Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Lee Lamothe

  The mutts stayed outside, smoking. She left her doorway and half-trotted toward the door Julia Gurr had gone into. As the mutts studied her she made a show of saying, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” and looking at her watch. One of the mutts held the door for her and bowed her through with exaggerated courtliness.

  There were two elevators in the lobby; one was on the fourth floor, the other was standing open. She boarded and pressed three. She exited, went into the stairwell and climbed to four. It was silent and still. She looked both ways. The air smelled a little of lemon and perfume. She took a half-dozen steps to her left and sniffed. Cleaning products, no perfume. A half dozen steps the other way and the perfume scent was back. Following the nose she found an unmarked door at the end of the hall. She noted the location and went down the stairs.

  Outside the mutts were idling. The same one, she thought, held the door for her. “You make it, okay?”

  She shook her head. “Missed him.”

  He gave her a friendly look. “His loss.”

  Smiling prettily she made her way back down the block and stepped back into her doorway and went up on the freddy. “Ray, I got her first drop, but I’m burned.”

  Julia Gurr, now carrying the black canvas bag loosely, exited the office building. On the sidewalk she gave the polite mutt the limp bag. He held the minivan’s door for her and she slid in sideways, giving him a grateful flash of leg. She rolled off and the blue van followed her closely.

  Julia Gurr made eleven more stops over the next three hours, carrying in knapsacks stuffed with bundles of tens and twenties and carrying out U.S., Canadian, or Euro hundreds in much smaller bulk. Eighteen knapsacks in all. Each time the routine was the same. She’d park and carry a bulky bag into a building. The mutts stood out front keeping security. She’d come out, hand off the bag, looking much less bulky. The polite mutt would hold the minivan door open for her, she’d slide in with the smile and flash of leg.

  At the last stop, at a downtown skyscraper, she took two heavy bags from the mutts but couldn’t get them under control, the weight crushing her. The polite mutt took them and slung them over his shoulders and he too staggered. He found balance and lugged them across the lobby of the building, put them into an elevator, and held the door open. Julia Gurr stood back for a moment. Her demeanor had changed and the mutt noticed it.

  “You all right, Miss?”

  “Yes. This one …” She fluffed her hair. “This one might take a while.”

  “You want me to come up? Just between us, Marko and Jerry don’t have to know.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  But as the doors closed she was chewing at her lips.

  Upstairs she spoke to the young woman behind a walnut desk. The woman picked up the phone. A sleek older man appeared and shook Julia Gurr’s hand and gave her kisses on her cheeks; he didn’t seem to want to take his hands off her. He pointed at the bags she’d dragged out of the elevator and told the reception to call someone to get them and that he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  He ushered Julia Gurr down a long hallway to his office.

  She walked stiffly.

  While she leaned forward on his desk with her hands stretched out and he rubbed himself against her, she thought about money.

  She was sure it was a record.

  His hands undid her blouse and pushed up her bra.

  Three million in small fish boiled in four hours.

  His fingers were pincers and he breathed harder when she struggled.

  The compressor had made very compact but very heavy bricks of the currency.

  His mouth was in her hair at the back of her neck and he began a filthy litany of names for her, they all started with, “Oh, you fucking …” Skank, bitch, cunt, whore.

  The bricks had been packed solidly into the knapsacks.

  They were both fully dressed and he banged into her solidly until she made a sound that worked for him and then he made a noise and stopped and stepped back.

  If the predators in Spicetown hadn’t already been at her, she couldn’t have felt dirtier, less desirable, less human.

  She felt a different kind of shame as she picked up a lighter knapsack in the reception area.

  I’m a mother, for Christ’s sakes, she thought, I have a daughter, a good clean daughter.

  I had no choice in Spicetown, but I had a choice in this.

  When she hit the sidewalk she was vibrating with shame and her face was wet.

  “Hey,” the polite mutt looked at her closely and became businesslike. “Hey, give me the room number, miss, I’ll go up.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  With the mutts in tow, she headed back to Gherzanian’s warehouse. When she ramped off near the airport, her telephone beeped. She said hello and instantly there was a clicking sound.

