The Raven

by Mike Nappa

  “Sparring today?” Trudi hollered down the hall. A moment later, Eulalie was standing in the doorway to the office.

  “Yep.” She dimpled, holding up the chest protector and nodding her head in a way that made the tight curls in her hair bounce up and down like miniature Slinky toys on her shoulders. “You’d have been proud, boss. That mean old sparring partner of mine never landed a solid blow the whole time.”

  “Good.”

  Trudi liked that Eulalie was learning self-defense. After she’d decided that this one was going to be more than a receptionist, after she’d started thinking of Eula as an “assistant” instead, Trudi had suggested the tae kwon do class. Detective work is messy sometimes, she’d said. It could be important for you to be able to defend yourself. Because her assistant was going to school part-time at night, Trudi had arranged for her to take tae kwon do classes during the day, three or four times a week, as part of her hourly work at Coffey & Hill Investigations. Eulalie had jumped in with both feet, soaking it all in, and proving herself a quick learner. She was well on her way to earning a red belt, which was only one level below the black belt in that martial art.

  “Don’t say it,” Eulalie said, heading toward the bathroom to get cleaned up. “No, I still don’t want to spar with you. Not yet. I’ve seen what you can do already.”

  “Can’t run from me forever, Eula,” she called down the hall. She smiled.

  Eulalie was still in the bathroom when the phone rang. Caller ID said it was an unknown number. Trudi was tempted to let it roll into voicemail and have Eulalie deal with it when she was ready, but the neurotic within her wouldn’t let that happen.

  “Coffey & Hill Investigations,” she said into the receiver. There was silence at first. “May I help you?” She was feeling immediately impatient.

  “Yeah,” a woman’s voice said. “Yeah.”

  “What can I do for you?” Trudi asked. She couldn’t quite place the accent.

  “You’re a detective place? Yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Okay. So you look for people and stuff. Yeah?”

  Trudi didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “What is it you want, miss?”

  “I couldn’t find you on the internets.”

  “No,” Trudi said. “We prefer to work through referrals. Did someone refer you to me?”

  “Yeah. Well, yeah.”

  “What’s this about, miss? You’ll have to get to the point.”

  Eulalie came and stood by the office door, now dressed for business but still drying her hair with a towel. She cocked her head in silent question. In response, Trudi waved her in and tapped the speaker button on the telephone.

  “So, you on Howell Mill Road?” The woman’s voice filled the whole room now. “By that Arby’s?”

  “Mm-hmm. Yes. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Trudi had an uncomfortable thought. “Miss, are you in danger right now? Is someone listening while you make this call?”

  Silence was the only answer.

  “Miss?”

  She heard a sharp exhale on the other side, then a click, and the phone line went dead. Trudi looked up at Eulalie, and the two women fumbled with their thoughts for a moment.

  “What do you think that was about?” Eulalie said at last.

  “No way to tell,” Trudi said. “No ID on the caller. No real information from the woman on the other end.”

  “Do you think she was in danger?”

  Trudi shrugged as if unconcerned, but the crease in her forehead said otherwise.

  “What was that accent?” Eula said. “Didn’t sound like it was from around here.”

  A frown. “No,” Trudi said. “No, it didn’t, did it?”

  “‘You on Howell Mill Road?’” Eulalie mimicked. “‘By that Arby’s?’”

  Trudi gave her assistant an admiring gaze. “Hey, that’s pretty good. Do it again, but blur the l’s a little more.”

  Eulalie complied, and Trudi nodded. “Now say, ‘You’re a detective place? Yeah?’”

  “You’re a detective place? Yeah?”

  Trudi shook her head. “No, replay that woman’s voice in your head for a minute, and then try it again.” Eulalie gave it another try, and then a third. By the fourth time, Trudi thought it sounded right. She scribbled a name on a Post-it Note and handed it to her assistant.

  “Call this guy. One of my old professors over at the University of Georgia. He’s a linguist. You’ll have to look up the number, but call him, tell him it’s for me. Then say a few things in that accent and ask if he knows where it might come from.”

