by K R Hill
Connor stopped beside his Mustang, put the key in the lock and opened the door. “I didn’t tell you Barry’s address, did I?”
Bartholomew sighed and touched his chin to his chest. “Are you still pulling shit like that? You’ve been doing that since high school. You’re not going to tell me the address unless I ride in your car.”
Connor smiled and tapped his fingers on the roof.
“I knew it.” Bartholomew pointed. “I knew you’d have some catch to get your way, and I’d have to sit in this old thing with cold air whizzing in around the doors, fumes from the engine choking me.”
With a snappy little nod, Connor said: “I’m glad we understand each other.” He slid down inside the car and opened the passenger door.
Bartholomew climbed in. “Sometimes I hate your ass.”
“Good.”
***
Barry’s address was in Belmont shore, a trendy, beach-front neighborhood of apartments and houses shoved together around a shopping street. Connor drove along the one-way streets a couple of blocks behind the commercial area, and searched for the address the young woman at Tia Alma’s home had given him. When he couldn’t spot it from the car, he parked and walked up the street. The address was not there, but Connor stopped in front of the house with an address very close to the one he was searching for. He double checked the address he had typed in his phone, opened the waist-high gate, and walked into the front yard. Beside a bougainvillea stood a post half engulfed with leaves. A plank, fastened with nails to the post, displayed Barry’s address.
His residence turned out to be a Grandpa addition off the main house, so it had not been registered with the city, nor did it show up on any map. They were walking around the side to knock on Barry’s door, when the front door of the main house opened.
“If you’re looking for Barry,” said a young blonde woman while carrying a bicycle through the door. “I think he’s down at that coffee shop. Make a right on 2nd street and you’ll see it. He lives there on his computer.”
“Okay, thanks, we’ll drop by.”
The woman pushed the gate open. “He was talking about getting rich. He always has some come-on line.” The woman stopped speaking and stood still. “You guys don’t look official. He’s not really getting rich, is he?”
“That I don’t know,” said Connor. “Not from us. We’re relatives from Iowa.”
She rolled the bike through the gate, spun the pedal, and set her foot on it. “Cool. I hope you take him back to Iowa.”
They walked up to 2nd street. The coffee shop was the third business from the corner. Beside the entrance, a young man with matted hair strummed a guitar. Connor fished some coins from his pocket and tossed them into the hat at the musician’s feet.
Young people sat at small metal tables around the café. At the counter stood a man reading the coffee menu written in chalk on a blackboard. From behind, Connor thought the guy wearing a tailored suit and polished leather shoes, looked like a high-dollar lawyer.
Barry, the guy with acne scars, was easy to spot. Dressed in jeans and a Pink Floyd shirt, he sat at the counter along the wall, laptop glowing around his face.
Connor and Bartholomew sat on either side.
Barry glanced right and left and jumped to his feet.
“You don’t need to run away, do you, Barry?” asked Connor, his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
Barry folded his arms over his chest. “How do you know my name?”
Bartholomew poked him in the side. “Maybe you called in sick to work because you have the stomach flu or something. You don’t look sick to me.”
Connor looked him over, pushed Barry’s laptop aside, and reached for the backpack on the floor. He pushed Barry’s hand away as he pulled a yellow notebook from the pack. “No,” said Connor, holding up the notebook. “He doesn’t look sick at all. In fact, I think he’s here to sell something, maybe a notebook. You told the woman at your house that you were going to get rich.”
Barry shook his head, closed his laptop and shoved it into the backpack. “Listen, I don’t know who you guys are, but you just walked into a storm of trouble.” He nodded rapidly.
“Hey,” said Connor, smacking Barry with a little tap on the back of his head. “A storm of trouble? You’re the one in trouble. You shouldn’t steal from old women.”
