by Jeff Johnson
“Like that place in Queens.”
“Sure. Fried chicken and waffles with Portuguese sausage and white truffle gravy. Painted Hills tartar with pickled fennel bulb and local goat cheese on an English muffin, toss on a sprig of kale and a side of poached beet French fries. Kick the shit out of happy hour with straight-up Creole. Brunch is always a gold mine.”
“No one does braised beef cheeks right in this fucking town,” he said, almost to himself.
“As for the Lucky and the Rooster Rocket, nothing until the next Oleg pops up, but by the time they do it will probably be too late. The Korean place, I’m not sitting on enough to fix that, so I was thinking a parking lot for our businesses, pay by the week on the side for locals. I’ll give you 10 percent of that, too.”
“Twenty-five if I have to keep an eye on it.”
“Fifteen and you park there free. Save you that much in change.”
Santiago Espinoza looked me right in the eye for a long moment. I could see years of things I’d never really understand in there. He’d had a long life, filled with the long kind of years, just as I had. Then he gave me a slow once-over, up and down. Finally, he smiled a tiny, cautious smile.
“I’d shake on it,” Santiago said evenly, “but I don’t want to get that close to you. But you got a deal.”
“I’ll be back on Monday,” I said. “Let’s meet up here.”
“After six would be best,” Santiago said, looking around. “I’ll have to have people in and out all day. I hope the snow holds off.”
I took Dmitri’s key and clicked it down on the table. “Six thirty, then.”
“Where you going?”
“Weekend at the coast. My new chick has been pretty understanding about everything, but some quality time would go a long way right about now. Plus, it’d be good for me to drop off the cop radar for a few days.”
“The cops,” he rumbled, nodding. “Now we’re on the same team, what’s our story?”
“If no one asks, then nothing. Neither of us knows what happened to Oleg. If he’s alive when he gets there, from what you say he’ll either be arrested or killed. Either way, it wasn’t me, and the final episode of the Oleg Tenpenny Opera is way out of town.”
Santiago nodded. “The cops were all over his office earlier this morning, so they know he’s gone. I couldn’t even go in. Too bad, considering there’s one point two in cash in the safe. Way gone now.”
“Maybe that’ll be enough to satisfy them,” I offered. “All they really wanted was a high-profile arrest. A ton of dirty cash goes a long way in that direction.”
“Also keeps Oleg from wanting to come back. Lost everything now, and they probably issued a warrant to boot.”
“Imagine that,” I said, wonderingly. “Sort of everything he had planned for me.”
Santiago chuckled. “He was that kind of sweet.”
“Monday.” I turned.
“And Darby?”
I turned back.
“When you’re out there at the coast, you see any good menus …” He surprised me with a wink. “Steal ’em.”
The drive home was uneventful, and the ringing in my ears died down a little. I considered driving past Oleg’s office to check out the police swarm, but all I really wanted was to get Suzanne and hit the road. Plus, I needed some aspirin. Both sides of my head hurt and Santiago’s horse jaw had done nothing for my knuckles.
The street was quiet when I parked in front of my place. I left the groceries in back and went up the wet stairs two at a time. At the top I turned back and looked everything over again. Unless they were waiting inside, the cops really were too busy to be keeping an eye on me right then.
I had to shoo the cats back as I went in. The whole house smelled like bacon and coffee, good smells. Morning smells. Suzanne was dressed and washing dishes, singing softly. She looked all the way through the house and squinted.
“Darby.” She turned the water off and flicked her hands. “What happened to your forehead?”
“I fell on my new employee at his orientation. It worked out great, though.” I put my keys down on the dining room table. “I wasn’t gone long, was I?”
“No.” She kissed me on top of the head and gave me the look of a judgment pass.
“Let’s eat!”
On the way to the coast we stopped three times. First, to drop an envelope with five grand in wrinkled Cheeks cash through Jane’s mail slot. I didn’t include a note. The state of the bills said it all. The next stop was at a scenic viewpoint to eat an early lunch and listen to the static-lashed radio with a view of the winter storm rolling up a deep, pine-filled valley, and then finally at an everything style department store in the trashy town, where everyone who lived in the resort town we were going to secretly shopped.
We picked out a spirited red hibachi that looked like it might hold up for a week at best, four bags of coals and lighter fluid, a pair of size eleven men’s fuzzy slippers for Suzanne, but none for me as I am disdainful of them myself, two real raincoats, a pair of jeans and three T-shirts for me, since all my clothes were dirty and still at home, ten pounds of assorted steaks and pomegranate juice to marinate them in, four tomatoes, salad, potatoes, butter, peaches, Italian sandwich materials, and a crappy Teflon pan. Anything else we could get at the more spendy little place down the street from the hotel.
Delia checked in on the cats for me. Hank was evidently pretty excited about Taos, where he hoped to join an Indian tribe. Nigel was busy planning his French campaign. Suzanne and I spent Friday night talking and cooking on the patio, with the rain pounding away just out of reach. We laughed a lot, and it was one of the best weekends I’d had in a long, long time.
Sunday morning Delia called. She was at my house to let the cats out and had found a Sunday Oregonian, mysteriously delivered to me. She read me the headline and most of the article.
Oleg Turganov had been arrested in Kiev on several warrants and was being held in an undisclosed medical facility awaiting trial. He was in guarded shape, after being found hiding in an abandoned construction site. He’d been seriously injured, though the nature of the injuries was unclear, and he was also described as incoherent. Three warrants had also been filed in Oregon, with more to come as the details of his business dealings in the City of Roses came to light.
There was a note attached, which confused Delia, but made perfect sense to me.
“Idaho here we come. Midweek OK? —D”
“Who was that?” Suzanne asked when I shut the phone. I laid back and smiled up at the ceiling.
“Good news. Some guy wants to take me to Idaho. Fishing trip.”
