by Jon F. Merz
"Plenty. Don't change the subject. How’d it go?"
"Pretty much the way I expected it to. Darmov says he’s gonna check me out and see if I fit the bill for personnel in his employ."
"And if you don’t?"
"Said he’d kill me. Of course, he said that twice throughout our meeting, so I’m taking it with a grain of salt."
"He confess to the murders?"
"More or less."
"That easily? You didn't have to wring it out of him?"
"Said he's found being honest gets you further than subterfuge."
"Sure he's not lying to you?"
"No. But I don't think he is."
"Shoulda had you wear a wire. Then we’d have that bastard right now."
"No way. They checked me over with a weapons detector and as I wheeled through the door into Darmov’s office, I noticed an electronic detector of some kind. Most likely designed to impede electronic transmitters."
"Figures."
"Makes sense, after all this guy was military intel."
"So he’s going to look into your past?"
"Yeah."
"You want me to plant some stuff in your file? Maybe some nugget of information you might not have told him about during your meeting. Something that’ll make you look a bit more desirable."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Can’t be too serious, something that would have sent you up the river, but we can plant some suspicion of assault or murder charges that never led to an indictment. He might like that."
"Go with the homicide instead of assault. I already roughed up one of his goons tonight."
"How’d that happen?"
"I was showing off again."
"Pretentious bastard. You’re lucky to be alive."
"Thanks mom. Can I go now? I got a date."
"You got a date? At this hour? Who with?"
"Vanessa Patterson, of course."
McCloskey whistled into the phone. "Taking her to Chinatown?"
"What else is open this time of night?"
"Maybe I’ll spy on you guys. I haven’t had any good eye candy in a while."
"I’ll be sure to tell your wife the next time I see her."
"Like I’d ever invite your ungrateful ass over here again."
"Good night Frank."
"Call me tomorrow. I want details."
I hung up and moved over to the window overlooking my street. Tall linden trees now finally in full bloom had interwoven a canvas of leaves and branches that gave the street a nice shadowy look, especially at night.
Headlights are rare on my street after nine, so when a pair of bright ones partnered with two smaller fog lamps appeared at the top and began slowly working their way toward my house, I got myself down on the elevator I’d had installed years back and rolled out to meet her.
She drew the Mercedes to a stop right at the curb and hopped out to meet me with a big smile and a "hi."
Damned if she wasn’t one of those women who just seems to look beautiful at any hour of any day. She wore a black skirt that flirted with her knees, a light cream blouse that I could clearly see a white lace bra through despite the darkness, and leather pumps that seemed specially made for her feet. Knowing the money she had, they probably were.
"You look amazing."
She smiled. "It’s been a long time since someone told me that."
"That’s injustice."
She nodded. "You’re probably right."
"I’m absolutely right. Let’s get going."
She looked at the chair. "UhÉhow do we do this?"
I rolled over next to her passenger side door and put the brakes on the chair. I opened the door, hefted myself like I was doing dips for my triceps and got into the seat. Then I leaned back out, undid the brakes and showed her how to fold the chair.
"It’ll fit in the back seat if you want."
She slid it in back, shut the door and then resumed her post behind the wheel. "Chinatown?"
"You bet. Head for Kneeland Street."
We cruised down the Jamaicaway and then I showed her how to turn on to Perkins Street, head down South Huntington and over Mission Hill to drop us on the other side down by Northeastern University. It was quicker than taking Storrow Drive inbound and the view of the city skyline at the top of Mission Hill as we rolled over was spectacular.
We hit Chinatown in the interim between the theater crowds and when the late nightclub denizens get there for after-dancing eats. We found parking near the old post office. Vanessa wheeled me down the street toward Grand Chau Chau, which stays open until 3AM and makes some damned good chow foon.
Once seated, I attracted almost no attention, which was good because I’m not a big fan of attention. Vanessa attracted some, though, which seemed to please her.
"I must confess that I don’t have much experience eating in restaurants like this one."
"What’s to experience? It’s just good food."
"You know what I mean."
"I guess. Kind of sad, though." I pointed at her menu, which was primarily written in faded Chinese script. "You want I should order?"
"Please."
"Allergies?"
"No."
"Good, I’d hate to think what you’d look like if your throat swelled shut from ingesting peanut oil."
"Has that ever happened to one of your dates?"
"Are we on a date?"
"You’re dodging the question."
"Actually, it's not really much of a dodge. I’m choosing to redirect."
"Tell me and I might tell you."
"No."
"No it’s never happened on one of your dates or no you won’t tell me."
"Yes."
"That’s my line."
I smiled. "This reminds me of our first conversation."
"Only a little bit. I was much more businesslike back then."
"You’re not now?"
"Can’t you tell?"
"Might help convince me if you kissed me long and hard."
Her eyes gleamed. "And maybe add a little tongue?"
"That could make for a pretty strong argument, yeah."
She smiled. "You are not a man who gives up easily, are you?"
