Dead and Gone

by Andrew Vachss

  I took off, flying. Ran three blocks, dodging traffic. When I felt my breath get short, I stopped, turned to face them while I still had something left.

  But they were nowhere in sight.

  I shed the heavy overcoat in an alley Dumpster, along with the John Deere cap. And the chain. Then I wandered through two bookstores, a coffee shop, and a Native American crafts store, pumping some time into the mixture in case they had phone contact with others in the area.

  Nothing.

  I waited for rush hour, made my way back to the hotel along the sidewalks, circled the block twice on foot. Then I went up to the room.

  Gem was seated by the window, wearing the fluffy white hotel bathrobe, her hair wet and glistening.

  I let my breath out.

  “You want something to eat?” I asked, by way of telling her that we needed to wait for Byron so she didn’t have to go over everything twice.

  She grinned.

  Gem had honeydew melon and a pair of rare-roast-beef sandwiches on rye, slathered with Thousand Island dressing. And a glass of red wine. I watched her eat, not hungry myself, just chewing mechanically on my tuna, bacon, and lettuce club sandwich.

  “What happened to the one who got close to you?” I finally asked her.

  “I shot him.”

  “I didn’t hear a—”

  “With what I showed you. I told you it was very quiet.”

  “So there’s a slug in him?”

  “In his shoulder, yes.”

  “Damn.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “Ballistics. I doubt they’d go to the cops, but your Derringer is marked now—you’ll have to ditch it.”

  “I don’t think so. The barrels are smooth-bores. No rifling.”

  “What kind of weird way is that to set up a piece? You probably couldn’t hit a Buick with that thing.”

  “I could if I were sitting in it.”

  “How close were you?”

  “I pressed the end of the barrel into his shoulder while he was grabbing me. That is another reason why it was so quiet.”

  “Was he—?”

  “I cannot be sure. It seemed as if he wanted to … make me come with them. He acted as if he thought the others were right behind him. He did not consider that I might be armed. It is a great advantage.”

  “Just his bad luck you had the piece.”

  “It was his good luck,” she said quietly. “If I did not have my pistol, it would have been this.” She opened her hand. Inside was a long sliver of bamboo: wide at the butt end, as narrow as a hypodermic needle at the other. “For his eye. Then he would not have been so quiet.”

  “Where’d you—?” I said, stupidly, before I caught myself. “You know,” is all she said.

  It was almost ten that night before we heard Byron’s tap on the door. I let him in. He walked past me, pulling off a fog-colored silk raincoat, tossing it in the general direction of the closet.

  “You want a drink?” I asked him. “Something to eat?”

  “That minibar looks like it’ll do me,” he said. True to his prediction, he found a small bottle of cognac. “Just right,” he said approvingly, settling back on the couch. “Want me to go first?”

  “Sure,” I told him.

  “We’ve got their home base, brother. They diddled around for an hour or so. You know, double-backing, last-minute lane switches … even went the wrong way on a one-way one time. Très lame. They must have picked up those moves from TV. Then they got a little slicker. Parked their car, took a cab all the way over to the Northwest. They had another car waiting for them in Nob Hill—a Porsche. It was parked by that fancy cigar restaurant, the Brazen Bean. Looked right at home.

  “I figure the first one for borrowed, a walkaway deal, have some stooge pick it up. No point spreading our manpower to keep it under observation.

  “They must have decided there was no tail. Or that they shook it, whatever. From Pearl, they motored down to Lake Oswego. It’s like a suburb. A very ritzy suburb, I can tell you. They got lakefront property, garage connected to the house. So we saw them drive in, but not enter the house. Didn’t matter anyway. In a few minutes, they start turning on lights, moving around. They’re still there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “And they haven’t had any visitors,” Byron went on, holding up his pager to indicate his partner was still on the job. “At least not yet.”

  “How long is your guy good for?”

  “Till I come and relieve him. It’s not exactly the right surveillance spot for me, anyway. You know what the locals call Lake Oswego?”

  “What?”

  “Lake No-Negro,” he said, sourly. “It’s heavily patrolled, too.”

  “Got it,” I told him. Then I turned to Gem. “Your turn,” I said.

  She got to her feet like a schoolgirl called upon to recite, hands behind her back, holding Byron and me in her gaze.

  “You must remember that the conversation was in Russian. Some of it does not translate perfectly. Or it may sound stilted.

  “The man approached first. He asked, ‘Are you a friend?’ I told him I was from ‘a friend,’ and asked him if he would like to sit down. He seemed undecided, but then the woman just … loomed up on my other side.

  “ ‘How did you find us?’ the man asked. I ignored the question, and began to tell him the story we had prepared. But he was not interested in your Dmitri—he acted like he did not know him at all. It was as you expected. So I said what we had decided on: Dmitri had been murdered, and the killers were friends of the original target of the assassination attempt which occurred when there was an attempt to ransom back their son.

  “The woman was very brusque. She demanded to know whom I represented. What I was really doing there. I told her I was only a person with a message for them. Only those who hired me could answer her questions. I asked her if she wanted to meet those people.

