by Chris Culver
I sprinted across the lobby, my lungs and throat burning. The room hadn’t seemed that long earlier, but two hundred pounds of dead weight and a fire can change perceptions. By the time I reached the door, the second gunman was peeling out in a Ford Mustang. The drywall and other building materials around me were catching fire, and black smoke billowed out around me. I stepped outside and sucked air. My legs shook, but before they gave out, I dumped my new friend on the hood of my car. The son of a bitch was probably going to leave a dent. At least it’d blend in with the others. He moaned, but said nothing coherent.
I slipped my gun into my holster and coughed so hard I nearly vomited as my lungs tried to expel whatever black matter had entered them. I breathed deeply, trying to catch my breath, and leaned on the hood. Pain coursed through my body every time I exhaled. It felt as if I had just run a marathon. As I stood panting, a rapid series of bangs erupted from inside the building. I jumped. Pain blasted through my side once again. The gunman’s hands were empty. He must have left his weapon inside, and unless I missed my mark, the rounds he hadn’t fired had cooked off. Thankfully nothing flew out at us.
We stayed for a few minutes like that. The heat was powerful enough that I could have roasted marshmallows from thirty feet away. Flame licked the aluminum siding around Sunshine’s front door. The roof would catch soon, and once that happened, the fire would be noticeable for miles around. Unless I got out of there quickly, I was going to have company.
I dragged the semi–conscious guy from my hood and pulled him onto my back seat. He gasped, and I got my first good look at him. He was probably thirty and had sunken cheeks and a star tattooed on his neck. I had shot him in the arm and shoulder, so his wounds weren’t immediately life threatening. If he got help, his biggest fear was an infection. And me, of course. I slapped him around until his eyes focused on me.
“You got someone you can call?”
He nodded, so I threw him my cell phone and climbed into the driver’s seat. I didn’t know much about my passenger, but I doubted he was on Karen Rea’s payroll. Drug dealers don’t often burn down their own facilities. More likely, he worked for a competitor. I tilted my rear–view mirror so I could see him. His chest bobbed up and down, so I knew he was alive even if he didn’t otherwise move.
I exited the complex and floored the accelerator. The road was so dark that I couldn’t see more than ten feet to my left and right, making me feel as if I were in a tunnel. Despite the fact that I was driving away from it, the orange glow in my rear–view mirror grew brighter and larger. My engine throbbed its way to ninety where I held it steady. The news about the fire hit my police radio when I was three or four miles out. Several units from the State Police radioed that they were en route a moment later. No one mentioned gunfire or fleeing suspects, so I was probably safe for the moment.
The first police cruiser blasted past with its lights blazing and siren wailing about five minutes later. A pair of fire trucks trailed not far afterward, rocking my cruiser in their slipstream. No ambulance followed, but that was just as well. If someone had been stuck in Sunshine, he would have long since been burned to a cinder.
I slowed down as houses replaced the soybean fields. As I got closer to town, the yards shrank, and the houses bunched together to form small neighborhoods. By the time I reached a sign announcing that I was in Plainfield proper, the street had widened from two lanes to four and sodium lamps illuminated the blacktop. Car dealerships, shopping centers, and restaurants eventually choked off whatever greenery there might have once been, leaving me surrounded by concrete as far as I could see.
My phone beeped as my passenger finally dialed. He whispered, but when he finished he barked the name of a bar I didn’t recognize before passing out. I twisted around and grabbed my phone from his curled fingers. With one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road, I searched through my phone’s memory for the last number. I redialed and started talking as soon as someone picked up on the other end.
“Who the fuck is this?” I asked.
“Who is this?”
The speaker’s voice was slow, and his accent was Slavic. I’d heard that voice on wiretaps a few times before. Generally speaking, Indianapolis didn’t have major crime syndicates like Chicago or New York. Our criminals were mostly disorganized, loosely–affiliated gangs. Still, there were rumors of organized figures muscling their way in. Most of those rumors turned out to be false or highly exaggerated, but one rumor refused to disappear. Konstantin Bukoholov. By all appearances, he was a wealthy, respectable businessman with interests in bars and clubs across town. If the rumors were true, though, the illicit portion of his business empire stretched from prostitution to murder for hire. He was a regular hero for our downtrodden criminal class and a favorite role model for many lawyers across town.
“I’m the guy with your buddy on my back seat. The one he tried to shoot.”
Bukoholov was silent for a moment. Plainfield’s main strip was dead at that time of night, but its stoplights were still as bright and as numerous as ever. I pulled to a stop as one turned red.
“What do you want?”
I breathed through my nose deeply and ground my teeth again. My dentist would probably never forgive me for that.
“Just some directions.”
***
Bukoholov never confirmed his identity, but he gave me directions to a part of the city I rarely ventured into. Fifty years ago, it would have been a thriving industrial center. Now it was a dump. Most of its buildings were old warehouses with broken windows and boarded–up doors.
As soon as I got off the interstate, I locked my doors and turned on my high beams so I could see the area better. I spotted two homeless men, one apparently slept, while the other received the attention of one of the area’s many prostitutes. At least he wasn’t spending his money on liquor.