  “Hi, it’s me. Hope it’s all going good, that Marko or Jerry haven’t gone funny on us, and I hope you’ve done some boiling. Go by Truong’s and take him a quarter million in Canadian fives this evening. You should be able to get in and out before dark, okay? That’ll cut the bulk pretty good. Don’t take anyone with you, I want him protected. We’re doing the run tomorrow. Tell Marko I want Zoe there before anything happens, not on the cellphone, not a hundred yards away, waving at me. Right close, so I can touch her. The dough will go through and after that he’s on his own. I miss seeing you. Not long and we’re outta here.”

  She clicked off and pulled up in a parking spot in front of Gherzanian’s while the mutts drove around back. She got out and called Marko on the cell and waited until he came out, looking around. “All done?”

  “Yep. Eighteen loads down to, like, seven. Five if we pack them tight, but no one will be able to lift them. That’s all I can do.”

  “Jerry’s here. You want to come in?”

  “I’m not done, yet. I need the bag with the Canadian fives in it. There should be a quarter million in there. Presto wants it washed separate.”

  “Where?”

  “No can say, Tonto. He just said grab the fives and take them to a place, exchange for big fishes.”

  “I’ll send someone with you.”

  “He said alone. This guy is part of his net. He doesn’t want Jerry Kelly dropping by to befriend him after this is all over.”

  “Presto. Trusts no one. Used to be different, used to be some faith.”

  “That, I think, Marko, went out the window when you grabbed up Zoe.” She looked past his shoulder, into the dimness of the warehouse. “Where is she, by the way? Inside? Marko? Can I see her, say hello?”

  “Don’t worry about Zo’. She’s on her way. You worry that the Presto makes it happen, that’s all. If this thing goes south, well, it’s Jerry’s ass on the line. Mine too. And yours. Never mind Zo’.”

  “Fuck, Marko, what’s that all about? That’s a lot of asses on the line. I thought you loved us, man, we were family. You know that won’t matter to Jerry. What if he just swings with the load, says: ‘Fuck you, Marko’?”

  He was proud. “I told him I told Pavo’s nephew to tell Pavo I’d sold the contract to Jerry. Success or death, that old Jer’s on the hook for this. It was the only way I could ensure he wasn’t going to beat my head soft and take a long vacation.”

  “Jerry knows this?”

  “Sure, he had to, otherwise what was the point?”

  “You’ll get it too, Marko, if it goes fucked.”

  “Yeah …” He stopped when a mutt came out and he sent him to go back inside to tell Jerry to send out the bags of fives.

  “I hope it works, Marko. I’d hate to see you …” She put her hand on his arm. “I want you to know, I’m sorry that things didn’t … You know, for us?”

  The mutt came out with two heavy knapsacks and dropped them on the ground at her feet. Jerry Kelly stood behind him and gave him a shot in the shoulder. “You fuck. Put ’em in the van, help the lady out. What? You’re a fucking animal. Put those steroids to use for the good of all.”

  The mu
tt picked up the bags and loaded them.

  Jerry Kelly shook his head and looked at Julia Gurr in a friendly manner. “That’s a lot of dough, there. You need some security. I’ll go with you, we can catch up on old times. Shmooze a little.”

  “Bobby says alone, Jerry. So alone it be.” She didn’t evade his eyes and concentrated visibly on making a little smile, as though he was a truant child. “We can shmooze later, when it’s done. I’d really like that.”

  Jerry Kelly didn’t like that, much. He saw the Spicetown tenderizing was wearing off, but that was okay. Jerry was a master at the application of it. He’d have a lot of time with her. “Well, if you’re sure. Don’t want anything to happen to you. Again.” He stared at her cheek. “You know, like in Spicetown.”

  She laughed. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Jerry.”

  Looking startled and a little pissed off, he went inside.

  Marko stared at her. This is a new girl, he thought. This must be the influence, somehow, of Bobby. In the light of his own new feelings, he’d have to call Jerry off before he went ahead with the plan for Preston.

