Beating the Babushka

by Tim Maleeny

  Corelli must have guessed the line of thought, because he softened his tone. “They only found blood near the dead Russian. You get hurt?”

  “I’m shaken, not stirred,” said Cape. “But I’ll live.”

  “That’s too bad,” replied Corelli, his voice regaining its usual gruffness. “I bet Beau you wouldn’t leave Brooklyn alive.”

  “You could always place bets on San Francisco.”

  “Already have.”

  “Thanks, Corelli.” Cape put money on the table, stood, and extended his hand. “I owe you.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” Corelli stood and shook hands. “Watch your back.”

  “If you’re ever in San Francisco—”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t look you up,” said Corelli. “I’d like to make it to retirement.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  The trip to the airport was only slightly longer than a Russian novel.

  Plenty of time to make a phone call. Cape dialed a number he knew by memory and was surprised when Beau answered on the third ring.

  “You’re at your desk?” said Cape, incredulous. “I thought the street was your office.”

  Beau snorted into the phone. “Since you left town, things been nice and quiet. Gives a hard-working public servant like myself a chance to catch up on all the bullshit paperwork I gotta do.”

  “My tax dollars at work.”

  “Amen,” replied Beau. “But don’t forget, you’re the dickhead responsible for half the paperwork on my desk.”

  “Point taken.”

  “But that isn’t why you called, is it?” demanded Beau, his thunderous voice sounding all-knowing over the phone. “I just talked to Corelli.”

  “Shit.”

  “Said you came to town and left a dead body for him to clean up.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, Officer.”

  “You’re a menace.”

  “My flight instincts took over.”

  “That’s about the only instinct you don’t have. What do you want?”

  “Did you test the heroin you found in the dead producer’s apartment?”

  Cape heard Beau’s breathing over the line. “How do you mean, tested? We gave it the old taste test, and it passed. Tasted like junk, looked like junk…must be junk. It’s not powdered sugar, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “What about the lab?”

  “Sure, we always send a sample down to the boys in the lab, find out what’s in it. The report’s probably somewhere on my desk.” Cape heard papers shuffling in the background. He’d seen Beau’s desk. “What are you going on about?”

  “Corelli said something about Turkish heroin,” said Cape. “How it’s different from the junk you get from Asia.”

  “Yeah, he’s right. So?”

  “I want to know where the heroin in the dead guy’s apartment came from.”

  “Why?” The rustling noise stopped as Beau turned his full attention to the phone.

  “I might know who put it there.”

  “Who?”

  “My Russian friends.”

  “You think the Russians are making a play for the local drug trade?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then what?”

  “Something bigger,” said Cape. “A lot bigger.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  “Gummy, don’t run.”

  Vincent spoke the words softly, as if trying to coax a kitten down from a tree, but it was no use. Gummy spun on his heel and bolted, slamming face-first into Beau’s chest, bouncing off, and falling on his ass. Vincent bent down and gingerly grabbed him under the arms to help him stand.

  They were ten feet from the main drag on Broadway, standing in an alley called Romolo. Since it had a name, Romolo was technically a street, but it angled sharply up from Broadway and ran into a dead end less than half a block up the hill. It sure as hell looked like an alley. But hidden on the left side halfway up the alley was the Hotel Basque, marked only by a neon blue sign with the word “hotel.” And on the ground floor of the hotel was 15 Romolo, one of the more obscure haunts in a city known for its bars and restaurants. Somewhere between a dive bar and casual chic, it drew an eclectic crowd that included lawyers, advertising executives, grad students, and the occasional mobster with a crystal meth addiction, like Gummy. When he stepped outside for a smoke, Vincent and Beau were waiting.

  Gummy looked from one to the other, his face drawn. He wore an expensive black suit, crumpled from head to toe as if he’d slept in it. His eyes were black and jumpy, his hair greasy and thinning, his hands shaky. He had the burn-victim complexion of a meth addict. The edges of his mouth were stretched and pitted, lips wrapped around bleeding gums. His front teeth, top and bottom, had been ground to jagged stumps.

