by Tim Maleeny
Harry smiled gently. “Glad you’re on the case, detective.”
Cape could take a hint. The interview was over. He turned and stepped into the hallway, making sure the door latched behind him before walking briskly to the elevator. He was glancing toward Adam Berman’s office when the door burst open and Angelo stepped into the hallway and pointed at Cape, his mouth open in alarm.
Cape knew it was Angelo. No self-respecting security guard would wear a suit like that, and he fit Grace’s description to a T.
“You!” Angelo shouted. “What were you doing with Mr. Berman?”
A gentle ping announced the arrival of the elevator. As the doors opened, Cape stepped in and turned to face Angelo, who was storming down the hall.
“You’d better go see Harry right away, Angelo—I think he’s pissed,” said Cape as the doors began to close. “He was so red in the face that I had to adjust both the color and the contrast on his big screen, but it didn’t seem to help.”
Angelo reached the elevator doors too late to stop them from closing. Cape glimpsed one glowering eye through the narrowing gap between the doors as Angelo pounded his fist against the metal, his face turning colors you couldn’t get on any TV, no matter how big the screen.
Chapter Thirty-two
“I could shoot you now, if you want.”
Corelli was waiting in the lobby bar when Cape returned to the hotel. He’d secured a small table near the entrance, on the fringe of a crowd that eddied around the bar with surging sexual energy and a bad case of congenital hipness. Cape felt his eyes would start watering any minute from all the pheromones in the air.
“Thanks anyway,” said Cape. “I’m already dead, remember?”
“I never met anyone in such a hurry to go from being dead to getting killed,” said Corelli. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of getting whacked by someone you don’t know.”
“That’s really thoughtful, but I’ll pass. I take it you found me a gangster?”
Corelli nodded. “If anyone knows the guys you’re up against, it’d be him.”
“And he’s willing to talk?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“Won’t talk to cops,” said Corelli. “Doesn’t trust ’em.”
“Why see me?”
“Because you’ll see him first.”
“Is this a riddle?”
Corelli scowled. “I can’t introduce you, but I can tell you where to find him. The rest is up to you.”
Cape nodded. “Fair enough.”
Corelli studied Cape before continuing. “I want you to understand you’ll be on your own.”
Cape nodded. “You’re saying you don’t have jurisdiction.”
“I’m saying no one does,” said Corelli, “except the Russians. The guy I’m going to tell you about is in Brighton Beach.”
“Brooklyn,” said Cape. “You mentioned that.”
“A scenic seaside community of hard-working immigrants, if you want me to quote from the guidebook.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“It is,” said Corelli, “especially this time of year. And most of the people out there are gems. But it’s also a major hub for the mafiya, so badges don’t mean much in that neighborhood.”
“That’s okay—I don’t wear one.”
“I know,” said Corelli. “With your attitude toward authority, I’m not surprised.”
“You’ve been talking with my third grade teacher, haven’t you?”
“Just wanted you to understand the environment, smart-ass.”
“They came at me in broad daylight in San Francisco, Corelli,” said Cape. “It can’t be any worse out here.”
“Good point. I guess you’re fucked either way.”
“So who am I looking for?” asked Cape.
Corelli hunched his shoulders and leaned forward, his elbows on the table, the caricature of someone about to whisper a secret.
“The guy you’re looking for is called the Pole.”
“He’s Polish?” said Cape more loudly than he intended. “I thought the mafiya wasn’t an equal opportunity employer.”
Corelli shook his head impatiently. “He’s called the Pole, but he’s Russian. From Odessa originally—real name’s Sergei Kovo-vich. Tough son of a bitch. Been shot ten times, twice with a shotgun, and survived three bombings. Of all the old bosses in the Russian mafiya, he came the closest to running the whole thing himself.”
“So why do they call him the Pole?”
“It’s one of those gangster nicknames,” replied Corelli. “Probably got it inside—it’s short for magnetic pole, ’cause the guy’s magnetic.”
“He’s what?”
“He’s got so much lead and steel buckshot in his body, the doctors couldn’t get it all out,” replied Corelli. “They say the lead is slowly killing him from blood poisoning, but they’ve been saying that for years. But the shrapnel and bullet fragments have rubbed against each other for so long, they’ve become magnetized.”
“You’re serious.”
Corelli nodded. “Get too close to this guy and your watch will stop.”
“I don’t wear a watch,” said Cape, remembering his last exchange with Linda and the Sloth.
“Just as well.”
“You said he came the closest to uniting the mob,” said Cape. “Why past tense?”
“He’s retired,” said Corelli. “Guess he got tired of getting shot. All the other bosses were jealous of his power, so after a while they took turns trying to take him out. It became almost a rite of passage as people rose higher in the organization. The last attack killed his wife. So the Pole got them together and divvied up his holdings on the condition they leave him alone.”
“Did they?”
“He’s still alive,” answered Corelli, “and nobody’s made any moves against him, at least as far as we’ve seen.”
