by Tim Maleeny
“Stop kissing my ass and do something right for a change. Did we get the adjusted numbers from Grace yet?”
Angelo hesitated. “No…no, we haven’t.”
“Fuck,” said Adam. “What’s taking so long? I want actual costs to date against the budget, new distribution of points, revised estimate of marketing costs, all that shit. It’s just fucking math, for chrissakes.”
“I don’t think she agrees with—”
“She doesn’t have to agree,” snapped Adam, stopping to point a stubby finger at Angelo. “She just has to run the numbers.”
“Actually,” said Angelo hesitantly. “She does have to agree.”
Adam squinted at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The clause,” said Angelo, “in the contracts.”
“What clause?” demanded Adam. “There are so many fucking clauses in these movie contracts that even I can’t remember them, and my name’s on all of ’em.”
“The contracts were written to allocate a share of the gross receipts to every principal member of the production team,” said Angelo. “The amount given to each person varies by seniority and contribution to the film, after all costs incurred are deducted from the total.”
“Why do you think I want to see the new numbers? I want to know how much is already spent.”
“But these contracts stipulated that those amounts could be re-allocated if anyone left the team during production, even in the event of death.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Adam testily. “So what clause are you so worried about?”
“Re-allocating percentages in the middle of production isn’t unheard of, but it is a bit unusual,” explained Angelo.
“So?”
“So the lawyers added a clause that says all remaining parties must agree to any changes during production. If all parties don’t agree, then the percentages remain as they were. In this case, that means Tom’s estate would get his share after the movie opens.”
Adam was staring at Angelo. “The lawyers?” he asked, incredulous. “The lawyers? What lawyers?”
“The lawyers,” said Angelo simply. “Our lawyers, the director’s lawyer. Grace’s lawyer. All the lawyers.”
“I fuckin’ hate lawyers,” mumbled Adam. “They’ve ruined the movie business.”
Angelo was pretty sure Adam had a law degree, but it seemed an inopportune time to mention it.
“Does Grace know about the clause?” Adam asked.
“I don’t think so,” replied Angelo. “It wasn’t in the fax we sent of the contracts she asked for—it was an addendum, so we, well…we just didn’t send it. Unless she asks her lawyer to go through the contracts, she’ll just be working under the assumptions you gave her on the phone.”
Adam nodded, pacing again.
“So she figures out the budget—how much we’ve spent, how much we have left for production, then sends us a copy of the revised budget and the new allocations.”
“Right.”
“Then she’s culpable in the whole thing, right?”
“How do you mean?” Angelo shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“She sends us a new budget, then she’s putting in writing that she’s okay with the new numbers,” said Adam. “So if anyone’s lawyer gets in a huff, we hang the whole thing on Grace. Why would she rework the numbers if she didn’t agree, right? And while the lawyers go at it, we hold on to the money. The interest alone should pay some legal bills.”
“But she’ll say she never knew about the clause.”
“Her word against ours,” replied Adam. “Inadmissible.”
He’s starting to sound like a lawyer, thought Angelo. “But what about the investors?”
Adam blinked, frowning. “What about ’em?”
“If she’s got Tom’s budget, she’ll see how the cash flow has been stop-and-go instead of simply drawing on money already in the bank. That’s not how we normally do business.”
“We’ve been a little strapped for cash,” said Adam belligerently. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Angelo forged ahead, emboldened by the lack of projectiles this far into their conversation. “Then won’t the investors want to ask the producer how their money is being spent? You said the money guys were pretty hands-on. And won’t Grace naturally want to know where the money’s coming from?”
Adam sat down heavily, reaching for the glass on his desk. It was half-full—or half-empty, depending on how you looked at it. From Angelo’s perspective it looked like it might hurt if it hit him in the balls, so he stepped sideways to position himself behind a floor lamp.
“Maybe she won’t ask,” suggested Adam in a tired voice, setting the glass down without taking a sip.
“You’re probably right, Mr. Berman.” Angelo tried to sound positive—maybe the glass was half-full. “Maybe she won’t ask.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“Robin Hood would be impressed.”
Cape leaned against the wall of Sally’s hotel room as she methodically removed items from a black duffel bag. Two curved pieces of wood emerged from a zippered pocket, followed by a coil of string that looked like fishing line. Last came a thick center section wrapped in wire. By themselves the pieces looked like wooden sculpture, or parts to an arcane musical instrument. But when Sally laid all the pieces together on the bed, it was obvious what was being assembled.
The bow was four feet long, bending sharply from the center and curving back in the opposite direction at the tips. Each section was made from dark wood that had been meticulously shaped but not polished, so the bow seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. The sections were joined together by thin shafts of metal that glinted dully in the light from the window. When all the pieces had fused into a single deadly shape, Sally stood the bow upright and pulled the string taut, her forearm rippling from the strain.
“Robin Hood,” she said. “Another great warrior who preferred the company of his own gender.”
“What are you implying?” asked Cape. “Is this another lesbian conspiracy theory?”
