by Don Donovan
"Maxie, I didn't let him go. He's tied —"
"¡Silencio! ¡Escúchame! Now I have learned this Russian cocksucker, this —" He consulted his cell phone notes. "— this Damien Kushnir, he has already moved in on your 'replacement' dealer. He has taken East Eighth Avenue for the Russians."
"I swear to you, Maxie, I'll get it back. I'll —"
"¡Silencio!" Maxie pounded the desk so hard, all the objects on top of it shook or fell over. "He has taken East Eighth Avenue. What is next? East 49th Street? The race track? The street in front of my home in Hialeah Gardens? Where my children play?" Maxie expected no response and there was none forthcoming. He went on: "This pinche maricón Kushnir is going to Las Vegas tomorrow. The Russians are holding a meeting out there. The Aria Hotel. About twenty of them will be there. They will be there until Friday, with Wednesday and Thursday being the big meeting days. I want you to go out there and take that fucker out."
Jimmy nodded. This would be his only salvation. Smoke Damien Kushnir or die himself. He thought of Nora. Beautiful, loving Nora. Who lived for him alone.
"Okay," he said.
"You have to get him alone. They can never know who was behind it. Debe ser un ataque quirúrgico."
Thoughts ran through Jimmy's head. A surgical strike would not be easy in the middle of Sin City, USA. The Russians would likely go from the airport directly to the Aria, stay in the hotel for the three days, then limos back to the airport.
Maxie reached into his top desk drawer and came out with a photo. He pushed it over his desk at Jimmy.
"This is him. Damien Kushnir. He's about twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Been in this country around six years. Worked closely with Kovalenko, so he's no stranger to killing. But god-damn it, neither are we! And you're going to take that fucking Russian out!"
Jimmy was amazed Maxie had amassed so much data on Kushnir. But Maxie was always able to get information he needed when he needed it. That was how he got to the top of the heap. "They say knowledge is power," Maxie always said. "But it isn't. It's what you do with the knowledge once you get it. That's what gives you the power."
He examined the photo. Damien posed for the camera, smiling with a drink in his hand. Looked to be in someone's house. He had a thick build with solid shoulders. Ultra-short hair over a flat, broad face did little to disguise the deadness of his eyes. Three teardrop tattoos dripped from his left eye. Jimmy knew they meant he was either someone's bitch in prison or each tear represented an inmate he murdered. Visible on what neck he had was a tattooed skull with baring fangs, a frightening image Jimmy knew to be a tat common in Russian prisons symbolizing hostility toward authority and society in general. Diagnosis: psychopath.
Maxie said, "Your ticket and your boarding pass are in your email. You leave tonight. You've got a room at the Aria for the week. Be waiting for him there when he arrives. And make sure he doesn't leave." Jimmy checked his phone and Maxie added, "No one must know of this. Not Sierra, not Dunbar, not anybody. Especially not Don Rafael. This would make them very nervous in Medellín. And when they get nervous, I get nervous."
Without trying, Jimmy put on his serious face. "I'll get it done, Maxie," he said, knowing he had no other option.
32
Jimmy
Las Vegas, Nevada
Monday, August 27, 2012
10:50 PM
THE HEAT WAS ALMOST TOO MUCH FOR JIMMY to bear. Just before landing, the pilot had announced the temperature: one hundred one degrees. He only felt a taste of it as he stepped off the plane to enter the jetway, but once he left the terminal building, he knew he'd never been anywhere like this.
His first time out of Florida and he's thrown into a fucking microwave. Even though he was in the breezeway outside the terminal doors, the burning sensation on his skin made him want to turn around and go back into the air conditioning. And this was nearly eleven o'clock at night.
He stepped into the taxi zone and the first of the cabs lined up to his left moved in front of him. Air conditioning covered him immediately and he took a deep breath.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
"Aria Hotel."
The cab sped out of the breezeway and into the night. Within a remarkably short period of time, it turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard, the Strip. Jimmy had only seen this place in photos and on TV and in the movie Casino — and that was set in the 1970s — and he gazed in wonder at this monument to excess. Lights as far as the eye could see in front of him, the street lined with the biggest hotels he had ever seen.
