False Dawn jl-3

by Paul Levine

  “In the past, the Soviets had five main exports. Oil, weaponry, gold, platinum, and diamonds. Now, some smart Boris figures there’s hundreds of museums stuffed to the rafters with uncountable fortunes in artwork. The museums are run by low-level functionaries who can be bribed with a set of snow tires for their Lada. You wouldn’t believe what they’ve got-classical Russian stuff plus all the Western art that was accumulated before the Revolution and whatever they could steal during the war. Plus, of course, precious gems, sable pelts, church icons, and historic treasures. They’re being stolen and smuggled into the States and Japan. They slip past customs without paying duties, so the federal government has jurisdiction even if we didn’t want to do the Ruskies any favors.”

  “But you do. Our government is doing what the Russian government can’t.”

  “If word got out-the piracy of Russia’s precious art-it would be a major embarrassment to the reformers and the new republics. So as a favor from the highest level of our government, we’re tracing the goods back to their source. It’s not much different from what the DEA does with drugs from foreign countries. What you’ve done, Lassiter, is get in the way. You’ve stepped on some toes. Matsuo Yagamata has been under investigation for a long time. So has Severo Soto. They pose as respectable businessmen, but they’re both dirty and ruthless. If you have a problem with either of them, it could be serious, and we’re not in a position to protect you.”

  I dipped a piece of crunchy bread in olive oil and took a bite of the veal. “Who killed Francisco Crespo?” I asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever murdered the Russian murdered Crespo to cover it up.”

  Foley shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “Because Smorodinsky knew something. He was your informant, wasn’t he? A whadayacallit, a mole?”

  “Lassiter, this is way out of your league. Go back to your torts and contracts, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. I knew I was lying, but did he?

  “The rabbit,” he said.

  Oh, I almost forgot. I reached into my pocket and drew out the pendant. It rolled around in my hand until Foley plucked it out. From his shirt pocket, he produced a small plastic bag with a Ziploc top. He dropped the bunny into the bag.

  “Hey,” I said. “Just lookee, no keepee.” He ignored me and started to put the bag in his pocket. I reached across the table and caught him by the wrist. I have a good grip. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having a skinny wide receiver pull out of your grasp, so I always worked hard on forearms, hands, and wrist. And now I was squeezing Foley until his fingers unclenched. So I never saw his other hand slip cleanly inside his jacket and go beneath the table.

  “A Glock nine-millimeter semiautomatic is aimed directly at your balls,” he said quietly.

  Various intimate portions of my anatomy tightened, shriveled, and tried to make themselves invisible. “The Model seventeen?”

  “No, the Model nineteen Compact. Fits easier under the jacket.”

  I nodded. “Watch that pressure on the trigger.” I let go of Foley’s wrist and sat back in my chair. “Perhaps I should donate this unique piece of jewelry to my government,” I said. “Do you think I’ll get a deduction for a charitable contribution?”

  He scooped up the rabbit, replaced the gun, and stood. “Watch your ass, Lassiter, and stay out of my way. Your problems have nothing to do with me.”

  He walked out of the restaurant, leaving me sitting there, wondering whether I should have the tiramisu for dessert.

  14

  RIPTIDE

  I dialed a number on the cellular phone, and a gruff voice answered, “Alpha here, over.”

  “Where are you, Alpha?”

  “Identify yourself, over.”

  “Hey, Charlie, we’re on the telephone here. This isn’t Operation Burma.”

  “Security violation, over and out.” Click and dial tone.

  Damn.

  I dialed the same number. “Alpha here, over,” Charlie said again.

  “Baker here, you cantankerous old goat.”

  “Alpha traveling north on Ponce, subject vehicle turning east on the Trail.”

  “Good job. I’m stuck in traffic on Salzedo. Stay with him.”

