Parker took a sip of coffee and made a face. He waved the cup carefully in Fogelman's direction. “So,” he said. “Tell me what you know."
It took awhile to tell the entire story, starting with how he and Barry Gorman worked the Russian Mafia detail, then his fight with Strenko, the time alone in the hospital, getting out to find that Gorman had retired and left town, and his fiancée had vanished without a trace.
That last stopped Parker. “Had to leave some trace. Nobody just disappears."
"Nope. She was gone. Apartment cleaned out, no forwarding address. Just plain left."
Parker started to say something, but closed his mouth and sat back, thoughtful. Finally, he said. “Hypothetically speaking, since you have your private-investigator license here in Texas, I come to you looking for my girlfriend who's just gone missing. I have her social security number for you, driver's license number, date of birth, job history, everything. You telling me you couldn't find her?"
Fogelman took a deep breath and finally admitted to himself that he hadn't looked particularly hard. “We had a conversation a few days before my run-in with Strenko. She wanted me to leave the force."
"You had your twenty years in, why didn't you?"
Fogelman shrugged. “Elise told me she'd been offered a promotion, that she'd have to move if she accepted it. She said she was tired of waiting for me."
"And?"
Fogelman lowered his head and stared into his coffee cup. “The conversation didn't end well."
"You fought."
"The last thing I told her was that I wasn't leaving the force. She had to choose between her job and me. Then I stormed out of her apartment and slammed the door.” Fogelman finally looked Parker in the eye. “I never talked to her again."
Parker nodded, and both men sat uncomfortably, each waiting for the other to speak.
Fogelman broke the silence. “I think what I need is to go home, get some sleep, kind of let myself absorb all this, you know.” He stood. “Am I still under arrest?"
Parker hesitated. “I was going to keep you here for your own safety. I figured you'd be bull-headed about this."
Fogelman raised his hands in surrender. “Some other time."
"Then you're free to go.” Parker stepped aside, but grabbed Fogelman's arm as he passed through the doorway. “Nothing more to tell me, right?"
"Not a thing, Ezekiel,” Fogelman said, and walked out into the warm night air. He stopped at his truck, wondering if he should go back inside and tell Parker that Russians were involved in drug smuggling in Port Aransas or that Booker had ID-ed Fogelman's ex-partner as the guy in the RV. The partner who'd had prior dealings with the Russian Mafia in general and Vladimir Strenko in particular.
No, Parker was too soft. Good cop, but susceptible to being a buddy. Use his first name a couple of times, and he stopped asking the hard questions. Fogelman would be better off without his help.
Once rolling, Fogelman called Rafael. “You tell the cops anything about a Russian involved in Hermie's RV problem?"
"Me talk to the cops? You shitting me?"
"Well, they may figure it out soon. We gotta move. Get some hardware and meet me in New Braunfels, the Iron Pig. We gotta go to Port Aransas."
Once they were on I-37 south of San Antonio, Rafael reached into his duffel bag on the floor and pulled out a Tecate.
Fogelman wrinkled his nose. “You can afford to drink that stuff?"
"Planning on the big bonus you're going to pay me.” Rafael took a long swallow and said, “I see the night-vision scope behind the seat. What's the job?"
* * * *
Fogelman caught Rafael checking the rearview mirror as they left Corpus Christi, moving over the Neuces Bay Causeway. “I see him,” Fogelman said. “Been with us for a while."
"Good guy or bad guy?” asked Rafael.
"Dumb guy. I think Parker followed me. Way out of his jurisdiction. He must be alone. If he'd called the state troopers, they'd have enough cars we wouldn't catch on."
Rafael popped another Tecate and Fogelman made a face. “We'd do it smarter in Detroit,” Fogelman said as he braked to a stop at a traffic light. “And we don't drink that piss, either."
"I had a Stroh's once,” Rafael said. “I almost puked."
There was little cross traffic this time of night, and Fogelman was about to turn on red when a pair of headlights approaching from the left resolved themselves into an RV. On a hunch, he held his foot on the brakes. The islands were a popular tourist attraction, with plenty of RVs year round, and it wasn't likely to be headed his way. Still, it would be better not to have the RV behind him.