“I’m just saying that he spent an awful lot of time with those Merry Men.”
“What about Maid Marion?”
“A cross-dresser,” said Sally definitively. “Very common in those days.”
Cape raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“And what about the tights?” demanded Sally.
Cape frowned. “I’m just glad Errol Flynn isn’t around to hear this.”
“Who?”
“Errol Flynn!” said Cape in disbelief. “He played Robin Hood in the MGM classic opposite Basil Rathbone, who played the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham.”
“Dastardly?”
Cape nodded. “Dastardly. He had the evil-looking mustache and everything.”
Sally looked at him with a blank expression.
“Basil Rathbone!” said Cape insistently. “Probably most famous for being the definitive Sherlock Holmes, both on the radio and in the movies.”
Sally shook her head. “I’m not a movie buff like you, and I definitely don’t watch Western movies.”
“These weren’t Westerns.”
“I meant West—as in America.” Sally rolled her eyes. “As in not Asia, where I grew up. Besides, I didn’t go to the movies much. Too busy at school.”
“Studying archery?”
“Among other things.”
Cape gestured toward the bow. “How good are you with that thing?”
Sally gave him a look. “In feudal Japan, ninjas had to train for a full year with a bow—just a bow—before they were given a single arrow. To perfect their draw on the string.”
“How long before you were given an arrow?”
“Six months,” said Sally, shrugging. “Standards have really fallen off in the last four hundred years.”
Fully assembled, the bow covered the width of the bed. “Isn’t that kind of conspicuous?”
“I’ll carry it broken down
.” Sally began sliding arrows from a compartment in the bottom of her bag. They were shorter than Cape expected, the shafts matte black. Hunting arrows, the tips flared and razor sharp. He wondered what other surprises lay hidden in this inconspicuous bag Sally checked onto the plane. Maybe a Gatling gun, broken down to resemble a blow-dryer.
“How long does it take you to put it together?” asked Cape. “In case we’re in a hurry.”
Sally cocked one eyebrow and looked at the bow, as if doing a series of mental calculations. “From the bag?”
“No, already on you.”
Sally shrugged. “About ten seconds.”
“Ten seconds?” Cape raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.”
Sally held up a hand as if she’d forgotten something. “Am I blindfolded?”
“No,” said Cape. “That scenario hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Then six seconds,” she said. “But I’ll already have it assembled.”
“How?”
“I’ll put it together when I’m in position. Before you get there.”
“You never told me where you were last time.”
“One of the trees.”
“In the square?”
“Yup.”
“How’d you get past the women on the bench?”
“They were distracted,” replied Sally. “The pigeons were much more engaging than a short woman in tights.”
Cape shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not much cover.”
“That’s why I want the bow,” replied Sally. “I don’t like the layout of that park. It’s impossible to get close without being spotted.”
“I’m sure that’s why our Russian friend goes there to play chess.”
“You ready?”
Cape pulled up his shirt to reveal a Heckler & Koch USP jammed into his waistband, a compact 9-millimeter with a ten-shot capacity. Sally had taught him a few tricks for hiding unsavory items in his checked luggage. Cape had a carry permit for the gun in California, but carrying in New York could land him behind bars. He figured it was a necessary risk.
“Think it will come to that?” asked Sally.
“Corelli said we’d be on our own,” said Cape. “But I’d rather play chess.”
He let the tail of his shirt drop into place. Sally slipped the pieces of the bow into her bag. Ten minutes later they were on the subway headed to Brighton Beach.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Beau looked at Vincent, who looked disgusted.
It was almost like looking in a mirror, except Vincent was short, white, and dressed immaculately. But if he grew a foot, went from pine to mahogany, and traded in his pleated slacks for a pair of jeans, he and Beau would look exactly the same. Twin cops who needed a break.
“So what have we got?” asked Beau.
“Bupkus.”
“He a suspect?”
Vincent cackled. “I wish.” They sat at the dive bar across from the courthouse, where they’d just testified in another case. A real case with evidence, suspects, the whole nine. Not a circle-jerk. Beau was throwing back coffee while Vincent stuck with mineral water. They were still on duty and sleep was a distant memory.
“How about this,” said Beau. “We work backwards.”
“We tried that.”
“Let’s try again.”
Vincent groaned but didn’t say anything.
“Pretzel Pete got killed by Freddie Wang’s boys.”
“Agreed,” said Vincent, “but we’ll never prove it. The tongs never give up anything.”
“Agreed. And Cecil got stuffed in the slide at the zoo by Frank Alessi’s goons.”
“No doubt,” said Vincent. “Frank has an overdeveloped sense of drama.”
“But we’ll never prove it,” continued Beau.
Vincent looked sullen. “Frank’s off-limits.”
“Respectable businessman,” said Beau. “Big contributor to the mayor’s election campaign.”
“Fuck me.”
Beau shifted in his seat. “Unless we nab one of Frank’s guys on something else and get them to turn.”
“Like who?”
“Was thinking of Gummy.”