"If I was, I wouldn’t be solving your mystery and wining and dining you. I’d be some sap on welfare down at the Veteran’s Administration wasting everyone’s time."
"Are you wining and dining me?"
"Dining right now. Wine maybe later."
"I see."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
I grinned. "Hot damn. Progress."
"I think so."
The waiter came and I ordered two hot and sour soups, the beef chow foon that came with broccoli and an order of chicken fingers with white rice. They served it fast and hot, both of which make for good ratings in my book.
Vanessa sipped the soup and smiled. "Delicious."
"Yes. It is."
She looked at me. "I was talking about the soup."
"Don’t rain on my parade. Please."
"Do you lust after all of your clients like this?"
"Am I lusting?"
"Most definitely."
"Damn, I was hoping you’d just think I was being charming."
"Charming comes to mind."
"But lusting wins out?"
"Yes."
I bit into a chicken finger. "No. I don’t lust after my clients. Usually. It’s not ethical."
"I’m the exception then."
"You are," I said, "most definitely exceptional."
She beamed at me. "I suppose it’s not exactly ethical of me to be stepping out on my husband."
"Stepping out is an interesting way to phrase it."
"Sounds nicer than fuck buddy."
"I was wondering if you’d bring that up again."
"Surprise."
We sat there eating the chow foon and rice and chicken fingers for another forty minutes. Then we went back to my place and were decidedly unethic
al the remainder of the night.
And well into the next morning.
Chapter Thirteen
McCloskey was waiting for me at my office door the next morning when I rolled in at eleven o’clock. Brenda handed me a stack of phone messages, most of them from would-be clients. I ushered Frank into my office and closed the door behind us.
He cocked an eyebrow. "Late night, Casanova?"
I grinned. "You could say that."
McCloskey shook his head. "You look a little peaked. She must have taken a lot out of you."
"But I’ve got ever so much to give," I said.
McCloskey slumped into one of my arm chairs and sighed. "You know what?"
"What?"
"You get more action than most guys who got two working legs."
"The third leg works, that’s what matters. At least in my case."
"I’d guess so." He glanced around the office. "Was she impressed?"
"Oh yeah."
He nodded. "Did you give her your Injun war whoop?"
I fixed him with a look. "That is a most unpolitically correct thing to say, Mr. Drunken Mick Bastard."
McCloskey grinned. "I want politically correct, I’ll hang at the office. Got so many sensitivity seminars these days, it’s a wonder we get cases solved."
"Solve any lately?"
"One. Think we got a lead on this Melinda Patterson case."
"Probably couldn’t do it by yourself. Probably had help from some esteemed local private investigator."
"Esteemed?"
"I’m expanding my vocabulary."
"And your client’s horizons."
"Most especially that."
"You got any coffee?"
"Ask Brenda."
McCloskey disappeared and came back ten minutes later with a bag from the Dunkin Donuts down Centre Street. He pulled out a tall coffee, handed me an orange juice and then produced a cruller apiece.
"Lunch of champions," I said.
He toasted me with the cruller and then bit into it and followed it up with a healthy "ah."
"So," he said once we’d finished our brief reprieve. "What are we going to do about Darmov?"
"We?"
"Think you can handle him and his boys alone?"
"Probably not if Vanessa keeps draining me of all my precious energy."
"I can see you're going to have a little trouble focusing on business this morning."
"Don't be ridiculous. You take care of the little nuggets in the file?"
He nodded. "First thing this morning. Some of us weren’t bonking our brains out last night. Some of us actually keep decent hours."
"But not decent diets."
He pointed at his donut. "Hey, this has a coconut topping. That’s some kind of fruit, isn’t it?"
"Hell if I know." I took a sip of orange juice. "You think he’ll see my file?"
"According to my friend the Fed, the Russian Mafiya likes to cultivate intel sources within police departments both here and at home. I’m willing to bet Darmov has someone on the inside."
"Which naturally would mean the BPD has someone on the take."
"I know it’s almost too crazy to consider. But yes."
"Internal Affairs would probably love to know who."
"Probably."
"Could be a feather in your cap."
"And a bullet in my back." McCloskey frowned. "This ain’t no Yankee Fucking Doodle Dandy."
"Okay." That subject was closed. McCloskey would never turn in a fellow cop. He came from a long line of well-loved cops and the brotherhood didn’t take to stool pigeons very well. "So, how do you want to lend a helping hand?"
"I’m already helping."
"Yeah?"
"I’m here protecting your ass."
"Be funny if Darmov decided to stop by and found me talking to a cop. Could be a real detriment to my progress."
"Detriment? You really are working on that vocab."
"I don’t like Ôblack mark' because it’s so clichŽ."
"I’ll bet."
"So if Darmov finds my file, which you obviously feel he will, and sees I’m not such a great guy after all, he’ll hopefully be more inclined to hire me, that right?"
"Didn’t we discuss this last night?"
"My head was filled with other thoughts at that time."
"Which one?"
"Yes."
McCloskey stretched back into the chair. "That," he said, "is the plan. Darmov hires you as Woolery’s replacement and then what happens?"
