by Marc Strange
Danforth Avenue was the kind of road that kept you on your toes. An erratic traffic flow, either over the limit or crawling, drivers either racing between red lights or knotted in the middle of an intersection. It was four lanes wide but felt narrower — parking on both sides made the inside lane less than generous, and jaywalkers routinely dodged vehicles to stand on the white centre line.
“Yeah, you’ll be safe there,” Stacy said.
Her cell was buzzing.
“Yo, Stace, I’m out of the subway now. Hear me okay?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Still got ’em?”
“Coming up on Chester. The Beemer just pulled into a lot.” Stacy turned into the lot in time to see the men enter a back door. It looked to be the fourth or fifth building from the corner. “They’ve gone into a building. I’m parked.”
It was still there. She had been certain it would be. The same flat brick façade and the red door set at an angle inside a niche just big enough to accommodate two smokers at a time on rainy days. The sign, in Cyrillic script, “Бакунин,” and a notice board under a cracked plexiglass cover offering jobs, announcing meetings and entertainments and sometimes seeking companionship.
Sergei and his hulking companion went straight in, not looking around, not checking behind, oblivious to the possibility that they’d been followed. Anya however knew that she’d been followed, and she was quite content. The big one had been in the next coach all the way. Odd-looking woman, angular and tall, but not uncoordinated, quicker than she looked.
She found a table in the McDonald’s across the street, away from the window, but with a clear view reflected in the artwork on the opposite wall. She nursed a coffee and waited. It was something she was good at.
Adele sat in the passenger seat. “You getting pepperoni repeats?”
“No.”
She belched delicately behind her palm. “With maybe fried egg?”
“Need some Pepto?”
“Hell no, I need a regulated life, some order, some better habits.”
“She still in McDonald’s?”
“Staring at that bar across the street.”
“What’s she up to?”
“Sounds weird, but I get a strong feeling she was just leading the way. And now she’s waiting for us.” A small burp. “Too early for a beer?”
The bartender had stubble heavier than was currently fashionable. His look, lecherous when he checked out Stacy, soured when he saw her companion.
“Couple’a Coors Lite,” said Adele.
“Place you’re looking for is two blocks that way.”
Adele was amused. “Oh yeah, what place would that be, sir?”
“You know, where the ‘girls’ hang out.”
“This place ‘boys only,’ is it?” She looked around the room. “I don’t know, Stace, most of the gay bars I’ve been in, the guys had style.”
“Hard to tell sometimes,” Stacy said. “Check his wrist. That’s a five thousand dollar timepiece, don’t you think?”
“Five easy.”
“Easy. You pay retail for that?”
Bartender gave them a hard look, placed two bottles on the bar and moved to the other end. Adele put down a ten dollar bill. “No glass?” The bartender’s attention was on the TV above the pinball machine. A silent soccer game was in progress.
Stacy deliberately spilled a few drops on the floor. A private ritual. The gods shouldn’t have to do without just because she didn’t drink. She scanned the room, taking it all in, weighing everything, locating doors and hallways, counting bodies — a dozen, all male — vodka, coffee, tea, newspapers, chess. Travel posters invited the world to visit the Black Sea and St. Petersburg, to drink Stolichnaya and fly Aeroflot. The music was the best of ABBA or something, European disco, no balalaikas. “Charming spot,” she said.
Adele wet her lips. “Far side, Big Hair and Dapper Dan?”
“I think the big one was in my town,” said Stacy. “Yesterday, day before.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m pretty sure I saw him at the hospital. I recognize the hair. Who combs their hair like that?”
“And the short one has nasty eyebrows.”
“You think? Yeah. Kind of objectionable.”
The two men were arguing about something, in Russian, but being very controlled about it, with phony smiles and bogus laughter, sometimes audible over the inappropriate music. “Dapper Dan wants to strangle his friend but his hands aren’t big enough,” Adele said.
“How do you want to do this?” Stacy asked.
“Oh hell. Let’s see how cool they are.”
Adele walked straight across the room. Stacy left her beer on the bar and took the scenic route, crossing the room at oblique angles, checking faces, expressions, features, making an impression.
“Hi there, gents,” Adele said. “Mind if we join you?”
The big one looked them over. “She can stay,” he said, pointing. “You can piss off.”
“And I thought this was a social club,” said Adele. She sat down. Stacy remained standing, keeping an eye of the rest of the room.
“You are police?”
Stacy turned her shoulders to look the big man in the eye. “That’s right, sir.”
“Being police is dangerous job,” the big man said.
Stacy smiled, “So’s being an asshole.” She resumed picket duty.
“What’s your name, sir?” Adele asked him.
“Yevgeni Grenkov. I am citizen.”
“Are you now? That’s good to know. Pay taxes and everything? Very nice.” She turned to his companion. “How about you, sir?”
“You drink on duty?”
Adele’s face creased in a broad grin. “I know that voice. I thought that might be you. Didn’t I say that, Stace?”
“You did.”