The RV sped up as the light turned yellow, and it flashed through the intersection, but not before the sodium vapor light illuminated the cab. “Son of a bitch!” Fogelman yelled. “Get out!"
"What?"
"That was Gorman. I want to follow him and I don't want Parker on my ass. Get out and slow Parker down."
Rafael put his hand on the door lever, but clearly had problems with the orders. “I—"
"He's out of his jurisdiction. I'll pay your bail, and all fines. Help me out here, Rafe."
"Crazy-ass gringo,” Rafael said, but he slid out the door and slapped his hand on the roof.
Fogelman accelerated around the corner. The half-full can of Tecate, which Rafael had left on the floor, spilled and filled the cab with its sickly sweet, fizzy odor. Fogelman hardly noticed as he sped up to catch the RV.
The RV passed through the town and down to the docks. Here there was no traffic. Fogelman held back and turned off his headlights, hoping that Gorman would be too busy driving to notice.
The RV turned right, past a large wooden warehouse, and Fogelman sped up. He stopped at the corner and left the truck, hurrying to the corner of the building and peering carefully down the narrow street. It was a good thing that he did, because the RV was parked about two hundred feet away and Gorman—Fogelman was certain that it was indeed his former partner—was hustling across the street to another warehouse. Gorman fumbled at the door for a moment, then disappeared inside.
Fogelman retrieved the keys from his pickup, waited a minute, then slunk through the shadows to the doorway through which Gorman had vanished.
Fogelman took two steps into the pitch-black warehouse and stopped to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He sensed, rather than heard, movement behind him, then felt a cold circle of metal on the back of his neck.
"Don't move,” said a voice Fogelman hadn't heard in a long time. Fogelman felt a hand expertly frisk him and remove the pistol he carried in a hip holster. “Now lay on the floor, facedown."
Fogelman did, then said, “Know who I am, Barry?"
"Yeah, that's why you're not dead."
"So this is where you came after quitting Detroit, eh?"
"Not directly. It took me awhile to get over you."
"Took me awhile too, Barry. Would have been nice if you'd visited your partner in the hospital."
"Let's cut the crap. I know why you're looking for me."
"Wasn't looking for you. Didn't know until a few hours ago that you were even in Texas. It's Strenko I want."
"You and me both. Bastard got away twice now. It won't happen again.” As if in response, the warehouse lights came on with a muted thump.
After pitch darkness, even facing the floor, Fogelman's eyes watered uncontrollably. Gorman must be blinded.
"Toss the gun away, Gorman.” Parker? Had Rafael been unable to delay Parker after all? Fogelman had no issue with that just now.
Gorman's feet shifted on the floor, but Fogelman still could not see a thing. Evidently Gorman couldn't either, because the clatter of metal on the concrete floor came to Fogelman's ears.
"Better,” said the voice. It was familiar. Not Parker, though...
"Vladimir,” said Gorman and Fogelman simultaneously.
"In person."
Fogelman's eyes were now becoming accustomed to the light. A tall, cada
verously thin man carrying a long-barreled automatic pistol in his left hand walked around in front where he lay. It could be Strenko, or half of the Strenko he used to know. This man couldn't weigh one hundred fifty pounds. His right arm hung limply.
Strenko looked directly at Fogelman. “Surprised, yes? I found the best disguise was to shave my face and lose half my weight. I am confused with younger man, American basketball player, as long as I don't talk, yes?"
"Who were you hiding from?"
"Who was I not? So much you don't know. My Russian brothers were not pleased with me after you lived, and my American brother here has been looking for me. And what do I do? Like a fat goose I simply walk into him. I spent seven years being places that he and my enemies in the Russian mafia would not be, what you call tourist traps. But it becomes a Strenko trap, no? Suddenly there is Brother Gorman in my RV and I am lucky to be alive."
Strenko's voice pitched higher as he spoke. He might be feverish from his stab wound, or he might be working himself into hysteria, but either way he was getting close to the edge, and Fogelman knew his window to act was rapidly closing.
Fogelman noted the bulky bandage on the palm of the hand holding the gun. Might slow Strenko just a tic in getting a shot off. Fogelman shifted imperceptibly, drawing his arms closer to his body. When the time came, he wanted to be able to move.