  It’s not easy tailing a guy when you’re driving a Dodge pickup with slabs of Everglades mud protruding like frozen slush from the wheelwells. But Charlie Riggs was doing the best he could and having a blast. I had stayed behind at Domenico’s to have dessert, figuring Foley might have somebody watching me watching him. So Foley had a ten-minute head start by the time I reached my Olds 442, which was parked at a meter on Aragon. Now, headed north toward Tamiami Trail, I looked in the rearview mirror. Best I could tell, no one was following me while I followed Charlie while he followed Foley.

  When the cellular phone rang, I pushed the right button and gave a friendly “Yeah.”

  Silence.

  Okay, okay. “Baker here,” I said.

  “Alpha here. Subject headed north on Twelfth Avenue.”

  Toward downtown. He could be returning to the federal building on Flagler Street. The CIA maintained a small office there. But it would be quicker to stay right on Tamiami Trail, then take the 1-95 flyover. Where was he going?

  It had turned dark, and a breeze from the bay brought temperatures down to manageable levels and also blew some of the mosquitoes back toward the Glades. I had the top down on the convertible and listened to the sounds of salsa as I drove east along the Trail-Calle Ocho-in Little Havana. I passed city parks where old men hunched over their domino games sipping espresso. And I thought about Robert Foley and the little gold rabbit I had begun to think of as mine. What I didn’t stop to consider was exactly why I was doing this. To fulfill a promise to Emilia Crespo, or to mend a broken one. To prove something to myself, maybe. Just as I decided to ponder all of that, the phone bleeped again, and after the obligatory preliminaries, Charlie, a/k/a Alpha, told me Foley had turned his four-door Chrysler northwest onto South River Drive.

  Then I knew. Atlantic Seaboard Warehouse.

  “Charlie, peel off, old buddy. I got him covered.”

  A tractor-trailer with a supermarket logo on the side was pulling out of the gate when I walked up. I had parked the car in an empty lot a block away. With any luck, it would be there when I got back, hubcaps and aerial still attached.

  I was feeling good. I knew the territory from preparing Crespo’s case. There would be two security guards, one on the river side, the other on the loading dock facing the parking lot. They worked twelve-hour shifts four days a week, seven guards rotating so that the place was always protected. I had interviewed all of them.

  The asphalt of the parking lot shimmered green under the mercury vapor lamps. Foley’s gray Chrysler was in the lot. So were a black Mercedes and a white Cadillac. I took the steps two at a time to the concrete loading dock.

  “Hey, Carlos,” I greeted the guard. If he wasn’t collecting social security, it was only because he’d been paid under the table for the last thirty years. He was stubby and emaciated, with a narrow face that had run out of room for its fleshy nose. He wore a white shirt with epaulets, gray trousers with a black stripe, and a. 357 Magnum on his hip. The trousers kept sliding down from the weight of the handgun. He had white hair swept back, and a bushy white mustache tickled his oversize nose.

  “Doctor Lassiter. El jefe is in the traffic office if you’re looking for him.”

  “Thanks, Carlos.”

  I walked straight through the open front door, which was the exact width of a tractor-trailer. The traffic office sat on an orange steel catwalk thirty feet off the floor of the warehouse. Metal stairs led from the floor to the catwalk. The traffic office was divided into two rooms. You walked into an open area with metal desks, old typewriters, and a couple of new computers. During the day, three or four clerical workers sat there, pushing paper, keeping track of inventory and shipments. A conference room with a walnut table and e
ight chairs was tucked inside. I had conducted my interviews there.

  What appeared from the floor to be a mirrored wall of glass on the outside of the office was a window looking out from the conference room. I couldn’t see in, but whoever was inside could see out. I ducked into the first row, which was marked Foodstuffs. Canned tomato paste from Italy and pickles from Poland were stacked twice as high as an NBA center. From behind me, I heard a buzzing. A worker on a forklift whizzed by me into the next row, swinging the wheel hard. He deftly touched a lever, and the fork dropped to just a few inches off the floor. I watched the blade. Three-inch-thick steel at the base where it was bolted to the lift, tapering to maybe a quarter inch at the tip. The driver slid the blade under a pallet of fertilizer bags, shifted gears, backed the lift out, wheeled around, and whirred toward the loading dock and a waiting trailer.