"You haven’t figured it out yet?"
"You’re the big shot esteemed private investigator. Me? I’m just a lowly cop."
"I go in as Woolery’s replacement, Darmov takes a liking to me, tells me all about his organization and then we start setting up the motion to make it fall."
"This where you spring one of those dumb explosives analogies on me?"
"Yeah. We position things just right, the whole thing’ll come down under its own weight."
"And if we position wrong?"
"Things come down on us instead."
"Great plan."
"I’m open to suggestions."
McCloskey stood. "I have any, I’ll let you know."
"Thanks for the donut."
"What was that term you told me about once?" said McCloskey.
"What term?"
"Back when you specops guys used to call in air strikes so close the bombs almost fell on your own position. What was it?"
"Danger-close?"
He nodded and aimed a finger at me. "Yep. That's where you're at buddy. You are danger-close." He walked out of the office.
I watched him leave. I hadn't been danger-close in years. Part of me didn't want to go back down that road.
But a bigger part did.
Chapter Fourteen
It took Darmov just over one day to figure out what a swell addition I’d be to his organization and come calling. Actually, he didn’t come calling himself. He sent Viktor the great emissary instead.
When he eased through the door, I was prepared courtesy of Brenda, whose voice had grown several octaves higher when she told him he couldn’t just go in.
He did anyway.
He stood before me and smiled like we were old buddies. Maybe we were. I got the distinct impression, however, that Viktor didn’t much care for any guy in a wheelchair who could put him down so easily. And I definitely got the impression that he’d love to have another go at me.
"Mr. Darmov asks that you come with me."
"That mean I’m in?"
Viktor smiled again. "I would not be asking if I were here to kill you."
"Right." I wheeled around the desk and gestured for him to lead the way. I smiled at Brenda and asked her to take the afternoon off. I’d see her in the morning.
Downstairs, Viktor got me situated in the back of the very impressive black limousine I’d seen Don Woolery duck into a few days back after our initial meeting.
The interior was all leather, most likely Italian by the feel of it. Rich ebony and soft with an elegant mini-bar to one side. Viktor sat across from me and tapped on the divider. In a second, we were off.
Viktor pointed at the bar and raised an eyebrow.
"No, thanks," I said. "Business hours and all."
He nodded. He kept looking at me. For a minute.
I looked back.
Finally, after neither of us seemed to be winning the staring contest, I cleared my throat and smiled. "Something bothering you, Viktor?"
"You."
"Uh huh. Anything in particular?"
"The other night."
"What about it?"
"I have killed men much stronger than you."
"I’ll bet."
"Men who could walk."
"Yeah."
"Men who could run."
"Gotta walk before you can run."
He ignored me. "They do not run far before I catch them."
"And kill ‘em."
"Y
es."
"It’s very interesting of you to tell me this, Viktor."
"But you." He frowned and seemed to struggle for the right words. Damned English language. "You are able to defeat me easily. As if I had not even been a threat to you."
"Oh, you are most definitely a threat, Viktor. Don’t sell yourself short."
"You seem…not excitable."
Says him, I thought. Ask Vanessa Patterson if I wasn’t excitable.
"Truth is, big guy, I have been in a lot of fights before."
"But I have, too."
"My perspective is different," I said. "Once I lost my legs, I kind of gave up trying to be the bad boy on the block, understand? It didn’t mean much to me anymore. That attitude transcends my fighting skills. I've got nothing to lose and everything to gain, that sort of thing."
He frowned. Maybe I'd spoken too quickly for him to follow.
"Maybe we have another go?"
I smiled. "Would that make you happy?"
"Happy if I win."
"And if I win?"
"Mad."
"Yeah. I guess, huh?"
He turned and looked out the window. It seemed like a decent idea, so I did the same thing. Outside, we were traveling down Columbus Avenue toward Downtown. Columbus Avenue had been paved years back and would support an armored column of tanks. Not that you could tell that little tidbit to the conspiracy buffs without causing an incredible ruckus. I smiled at the thought.
We banked right at Stuart Street and cut a swath around the heavy construction vehicles that bordered just about everywhere in our haste to get to Congress Street. We passed South Station on the right and then crossed the waterway heading deeper toward the waterfront.
As we neared what must have been our destination, Viktor seemed to snap out of his funk. He straightened his hair and his tie. I figured he was trying to impress his boss.
The limousine rolled to a stop in front one of the many warehouses that clog the waterfront area and Viktor jumped out in an instant, carefully hefting me out and back into my chair.
At least now I knew Viktor's nice guy routine was all an act.
"Thanks Viktor," I said anyway. Polite bastard that I was.
He gestured to the door and I wheeled myself over. Inside I could see an elevator bank. Viktor hopped inside and held the door for me while I rolled on in. From inside, I watched the limo glide away leaving Viktor and I inside a small elevator.
I hoped the stupid thing wouldn’t break down. But then we moved up and I breathed a small sigh of relief.