  “How’s the habit treatin’ you, Gummy?” Beau sounded genuinely concerned. He walked Gummy up the hill to the end of the alley.

  Gummy shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a spastic dance, a fire walker who realized too late the coals beneath his feet burned like hell.

  “I don’t use ice no more,” he said.

  Vincent nodded sympathetically. “Got too expensive, huh?”

  “M-m-money’s not a problem,” said Gummy. “I g-g-g-got connections.”

  “That’s right,” said Beau, as if he’d just remembered. “You’re with Frank Alessi’s crew.”

  Gummy started to respond but coughed phlegm onto Vincent’s jacket instead. Beau covered a laugh by pretending to cough into his hand. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Vincent took out his gun and shot Gummy right there.

  “I don’t know shhhit.”

  “That’s not what you just said,” Beau drawled amicably. “You said you were connected.”

  Vincent wiped gingerly at his lapel with a handkerchief. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you, Gummy.”

  Gummy’s eyes jumped out of his head like a Tex Avery cartoon. “I got f-f-friends in high places.”

  Beau looked over Gummy’s head. “Vinnie, what does moving ice get you these days?”

  Vincent folded and put away the handkerchief, frowning. “Minimum five-year stint, I think. State Assembly just extended it.”

  Gummy twitched, then went quiet for a second. “I don’t deal.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Beau. “You don’t deal with us, you deal with a jury. See, Gummy, I got connections, too, over at Narcotics. They tell me you tapped into your connections to start moving the shit you’re using, so you could get it wholesale and make ends meet.”

  Vincent chimed in. “Depending on the quantity, the jury might go with two years in, three on probation.”

  Gummy’s eyes started to water.

  “How long you think you’d last inside?” asked Beau.

  “I read somewhere that addicts can go into shock if they get cut off,” said Vincent.

  “Hard to get crank inside,” said Beau sadly.

  “Why’d a connected guy like you start using in the first place?” asked Vincent.

  Gummy resumed his fire dancing. “Gotta keep my edge, you know? Th-the ice keeps you sharp. Guy my age needs an edge.”

  Beau nodded as if he understood, and he did. Even before he left Narcotics, crystal meth had become an epidemic. Confounding law enforcement was the drug’s unexpected appeal to normally law-abiding citizens. Truckers used it to stay awake on long trips. Middle-aged men and women tried to regain the energy and vitality of their youth. The gay community wanted a drug they could call their own. Ice had something for everyone, a seismic jolt of euphoria delivered straight to the cerebral cortex. Nobody saw the dark side of the little white crystals until they’d spread from both coasts to the Midwest, from the cities to the suburbs. Addiction came without warning or remorse. Ice was a body snatcher that sucked you dry, leaving behind a walking corpse too drained to know it was already dead.

  “Everybody needs an edge,” said Beau. “But Frank doesn’t deal in trash, Gumm
y. Even a fat fuck like Frank’s got standards.”

  “Wh-what are you sayin’?”

  “I’m saying it’s one thing to get judged by a jury, but a whole ’nother thing to get judged by Frank. Ice is a street drug, Gummy. Low rent, high risk. Frank know about your little hobby?”

  Gummy shuddered. If he had any teeth left, they would have started chattering. “He knows I’m using—was using. Said he’d get me help. I’m in a program—twelve steps.”

  “That’s great,” said Beau. “Which step you on?”

  “I forget.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Gummy. Twelve’s a lot of steps to keep track of.”

  “Nnno shit.”

  Vincent leaned in close and almost whispered. “Frank doesn’t know you’re dealing, Gummy.”

  Gummy’s head swiveled around. “You’re not gonna tell him?”

  “Not if you help us,” said Beau mildly. “This ain’t about you, Gummy.”

  “It’s about the zoo,” said Vinnie.

  “You been to the zoo, Gummy?”