  “On it, yeah,” Eulalie said, staying in character and keeping the accent alive.

  It took only about twenty minutes before Eulalie was back in Trudi’s office. “Okay,” she said. “First, Professor Frandsen says hello, and that he wants you to come back and speak to his class sometime about careers for English majors.”

  “There are no careers for English majors. That’s why I’m a detective.”

  Eulalie snorted. “Well, I told him you’d be glad to set something up. He’s checking dates.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You’ll be great. Think of it as a ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ moment.”

  “Fine. I don’t hate you. But I’m not buying your coffee tomorrow morning.”

  “Fair enough. But Professor Frandsen also said he thought the accent sounded familiar. He checked a few websites while we were on the phone, then said it sounded like something that had elements of Eastern Europe in it, but that had been influenced by the American South, as well.”

  “Eastern Europe?”

  “He said that if he were to guess, he’d pick someplace like Russia or Poland. Or maybe Ukraine.”

  Trudi stood up at her desk. She felt like saying a bad word.

  “What? What is it?”

  The pieces fell into place too easily, which set off a chorus of alarm bells ringing inside Trudi’s head.

  “So,” she said to Eulalie, “let’s imagine you’re a poor young woman living in Ukraine. Somebody promises you a job and a new life-of-plenty in America. You accept the offer, pack up, and sneak into the U.S. with your benefactor. You find yourself in Atlanta in the glorious American South. Heaven. Only you’ve been settled by handlers from your home country into a seedy side of town. They tell you you’re an illegal alien, that if anybody finds out about you that you’re going to jail, or worse. And now that you’re trapped here in a foreign country, your new host explains that your job is to make American businessmen and other customers, um, happy.”

  “So you spend the next several years living in a brothel?” Eulalie said. Her face furrowed too.

  “Right. Working for an offshoot of the Ukrainian Mafia. Now, if that’s been your life up to this point, is there any chance you’d sound like that woman who just called us here? Like a Ukrainian prostitute stuck in Atlanta, just trying to get from today to tomorrow without adding more troubles than you already have?”

  Eulalie looked grim. She nodded. “So, either this woman wants out and called us for help . . .”

  “Mm-hmm,” Trudi said. “Or she’s just a cover voice for the man who’s really looking for us. For me.”

  Once again, Trudi’s mind wandered back to The Raven and their encounter earlier at his apartment. This time, though, the memory didn’t make her smile.

  “Trudi, did you happen to make any Ukrainians mad recently?”

  She thought for a moment but didn’t say anything.

  Eulalie nodded. “Okay, what else is new, right? Well, I didn’t come to work for Trudi Coffey because I wanted to live a boring life.” She grinned. “At least we got a warning. We can be ready. So what’s the next step? Should we call Mr. Hill?”

  Trudi shook her head and grimaced.

  The last thing she wanted was to call for Samuel to play knight-in-shining-armor to her damsel-in-distress. I take care of myself, Mr. Samuel Hill,
she spat at him in her head. Done it my whole life. I don’t need you, or any man, to be my own personal protector. She felt her jaw set and her muscles go hard. She grabbed her keys off the desk. “Come on,” she said. “I’m suddenly in the mood for a good sparring session over at the gym.”

  Eulalie’s eyes widened but, to her credit, she followed her boss out the front door.

  8

  Bliss

  Atlanta, GA

  Little Five Points

  Friday, March 17, 11:11 p.m.

  28 days to Nevermore

  “We have a problem.”

  Mama Bliss felt heaviness in her bones.

  Only ten minutes ago, she’d left the narrow loading dock in Darrent’s capable hands, things running smoothly as normal, crates dropping onto the conveyor belts at one end of the warehouse and being carefully unpacked at the other end. Clockwork, that’s what William always called it, she reminded herself. No surprises, things just moving forward as planned, the system working like it was supposed to work.

  Only ten minutes ago, she’d said, “I’m tired out, Darrent. Been a long, long day for me. I’m going to lie down in my office tonight. Sleep away this weariness and wake up better—”

  “And richer,” he’d interrupted.