He remembered the scene in Casino where they showed the money pouring in via coin sorting machines and bundles of paper currency. He recalled the count room, where they arranged and counted the cash on a glass-topped table. And then there was the mob guy who came every week to pick up the cash and bring it back to the fat wop bosses in the Midwest. When the bosses asked how much he had, he said, "Oh, about twenty pounds. Maybe seven hundred thousand." Jimmy wondered why Don Rafael never tried to move in out here.
Far too soon, the taxi deposited him at the imposing entrance to the Aria. He paid the driver, waved off a bellman who wanted to help him with his carry-on bag, and entered the hotel.
Right away, he didn't like this place. Big and grandiose, the lobby stretched outward and upward to breadths and heights he'd never experienced. A cold, corporate feel all the way around. The intimidation extended across the massive lobby and right up to the high, glassed-in ceiling showcasing the black sky above. The front desk reminded him of a factory assembly line where real people with real feelings and real thoughts were not in evidence. Nothing in Miami was like this. It looked like they could hold a dance in one corner of the lobby and no one would notice.
Even at this hour, there was a line for check-in, and it took him about twenty minutes to reach the front desk. He noticed some comfortable chairs and couches to one side, and realized he had found his spot to watch for Damien Kushnir.
Once he checked in, he headed for his room on the ninth floor and threw his bag down. He was in bed asleep within ten minutes.
≈ ≈ ≈
Much to Jimmy's surprise, Damien Kushnir arrived relatively early the next day. Jimmy had thought he might take the same evening flight Tuesday night, arriving a little before eleven as Jimmy had on Monday, but instead he entered the hotel shortly before one PM. From his seat on a couch, Jimmy saw him pulling his carry-on toward the check-in line. Jimmy's own empty carry-on sat on the floor in front of him, a prop.
He looked exactly like his photo, no surprises. Rock-solid build, flat face, skull tat on the neck. He wore an ordinary polo shirt. Well-worn jeans wrapped around thick thighs tapering to a relatively new pair of Nikes. His only concession to flash was the Rolex on his right wrist. Meant he was probably left-handed. Jimmy noted it.
Accompanying him was another man, one with short, very blond hair. Jimmy made him as Gregor.
He had learned Damien worked closely with Vitali Kovalenko, that shortly after Kovalenko had come down to Miami for reconnaissance, he sent for Damien and Gregor once he had identified some street dealers ready to roll over. Although no one could be certain which one killed Raúl, in Jimmy's mind they were both guilty. If Kovalenko didn't pull the trigger himself, he ordered Damien to do it. Through some odd quirk of justice, Kovalenko got his, and soon Jimmy was going to close the book on Raúl Nuñez.
Damien took his spot at the end of the check-in line, which Jimmy noted was far longer than it was last night. Unlike last night, however, every service window was manned, so the line would probably move a little faster.
When he concluded the check-in process, Damien headed through the casino for the elevators. Jimmy followed him, pulling his carry-on and melting into the dense crowd in the lobby and the casino area.
When they approached the elevators, there were two Asian men waiting. The doors yawned open and everyone got on. Damien pressed twenty-seven, Jimmy pressed twenty-six. He thought Damien would be careful, getting off at a higher floor t
han his, then walking down. Easier than walking up, so Jimmy settled on twenty-six rather than twenty-eight.
He got off at twenty-six, scouted the hallway for the nearest stairwell. An exit sign loomed over a doorway at the end of the hall to the right. The doors to the rooms were indented from the hallway, set in a foot or two. He counted the number of doorway indentations between himself and the exit. Eight. Two doors per indentation, sixteen doors in all on each side of the hall. Room twenty-six forty loomed in front of him. He waited.