  He gave her a tender look, picking up their interrupted conversation. “Not your fault, it didn’t work out for us, Jools. Not my fault. Just the way of it, right? It isn’t even Bobby’s fault. You and me, we just weren’t … weren’t of the same heart, right?”

  Her eyes filled with tears at the articulated truth of this. “Jeez, Marko, jeez. Why’d you have to say that to me, huh?”

  Julia Gurr was unaccountably still feeling the blues over Marko when she arrived at the Truong’s garage well before dark. Something, she knew, had happened that had snapped the spell she’d had over him. She was used to catching him off guard, secretly staring at her with a longing and a hope. At Gherz’s warehouse he’d been as friendly as ever but she noticed he hadn’t touched her, even a shoulder squeeze or the stroking of her hand. Something was in play for Marko, something more than solving the problem of the Colombians. She felt a sense of loss and in her mood failed to check carefully for surveillance, didn’t hone in on the quick little VW buzzing around her in the downtown traffic.

  She thought of the look on Marko’s face and wondered if he’d finally found someone, someone who wasn’t her. Marko was a good caring pal and she wished him well in whatever it was, with whoever it was, but she’d been basking in his adoration and attention since she was a teenager, and she thought it was normal to feel a loss.

  “Good for Marko,” she said aloud as she got out of the van. “Boy, I gotta meet this chick.” Of one heart. Indeed.

  The overhead doors were down; she peeked in the window and saw Tiger Truong and three young Asian men in a huddle beside a green Neon. In the far dim corners of the shop sparks flared. A Jeep Cherokee was in parts, cannibalized, and another young Asian man with a miner’s lamp on his head was amongst its guts with a piece of blue chalk in one hand and piece of red chalk in the other, constantly referring to an owner’s manual tucked under his arm. Tiger Truong, with a survivor’s radar that was a blood trait, turned and saw her half-face at the door’s window. He came over and slipped outside.

  “Bobby sent me.”

  “Ah, the lady.” He looked around again. “You have something?”

  “It’s in the van, there. Very heavy. Do you have —”

  “Of course, of course, my apologies. I will get my grandson.” He went back inside. Through the glass she saw him touch a young man on the shoulder then point at her face in the window. Tiger Truong and the boy laughed, both staring at her. Tiger Truong came outside. “He will take you to nearby for an exchange. This is right?”

  “Umm. Mr. Truong, I’d rather, if … Could we do it here? It’s banded and counted.”

  His face was ferocious but kind and looked full of a secret. “Please. Boh-Bee would not have sent you alone if there was danger. We do things that are mighty, I and him.”

  The young man in his overalls was at his elbow. “He and I, grandfather,” the young man said in perfect English. He smiled at Julia Gurr. “My grandfather tries to be careful with his grammar in the presence of beautiful women.”

  Tiger Truong and his grandson spoke in Vietnamese for a full minute. Tiger Truong kept glancing at Julia Gurr. His pleased secrecy made her uncomfortable. The grandson listened and nodded. Tiger Truong bid her a careful goodbye and went inside. She saw him walk to a wall-mounted telephone and punch at the keypad.

  Young Truong said, “We have to take the money to a nearby location. For counting. To confirm. We have a machine that does it very quickly. My grandfather said you shouldn’t be afraid. His tiger, he says, protects Bobby and because you’re with Bobby you’re protected too by the tiger.” When she hesitated, his face suddenly became ferocious like his grandfather’s. “In one second I could drag you in and take the money. No one would know. Grrrr.” Then he laughed and became youthful and amusing again. He held out his hand. “Please.”

  Julia Gurr nodded and led him to the minivan. Tiger Truong had come outside behind her. She heard him cackling and calling, Goodbye, good night, soon see you.

  Young Truong studied the van and looked at the plate. “You want to sell it? Two thousand in cash.”

  “It’s a rental.”

  “Yes, perfect. So I’ll steal it tonight and tomorrow you’ll report it stolen. Very easy money. You bought the insurance, right?”

  “I need it.”

  “Maybe when you’re done.”

  “We’ll see. How do you want to do this?”