“I said I’ll just bet that dapper little fucker is my pal, Serge.” She had another sip. “And yes, Serge, I’m sipping a beer. I’m on compassionate leave today, Serge. You know, on account of my partner getting shot. You remember my partner, Paul. Paul Delisle, Mr. . . . ah, what is it?”
“Siziva,” said Stacy.
“Right. Siziva. You a citizen too, Serge?”
“What do you want?”
“My friend and I were checking out pawnshops. You like pawnshops, Serge? How about you . . . ?”
“Yevgeni,” said Stacy.
“That’s right. Citizen Yevgeni Grenkov. You like pawnshops? How do you feel about pawnbrokers?”
“He’s never met any.”
“Let the big guy talk,” Adele said.
“I talk for myself.”
“You didn’t just kick him under the table, did you, Serge?”
“It’s Sergei.”
“I know that, Serge, but you know what, I’m going to call you whatever the fuck I feel like calling you because I think you are seriously bent and I’m looking forward to substantiating that. Where were you two guys, say, last night, early this morning? Around eight, when you called Paulie’s apartment?”
“You are confused.”
“Well, we can check that, phone logs, you know. You weren’t stupid enough to call from Grova’s place, were you? That would have been dumb, even for you smart guys.”
By now Stacy had made eye contact with each man in the room, establishing to everyone’s satisfaction that she was badged, armed and authorized to make their lives miserable. She turned her attention to the two men. “If we were to check you guys out, would we find any weapons? Guns, knives, electrical cords?”
“We are not armed,” said Sergei. He spread his fine wool jacket revealing a bright silk lining. “You are welcome to look.”
“How about you, big fella? You packing?”
“No.”
“Care
to stand up for a sec, open your coat, turn around. Hurt your hand, huh?” She was brisk, efficient. “Been in Dockerty recently? Like yesterday? I think you were noticed. Reason I’m asking, had a serious mugging and a couple of break and enters up there. Not the sort of thuggery our citizens are known for.” To Adele. “He’s clean. Nasty bandage on those knuckles.”
“Ripped his pants, too, looks like. What happened? Grova put up a fight?”
The big man sat down. “We weren’t there.”
“You were definitely in the neighbourhood. Shopping no good this end of town?”
Sergei shrugged. “Very well. We were going to pay Mr. Grova a visit, but when we arrived we saw all the police cars so we decided to leave.”
“Why were you paying Mr. Grova a visit?”
“He was keeping his ears open for us. About certain items.”
“Right. So what happened? Did he call? ‘Hey Serge, guess what I found?’”
“We did not go upstairs.”
“Not what I asked, Serge old boy, stay on topic here, what happened? Did the pawnbroker give you a call? What?”
“It was just a friendly visit.”
“I see, out of the blue, hey, let’s go see our old pal the pawnbroker and strangle him for a while?”
“We weren’t there!”
“Calm down, Serge,” Adele said. “We should be able to clear it up, a little forensics, you know, fingerprints, blood work, footprints, fibres.”
“Go ahead. Police were all around his place. Why would we stay if we had done a crime?”
“Because you’re stupid?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, shit, Serge, what everyone wants, you know, world peace, stiffer sentences for parole violators, that kind of thing. Where were you last night?”
“I was home.”
“And where’s home, Serge?”
“I have an apartment. Upstairs.”
“You live here too, Citizen?”
“He is staying with me.”
“Visiting? From where?”
“I live in Montreal.”
“Aha. You ever run into a diamond merchant, also named Grova, in Montreal?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Really? I got the impression you guys all knew each other.” She was still for a moment, looking at both men, a smile on her face. “Stace? How these guys doing so far?”
“Don’t seem very well informed about anything.”
“May have to invite them down for separate interviews. I have a feeling Citizen Grenkov is a bit intimidated by his friend Serge.”
“You arresting us?”
“I’m considering it.”
“On what charge?”
“Torture, strangulation and there’s that business with some guy named Nimchuk who got himself dead in a sleazy motel room last week.”
“I don’t know any Nimchuk.”
“Oh sure you do, Mr. Siziva,” Stacy said. “You two were in the ballet together, weren’t you? Along with Ludmilla and Vassili.”
“And one more, isn’t there, Detective Crean?”
“Zubrovskaya. Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya.”
“I hear you two used to dance together,” Adele said. “Back in the day. Before you all became international smugglers.”
“I was never part of that.”
“Not at the end, maybe. You got scared and ran home.” She leaned forward. “Question is, why did you come back?” She turned to Stacy. “You be okay if Mr., ah, Siziva and I have a private chat?”
“Oh sure, Yevgeni and I will stay put.” She looked at the big man. “Won’t we?” Grenkov made a noise something like a low growl.
Adele said, “You have an office, Sergei?” This time she pronounced it correctly. “Maybe the ladies room? It’s probably vacant.”
Sergei didn’t blink. “There is a place in the lane.” He straightened his jacket as he rose. “They don’t allow smoking indoors these days,” he said.
Adele followed him to the exit. She looked back to see Stacy taking a chair across from Grenkov.