“Sounds dubious.”
“I checked with some guys at the Bureau, and they swear he’s low profile.”
“But he stayed in Brighton Beach.”
Corelli shrugged. “It’s home.”
“Why not go back to Russia?”
“The guy spent fifteen years in the gulag,” replied Corelli. “I don’t think he misses the mother country.”
Both men were quiet for a minute. Cape asked, “If he’s retired, why not approach someone more current?”
“Two reasons,” said Corelli. “The first: someone currently in the game won’t talk to anyone they don’t do business with—they’ll just shoot first, then hide your body before you can even introduce yourself. So unless you’re willing to go undercover and go into business with these guys, you’re an outsider. And if I’m not mistaken, you don’t have that kind of time.”
“Reason number two?”
“There’s a difference between retired and out of touch,” said Corelli. “The feds I spoke with swear the Pole knows everybody. He’s an icon to younger gangsters. They come by and pay their respects, ask his advice—that sort of shit. So if anyone knows your friends in San Francisco, it’s him.”
“So what’s the risk?”
“He may be retired, but he’s still an important guy. That means protection. I don’t know who, or how many. But he’s not going to be alone, even if it looks that way.”
Cape nodded. “Where do I find him?”
Corelli pushed a crumpled piece of paper across the table.
“Drew you a map,” he said, “you being a tourist. Take the F-train at the station near the Brooklyn Bridge and go all the way to Brighton Beach. There’s a small park next to the boardwalk. The Pole plays chess there every morning while he eats breakfast.”
“Who’s he play with?”
“Himself, mostly,” answered Corelli. “Every once in a while someone joins him for a game, but the rest of the time he sits there quietly, moving pieces on both si
des.”
Cape took the map and put it in his pocket. “Thanks, Corelli.” He stood, extending his hand. Corelli’s grip was firm, his eyes serious despite his smile.
“This guy may not be that talkative.”
“I know.”
“So don’t hesitate to walk away. Don’t press him.”
“Sure.”
“We’ll find another guy.”
“You always this overprotective?” asked Cape. “You must have little kids at home.”
Corelli laughed. “A four-year-old and one on the way.”
Cape nodded. “Thanks again.”
“Remember, he won’t be alone.”
“That’s okay,” said Cape. “Neither will I.”
Chapter Thirty-three
If you want to change your perspective, just look at the ocean.
Harry Berman always believed water was healing. It was almost spiritual. That’s why he owned several waterfront properties around the world. And this particular view of the ocean really was extraordinary, especially when the fog rolled in.
Are you in San Francisco? Harry didn’t laugh much these days, but the detective’s question was so blunt it was comical. Hiring the detective hadn’t been Harry’s idea—that credit went to Grace—but there was no denying the man’s determination. He might be getting paid by the studio, but he worked for himself. For the truth. He was clearly an anachronism, a stubborn fool who probably watched too many Humphrey Bogart movies growing up.
But didn’t we all?
The ocean surged as whitecaps danced across the water, but the view didn’t really change. Its impact was the same no matter what time of day it was, as constant as the sea itself. Much like Harry’s power, undiminished despite his being physically absent from the studio. If anything, being gone had only enhanced his mystique. He reappeared whenever he was needed, and he could be anywhere at the speed of light. On a television screen, a computer, a phone. Reaching across the digital landscape to bring order to chaos. To take the reins from his schizophrenic brother.
But if it all turned to shit, Harry would just disappear. Even Adam wouldn’t be able to find him.
Having that detective on the payroll was probably making Adam nervous. Anything or anyone Adam couldn’t control was considered a problem, a cancer. A threat. But Harry had known men like the detective over the years. Even the smartest of them had more courage than brains. A man like that would succeed or die trying.
Harry wasn’t going to bet which one was more likely. He never liked to gamble and wasn’t about to start now. Life was too short. Besides, he had the ocean to keep him entertained.
The detective was Adam’s problem now.
Chapter Thirty-four
Cape decided to conduct the rest of his investigation from the shower.
He felt the stress of the past few days slowly dissipate as the water cascaded over him. If he could convince the hotel to install a waterproof phone, and if the hot water didn’t run out, then he’d never have to leave. And since he didn’t look anything like Janet Leigh and Anthony Perkins was dead, he figured he’d be safe in the shower.
After what seemed like a long time, he felt the temperature begin to falter and heard a distant banging in the pipes. Either that or it was the hotel manager pounding on the door, demanding that he stop wasting all the hot water. Grudgingly and against his better judgment, Cape stepped from the shower back into reality.
He examined his side in the mirror as he wrapped a towel around his waist. A livid red tract ran along his left side, halfway up his ribs. Tender to the touch but more stiff than painful. Throwing another towel around his shoulders, Cape walked into the bedroom and lay down, reaching for the television remote. Selecting the menu option, he scrolled through the pay-per-view movies offered by the hotel.