  Gummy looked from Beau back to Vincent, his eyes suddenly clear. “No, not lately. Not since I was a kid.”

  Beau nodded. “Me and Vinnie, we were just there. Know what we found?”

  Gummy looked at his shoes and nodded. “Cecil.”

  “Yeah,” said Beau brightly. “You always were good with names.”

  Vincent nodded. “We need a name, Gummy.”

  “We just want the triggerman,” said Beau soothingly. “Doesn’t have to go past that.”

  “Frank’ll never know,” added Vincent. “About any of this.”

  Gummy’s lips started twitching as he ground his ruined teeth together. When he spoke, his voice was almost calm, as if he’d come down from some terrible mountain and was gathering his strength for his next ascent into madness.

  “I don’t know anything, you understand?”

  Beau caught the change in tone. “’Course not, Gummy. We’re not even havin’ this conversation.”

  “That’s right,” replied Gummy. “We’re not. But if we were—if we were talkin’, then I might tell you to look at a guy named Anthony.”

  “Anthony got a last name?” asked Vincent.

  Gummy shook his head. “I just know him as Anthony. Guys call him Big Anthony sometimes, ’cause he’s tall. But he’s not that big for a hitter. More lanky, you know. Kinda looks like a bird.”

  “What kinda bird?”

  “A hawk,” said Gummy. “Guy looks like a hawk.”

  Vincent looked at Beau, who nodded. Laying his right arm around Gummy’s shoulders, Beau flexed his bicep, pulling Gummy close and almost breaking his neck. It was a gesture that was simultaneously tender and terrifying. Gummy gasped as Beau whispered intently into his ear.

  “You better find those twelve steps or I’ll kill you myself,” he said. “Get off the shit, Gummy.” Beau uncoiled his arm and stalked off down the hill.

  Gummy watched the two detectives walk away. Once they were out of sight he sat down heavily on the pavement and frantically clutched at his pockets for a lighter.

  Beau and Vincent didn’t say anything until they’d rounded the corner at Columbus and passed two or three Italian restaurants. It was still early enough for North Beach to draw tourists. At the fourth awning Beau stopped suddenly and pushed through the door, grabbing two bar stools before Vincent caught up with him. By the time Vincent was sitting shoulder to shoulder with his partner, Beau had ordered two shots of tequila.

  “We celebrating?” asked Vincent.

  “No,” said Beau. “I fuckin’ hate tequila. This is punishment.”

  “We got a name.”

  Beau turned to face Vincent. “How do you feel about it?”

  “The name?” said Vincent. “I think the name’s probably good.”

  “Not what I meant,” said Beau. “How do you feel about bracing Gummy?”

  Vincent threw back the shot and winced. “Like a manipulative scumbag.”

  Beau nodded and ordered two more shots. “Don’t mind scaring the tough guys, the ones that need to be taken down a notch. Kind of like being a badass cop every once in a while.”

  “But a guy like Gummy…” Vincent let his voice trail off.

  “Yeah.” Beau looked straight ahead, at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  Vincent gestured at the bartender to hold off on a second shot. The first one was already working its magic, eating a hole in his empty stomach. “So what now?”

  “That’s easy,” said Beau. “We go bird hunting.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  “I think you killed him already.”

  The steel blades made a satisfying thunk as they struck the wooden board. Had it been a real man against the board instead of a silhouette, he would have been killed ten times over from throwing stars in his eyes, steel blades in his neck, and the spear protruding from his heart. Cape winced in sympathetic pain as metal darts with tails of brightly colored thread flew across the room and hit the board-man squarely in the crotch.

  “I believe in being thorough,” said Sally. Dressed in black from head to toe, she seemed to appear and disappear out of thin air as she walked through shafts of sunlight streaming into the loft from the skylights overhead.

  “Taking out your frustrations over the shooting in Brooklyn?”

  “I’m out of practice,” said Sally. “I should have nailed the bastard.”

  “Maybe you did.”

  “The cops didn’t find a body,” she replied. “At best he’s got a punctured shoulder.”