Strenko smiled. “I heard what you said to Brother Gorman just as I turned on the lights. I wish I had waited. I wish to hear Gorman explain why he set you up."
Feet scraped behind Fogelman and suddenly Strenko's pistol was aimed at where Fogelman imagined Gorman to be. When Strenko's eyes were diverted, Fogelman made his move, drawing his legs tight then pushing off, exploding upward in one fluid motion.
He didn't come close. A three-shot burst from Strenko's pistol caught him on the right side and he fell back. A single crack of a small-caliber pistol followed and a body fell on top of him.
Fogelman felt no pain, but couldn't move his left arm or leg. He tried to shift, to see where Strenko was. When he moved, he saw an automatic pistol on the floor about five feet away. Strenko's pistol. “Barry?” Fogelman twisted under Strenko's body and Barry Gorman came into view.
Strenko moved and Gorman shifted the pistol in his direction. “Don't move,” he said. “Just talk. Where is the videotape?"
"You had a gun in your sleeve.” Fogelman heard admiration in Strenko's voice.
"Yeah,” Gorman said. “Just like you showed me in Detroit. You and your sleeve guns—you always were a paranoid bastard. So paranoid you couldn't trust me and had to tape me."
Fogelman turned his head, releasing a little of the pressure on his arm at the same time. “What tape?"
"I made a tape to protect myself from Brother Gorman, and it turned into a weapon against me. I shoud have realized that Gorman could not allow that tape to exist.” Strenko's voice was weaker, and Fogelman felt something wet running from Strenko's chest onto his neck. Strenko's blood, most likely. If Strenko had taken a chest shot, he'd be dead soon.
"Cut the shit,” said Gorman. “Where's the tape?"
"The joke is on you. You have killed the only person who could tell you.” Strenko tried to say more, but suddenly became a dead weight on Fogelman.
A booted foot kicked Strenko, but elicited no response. Gorman walked around until he came into Fogelman's view. “What about you? You have the tape?"
"It was you, wasn't it? You killed Elise."
"I thought you were on to me, thought Strenko told you about me and the Russkies. Elise wouldn't talk. The bitch was loyal to the end. I didn't have a choice."
"Bastard."
"We looked for Strenko for a long time. The Russkies wanted him more than I did. Attacking you brought them too much publicity."
"I'll kill you, Gorman."
"I don't think so. Strenko says he just happened to be here but I doubt it was a coincidence that you both ended up in the same state as me. I think you and Strenko were working together."
"Until a few days ago I had pushed Detroit out of my mind,” Fogelman said. “The last thing I wanted was to think about my life before Texas."
"Liar, I did some checking on you. You and your sheriff friend and your girlfriend. Have to guess that she has the tape, huh?"
Gorman turned and walked off. Fogelman worked his left arm free and tried to push Strenko off. Gorman whirled and aimed his pistol. “Say goodnight, Vladimir,” he said and fired two rounds into the body.
He looked at Fogelman. “I'd like to leave you here to think about your girlfriend dying, but you're such a stubborn bastard. You might get to a phone. Say goodnight, Dave.” He fired two rounds at Fogelman and turned on his heel. He walked quickly out of the building.
Fogelman felt a shock when the bullets slammed into Strenko's body but no pain, as Strenko acted as a shield. He heard Gorman's footsteps and waited for him to finish the job.
But the footsteps grew fainter and the warehouse door creaked open. Fogelman waited a moment then pushed Strenko's surprisingly heavy arm aside and tried to rise. Fogelman was hurt, but considered himself lucky.
The warehouse door suddenly reopened and Gorman returned. Fogelman was caught in motion. “Good thing I learned paranoia from the best,” Gorman said. He walked toward Fogelman, pistol at the ready.
Fogelman made a last effort to rise. Strenko's arm fell back and struck Fogelman in the face. It was too heavy. It ... Strenko still carried a sleeve gun. Some things never change. Fogelman reached his good hand up and grabbed Strenko's arm, probing for the hideout holster. He fumbled with the cloth. How to get at the gun? He could feel the mechanism strapped to Strenko's wrist, but ... Fogelman pushed, pulled, pressed, and finally a .38-caliber revolver popped out.