  I stayed put, wondering what to do now that I was here. Who was in the office overhead? Foley and Yagamata, el jefe, for sure. Why? Was the CIA buying a load of Polish pickles? The catwalk surrounded the office on three sides; the conference window only faced the front, but that ruled out going up the stairs. If I did, I would be in plain view from the office window. I needed to get to one of the sides.

  I looked at the stack of containers on the side facing me. Not high enough. Even if I climbed to the top and stood on my tippy-toes, I’d be several feet too short.

  Outside, an air horn tooted three times. The Second Avenue Bridge was going up over the Miami River. Inside, workmen were beginning to drift toward the dock, removing their gloves. I looked at my watch. Nine P.M. End of a shift. Twenty yards away, a forklift sat empty.

  Why not?

  When I turned the ignition, there was a whoosh of propane and the little motor jumped to life. How hard could it be? I fooled around with what looked like a gearshift and stepped on the pedal that should have been a clutch. I hit the gas, found myself in reverse, and crashed into a stack of hundred-pound dog food bags. I found the forward gear, hit the gas again, turned the wheel, and whirled three hundred sixty degrees like Dorothy Hamill on the ice. Damn thing steers with the rear wheels.

  After a couple of minutes, I could drive semistraight. So there I was, an ex-football player, ex-public defender, ex-a-lot-of-things ricocheting a forklift around a corner and trying to get the blade into position to lift a ton of applesauce ten feet off the ground. After several tries, I figured it out. I slid the fork under the pallet and lifted it cleanly, locking the blade into place. Then I climbed up the pallet, and standing on top, reached the floor of the catwalk with my hands stretched over my head. I hoisted myself up, swinging first one leg then the other to the floor. In a moment, I was on the catwalk, out of view of the conference room window.

  I looked down at the warehouse. No workmen were visible. I eased around the corner, ducked underneath the mirrored window, and made it to the front door. I listened for voices but heard none. Quietly, I turned the door handle. Inside, the outer office was dark. The door to the conference room was cracked open, the light spilling out. I duck-walked inside and closed the door behind me. A metal counter split the office in half, with clerks’ desks on either side.

  I heard voices now but couldn’t make out the words. In the movies, your Indiana Jones types are always sneaking up on the Nazis and eavesdropping from a hundred yards away. It doesn’t work like that. You’ve got to be within spitting distance to understand anything, unless you’re equipped with sophisticated gear like Lourdes Soto carries in her aluminum case. I didn’t even have a pencil. I waddled closer to the open door, keeping my back pressed to the counter. I tried to breathe slowly, my brain telling the rest of me not to sneeze, fart, or sing the national anthem. My various body parts obeyed, all except my right knee. Three feet from the door, it cra-cked, the sound of a dry twig snapping in two. I convinced myself that it sounded loud to me because, after all, it was my knee. I waited a moment to see if my elbow or ankle answered. Sometimes it happens that way, a symphony of sympathetic bones: snap, crackle, and pop. But they stayed quiet, and I held my breath, listening some more. I couldn’t see into the room, but now I could hear.

  “… shameless exhibitionism. Carelessness. Inexcusable leaks.”

  I recognized Robert Foley’s voice. He grew louder and angrier with each word. “What the hell is the Matisse doing in your-what the hell is it-your garage?”

  “My study. You would not understand. To me, the painting is very symbolic.” A faint Cuban accent. Severo Soto. Oh, brother. What was going on here?

  “Symbolic! Jesus H. Christ, we’re not talking art appreciation here. You guys are skimming. You’re treating the product as your own personal property. Security risks, both of you.”

  Then another voice, at first too faint to understand. Then, “… but I take full responsibility. It was my decision.” A foreign accent, someone who had been taught the language by a Brit.

  “And speaking of exhibitionism!” Foley again. “At a goddamn public party attended by half of Dade County, you showed off some goddamn gold train that wasn’t made by Lionel.”

  “Lionel?” Matsuo Yagamata sounded puzzled.