  “But before she could answer, the man asked me about Petya. He wanted to know what had happened to Petya. I had never heard that name from you. The woman hissed at him to be quiet, called him … It is hard to translate, but it means a man who is no man. A … gelding, perhaps?

  “Then she asked me, why did whoever sent me think she and her husband were in danger? They had done nothing wrong.

  “I told her what we had decided on—that the person who had almost been killed was brain-damaged, a vegetable in a coma.

  But his friends believed he had been set up, and the only lead was Dmitri. They went to see him, but Dmitri turned to violence, and he was killed. That left only them—the man and the woman. The people who employ me believed they would be the next targets. And that the information should be worth a great deal of money to them.

  “But that did not work as you expected. Instead of trying to bargain, the woman asked me again who my employers are. Again, I told her I did not know them but I could arrange a meeting. When I said that, the woman made some kind of signal with her hand and they both got up. I could not see where they went, because the skinheads were already charging at me.”

  “Skinheads?” Byron asked.

  “It looks like they wanted to snatch Gem,” I told him. “Maybe take her someplace where she’d do a better job of answering their questions.”

  “Well, you’re both here, so …”

  “Yeah. And whoever hired the skinheads is the same one who hired the Russians. Maybe.”

  “Why only maybe?” Gem asked.

  “First of all, they were kids. Not little kids, but teenagers. Not professionals. I can’t see someone who’d spend a few hundred grand to hit me saving a couple of bucks now by hiring amateurs. And, from the way you tell it, they weren’t there to watch the Russians. They were there to do whatever the Russians told them to—no orders going in. If it was a snatch from jump, they would have vamped on you from behind, while you were seated. It looks like they reacted to the woman’s signal.”

  “So you figure, maybe the Russians aren’t straw
men after all?” Byron asked.

  “You add up what went down earlier to the fact that they got in the wind before the hit on me went down—the answer’s got to be no. They have to be players; we just don’t know how, yet.”

  “I—” Byron started. The sound of his pager cut him off.

  While Byron was dialing out, I picked up his pager from where he had tossed it on the couch. The only number showing was 411. So his man had information—it wasn’t an emergency.

  I couldn’t make out what Byron was saying on the phone—he was probably keeping his voice down in case the guy at the other end had to keep things quiet.

  Byron hung up, turned to me and Gem. “One of them went out. In a car. From the garage. Stayed out maybe a half-hour. My man figures they wanted a pay phone, playing it safe. Going to be daylight soon enough—we’ll have to pull out. That neighborhood’s not going for unexplained cars sitting around.”

  “All right,” I said. “We’ve got the edge. They don’t know what we know. No reason for them to fly.”

  Byron nodded. “When things open up tomorrow, we can do some checking. But that place—it sure doesn’t look like any temporary rental. And there’s one more thing.…”

  “What?”

  “My friend says he can code-grab the remote they use to open and close the garage. The driveway’s nice and straight. And there’s no gate.”

  “Let’s see what happens,” I told him. “That one’s a last resort.”

  The ringing of the bedside phone woke me the next morning. I was lying facedown on the bed, Gem draped over me like a warm, soft blanket, her face nestled between my shoulder blades. She didn’t stir as I reached for the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “We got a budget for this one, bro?” Byron’s voice, as fresh as if he’d grabbed eight hours.

  “Sure.”

  “On hand?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can you meet me? On the waterfront? Just take Alder—that’s the block the hotel’s on—east. You’ll know you’re on track if the street numbers keep getting lower, okay? Make a right on Fourth, and a left on Taylor. Follow it down; you’ll see the river. Find a place to park anywhere near Front Street, then just walk across and stroll north along the waterfront. I’ll pick you out easy enough. Give it … thirty minutes, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  “May I come with you?” Gem asked, her voice formal.

  “Sure. But …”

  “Yes?”

  “We have to be there in less than a half-hour.”

  “Pooh! You think it takes me so long just to get dressed?”

  “No. I mean, I was just—”

  “I will wager with you. The last one ready to go pays for lunch.”

  “Can we just make it a hundred or so?” I asked her. “I don’t know how much I need for Byron.”

  She punched me in the chest. Lightly, with the side of her fist, not the knuckles.

  Gem practically dove into a lilac sweatshirt, then pulled a pair of jeans on as far as her thighs. She held the waistband of the jeans in both hands as she hopped over to the door, dragging them up over her hips. “I win!” she announced, breathlessly.

  When I conceded that she had, she said “Hah!” And celebrated by immediately stripping and prancing into the shower. Still, we were on the waterfront, strolling hand in hand like … I don’t know what … with a good five minutes to spare. We must have been walking in the right direction, because we found Byron lounging on one of the wooden benches, taking in the scenery. We sat down on either side of him. Gem turned sideways so she could see behind us. “That’s okay, girl. It’s covered,” Byron told her.

  “It’s only eleven,” I said to him. “You got something already?”

  “A lot. I fronted it, but I need a couple of grand to get square. You said—”

  “I got seven and change with me.”

  “Perfect. We got a deuce, deuce and a half, committed already, but I figure that could double if the stream keeps flowing.”