The first three were action films based on successful comic books. The next two were adapted from best-selling spy novels. The next was based on a popular television program from the seventies that Cape thought was stupid when he was a kid. The next four featured popular young actors or pop stars appearing in remakes of famous films from the fifties. “Franchises,” said Cape morosely, switching the remote to regular television. “Nothing but franchises.”
Cape flipped through the channels, too exhausted to focus on anything in particular. He jumped from reality TV to the news, though he had trouble telling them apart. As his mind shut down and his thumb kept twitching, he worked his way toward the outer reaches of cable. A woman with a turban and a grossly exaggerated Jamaican accent promised to reveal secrets of a successful love life. Cape was staring at the phone number flashing across the screen, thinking he should write it down, when he fell asleep with the remote still clutched in his hand.
The dream came in a rush, an onslaught of images with no build-up or story line, a jumble of random anxieties set to music. Busby Berkeley trapped in a tequila nightmare.
Cape was facing Tom, the airborne producer, who looked as he appeared in the police photographs—skin purple, bloated, and split from the impact and exposure to salt water. There were no whites to his eyes—they were completely black as he stared at Cape accusingly.
Cape was about to say something in his defense when Tom clapped his hands together, and suddenly they were surrounded. All the people Cape had met over the past few days circled them, clapping their hands and stomping their feet. Grace, Adam and Harry Berman, even Ursa stood cheering. Tom crouched and crossed his arms over his chest, and Cape noticed for the first time that Tom was wearing a fur hat and a sash belt, just like a Cossack from an old movie. Tom kicked and jumped as the crowd pounded out a rhythm. Behind him, the night sky was filled with asteroids and colored planets, shooting stars bringing light and fireworks to the celebration.
Tom produced a sword out of thin air, a curved blade with a golden pommel. He was spinning now, the sword flashing in brilliant arcs as he kicked and danced across the floor toward Cape.
Cape tried to move his arms but couldn’t, vaguely aware he was dreaming but unable to do anything about it. All he could do was stand there and watch as Tom spun closer, anger and betrayal reflected in his black eyes.
With a final flourish, Tom leapt into the air, the gleaming blade moving like a scythe. Cape felt the steel cut through his neck as his head separated from his body and flew into space, sailing over the crowd like a rogue asteroid. From a great height, Cape watched as his headless body collapsed to the floor. The cheers and shouts from the crowd were deafening. The last thing he saw, as his head disappeared into the night sky, was Grace moving his body aside and taking his place at the center of the circle.
Cape sat up with a start, hand at his neck. He tilted his head back and forth to make sure it was securely in place. The hotel room was dark except for flashing lights from the television. The Jamaican woman was back, this time promising to predict his future.
“I already know,” muttered Cape. “I’ll get beheaded by an angry Cossack and turned into a rogue asteroid.” He grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “And one day my head will plummet back to Earth, destroying either Paris or San Francisco.”
He stood and stretched, looking at the clock. No way he was going back to sleep. He rummaged through his bag until he found the phone number Grace had given him. It wasn’t this late in San Francisco.
The phone rang eight times before a connection was made. Cape heard voices in the background and remembered that Grace had mentioned it was a cell phone. It was another minute before she came on the line.
“It’s Grace.”
“If someone invites you to a Russian folk dance,” said Cape, “don’t go.”
Grace recognized his voice. “Where are you?”
“Still in New York,” said Cape. “Where are you?”
“ILM,” said Grace, adding, “Industrial Light & Magic.”
“George Lucas’s place,” said Cape. “Special effects.”
“Right. We’re using cutting-edge graphics on this picture.
”
“You want to call me back?”
“No,” said Grace hurriedly, “I’m glad you called…I was thinking…wondering how you were doing.” Cape heard the sound of a door closing, then white noise in the background instead of voices.
“You wouldn’t believe what the guys here can do,” said Grace excitedly.
“Have you destroyed San Francisco yet? I was hoping to clean out my apartment before you did.”
“How did you know about that?” demanded Grace. “That’s supposed to be kept under wraps. We’re not even featuring that scene in the movie trailer.”
“Adam Berman told me.”
“You talked with him?” Grace’s tone suggested she was either impressed or worried. “And he told you about San Francisco? He must have been in a good mood.”
“He was, right after his bad mood—and right before his other bad mood.”
“That’s usually the way it is with Adam—I think the term is bipolar.”
“He’s nuts,” said Cape.
“You’re not the first person to make that observation,” said Grace. “What else did he tell you?”
“That he loves his brother.”
Grace laughed abruptly. “He’s got a strange way of showing it.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” replied Cape. “What have you been up to?”
“Back into production…which feels good,” said Grace. “I finish up here tomorrow, then we start shooting again at the end of the week. By then I want to have all the numbers straightened out, which is a pain in the ass.”
“What numbers?”
“The ones I inherited from Tom,” said Grace. “The film budget, including all the breakdowns.”
“What do you mean by straightened out?”
“I just have to get up to speed on where all the money came from, and where it’s going.”
“Isn’t that why you have a budget?”
