The Elgin Deceptions (Sunken City Capers Book 2)

by Jeffrey A. Ballard

  The bottom of the elevator dumps us off in a level mining tunnel. The floor is nicely paved with cobblestone, but the owners left the tunneled walls and ceiling untouched. Regularly spaced rusty orange metal bracers that wrap around the walls and ceiling travel down the length of the tunnel. Between the bracers are wooden slabs that look to be haphazardly tossed in there—several are missing, many are not lined up properly. String lights with thick, clouded bulbs are tacked on near the apex of the tunnel, giving a warm light.

  All-in-all it gives a weird feeling of: this place is nice, and: we’re about to be crushed to death so let’s drink and be merry. I can see why this place is popular on the dating scene.

  We decline the coat check near the elevator entrance (we’re not stopping off if we need to leave in a hurry), and pass by a group of people waiting for the elevator to leave.

  The bar is laid out in a cross pattern, with the bar in the center and the tables and games are set up along the four legs. We thread our way through the thin crowd and past the bar to the tunnel opposite the elevator.

  Kafarov has already snagged us one of the railcar tables in the center of the tunnel that sits on the metal railway lines the owners kept—cool design feature. Puo and I climb on the tawny-colored bar seats. The bar is not yet packed this early in the night so we’re relatively alone.

  “Greetings,” Kafarov says in heavily accented English.

  Kafarov is not much older than us (I’m twenty-six, Puo’s twenty-seven), with short, almost buzzed chestnut hair, and he doesn’t seem to like to shave very much. He made a pass at me when we first met, but he’s not my type (he has very dark, almost black, eyes that I don’t trust, and slouching shoulders), and I’m just … I’m just not ready for all that again.

  I plop my tan messenger bag with the four desired piano rolls on the middle of the table. “Hi.”

  Kafarov restrains himself as a thin waif of a server with a narrow nose comes to take our order.

  After she leaves, Kafarov asks, “Any problems?”

  “Nope,” I say sweetly, “It went as planned.”

  Puo wisely keeps his mouth shut. He’s been a bit distant with me after the events two days ago in Amsterdam.

  Kafarov nods his head with a small smile.

  For some reason, there’s no hint of what happened in the news. The authorities are keeping it quiet—probably while they try to conduct an investigation. The beautiful part is, even if it did get in the news, the original plan called for use of the runner and alerting the authorities anyway. So there’s no way for Kafarov to know any differently.

  “May I?” Kafarov asks, gesturing toward the tan messenger bag.

  “By all means.” I smile back.

  Kafarov slides the bag toward him and makes to drop it surreptitiously in his lap.

  “Ah-uh-uh,” I say.

  “Of course, of course,” Kafarov says. His cheeks blush a bit—which is one reason I agreed to work with him. He’s competent, but seems to be a bit unsure of himself at times, which means he’s easy to read and may be easier to manipulate, if necessary.

  Kafarov keeps the bag on the table and opens it to his vantage and reaches in. He spends several quiet seconds moving the piano rolls around, reading them. The sound of the bartender rattling a drink around with ice in a shaker fills the silence.

  “Looks good,” he says. He closes the bag and slides them back to the middle of the table. “Just in need of a little restoration.”

  “We can help you with that,” I say. “If you like.”

  “Can you?” He looks at us inquiringly.

  “Yes.” It is what we used to do when we were on the U.S. east coast, before we had to shutter everything and flee. We had a topside business called Underwater Restorations that restored salvaged art, sculptures mostly.

  “Mmm,” Kafarov says, “A kind offer, but I already have something lined up.”

  “As you wish,” I say.

  We pause here for the thin waif of a server to drop off thick glass steins full of a heavy-looking dark beer, almost the color of espresso.

  I dip my forefinger in the newly arrived beer and remove it after a slow count of five. My nail polish is still clear. No nefarious chemicals.

  “So—” Kafarov takes out his tablet.

  I take a sip of heady beer. It has a smoky flavor I haven’t encountered before, like it was brewed near a campfire.