  “Yes, and richer, tomorrow.” She watched him pen a stroke on his clipboard, listened to the hum of activity buzzing around them both. They didn’t need her here for this, not really. These people were well-trained. They knew what to do, and if they didn’t, Darrent would sort them out pretty quickly. She said, “You got things handled here, right?”

  “All clockwork, Mama,” he’d said, checking his clipboard and watching the busyness that filled the warehouse.

  Only six minutes ago, Mama had rolled into her office near the back of the Secret Stash. She’d needed to visit the toilet, but she also needed to lie down and rest. She was tempted to do both at the same time, but the thought of an old woman wetting her own bed—on purpose—was just comical enough to make her laugh and head to the bathroom.

  Only two minutes ago, she’d finally rolled her wheelchair next to her functional little bed in the corner of her office. She’d sleep in her clothes tonight, she’d decided, then go home in the morning and change. Maybe even take a nice, warm bath as part of the morning ritual. She liked the sound of that.

  She was just beginning to make the arduous transfer of her body from chair to bed when she heard the knock on the door.

  “Mama?” a voice said on the other side. Bliss wanted to ignore it. It wasn’t unfamiliar to her, but she couldn’t place it in her memory right away, either. “You awake?” the voice asked again. “Mr. Hayes told me to come wake you up.”

  “Didn’t even get to turn off the light,” she mumbled to herself.

  “Mama Bliss?”

  “In,” she called to the door. But she wasn’t happy about it.

  The young man who stepped into the office was visibly nervous, like he was entering into territory where he knew he didn’t belong.

  “What’s your name, honey?” Bliss said. She tried not to sound unkind. “I know your face, but my old mind sometimes lets the names slip away.”

  “Alvin,” he said. He ducked his head a little. Bliss could see him trying not to be too obvious about checking out her office for the first time. If he’d had a hat, she was sure he’d have been fumbling with it in his hands. “Been working for the Stash for about a year now, but only with Mr. Hayes on the night shipments for the last month or so.”

  “You like working here, Alvin?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” he said. “I plan to stay awhile, if you and Mr. Hayes’ll have me.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Bliss knew how careful Darrent was about choosing his night-shift workers. They were paid well—and they tended to stay on for a long time, loyal either to Darrent, or to Mama, or to the money. If he’d sent this one to personally interrupt her sleep, then she figured she would trust him. For now.

  “Well, what is it, Alvin? What’s the problem, and why didn’t Darrent come tell me about it himself?”

  “Mr. Hayes was kind of busy about the problem, ma’am.”

  “So he told you to come get me instead?”

  “Well, he didn’t actually tell me. He kind of signaled me. I’m new to the night shift, and I think he figured no one would notice me slip out of the warehouse.”

  Bliss frowned. That didn’t sound good. She started rolling her wheelchair toward the door.

  “Now you got me curious and agitated, young man. Lay it out plain. What’s the problem?”

  “Max Roman just showed up. Said he was here to oversee the shipment.”

  Bliss let fly an expletive that seemed to surprise even a veteran warehouse worker like Alvin. He actually flinched, but his feet stayed rooted in his spot.

  “Push this chair, Alvin,” she commanded. “I don’t have time for Max Roman’s shenanigans tonight, and I suspect Darrent’s not too happy about it either.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And no, ma’am, he didn’t seem happy at all.”

  Alvin was a good motor for Bliss’s wheelchair, and they swung into the warehouse in only two minutes or so. She saw Darrent catch her entrance out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t give her away, not yet. He was busy holding out his clipboard for Max Roman to inspect.

  Bliss motioned for Alvin to get back to his station and privately ground her teeth at the fact that no one was working anymore. All of her crew was standing around the edges of the scene, waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. She headed toward Darrent and tried to take in the situation.

  Standing near Max were two men she recognized. One was a large, athletic type who’d played football a few years at Georgia Southern. The other was Ukrainian, like Roman. A wiry man with tight, dark eyes and hair to match. The football player was imposing, but Bliss knew from experience that the wiry Ukrainian was the more dangerous of the two.