The well-dressed man rushed from the counter. “That’s my notebook,” said the stranger with a Russian accent. He was in his mid-30s, with black hair shaved in a crew cut, and a shiny blazer that hung open over a pink silk shirt. Connor hadn’t noticed it at first glance, but now, with the guy standing beside him, he saw the man had the permanent mark of a fighter: a cauliflower ear on the right side. Just visible around his neckline, Connor saw the tips of Russian mob tattoos.
“I told you,” said Barry, his shoulders pressed up against his neck. “Meet the storm.”
I don’t want to call you a liar, mister, but this is my aunt’s notebook.” Connor waved the book in the air.
“My name is Alex. My employer had me purchase that book.”
“Your employer?” asked Connor, glancing around the café.
“I work for a businessman named Redmond. Maybe you have heard of him.”
Connor nodded. “Redmond? I know who he is. He sells women and drugs. That must be the stink I smell.”
“I think you are talking about a different person. My employer is a legitimate businessman. And that notebook is his property. Please put it in my hand, or I will take it.” The Russian held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.
Connor smiled. “I guess you got cheated. Barry can’t sell what isn’t his. This book was stolen, and that means your boss is buying stolen merchandise. I wonder what Redmond will do when he finds out you implicated him in a crime. Let’s call the police and find out, shall we?”
Alex raised his chin an inch and attempted a smile, stepped back and buttoned his blazer. “Well, I see this has been a misunderstanding. Neither my boss nor myself would have entered into any questionable dealings with a thief. I would now like to have my money returned.”
Barry jumped to his feet. “I never tried to cheat you or anything like that.” He held his hands in the air as if a robber was pointing a gun. From inside his jacket he pulled out an envelope, and carefully set it in Alex’s hand.
The Russian backed away and slid the envelope into the breast pocket of his blazer. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure.” He tapped his forehead. “I look forward to finding out more about you. The next time we meet, there will be no secrets.”
Connor saw the Russian’s eyes dart to the notebook.
Alex turned and shoved a woman out of the doorway, and rushed out of view on the sidewalk.
“Damn,” said Barry. “He’s Russian mob. He’s going to come back and kill me. They gut people like fish. Where can I hide?”
“You want my help?” asked Connor.
“Yes, please.”
“This is what you’re going to do, Barry: Never go back to that nursing facility. You’re going to quit and find another job. If I ever find out that you got within 100 feet of Tia Alma, I’m going to tie you up and drop you at Redmond’s club.”
“Okay, I get it,” said Barry. “But you can’t just leave me. Alex isn’t going to forget me. Did you read about the shopkeeper that got his throat cut? He opened his door and the Russians sliced him open on his own porch. I don’t want to die.” Barry jumped to his feet. His face turned red. “You gotta help me.”
“How much money do you have?” asked Connor.
Barry reached into his pockets and pulled them inside out, dropped a wad of lint and two condoms to the floor, and counted the bills. “I got sixty-three bucks and change, and under $400 in my checking account.”
“If you want to live, go to the bus station right now and get a ticket out of town. Don’t return for a year.”
Connor stepped out onto the sidewalk and walked along with shoppers and bar patrons.
“Who’s this Redmond guy?” asked Bartholomew.
“He’s bad news. He runs drugs, prostitution and gambling on the west side. I think he’s been on trial two or three times, but he’s never gone down.”
“Did Alex get him off?”
Connor stood still and looked at Bartholomew. “Look, some things aren’t pleasant to talk about. Are you sure you want to know?”
Bartholomew looked up the sidewalk. “That bad?”
“Worse.” Connor continued walking.
Bartholomew caught up with him. “I’m guessing he got to a witness.”
“The sister of the star witness was found in a cage with a rabid dog. That’s how Redmond got the nickname Mad Dog.”
They walked along, and after a few minutes Bartholomew said: “You’re right. I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
The Mustang sat in a line of vehicles. When they reached it, Bartholomew stepped off the curb and walked over to the passenger door, while Connor fumbled with his keys.
Before they climbed into the car, a flashy red Lexus with chrome wheels pulled up. Connor watched as Alex the Russian leaned out of the driver’s window with his phone and took a photograph, smiled and drove away.