Within seconds, Damien came through the exit door into the hallway. Jimmy pretended to fumble with his room key, his carry-on next to him, standing at attention with its handle pulled upward as far as it would go. From the corner of his eye, he saw Damien walk toward him, then stop. He turned his head slightly and saw Damien's bag being pulled into a room. Count it: three indentations down, closest of the two rooms within that indentation, all even numbers on that side of the hall.
Room twenty-six fifty-two.
33
Laura Lee
Little Havana, Miami, Florida
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
6:20 AM
FUZZY LOOKED CAREFULLY BOTH WAYS down Tenth Avenue when he backed the car out of the driveway. Laura Lee did the same. He wanted to leave while it was still dark out, so they could more easily spot someone turning their lights on and pulling out into the street behind them.
"They might drive with their lights out behind us for a few blocks," he said, "but we'll wait before turning onto West Flagler to see if anyone comes up behind us. If they do, we drive to the drugstore and pick up some aspirin, then back home."
Laura Lee dry-popped half a Dilaudid. For the pain. "You really think they might be following us?" she asked with a shiver in her voice.
"It's possible," he said. "From what you told me, they grilled you pretty good. When they zeroed in on you not calling 911, that's the tipoff. They suspect there's a link between that night and Anton's killing. If their suspicions are strong enough, and if they have any kind of real evidence — no matter how small — they'll tail us. I didn't want to take this trip yesterday, in case they are watching us. By waiting a day, it doesn't look as urgent."
She turned to look out the back window. Nothing moving that she could see. But wait … what was that?
"There's something there," she said in a loud whisper. "It's there."
Fuzzy braked the car. The rear and side mirrors showed only a nightscape of a soundless, motionless street. "Where did you see it?" he asked.
"Back there." She pointed out the rear window.
"Do you see it now, honey?"
She squinted, holding her hand over her eyebrows. There was only the empty street and a few parked cars along both sides.
"N-no," she said. "I-I guess not. Not now."
He put the car in gear again. They got to West Flagler. Traffic hummed along at a steady clip as Miami stirred, the city going to work. Fuzzy eyed the rear view. Zip. He waited thirty seconds. No takers. He made the turn and before long, they were on I-95 heading for Key West.
≈ ≈ ≈
Three hours later, in blinding sunlight, the US 1 turn into Key West rose up to meet them. They swung right and on down to Margaret Street. Logan's two-story apartment building loomed on the corner. They parked and Fuzzy got the wheelchair out. He set Laura Lee into it.
Coming here had been his idea. Laura Lee had wanted to merely call Logan from another burner cell phone, but Fuzzy said that might invite trouble. He wasn't sure how, but he felt a car ride down and back in the same day would not be noticed. Pay for the gas with cash. No record of the trip. Cell phone calls leave tracks.
He pushed Laura Lee into the elevator for the one-floor trip. The apartment was down near the end of the landing. No answer to his knock. Two, three knocks: silence.
Laura Lee looked up at him. "What now?"
"We wait."
"He said the other day he has a job, remember?"
Fuzzy remembered. "So we're probably looking at somewhere around five or six o'clock before he gets home."
Laura Lee said, "Provided he doesn't stop off for a few beers after work. He looks like the type."
"We'll come back at noon," Fuzzy said. "In case he comes home for lunch."
≈ ≈ ≈
Logan didn't come home for lunch, but a heavyset woman in a muumuu pulled up in an SUV around five after five. The steps groaned as she lumbered up to the second floor and entered the apartment. She opened the door with a key, so she probably lived there. From their vantage point in a shaded spot in the parking lot, Laura Lee and Fuzzy looked at each other with question marks on their faces.
"Who's that?" Laura Lee said quickly. "Is that a cop? Are the cops here?" Her head turned quickly in all directions, surveying the parking lot for cops.
Fuzzy patted her arm. "I doubt that's a cop, honey. For one thing, she keyed herself in. A cop wouldn't have the key."
"You sure?" Laura Lee said, never taking her eyes off the front door. "You sure?"
"I'm sure," Fuzzy said. "But let's go find out who she is, okay?"