  Puo’s been watching me and takes a sip of his own without asking for me to test his. He doesn’t like it when I stick my fingers in his food for some reason.

  Kafarov continues “—same account number?”

  “Yes,” I say. We took a twenty-five percent deposit before starting the job—which was another reason to work with Kafarov, he was willing to make a deposit and pays promptly. Even with that and what Colvin gave us, we still weren’t able to make a full payment to the Citizen Maker last time. It was only Colvin leaning on the Citizen Maker that kept the situation from getting out of hand with added interest and a longer payment schedule.

  “But—” I continue.

  Kafarov stops working on his tablet and looks up, his eyes narrowing.

  “The contract,” I say, “was for four Stravinsky’s. We recovered five.”

  “Five?” Kafarov reaches out and looks through the messenger bag in front of him.

  When he doesn’t find it, Puo lifts up his purple satchel and pats it.

  “Are you interested?” I ask. “Same price as the other four.”

  Kafarov leans back but quickly comes to a decision and says, “Let me make a call.”

  “You’re not the buyer,” I observe. It doesn’t strictly matter, but it is what he presented himself as. So much for being easier to read.

  Kafarov shrugs silently. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Make your call,” I say.

  As he gets up from the table I take a thick, heady sip of the smoky beer. “What is this?” I ask Puo about the beer.

  Once Kafarov is out of earshot, Puo says, “We don’t know who he works for. And the beer is a Rauchbier.”

  “No, we don’t,” I agree. “And how do you know that?” I flick the glass beer stein with a heavy ting to clarify the question.

  “That’s not good,” Puo says. To my question about the beer he says, “I do this thing called listening. Powerful technique. Powerful—”

  Freaking Puo. The server girl with her heavy accent must have mentioned it. I cut him off about Kafarov, “No, it’s not. But they pay promptly, and there haven’t been any shenanigans yet.”

  Puo’s only response to that is to take a sip of his beer.

  Kafarov returns quickly with a smile on his face. “Five it is. Same account?” He sits down and takes out his tablet and looks up at me.

  “Same account,” I say.

  Puo takes out our tablet and logs into our account to verify the transfer.

  For a few seconds the only sounds at the table are the bubbles of the beer rising to the surface and the sound of fingers tapping on screens.

  “Annnddd …” Kafarov taps the screen dramatically. “—done.”

  I look over at Puo, who’s watching his tablet. A few seconds later Puo says, “transferred.” Without looking up, Puo gets to work moving the money out of that account and through our laundering accounts. That should cover the missed portion of the last payment to the Citizen Maker, the late fee, and a good portion of the next payment.

  Kafarov is grinning. “Come, let’s toast.”

  I grin back. We just made a lot of easy money without all the bullshit of the last few jobs. I raise my glass. Puo raises a glass with one hand while continuing to work with the other.

  “To profitable relationships,” Kafarov says.

  We clink our glasses together.

  “Relationships” is an interesting word to use here. It’s not one I would’ve used. This was our first job for Kafarov. It suggests that perhaps he has more in mind. Puo catches my eye to let me know he caught it too.
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  Instead of following up on that, I ask, “So what was your take in all this?”

  “Heh,” Kafarov laughs. “Don’t worry about me. The buyer was very motivated.”

  “How much?” I can tell he wants to say it. He wants to brag, most men do, and probably to look cleverer than us for not taking as much of a risk.

  Kafarov smiles again and leans forward. “Well, since you insist. Thirty percent.”

  Bastard. I keep the grimace from my face. Ten percent is the standard. “And how much of that do you get to keep?” I ask.

  Kafarov scowls before he can catch himself and plant his grin back in place.

  Yeah, I thought so. “Selevs?” The Selevs is the main Russian mafia. Kafarov’s young, he’s probably not that high up. His percent take will tell us that.

  “I’m an independent contractor,” Kafarov says.

  I just stare at him.