Fogelman caught it and aimed in one movement. Gorman, taken by surprise, stared just a tick before firing. In that time, Fogelman fired twice, hitting Gorman at least once. Fogelman pulled the trigger again and again, stopping only when he heard the clicks of the hammer hitting spent cartridges.
Again the warehouse door opened. This time Rafael and Parker ran in. Parker had a gun drawn and ready.
* * * *
Fogelman awoke in a hospital, again. He was alone, again, but before he could even think about the significance of it, Rafael came in.
"You owe me, man,” he said.
"Huh. I thought I told you to keep Parker from following me."
"Wasn't Parker following us. Was that skinny Russian dude. He duct-taped me, man. Too tight. Thought I might lose my hands. They were swollen like grapefruits."
He held them up for evidence, but they looked normal to Fogelman. Rafael continued, “He threw me down in the ditch, but I rolled myself back up on the road. Two cars almost ran over me before Parker stopped."
"Parker?” Fogelman said. “But there was only one car following us. If that was Strenko, how did Parker know where we were?"
"Easy,” said Parker from the doorway. “I stuck a GPS transmitter under y'all's truck."
Rafael shifted from one foot to the other, apparently nervous in Parker's presence. “I got to go, man."
He gave Fogelman's shoulder a squeeze, then pushed out of the door past Parker.
Parker pulled a chair next to Fogelman's bed and straddled it backward, resting his arms on the chair's back. “I know you're hurt,” he said, “but there's no good time to tell you this."
Fogelman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew when a cop was about to give bad news.
"That girlfriend of yours in Detroit,” Parker said, “she took the promotion. While you were saying your prayers in that Detroit warehouse, a moving company was emptying her apartment."
Fogelman kept his eyes closed. “Yeah?"
"They held her stuff in a Chicago warehouse for three years before they sold it to a salvage company. She never showed up for her new job."
* * * *
Fogelman had barely finished assembling the Thunderbolt when he saw the sheriff's car tur
n onto his dirt road, the sheriff behind the wheel and Nettie in the passenger seat. He took a chamois cloth and buffed the new paint on the fuselage.
Parker immediately saw Nettie's name on the Thunderbolt in shiny new paint, and pretended to need something in the trunk. He stayed out of sight for a couple of minutes after Nettie's exclamation of joy.
Nettie nearly knocked Fogelman over with a running hug. Over her shoulder, Fogelman saw Parker and they exchanged smiles. Nettie broke off the hug to look at the plane again. “I've never had anything named after me. This is so sweet."
She cocked her head, staring at the Thunderbolt. “Nimble Nettie,” she said. “I like it, but why the pinup picture? Flattering though it may be."
"In World War Two, airmen painted names of their girlfriends or movie stars on their planes, and often had pinup pictures. They named their planes, too, and except for the P-38, the Thunderbolt was as nimble as any plane we had."
Nettie picked up the radio controller. “Can I fly it?"
"Sure, but let me get it into the air for you."
Once the plane was safely flying over the lake, Fogelman handed her the controls. “Cut her some slack,” he said. “Sometimes she wavers a bit, but she always comes back on line."
He didn't plan to lose this one.
(c) 2007 by Michael Bracken and Tom Sweeney
[Back to Table of Contents]
2007 INDEX: VOLUMES 129 AND 130
ADOLFO, RICARDO: Disguised as a Normal Person—February
ALLYN, DOUG: Stone Cold Christmas—January; Dead as a Dog—July
ANDREWS, DALE C. AND KURT SERCU: The Book Case—May
ANDREWS, DONNA: A Rat's Tale—Sept/Oct
BANKIER, WILLIAM: Pool Players Are Nice People—May
BARBIERI, TERRY: Out of Bounds—January
BARSOTTI, MARK: Camera Guy—Sept/Oct
BENEDICT, LAURA: The Erstwhile Groom—Sept/Oct
BLOCK, LAWRENCE: A Vision in White—June; A Chance to Get Even—Sept/Oct
EQMM, December 2007 Page 19