They were about to get out of the car when another SUV pulled up and Logan got out. Up the steps and into the apartment. Laura Lee and Fuzzy gave him a minute to get inside and get settled, then they went up in the elevator and knocked again on the door. Surprise leaped onto his face when he opened the door and saw them.
"What do you two want?" he said with a frown.
Laura Lee said, "We have to talk. Let us come in."
He stepped aside for them and escorted them into the small living room, where he took a chair and beckoned Fuzzy to sit on the couch, with Laura Lee in her wheelchair close to him. The fat woman came into the room and sat next to Fuzzy. Laura Lee noted the woman had buck teeth and fat ankles and she curled her lip at the sight of them. She tried to hold back, but couldn't. And she didn't really give a shit if the woman caught it.
"Who's this?" Laura Lee said, motioning toward the cow with barely concealed contempt.
"That's Dorothy," Logan said. "I have no secrets from her."
Laura Lee looked at him through narrowing eyes. "None? You sure?" She looked again at the woman. "You a cop, sister?"
The woman said, "A cop? Ha! Not hardly."
Laura Lee went back to Logan. "You sure you got no secrets from her?"
"I'm sure," he said. "None at all."
"Oookay," Laura Lee said. "We have a problem."
Those words brought Logan forward in his chair. "What problem?"
"The cops came to see me yesterday. And it wasn't a friendly visit."
"What did they want?"
"A number of things. Not the least of which was why didn't I call 911 the night of your triple homicide."
Logan rejected that phrase. "Don't call it a triple homicide. It was self-defense, pure and simple."
Fuzzy spoke up. "The cops won't think it was so fucking pure, nor will they think it was simple."
Laura Lee said, "They're trying to tie Anton's death to that night. They don't buy the coincidence of my living next door to that house."
"That's nothing," Logan said with a great deal of assurance. "They're just fishing. If they had anything, they'd be more direct, more aggressive."
"Fishing or not," she said, "they nearly tripped me up. We made the drive down here because I didn't want to call you. Not even on a throwaway cell phone. They're watching us, you know. Every minute."
Logan's facial expression changed. She could see he thought this was serious. "Did you call me on a throwaway before?" he asked.
"Each time a different one," she said.
Fuzzy said, "Thing is, they could come in any minute with a warrant and uncover our stash of burner phones. We've got four or five of them. They're all unused so far, but the very fact we have them will set fires under their asses if they find them. If we had called you today instead of driving all the way down here, they might've come bursting in right after we called, seized the phone,
and tracked the call right to this front door." He pointed to the front door.
For the first time, Laura Lee saw concern on Dorothy's fat face. She wondered what Logan saw in her. Not that he was any great prize, but at least he was in good shape and had to be at least ten years younger than her. What the hell is her attraction, Laura Lee thought. Must be something in the water down here.
"So what are you saying I should do?" Logan said.
"First thing," Laura Lee said, "is get an alibi for yourself. One that can't be cracked. If those cops figure this out, they'll be coming after you with everything they have. And they didn't look like they gave a shit about protecting a suspect's rights."
"I'll see what I can do," Logan said. "I should be able to come up with something."
"When we leave here," she said, "you will never see us or hear from us again. No phone calls, no emails, no Facebook, no carrier pigeons … no contact of any kind whatsoever. Same goes for you. You got it?"
"I got it," he said. He looked at the fat slob who just sat there, her dumb face showing no expression.
After a few seconds of silence, Laura Lee felt her pain returning. Not unbearable, like it sometimes was, but it was definitely knocking on her door. She signaled Fuzzy, and he got up and wheeled her out with no goodbyes while she fished through her purse for the other half of that Dilaudid.
34
Logan
Key West, Florida
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
5:30 PM
THE SECOND THEY LEFT, DOROTHY AND I looked at each other, hearts pounding. Mine was, anyway, and I'm pretty sure hers was, too. She came to me and nestled herself in my arms, standing right by the door. I looked through the window and saw Fuzzy lift Laura Lee into the car and fold up the wheelchair for the back seat.
Still in my arms where I could feel her slight tremble, Dorothy said, "What the fuck …"
