitedly. “Something that small was probably owned by a rich family and worn on special days.”
“Had a lot of those did they, special days I mean.”
“Oh yes, oh my yes. They had a saint for almost every day of the year, so those poor people were praying all the time. You don’t see too much of that kind of thing around here, it’s mostly Presbyterians and Baptists.”
“But you do see some once in a while right, just not around here?”
“Oh my yes ... well not me exactly,” he said placing his right hand in his chest in an exaggerated gesture. “I mean, I have a friend of a friend who runs this little jewellery place uptown, and he tells me he gets at least one in month in trying to sell one.”
“Really. And did he happen to mention who this one was?” I could smell the answer long before it came spilling out.
“Why, the immigrants of course, all the way from the far east of the world. Europe mostly, Russia, sometimes a few Ukrainians, too.”
He leaned forward in a confidential manner, looking left and right before he spoke in a whisper. “They tell my friend that religion is dead in Russia, what with the socialists in power and all so when they get kicked out they sell half of what they have to get here, and then when they get here, sell the rest of it so they can eat. You’d be surprised what these people will do for a loaf of bread. You can even get girls sometimes, but my friend…well he’s not like that……”
“No kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding, but he tries to help out and give them what he can afford,” he smirked.
“Like ten cents on the dollar.”
“Something like that.” The smirk disappeared.
“Did your friend mention these people selling anything else besides their skirts?”
“Well, according to him, just about everything else. Watches, rings, diamond earrings, pendants. I mean he picked up a gorgeous ruby and sapphire pendant just last month for a hundred bucks. Can you believe that?”
“Yeah, I can believe it. People these days, you just never know what they’ll do next, especially if they’re hungry. Say listen pal, thanks, you’ve been a big help. For your trouble.” Another ten-spot out of my pocket and another smile.
“Come again some time,” he said breathlessly.
I left without saying when.
The way I figured it Darius had been working for Michael on the side, funnelling immigrants and their wallets in his direction, for a price. He knew who was coming and when and had a reception committee all set up and waiting for them. Those poor bastards were selling half the family jewels to get out of Dodge only to find out they had to pay the Marshal other half when they got here. Real slick.
Then murder rears its ugly head and Darius is on the run. He heads for home, here, but something goes wrong and they don’t connect. Maybe he got greedy, maybe Michael threatened him, he goes undercover and hides everything. Where the looker comes in she’s probably fronting for Michael, trying to find out what I know, or least push me in a direction Michael can follow.
Lost, stolen or buried in the backyard, I’m the guy they’ve picked to track it all down. It didn’t explain the elaborate trail I was following when a simple phone call could have done the job, but then he was Russian. Who knew how their minds worked. I knew how his mind worked. I’d track it all down and then have a tragic accident.
He certainly wasn’t above sticking it to his own people, especially if he was the one inviting them over. He talked loudly about love of country but he was just like them, only he’d gotten over here first and knew what pockets could be picked. And there had to be a paper trail, the whole world ran on paper. You couldn’t get out of bed in this town without a permit of some kind.
First item of business for anyone making a run for it was to change their name, especially if it was foreign sounding. People around here didn’t take to strangers real well and weren’t too welcoming to new faces. Papers with a solid English sounding name helped a lot. They weren’t too hard to come by, as long you had lots of cash or its equivalent and knew someo
ne who could grease the wheels. With a new name in your pocket a new life was just around the corner.
This wasn’t some bus stop operation where you nailed every Tom, Dick, and Harry, who got off. This was set up to hit the well-heeled, the ones who could afford to travel first class all the way over to here, and have their papers waiting for them when they got here. And waiting along with them was the Michael Panychkin Welcoming Committee and Bank.
I’d gotten got lucky with the Driver’s license, going with simple and coming up with a name that got me to Darius, just not in time. The odds were he’d changed his name and more than once, figuring he could drop out of sight in all the confusion. I saw a lot of this, desperate people doing desperate things to get in the door, and then close it firmly behind them.
I racked my brain, trying to remember anything that might have stood out in those papers. Nothing came to mind, but it could have been so subtle that even a reread might have missed it. That wasn’t going to happen, not unless ashes could come back to life. Cursing my luck, I jammed a cigarette in between my lips and started searching for a match. A furious pat down got me nowhere, didn’t have those to hand either.
Emptied every pocket I had but all I came up with was the bag the cross had come in. I balled it up and threw it away in frustration, but I couldn’t even do that, it just hit the ground and lay there. The wind moved it along a little, but not far enough for my liking. I helped it along with my toe, kicking it and myself down the street in frustration. It finally broke into pieces and scattered along the street, out of my sight.
A puzzle within a puzzle seemed to be the theme of this little excursion and I’d just gone and messed it up. The only consolation was that Michael was in the same boat, only he didn’t have a name. I had one but was it the right one. Maybe the newspapers had meant something, maybe not, but now I’d never know. I hit up a paper rat flogging the last edition and lit my smoke off his. At least I could curse now in some comfort.