  “Well,” Kafarov says, “never mind that. Are you open to more work?”

  “Yes,” I say. “What have you got in mind?”

  Puo tightens. I wouldn’t have noticed it, except I was looking for it. He’s been lecturing me about lying low lately. But we’re going to need the money. So why not sooner, rather than later?

  Kafarov says, “I don’t have anything specific right now—”

  Puo loosens up a little.

  “—But I am interested in forming a business relationship.”

  “I would be agreeable to that,” I say, “on three conditions.”

  Kafarov cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “One, we are independent contractors. We only take what jobs suit us.”

  “Of course, of course,” Kafarov says.

  “Two, we always need a deposit to start work. The percentage is negotiable, but twenty-five percent is a good ballpark.”

  Kafarov nods his head.

  “Third, we get paid immediately upon delivery.”

  “Is that,” Kafarov asks, “any different than how you operate now?”

  “No,” I say. “But you’re going to guarantee payment.”

  Kafarov’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “That’s quite a condition.”

  “I think you can manage it,” I say. If Kafarov is Russian mafia, which I think he almost certainly is, then they can act as a middleman, a clearinghouse of sorts. They can force the buyer to pay up front in an escrow account. This should winnow out any buyers looking to screw us over or play some bullshit shenanigans.

  “I’ll get back to you on the last condition,” Kafarov says.

  “Your answer on that,” I say, “will mirror our own, on whether we enter a working relationship with you or not.”

  Kafarov shrugs his understanding.

  Our business concluded, Kafarov finishes his beer with a flourish, makes another pass at me (which I decline politely), and then departs with the piano rolls.

  Once he’s gone, Puo says, “Should you have done that?”

  “What? He’s not my type,” I say avoiding the subject. “I let him down easy.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Puo says. “And you called him a slouching dark elfin man.”

  I did? Hunh. That’s not that bad. Elves are theoretically pretty—not Kafarov, but there’s something there to let him down easy. To Puo I say, “Look, it’d be the best working conditions we ever had if they agree to it all—”

  “Yes, which is why I didn’t interrupt, but—”

  “But you think Winn leaving me has made me reckless and dangerous and I should sort that out before taking any more jobs.”

  Puo nods lightly, and looks at me with a bit of surprise. “That’s right.”

  “I’ve been listening. You’ve been harping on it forevah.” Puo starts to say something more, but I talk over him, “Look, we can take only the jobs we want—”

  “No,” Puo corrects, “we take only the jobs you want. The only veto power I have is a walk-out strike, which usually only changes your planning, doesn’t stop it.”

  Yeah, there’s a bit of truth to that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But fine, we’ll be more discerning in the near future in what jobs we take.”

  Puo looks at me in mock disbelief.

  “I can show restraint,” I say, a little defensively.

  We’re interrupted by the thin waif server thunking down another round of the thick mugs of frothy beer.

  “We didn’t order these,” I say.

  “They are gift from woman,” she says in passable English. She points to a Chinese woman in a charcoal business suit sitting at the bar in the center.

  I test the newly arrived beer with my forefinger again. “Mine’s clean. Want me to finger yours?” I ask Puo.

  “Just this once,” Puo answers, while checking out our admirer.

  “Yours is clear too,” I tell him.

  Puo switches his gaze to stare at me expectantly about our admirer.

  I ignore him and finish off my original beer in one gulp. I pull the new beer close to me and do some people watching. More techies are flooding in. The tables around us, once empty, are starting to fill up. A low din of conversation in the bar is picking up.

  You can tell techies by the way they dress. It’s the ruffled casual dress of T-shirts and jeans coupled with expensive shoes, sunglasses, the latest gadgets, and/or an expensive timepiece that gives them away. The women almost always outdress the men, upgrading to a sort of business casual. So when you see the two together, it’s always a dead giveaway.

  There’s also the casual disregard of prices, of ordering too quickly off the menu without looking at the price. Only people with money, who aren’t worried about the final bill, do that.