I glanced in my rear–view mirror at the guy on my back seat. He skin was ashen, and his breathing was shallow. He hadn’t died yet, which was nice. I thought about dumping him on a corner and calling his boss but decided better of it. The people in that neighborhood could probably strip a corpse faster than they could strip a car. The guy’d be dead of exposure before his boss could even get to him.
I pulled up to the address my caller had given me and parked alongside the building. The curb was painted yellow, but I figured parking tickets were the least of my worries if a cop happened to come by. I undid my seat belt. The guy behind me moaned, so I looked in the mirror at him. His eyes fluttered.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said, opening my door. He moaned again, but I ignored him and stepped out of my car. The street smelled like sulfur and exhaust. I locked my car before slamming the door shut and stepping onto the sidewalk. Bukoholov had directed me to a bar called the Lucky Bastard Saloon. I hadn’t heard of it before, which meant IMPD probably wasn’t keeping it under regular surveillance. Knowing what I did about its proprietor, though, I doubted IMPD was the only law enforcement agency interested in his activities.
I kept my head down and stepped toward the bar. The front door had a metal frame with glass panels painted black. I noticed a bullet hole in the bottom with broken glass shards radiating away from it in a sunburst pattern. I pulled the door open and held it to air the place out. The smell of liquor, sweat, and cigarettes wafted outside.
The main room was about half–full. There were maybe ten tables, a handful of booths along the walls, and a long wooden bar directly in front of the door. There were no glittering bottles of expensive liquor or flatscreen televisions. The Lucky Bastard wasn’t the sort of place its patrons went for a drink after work. It was the sort of bar you visited to get drunk, a state that most of its patrons were well on their way toward. I walked toward the bar. Most of the men I passed had more tattoos than clean skin, and all had rough, calloused hands. They were the men who made our city hum along, and their glares told me I wasn’t welcome.
I ground my teeth and ignored them, walking towards the bar
. The bartender’s shoulders were broad enough that he probably had to turn sideways to make it through the average doorway, and he had faded black tattoos on both of his wrists. One was an elaborate star; the other looked like a knife tearing the flesh. If I had seen them on an American, I would have thought they were prison tattoos. Something told me this guy wasn’t domestic, though. He leered at me. His top front teeth were chipped, and his nose had clearly been broken and never fixed.
“This is a private club. You’re not welcome here.”
The guy’s accent was as thick as Bukoholov’s, but his voice was high, almost nasally. I fanned my jacket, exposing my sidearm; the bartender didn’t raise an eyebrow.
“Give me a shot and tell your boss that his guest is here.”
The bartender leaned back on his heels and stared at me for a moment. Eventually, he nodded grudgingly and reached beneath the bar. When he stood upright again, he held an empty shot glass and a half–empty bottle of Russian vodka. He put them both on the bar top.
“Wait here.”
He walked to a small, dark hallway behind the bar. I poured a generous shot and choked it down. It was like chugging gasoline. I could feel it burn its way past my throat, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. It was terrible liquor, but at least it took the edge off things. I poured myself another and breathed in deeply. Rather than pound this one, I sipped it and turned around. About twenty pair of hungry, greedy eyes were on me. I shifted on my feet and pulled my jacket back to expose my sidearm.
“You guys want something?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and leaning my elbows against the bar behind me. A few glares lingered, but most men looked away. I cast my gaze to those still remaining. After a moment, even they turned their attention back to their drinks. The bar’s customers may not have liked me, but they knew I was there by Bukoholov’s leave.
I scanned the room from left to right. None of the men paid me much attention, so I turned back around and was about to drink the rest of my second shot when the bartender emerged from the nook behind the bar. An older man stood behind him. He wore a black Oxford shirt and black pants. His shoulders were as thin as a coathanger, and the skin on his neck was loose and wrinkled. His eyes were gray and devoid of life.
“Mr. Bukoholov,” I said, nodding. The older man inclined his head toward me slightly.
“I am,” he said. He placed his palms against the wooden bar and leaned forward. He made no move to shake my hand. I pulled out a barstool and sat down as the bartender went from table to table behind me, clearing the place out. The patrons went willingly. They knew their place on the pecking order. Bukoholov spoke again when we were alone. “I appreciate your bringing my nephew here. We operate a facility nearby. We will take him there. After that, we need to talk.”
I pushed my stool back from the bar and stood up.
“I don’t think so. I’m here to deliver. What you do now isn’t my concern.”
Bukoholov’s eyes darted over my shoulder, and I immediately felt a weight shove me forward into the bar. I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings.
“I’m asking you nicely,” he said. “Please do as I request.”
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
“I’ll insist.”
Chapter 17
We left the bar through the front door, and I immediately went to my car while Bukoholov and the Incredible Hulk got their vehicle from around back. My charge was still alive and conscious on my back seat. He even seemed glad to see me when I opened the door. It’s nice to feel wanted. Bukoholov pulled up beside me a few minutes later in a lime–green Toyota Prius. I guess a black, Lincoln Towncar was too cliche for him. The Hulk was in the driver’s seat with Bukoholov in the back. Bukoholov didn’t look at me, but the Hulk rolled his window down and stuck a meaty forearm out, motioning me to follow.