  “Hundreds okay?” I asked, reaching into the side pocket of my coat.

  “Long as they’re not private stock, bro. Computers and laser printers have changed the game. Any geek can make funny money in his house now.”

  “This is all clean,” I said, handing over a bundle. “Used and random, too. I know you’ve got a man out there and—”

  “That’s my man, Burke. This cash is to grease some wheels. My partner is here for me, not for pay, understand?”

  “I apologize,” I told him, meaning it.

  He nodded, closing the subject. Took a breath. “All right, here’s what we got so far: the house cost the better part of eight fifty large. They put down three and a piece, financed the rest at seven and three-eighths, thirty-year, fixed. Income stream is all ‘investments,’ and it looks fine on paper—two mil and change in five mutual funds, three index, one value, and one Euro. Their TRW is squeaky clean—only thing they have going is a revolving credit line from American Express, and they pay that every month, no balance. Two phone lines. Long-distance bills run less than a hundred a month. They use U S West for a carrier, the chumps. State taxes paid right to the penny.”

  “Which means they—?”

  “Yeah. Not just new names, bro. New Social Security numbers. And the names on the paper are as Anglo-Saxon as King James.”

  “So they’re deep under.”

  “They are. But they’re not visible enough locally for anyone to notice. That American Express account? The one they pay righteously? Some months it’s damn near ten grand.” He paused, made sure my eyes were on his. “For travel.”

  “Luxury cruises?”

  “Sure. If you think Estonia’s a playground for the rich and lazy.”

  “Estonia?”

  “And Romania.”

  “What about the Philippines?” Gem asked, softly.

  “Nope. Europe. All over Europe, but that’s all.”

  I filed it. Filed Gem’s question, too. “What else have you—?”

  Byron held up his hand, reached in his jacket, came out with his pager, checked the screen, said, “More than I thought I would, Burke. See for yourself.”

  He held the pager so I could reach the window. This time the window read 411 + + +.

  I raised my eyebrows, asking what the string of plus signs meant.

  “Pictures,” Byron said. “Let’s ride.”

  Byron’s ride turned out to be a nondescript dark-green Chrysler four-door. “Tradecraft,” he said, apologetically. He suavely opened the back door for Gem.

  She sat way forward, resting her chin on my shoulder, listening to Byron’s travelogue as he crisscrossed streets.

  “This is Southeast,” he said. “Kind of a mixed bag. See for yourself.”

  What I saw was a string of antiques shops and used-book stores, and a vegetarian restaurant called Old Wives’ Tales. A couple of blocks farther along, a pair of topless joints that looked right at home.

  Byron turned off the main drag, his eyes scanning the block. I didn’t know what he was looking for, and he didn’t ask for my help, so I stayed inside myself, waiting.

  He slowed at a small stone building—looked like an eight-family unit—then pulled into the driveway and continued until we were in a little alley. Byron reversed the car smoothly, and expertly backed it toward a big garage. The door opened and we rolled in. The door came down again, as silently as silk on silicon.

  It was dark inside. No windows. A tiny red light came on in a far corner, no bigger than an LED. I flicked my eyes to my chest, thinking, Laser sight! But I couldn’t see anything.

  Byron turned off the engine. A tall man came out of the shadows. When he got closer, I could see he was white, somewhere in his forties, maybe, with a neat haircut, wearing a dark boxy-cut suit.

  He bent down so his face was close to Byron’s. I couldn’t hear what passed between them. The tall man opened the back door and climbed in next to Gem. I half-turned so I was facing Byro
n, my good eye on the back seat.

  “This is Brick,” Byron said to us.

  “My name is Gem,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He shook it.

  “Burke,” I told him. And he did the same. His grip was soft and dry. Contact, not pressure—no transmissions. I couldn’t make out all his features, but he had a high forehead and a squarish jaw.

  He took some photographs out of a manila envelope I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “These two surfaced at oh-six-twenty-two,” he said. “Just before first light. They came in a pickup, a Ford F150 with California tags.” He read the license number to Byron.

  “There goes the budget,” Byron said.

  “Shouldn’t take as long as you might think,” Brick replied. “Their truck was one of those ‘Lightning’ jobs—couldn’t miss it, even from a distance. They were real limited production. Can’t be that many of them running around.”

  He handed the photos to me, together with a pocket flash. “These are from a digital camera, downloaded and printed. The detail is very good, but you’ll need to blow them up anyway.”

  “Try this,” Byron said, taking the flash from me and handing over a rectangular magnifying glass. He trained the light where I was looking. Skinheads. In jackets—one leather, the other denim—and T-shirts. The photos showed them standing next to their truck; walking toward the Russians’ house; returning. The last two shots were close-ups. Even under the low-light conditions, the clarity was better than the average mug shot—I’d know either of them again. And they weren’t from the same crew as the plaza. These two were a decade, if not a generation, older.

  I handed the photographs to Gem. Brick took the flash from Byron and held it for her while she checked for herself.

  “These men were not the ones who—”

  “They’re not,” I agreed with her. Then I asked Brick, “Are they known to—?”

  “Have to wait on positive IDs for that.”

  “Can you do it from these photos?”