“The guy with no front teeth?” said Vincent. “He’s a moron.”
“Crystal meth will do that to you,” said Beau. “Used to have a fine set of molars till he ground ’em down. And he used to be high up in the organization.”
“I’m surprised they keep him around at all.”
“He’s somebody’s nephew,” said Beau. “But he might know something. He hears things, now and again.”
“So do all schizophrenics.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Go back to your list,” said Vincent. “So who killed Otto?”
Beau shrugged. “You forgot about the dead Russian.”
Vincent groaned again. “They’re connected.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Have to be,” said Beau. “Drugs are involved, and the timing’s too close.”
“I don’t know any Russians,” said Vincent.
“Me neither.”
“So maybe we talk to Gummy.”
Beau nodded. “Maybe we do.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
The Pole was at his usual table, studying the board and smoking. The bodyguard was earnestly pouring over the sports page a few tables away. When Cape’s shadow crossed the board, the Pole flashed his stalagmite grin.
“Esli druk akazalsa vdruk,” he said pleasantly. “If a friend appears suddenly.”
“So we’re friends.” Cape sat down.
“I ne druk, i ne vrak, a tak,” the Pole replied. “Well, not a friend, not an enemy.”
“You’re quoting someone.”
The Pole nodded. “Vladimir Vysotsky—you know him?”
Cape shook his head.
“Vysotsky was great poet, great songwriter.” The Pole paused to drag deeply on his cigarette. “His work was banned by the Soviets. You would like him—too bad you don’t speak Russian.”
“Maybe I’ll learn,” said Cape. “So you’ve decided we’re not adversaries?”
“Ah, but we are,” said the Pole, gesturing at the chessboard. “It is the nature of men, eh? But here at this table, we can talk like friends.”
Cape studied the Pole for a minute before answering. “You had me checked out.”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“You have not lied to me,” said the Pole, adding, “yet.”
“Which means I can be trusted?”
“It means you are smart.” A flash of jagged teeth, a gesture at the board. “Your move.” Cape studied the positions carefully before moving a bishop halfway across the board. “You are playing more aggressively than yesterday,” observed the Pole.
“Sometimes the best defense is a good offense.”
The Pole nodded. “And you have been on the defensive, eh?” He plucked a grape from the table to his right. The knife and spoon wobbled and clinked together as his hand passed over them. “Grape?”
“No, thanks.” Cape shook his head. “I’ve been under attack since I started this investigation.”
“And what is it you are investigating?”
“I’m not sure,” said Cape. “I thought I was investigating a murder, then drugs, and now I think it’s something else entirely.”
“Something else.” The Pole’s pale eyes were bright with curiosity.
“Something I haven’t seen yet.”
The Pole pressed his lips together to hide his predator’s grin. “Perhaps something you have seen, but do not recognize.”
Cape looked up from the board. “You know the men who tried to kill me.”
The Pole inhaled deeply on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, squinting at Cape through bluish smoke. “Even before the Soviets, it was hard to be Russian—the common man was always treated like a peasant. In the time of czars, back to the reign of Peter the Great, many Russians were sent to prison camps.”
> “As criminals?”
“What is criminal?” asked the Pole rhetorically. “Is feeding your family criminal? Or protecting your neighbor?”
Cape didn’t sat anything. The point was clear.
“So these men that were branded thieves by the State—they banded together. They became vory v zakone.”
Cape cocked an eyebrow.
“You would say thieves-in-law,” explained the Pole. “But we call ourselves vory.”
“We?”
The Pole plucked another grape. “There are plenty of old men who play chess. I am sure there are even one or two in San Francisco.” He poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to Cape. “You came to me for a reason.”
It was too early for anything but coffee, but Cape threw the drink back and felt his nostrils clear as the alcohol evaporated. A whole-wheat breakfast. The Pole nodded his approval. “Na zdorov’ya.”
“You were telling me a story about thieves.”
The Pole set his glass down. “Vory are like brothers, bound together by a strict code of honor.”
“Honor among thieves,” said Cape without sarcasm.
The Pole nodded vigorously. “It is not unheard of, even outside Russia.”
“So what’s the code?”
“To be a vor, you must honor a way of life,” said the Pole proudly. “There is much to the code, but at its core is a promise to resist the oppression of the State. We do not pay taxes and never cooperate with police.”
Cape realized he’d rather not pay taxes and, according to Beau, rarely cooperated with the police. He thought he was a closet libertarian but now wondered if he was really a vor at heart.
“In a corrupt state, becoming criminal is an act of defiance,” continued the Pole. “Is this not the history of America?”
“There’s a big difference between throwing tea in the harbor and running extortion rackets.”
The Pole waved his hand dismissively in a sweeping arc, causing his lighter to skitter across the tray. “Specific crimes do not matter. What matters is the act itself.”
Cape kept his mouth shut.
“In many towns, these men became the law, creating their own courts where common men and women could seek justice.”
“Or revenge?”
The Pole smiled at the question, the razor teeth glistening. “What is justice, if not revenge?”