  It was the Ukrainian who nudged his boss and pointed in her direction.

  Max Roman gave her the “official” smile, the one he used when making a campaign appearance or doing a TV interview. She could see why people liked him in politics. He was handsome in his way, with a reassuring face, like a CNN news anchor or a late-night talk show host, but not so pretty it was distracting. He was clean-shaven but had a weathered face, like he was just old enough to understand your suffering, but still young enough to be good company at a party too. She’d read somewhere that he was in his early fifties, but he looked younger than that, more fit, like he worked out some, but not muscle-bound like the athlete that was his bodyguard. His eyes were basic brown, as was his hair, which he kept short and parted on the side.

  Bliss could never remember seeing Max Roman wear anything other than a finely-tailored suit, always a solid color like black or blue or tan. Tonight he wore a blue suit, with a bright red tie for effect.

  Max’s grandfather, Nestor Romanenko, had come to America in the early 1900s, using money and support from networks in “the old country” to build himself a presence in the textile industry during the Great Depression. By the mid-1950s, he’d traded that success for the banking industry in which he—and his children—became millionaires. By the time Maksym Romanenko came around, Granddaddy’s money had bought law degrees, real estate holdings, network TV shares, and even a career in local politics for the one who now went by the name of Max Roman.

  In spite of his significant financial assets and seat at the table of power, Max still maintained a common-man persona that made him inherently appealing to people from all walks of life. Not Bliss, of course. She knew him too well for that. Still, when he flashed that campaign smile in her direction, she put on her own plastic face, as well.

  “Max,” she said, rolling her wheelchair up to the little party. “This is a surprise. We weren’t expecting you until the thirtieth of the month, as usual.”

  “Always a pleasure to see you, Ms. Bliss,” he said, flashing a brighter glimpse of his porcelain venee
rs. His two bodyguards stepped back behind their boss in deference to both Bliss and Max.

  Darrent was not similarly cowed, nor was he in the mood for small talk. “Mama,” Darrent said, nodding in the direction of their unexpected guests, “Mr. Roman here has suggested that we let him take ten percent of tonight’s shipment in advance of his normal payment at the end of the month.”

  The Ukrainian bodyguard standing behind Max Roman snorted lightly at that, but the athlete beside him remained impassive.

  Bliss felt her plastic smile melt away. Now it was time for business. “You find something funny, Viktor?” she snapped at the bodyguard. “You think my man here is making a joke?”

  “No, of course not, Ms. Bliss.”

  “Then why the laughter? I distinctly heard laughter from your general direction.”

  “All due respect, Ms. Bliss,” he said, nodding slightly. “Your man here simply misspoke, or he misunderstand the reason for our visit tonight.”

  Now it was Max Roman’s turn. He grinned fiercely and patted Darrent’s shoulder in condescension. “Viktor’s right, Ms. Bliss,” Roman said. “We are not suggesting anything.”

  “My mistake,” Darrent said placidly, but his eyes flashed in fury. He folded his arms across his chest, encircling the clipboard within them.

  “Mm-hmm,” Bliss said. She looked from Max to Viktor and back to Darrent. Then she put her plastic smile back on. “You in a pickle, honey? You need Mama Bliss to bail you outta some problem this week? Can’t handle your business?”

  Now it was Roman’s turn to flush with anger at the insult. The bodyguards didn’t respond this time, but Bliss saw them tense and lean forward just a bit. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the football player do a quick scan of the room and slide his arms behind his back, as if he were a military man resting at ease. She knew he was really just getting his hands closer to a gun that was likely hidden underneath the back of his suit coat.

  As quickly as the flame had burned in Max’s eyes, it was extinguished, and now he seemed to shrug off the insult in favor of the business at hand. “I find myself in special circumstances at the moment,” he said. “Someone down south tipped law enforcement as to where one of my, ah, private groups kept a cache of unlicensed weapons. They confiscated everything about three weeks ago.”