  “But we didn’t get killed,” said Cape. “Given the odds, that’s not bad.”

  “Not good enough,” replied Sally. “If you kill the bad guys now, you don’t have to worry about them causing trouble later.”

  “It never works like that in the movies.”

  “This isn’t the movies,” said Sally. “If it were, then I’d be a buxom blonde and you’d look like George Clooney.”

  “Not Brad Pitt?”

  “I’m trying to give you a fighting chance.”

  “If we’re in a movie, there should also be a love interest.”

  “Who’s got the time?”

  Cape smiled. “Beau considered asking you out until I convinced him you had a gender bias.”

  “I like Beau,” said Sally. “It’d be a shame to have to hurt him.”

  “You could let him down easy.”

  “I meant physically.”

  She walked over to the board and started removing the metal darts, sliding each one into a hidden pocket in her sleeve. “You still want to talk to Freddie Wang?”

  “Yeah,” said Cape. “But I’m going to see Frank Alessi first. He speaks the language.”

  “So does Freddie, but not with gwai loh like you—unless he’s in the mood.”

  “Let’s see how it goes with Frank,” said Cape. “See if I learn anything.”

  “You’re sure you want to waste your time with those guys?”

  “You want take-out drugs in this town, it’s either Chinese or Italian.”

  “You’re the detective,” said Sally, pulling the spear from the board. “I’m just the circus act.”

  Cape nodded at the spear, which ended in a two-pronged curve like a can opener. “How old were you when you learned to throw that thing?”

  Sally hefted the spear and sighted down the shaft. “Not until I was eight.”

  Cape wasn’t sure what he was doing when he was eight, but he was pretty sure he had a rock in his hand. Maybe some gum, but definitely not a spear.

  “Somebody followed us to Brighton Beach,” said Sally. “Or somebody told the sniper we were coming.”

  Cape shook his head. “Corelli and the Pole were the only people who knew we were going back. No way Corelli sold us out, and I don’t see the Pole wasting his own guy, despite what Corelli thinks. He lives by a code.”

  “I think it’s called the penal code,” said Sally. “He’s a cri
minal.”

  Cape heard the Pole’s voice in his head. What is criminal?

  “We were followed,” said Cape.

  “The Pole also spoke of the brotherhood,” said Sally. “What if he and the Major are—what did he call it?”

  “Thieves-in-law,” said Cape.

  “Put him on the list,” said Sally sternly.

  “Okay, he’s on the list.”

  “Who else knew you were in New York?”

  “After my visit to Empire, all the usual suspects,” said Cape. “Adam, Harry, Angelo. The receptionist, if you want to do this by the book. Beau, of course.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

  “Who?” asked Cape, then answered himself. “You mean Grace.”

  Sally nodded. “She knew before you left. Plenty of time to set something up.”

  “She’s my client.”

  “Who gets rich from her buddy Tom taking the big fall off the bridge.”

  “So why start an investigation?”

  “To divert suspicion, of course,” said Sally. “Happens in the movies all the time.”

  “This isn’t the movies.”

  “You can’t have it both ways.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “Aren’t you?” asked Sally. “You’re the one with a target on your back.” She walked the length of the loft, keeping her back to Cape. When she reached the far wall, Cape realized he was standing between her and the practice board, just slightly to the right. Before he could say anything, Sally spun on her heel and hurled the spear one-handed. He could still feel it whistling past his ear when it hit the board.

  The only noise in the loft came from the spear, bass and treble notes alternating as it wobbled back and forth. It penetrated deeper this time, having struck the same exact spot on the board as the previous throw. Sally looked from the board to Cape and curtsied.

  “For my next trick, I will make someone from the audience disappear. Anyone? Anyone?”

  Cape held up his hands. “I can take a hint—you want to practice.”

  Sally bowed in acknowledgement. “Call me when you’re ready to visit Freddie Wang.”

  “Count on it.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Cape felt the adrenaline rush of impending violence.