  “Never mind!” Foley shouted savagely. “If you two guys are the brains of this operation, I’d hate to see-”

  “Please show me the rabbit again,” Yagamata said, quietly and politely.

  It grew silent. I pictured them passing my little bunny around the table.

  “An interesting piece from the House of Faberge, probably the work of Fedor Afanassiev or Henrik Wigstrom,” Yagamata said. “Not especially valuable. Perhaps inspired by an egg-shaped pendant worn by Catherine the Great and stored in the treasury of the Hermitage at the time Faberge’s artisans were at work there. So they could easily have been influenced-”

  “Who gives a flying fuck! How did that shitbucket Crespo get his hands on it?”

  No one spoke, and I imagined a series of shrugs. “See what I mean?” Foley continued. “We knew the Russians couldn’t keep records to save their ass. Completely incompetent. Give me the Germans, any day. Christ, they always knew where every bullet was stored. Great record keepers. But the Russians. Drunken, lazy bastards. It doesn’t matter if they’re commies or democrats or Rotarians. We expected inefficiency and pilferage at their end, not ours. It’s bad enough you guys are dipping into the trough, but now you got minimum-wage Marielito s running around with the crown jewels…”

  Crespo’s not running anywhere, I thought.

  “… Can you imagine the flak if Geraldo Rivera got hold of this? I gotta tell you, if word gets out, you guys are on your own. Common criminals. We wash our hands of the whole fucking lot of you.”

  “A trinket, nothing more.” Yagamata again. “I have allowed various operatives to keep mementos of our successful activities.”

  “Mementos!” Foley was screaming now. “ Evidence is more like it!”

  “Why do you worry so much?” Yagamata asked, calmly. “We have other, more pressing concerns.”

  “ El abogado, what about the lawyer?” Soto asked.

  “He doesn’t know shit,” Foley said. “I told him the government is trying to help stop the theft of Russian artwork.”

  I heard a laugh but couldn’t tell the source. “Isn’t that just like government everywhere?” Yagamata chortled. “A lie that is so close to the truth.”

  “You have a problem with that?” Foley again.

  “To the contrary,” Yagamata responded. “I applaud every aspect of your Operation Riptide. Until recently, I believed myself to be a master of deceit. But I am-what do you call it here-a small fish…”

  “Small fry,” Foley said.

  “… compared to the cunning of civil service employees in polyester suits.”

  “Matsuo, you’re being too modest,” Foley said. His voice faded. I had the impression he was walking around the room. “… fact remains that the lawyer knows too much, even if he doesn’t know what it means.” The voice grew stronger and I heard the shuffle of his oxfor
ds against the tile floor. “I’m gonna leave the lawyer up to you, but let me make something clear. You have no sanction to terminate him…”

  Terminate? Why did I think he wasn’t talking about firing me as a legal eagle?

  “… none whatsoever.”

  Maybe I should thank my new buddy Foley. Okay, maybe he had pointed a gun at my crotch. But now…

  “Do you forbid it?” Yagamata sounded peeved.

  “We sanction nothing. We forbid nothing.”

  Thanks a lot, buddy.

  Just then, a new voice startled me. “It would not be discreet.” That sweet voice with just a trace of an accent picked up at quince parties and from giggling friends at the St. Christopher School for Girls. “First the Russian, then Crespo, now the lawyer. Do you really believe this would escape the notice of the prosecutor and the grand jury?”

  That’s my Lourdes. Arguing for my life because it would be imprudent to kill me. At the same time, I wondered if her reasoning was influenced just a bit by the memory of the slow rhythmic grinding of our loins. Spare the infidel, and fetch him to my chambers.

  There was murmuring at the table that I took to be agreement. There were also the sounds of chairs moving and people stirring. I thought it might be an appropriate time to put some distance between myself and four characters who were deciding if my demise was more trouble than it was worth. I duck-walked back to the door without tearing ligaments or knocking over any typewriters. I made it to the catwalk and turned the corner to get out of view of the window.