“Did you see that?”
“How could I miss it?” Connor climbed into the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. “Well, we know the Russians want the notebook. Maybe there’s something to Tia Alma’s story.”
“Wait a minute. Is there something else going on here?” asked Bartholomew.
“What do you mean?”
Bartholomew held up the notebook. “I mean this is Tia Alma’s book. It’s a sweet old lady’s diary. Does Redmond have another reason to come after you?”
Connor turned the key and the car started. “You did hear the part about the 3.5 million dollars, right?”
“I mean Alma, my Alma, is connected to a Haitian General? Is this really happening?”
“You blanked out that night. We always wondered what happened to make you and Alma move in, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” said Connor, holding his hand in the air. “Maybe this will tell us.”
Bartholomew nodded, turned right and left. “It might be something we don’t want to know. I mean, I don’t want to be mixed up with gangster killers.” He shoved his thumb against the glove box button five or six times, then slapped the dashboard and the glove box opened. He mumbled and leaned close, pulled out papers and fuses and old maps and dropped them on the floor. As soon as he had emptied the glove box, he twisted sideways and searched beneath his seat. “I thought you carried a gun in your car. Where the hell is it? Right out here in daylight, right in front of us, that Alex fucker took a photo of your license plate? I’m going to start carrying a gun. I’m not going to wait around for some old mad dog what’s-his-name to come looking for me. Hell no! When the Russians find me, I’m going to be packing heat. I won’t be snoozing and laying around.”
Connor eased the clutch out and the car rolled forward, then backward as he turned the wheel, maneuvering out of the parking space. “I don’t want you carrying a gun. That Alex is trying to figure out who we are. Just go about your business.”
Bartholomew looked at his cell phone. “I got about an hour before I’m supposed to referee that game. If you want me to finish up the Mantzberg case, you gotta ref that game for me.”
“No problem.” Connor glanced out the window at pretty little houses that almost touched one another. “I’ll drop you at the office. Lock the notebook in the safe.”
“Okay, boss. Since I’m going to open the safe, can I take out your 9mm, or the shotgun for a while? You know, I’ll carry the pistol in my waist band like Pops used to.” Bartholomew patted his abdomen. “No one will know it’s there.”
Connor shook his head as he drove. “I thought you were a boxing star. Why do you need a gun?”
Chapter 5
San Pedro, California
Falsen parked on a street lined with pepper trees, their long thin branches almost touching the parkway. Before he climbed from the car, he turned the steering wheel to the right so if the vehicle rolled backward the rear wheels would hit the curb and prevent it from rolling down the hill. He’d calmly parked using that failsafe system a thousand times. But now, as he turned off the engine, his hands shook so badly he struggled to click the door lock.
A large, important shipment of art was coming in to San Pedro Harbor, and he was going to capture it and take over Saunders’s position in the Ghrazenko organization. All Falsen had to do was play along with his boss for a little while longer. The pieces of his plan had been set in motion. There was no turning back. Falsen’s attack was set.
He thought about Tasha laughing and splashing along the beach of Cannes.
Falsen entered Saunder’s office through the front door and the secretary, a phone in her ear, pointed to the staircase. He crossed the office and climbed the stairs.
"Is the job finished?” Saunders looked up from the papers on the carved mahogany desk. He brushed his graying beard, waved two fingers through the air and Ty, the Asian bodyguard, stepped behind him.
"Yes, sir.” Falsen moved away from the staircase and swept his eyes over nautical charts and brass instruments on the wall.
"And there is no trail to us?"
"No, sir," he whispered, and repeated himself with a louder voice.
"We couldn't afford to have Tasha talking to the wrong person. We take no chances with this shipment. Moving us to California, expanding the business, has made Ghrazenko senior very cautious.” Saunders pushed away from the desk and stood up. "Too bad about Tasha. She was so young."
“It was business,” said Falsen coolly, glancing from his boss to Ty.