  “C’mon,” I say to Puo. “Let’s move somewhere else.”

  “What about the woman at the bar?” Puo asks.

  “What about her?”

  “What about her?” Puo asks in exasperation. “Drinks don’t just magically show up without any prep from us. Don’t you think we should figure out what that’s about?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m showing restraint, Puo.”

  Puo rolls his eyes.

  “But all right,” I say. “If you insist. Just remember this is your idea, not mine.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  * * *

  The Chinese woman is sitting at the main circular bar in the center of the cross pattern layout facing us. She watches us approach through dark eyes.

  The bar itself is made of linked railcars, like the table we were just sitting at, continuing the coal-mining motif. The bar top is a dark, shiny stone, obsidian maybe. It’s so dark that the Chinese woman’s long hair only stands out because it’s not as shiny.

  I hold up my beer and smile my thanks at her.

  She nods once. She has wide cheekbones with a narrow chin. She doesn’t smile back.

  Barf. I hate people who take themselves too seriously. I keep my face bright and cheery. You can conduct business without being an automaton.

  “Thank you for the drinks,” I say.

  “They were a gift from my employer,” she says in Chinese-accented, but otherwise perfect, English.

  I raise an eyebrow at her. The bar has become crowded. There’s a loud din making it difficult to overhear conversations nearby, but we’re not exactly alone.

  “Ne was impressed—”

  Ne, nem, nirs, the gender-neutral pronouns. Interesting. It’s a much smaller pronoun to hide behind. There are a lot more he’s and she’s in the world than ne’s.

  The Chinese woman continues: “—with your recent work for nem, and would like to meet you.”

  Puo subtly reaches out and taps me on the arm to get out of here. She’s talking about a recent job that the authorities know about in a crowd of unknown people.

  Before I can respond, she mistakes my silence for confusion, “Ne truly does love piano—”

  I turn around with Puo and get the hell out of there. I drop the free drinks off at the nearest tab
le and ignore the dirty look from the people sitting at it.

  Puo and I instinctively head for the elevator.

  We step in shortly with a crowd and spread out toward the back.

  The Chinese woman runs on at the last second.

  Damn it.

  She threads her way over to us. “I’m sorry—” she says with genuine bewilderment.

  Great. I’m not sure which is worse: nefariousness or incompetence. Well, probably nefariousness. But either can get you killed or arrested.

  Puo steps between me and the Chinese lady, acting as a bodyguard. At six feet, three hundred pounds, he’s good at the bodyguard role. “Ma’am. Please stay away from my client.”

  “Uh …” the Chinese lady tries to gain her bearings.

  I tap Puo on the arm.

  “Ma’am,” Puo says more forcefully. “I need you to take a step back.”

  The other people on the elevator are turning to watch the situation with interest.

  “No cameras!” Puo barks as one of the women wearing too much mascara starts to take out her personal device.

  The woman startles and drops the device back in her maroon Fendi purse that looks like a knockoff.

  Puo needs to be careful. We just crossed the line from forgettable to starting to become memorable.

  “It’s okay,” I say softly. To the group at large I say, “I’m sorry for Sebastian. He knows tight spaces makes me feel … uncomfortable.”

  One of the guys, his cheeks flush from alcohol, asks in German-accented English, “Why do you need a bodyguard?”

  I smile apologetically at him. “My father insists on it, I’m afraid.”

  The word socialite floats around with a bit of scorn, and just like that I slide back toward forgettable.

  “I’m sorry—” the Chinese woman starts to say.

  Oh, sweet mercy. She needs to catch a freaking clue and shut the hell up.

  “—I’m just such a fan. I was hoping for an autograph.”

  And now I’m back to being more interesting and memorable.

  Puo, without missing a beat, turns to me questioningly like this is the first time this has happened.

  I look confused, then flattered. “Uh, sure. I think I have some headshots in the car.” To the rest of the elevator I say, “I had a small bit part in a B movie last year. I didn’t think anyone had seen that.”