I followed the Prius for a few blocks. The neighborhood surrounding the Lucky Bastard was gentrifying, so the longer we drove, the less graffiti I saw. Eventually the abandoned, dilapidated warehouses were replaced by limestone and brick commercial buildings interspersed with old, Victorian houses. We parked near the loading dock of a multistory office building, which, according to signs, had been converted to a veterinary hospital. I hoped Bukoholov had an actual doctor rather than some large animal vet.
The garage door in back of the building rolled up almost immediately. From what I could see, the interior looked bright and clean. Three men wearing scrubs pushed a gurney large enough to hold a horse towards my car. No one said a word to me. They simply grabbed my passenger and left; Bukoholov evidently had pretty good health insurance. With my passenger gone, I checked out the rear seat. There were two bright red stains on the vinyl. A little bleach could take care of both without issue.
I gripped the steering wheel and leaned back with my eyes closed, taking stock of my evening. I think it was fair to say that I had just experienced one of the worst nights of my life. Not only had I committed a major felony by breaking into Sunshine with a loaded weapon, I shot the nephew of a very powerful gangster and then watched evidence that could have saved my ass burn. Some mornings I really ought to stay in bed.
A hard rap on my window broke me from my thoughts. The Hulk was standing outside and motioning for me to get out. I considered flooring it but ultimately decided against it. If Kostantin Bukoholov wanted to speak to me, he’d speak to me whether I was in the parking lot of a large animal clinic, at home, or at work. I figured I might as well save everyone some trouble and see what he wanted.
I got out of my car, but before I could take more than a step toward Bukoholov’s Toyota, the Hulk grabbed me by the shirt and threw me against my vehicle.
“Turn around.”
“Easy,” I said, turning around and putting my palms flat against my car’s roof. The Hulk’s hands were on my shoulders a moment after that. He disarmed me and took my keys and wallet. I shifted as his hands made a return trip up one leg. “Watch your hands.”
“Shut up,” he said. Once he took his hands off me, I turned around. He stood about a foot from me. He glared at me.
“Are you done?” I asked.
“For now.”
I straightened my jacket and pants. It was nice to have the weight of my weapon off my chest, but I would have gladly traded that minor inconvenience for a bit of protection. Not that a gun would have helped me much, though. The Hulk must have been pushing three hundred pounds. Even if I could get a couple of shots into him, he’d probably keep coming. And then even if I did manage to take him down, we were on Bukoholov’s turf. I’d run out of bullets well before he ran out of lackeys.
I walked toward Bukoholov’s Prius. The aging gangster rolled the rear passenger window down when I approached.
“We need to talk. Get in.”
“No. I did you a favor, but now I’m going home.”
Bukoholov’s already cold eyes narrowed.
“You shot my nephew. Get in the car before my brother–in–law kills you.”
I glanced to my right. The Hulk was staring at me. His face was red, and a vein throbbed across his forehead. Shooting his kid would explain the hostility. Rather than wait around for the big man to get angrier, I climbed into the Prius and sat beside Bukoholov. The car still had the fresh–from–the–factory smell of plastic and adhesives, but I thought I caught a slight whiff of marijuana, too. I would have leaned over to check the ashtray in the front console, but Bukoholov and I were packed tight enough that I would have bumped into him if I had. The Hulk climbed into the driver’s seat and tilted his seat back far enough that he might as well have been sitting on my lap.
We left the parking lot without saying a word. Since I didn’t know that part of town well, I memorized streets as we passed. It wasn’t a particularly helpful activity, but it beat the alternative of doing nothing. The buildings became taller and more upscale the longer we drove. For whatever reason, the Hulk seemed attracted to Monument Circle. That was okay by me. I knew that area.
Cops patrolled it heavily.
“Where are we going, Mr. Bukoholov?” I asked.
“Around. You never know who’s watching.”
I nodded. Paranoia was probably a helpful character trait for someone in his line of work.
“If we're here for a tour of the city, I’d just as soon get out now.”
Bukoholov shrugged.
“You can get out anytime you want. You’re not my prisoner.”
“Then pull over anywhere.”
“I said you’re free to leave anytime you want. I didn’t say we’d slow down.”
I heard the Hulk snicker. If I had the room, I would have kicked the back of his seat. As tight as the car was, though, I could barely move.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
Bukoholov shrugged again. He seemed to be fond of doing that.
“I’m curious what a detective was doing breaking into that building.”
“I’m on the job. As soon as my colleagues hear what you’ve done, you’re going to have so many cops crawling up your ass that a visit to work will be like a visit to the proctologist’s office.”
“That's a truly disgusting reference, but I’ll take my chances,” he said. “Even if you are a detective, we both know this is off the clock.”
“You’re not going to get away with kidnapping me.”
I grimaced as soon as I said it because it sounded like something Daphne would have said on Scooby Doo. Bukoholov chuckled again and patted my knee like my Grandfather would have done.
“You might be surprised.”
I shifted in my seat and swallowed.
“What do you want from me?” I asked for the second time that night.
“I want to talk. Share information. You and I both know what goes on in that warehouse. We might be able to help each other.”