  “Wait.” He held up his hand and trotted back to the shop. He came out with a sheet of white plastic; he spread it on the passenger seat and slipped into the minivan, careful that the grime on his overalls didn’t touch the seat. He directed her through a series of streets, some of the turns not making any sense: four lefts that brought them in a circle around a block; right here, left there, left again, down that alley. She determined he was shaking off and kept her eyes in the rear-view mirror. They came to a side street and in her mind she computed that they were, after all the driving, only three or four blocks from the body shop. He directed her to the end of the street and indicated a two-storey semi-detached house. The windows were curtained and the lawn overgrown with weeds behind a picket fence. It loomed sinister. Above it were the heavy unsettled clouds of a quickly changing season, and she checked the light, computing when dark would fall.

  She felt a bit of terror. Her inner ear replayed the old man’s cackling. She bit her lip, frozen, her hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. She’d been ripped off before, it was a hazard of her trade. The trick was to keep calm, let the money walk, and then maybe you too could walk away in one piece. She tried to remember if the minivan was in gear but didn’t want to look at the console. In a strange way she was pleased with the fear, that it was so normal. An edge of terror but nothing like the sweating seizures of the terror of Spicetown.

  She found voice. “Why don’t you take the money inside? Put it though the counter and bring me the large bills?”

  Young Truong put his hand on the gear shift and slipped it into park. He pulled up the emergency brake, then put his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Come inside. You’re a very beautiful lady. It’s understandable to be careful with strangers. But trust me, as my grandfather trusts Mr. Bobby.”

  She said there were two bags in the back. He took the keys and got out lithely, operated the sliding door, and slung one bag over each shoulder. She disembarked and walked beside him up to the concrete path to the front door. Unlocking it, he dropped the bags on the porch, held the door open for her to pass, and shouted in English: “Special delivery.” He shut the door and she heard his feet going down the steps. Gone with the money.

  The long hallway ahead of her was dim, almost dark. She watched a backlit shadow approach her. It seemed much bigger than she was, but that she thought was a trick of the naked lightbulb at the end of the house behind him. She tightened up on the fear, realizing that it was a normal response,
it wasn’t the wet panic and terror of Spicetown and she was faintly proud of her normalcy. She was prepared to fight and evaluated driving her head into the glass window in the door to get a shard of sharp glass when she realized Bobby Preston was speaking to her.

  Joey Jeff Watson and May were necking in a cardboard refrigerator carton across from Truong’s when Julia Gurr pulled up in the van and went inside and Djuna Brown in the VW went past, did a circle, and came back.

  Watson took his cellphone from his pocket, scrolled through the numbers, and pressed one.

  “Ray? Joey Jeff. Me and May are up on Truong’s and your little friend just went through in the VW. She’s up on a blue van, blond driver. I seen the blonde before with Bobby Preston. Gurr. Julia.”

  “Yeah, we’re running light. I’m alone on a joint by the airport, Djuna’s running the blonde. It look like trouble?”

  “Nope. Blondie went in, your partner’s gone past, probably sitting around the corner, not knowing what to do. They’re going to dump her out, no question. You want us to help out?”

  “Yeah, Joey, that’d be great.”

  “Call her and tell her to fuck off out of the area, okay? If blondie goes on the move with them, they ain’t going far. Truong owns a street a couple of blocks away. What do you want us to do? Sit on your partner, or take anybody out of here?”

  “We’re hoping the blonde will hook up with Markowitz, balding guy, about fifty, wears a suit all the time. Or Preston. Either one is good.”

  Chapter 29

  She went up the stairs ahead of him; his hands were hungry. They were on her legs at the bottom of her skirt. They slipped higher and she slowed her steps and put on a sway. He laughed at this and went a little higher and she laughed in relief that she hadn’t pissed herself in the downstairs hallway. His breathing was audible. He said, “Hurry,” and came up beside to her on the narrow stairs, crowding her, his hand still under her skirt, his mouth against her neck, his nose seeming to inhale her. He said: “Jesus Christ, hurry.” He sounded like he’d had a hunger for a long time for something and now it was within reach and simply required devouring.