Adele gave the narrow lane a thorough inspection, checked the fire escape above, looked behind the lone dumpster, then walked to the street entrance and back again, stood close to him, forcing him to lean back. She smiled. “You wearing a wire, Sergei?”
“What?”
“Me neither,” she said, patting him on the chest. “You can check if you have to, but don’t get familiar.”
He took a step back. “What do you want?”
“I just want us to be comfortable during these negotiations.” She returned to the lane entrance, watched a car or two go by. “It’s cards on the table time, Sergei,” she said. She took one more look at the sidewalk. “You feel exposed here? I guess it’s okay.” She shook her head and walked back. “When Paulie got his head blown off, you picked up a new partner.” Sergei was staring at her. “Didn’t tell you about me?”
“Not much.”
“That’s Paulie all right, so cool, but also dead, which sorta leaves things up in the air, right?”
Sergei’s manner changed. He relaxed a few notches, settled his jacket more comfortably on his shoulders, adjusted his scarf. “I’m not sure I know what you are talking about,” he said. “What is it you think you know?”
“See? That’s the deal. Paulie was one cagey dude. He just gave me a paper bag and told me that if something should happen, which, go figure, something did, I’d be dealing with his friend Sergei. He said there was some big money in it for me. It’s you and me, pal.” She looked around again, lowered her voice. “And the jewels, of course.”
“You have them?”
“Oh yeah. Coulda knocked me over.”
“How many do you have?”
“How many are there supposed to be?”
“More than you have. What colour are they?”
“What? Let’s see . . . I’ve got a bunch of white ones and a big blue one. What colours did you get?”
“The policewoman inside? She knows about this?”
“Her? Fuck no. She’s a hick down from Hooterville. I’m not telling her shit. Let’s face it, Serge, I’m kind of on shaky ground here. I’ve got an envelope full of stones connected to who knows how many fucking murders. You think I’m talking to people? Look, if we’re going to be partners you’ll have to open up. What was your deal with Paulie? Finder’s fee, piece of the action?”
“I guess he didn’t tell you everything.”
“Dammit, Serge! All right, fuck it. I don’t need this shit. I’ll just turn the frickin’ jewels in to my captain, get a slap on the wrist for turning in some evidence a few days late. So what?”
“But you would prefer not to do that?”
“Well sure, shit, I could use some extra dough. And I don’t want to drag my partner’s name through the mud if I don’t have to. But I won’t deal with amateurs. I’m not putting my tit in a wringer because you guys don’t know what you’re doing. Put a price on what I’m holding. If we can do this quietly, we can make a deal.”
“Did you like your partner, Detective?”
“Hell no. Giant pain in the ass. Do you like your partner?”
“A necessary inconvenience. That man who was murdered in a motel room, two weeks ago, he was shot through the head, I believe.”
“This would be that Commie smuggler, Nimchuk, right?”
“You have recovered the murder weapon?”
“Not yet.”
“This would be an important piece of evidence, would it not?”
“Describe the weapon.”
“I believe we are talking about a large calibre revolver. A Smith & Wesson.”
“All right. Sure. I’d like to get my hands on it. Don’t want murder weapons hanging around, do we?”
&
nbsp; “Of course not. Especially evidence that your partner had been a very bad boy?”
“Right. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“And in exchange I’m going to need what you have.”
“What? Straight swap? Where’s my end?”
“That could be negotiated. After I get the gems.”
“Tell you what, Serge, how be we trade for, say, a couple of the white ones. The big blue one I think maybe I’ll hang on to until I see some cash on the table.”
“I’m sorry. The item in question is the only card in my hand. If I turn it over I have no leverage whatsoever.”
“Money works. Those sparklers are no fucking good to me. What am I, a broker? No. I’ll trade some for the gun. But only for Paulie’s personal weapon. Understand? I’m not swapping the mint for some Saturday night special you picked up on eBay.”
“It is what I say it is.”
“Good then. You give me the piece, I give you, say, a portion of what I’ve got, and the rest I’ll trade for cash money. Makes sense to me.”
“It takes time to convert items like that into cash.”
“Think about it Serge, you’re not in the strongest position here. You’re in possession of a murder weapon. Never a good plan. What are you going to do with it? Sooner or later you have to get rid of it.”
“I could mail it to the police.”
“Sure. Fine by me. Go right ahead.”
“Even if it proves your partner is a killer?”
“Even if it proves my partner had improper relations with a hamster. I don’t give a shit. You want to hang him with that killing, be my guest.”
“I could involve you.”
“In what? Talking by the dumpster? However this goes down, I’m in the clear. My partner died, I inherited his case, I tracked down some jewels and I found his confidential informant. And then you’ll have lots of time to explain yourself. Face it Serge, this is the last chance you’re gonna have to talk to somebody who might listen. Once you’re in custody, it’s out of my hands.”
“How do we make the exchange?”
“Just you and me, pal, what d’ya say? Only thing, it happens now, today, no dicking around — hell, bring your big ass bodyguard if it makes you feel safe. I’ll bring the stones.”