"Mr. Falsen, your skills have served me well again.” Saunders crossed his arms on his chest, raised a fist and tapped his lips. "I have some news for you."
"I hope it's good.” He swallowed the knot in his throat, calculated the distance to Ty and the exit.
Saunders stepped close.
Falsen smelled onions and alcohol on his breath.
"The paintings are coming tonight, not in two weeks. I misled you for security reasons. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal, a fabulous opportunity for Mr. Ghrazenko and for us."
"Tonight?” Falsen wiped a palm on his pant leg.
"Yes. We'll drive to the port in three hours and meet the ship, the Selasphorus. The captain is nervous, demanding cash immediately.” Saunders nodded toward a suitcase.
"A personal pickup could be risky, sir."
"Risky how? The police are taken care of. Our rivals won't interfere; it would arouse too much attention.” He squinted. "How could it be risky?"
Ty crossed the room and blocked the staircase.
Falsen bit down hard and felt his jaw muscles jut out. He hoisted his pants and moved a hand to the knife. If he was lucky, he could kill Ty and reach Saunders before the old man got to the pistol in the desk. Falsen slipped his fingers over the knife handle.
“These two paintings are the most valuable we’re ever moved. The Ghrazenkos are very–shall we say–nervous. We've seen what they do to embarrassing employees. Remember how they carved Mr. Smith?"
"Don't worry, sir.”
"Go out and walk a bit before we leave. Get some fresh air, relax."
Falsen left the house and strolled along the neighborhood sidewalks, crossed an intersection, and doubled back twice, keeping an eye on his surroundings. When he knew Ty had not followed, he entered an old telephone booth that had been stripped of the phone. Inside the graffiti-covered enclosure, he dialed a number on his cell phone and put it against his ear.
"It's tonight," he said. "I don't care if it's too soon. You've studied the port, and you've been paid. The ship is the Selasphorus. Don’t miss." He hung up and breathed into a fist. After several breaths, he opened the gallery on his phone and swiped, searching for his favorite photo of Tasha, his big woman, but the image was not there.<
br />
***
He stared at the fog through the car window. Every so often it parted and one of the huge cranes in the Port of Los Angeles appeared.
His plan was starting. It was no longer talk and dreams. Soon he’d be living with Tasha in five-star hotels, sampling creations of the finest chefs in the world, or tied to a chair in some unknown basement, screaming for mercy. It all depended on timing. He touched the revolver in his pocket and thought over the details for the hundredth time.
When the limo stopped, Saunders stepped from the car and brushed a speck of lint from his dinner jacket. "Why don't you lead, Mr. Falsen?"
"Of course, sir.” He lifted the suitcase containing the money and climbed the gangplank with steady, measured strides, eyes shifting about, sweeping his gaze over the deck, across the cabin roof, searching for movement: the outline of a man in the darkness, a moving shadow, something to prove he was not alone, some reassurance that he was not about to die. When he reached the top of the gangplank, a drop of perspiration ran down his nose.
"Welcome to my humble ship, gentlemen.” The heavy captain mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief and stared at the suitcase. "Please follow me."
They stood on the bow in the mist. Fog horns moaned as the captain swiped a finger over the glowing screen of a tablet while describing the cargo. “The paintings are in a sealed case. You know how we work.”
"Well, my good sir, that concludes our business.” Saunders pushed the suitcase forward with a foot.
The captain fell upon it, flipped the latches and shuffled through a stack of bills. "It is parked by the gate.” He tossed a set of keys to Falsen. "The paintings are stored in climate-controlled containers, packed beneath a shipment of coffee. Good night, gentlemen."
Falsen pulled the gun from his pocket and jumped. He grabbed the captain from behind, pressed the muzzle hard against his skull, flinched, and turned his face. Instead of a loud noise and the splatter of blood, he heard a click.
"What the hell?" the captain shouted.
"It seems an Asian pickpocket emptied your revolver.” Saunders tossed the bullets through the air.
