by Chris Culver
“They give you my firearm back?”
The Hulk grunted, which I assumed was a no. That was disappointing but not unexpected. I opened the envelope and dumped it on the seat beside me. I slipped on my watch and thumbed through my wallet to see if anything was missing.
“Did they give you the cash from my wallet?”
I saw the Hulk smile in the rear–view mirror, but he made no other indication that he had heard me. I swore under my breath. The ride was no more than five minutes. The Hulk pulled into an alley near the club Bukoholov had taken me to the night before. The buildings were black with grime and soot, and the road was pockmarked with potholes and broken concrete. There was garbage everywhere. We drove for about half a block before parking beside a nondescript black door.
“Kostya’s waiting for you inside.”
I stepped into the alley, straightening my shirt. A sickly sweet smell wafted from a dumpster about ten yards to my left, and flies buzzed continually around it. I looked around for a moment, memorizing my surroundings in case I had to make a quick exit later. As I did that, the Hulk sped off, leaving me alone.
With my driver gone, there wasn’t much left to do but see what Bukoholov wanted. I pounded on the door the Hulk had dropped me off at and waited for a moment. The guy who eventually opened it appeared to be in his mid–thirties and had a buzz cut as if he had recently gotten out of the army. He wore a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and a black, pocketed apron across the lower half of his body.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Bukoholov summoned me.”
“That’s Mr. Bukoholov,” he said, stepping back and ushering me inside with his arm. The club was a mess. There were plastic cups stacked on several tables and full black garbage sacks in the center of the dance floor. The air was stale and stuffy; evidently Bukoholov didn’t like turning on the air conditioner without party goers.
“I assume you know where you’re going?” asked the bartender. I nodded, and he grabbed a garbage sack and continued clearing tables and putting the room back in order. I took a breath and plunged into the back hallway. There was no bouncer this time, only a blank wall. I knocked, and the peephole slid back.
“Final–fucking–ly.”
The door slid back, revealing the speaker. He looked like a younger, better–dressed version of the bartender. He wore a black, silk shirt, and black dress pants. He waved me in.
“Uncle Kostya’s waiting for you,” he said as I stepped inside. I took stock of the room before stepping in. The air was cold and smelled fresh. Evidently Bukoholov installed a different HVAC system for his personal abode than for the rest of his establishment. Unlike the night before, there was no card game this time; the kid and I were the only people in the place.
“He in his office?” I asked.
The bouncer nodded, so I walked to the room’s only other door and knocked. Bukoholov shouted for me to come in. He sat at his desk with a ledger in front of him. He wore a pair of thin, gold bifocals and a white Oxford shirt beneath a black silk vest. He looked more human than he had the night before, more like an elderly accountant than an aging crime boss. He looked up, his eyes featureless and cold.
“You were in the police station for more than two hours. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing concerning you.”
If it were possible, Bukoholov’s eyes actually became even more chilly. His lips cracked into a thin smile, and he leaned forward. I involuntarily pushed myself away from the desk.
“That’s not what I asked you. What did you tell the police?”
I didn’t trust him, and my instincts screamed at me to shut up, but I told him everything that had transpired. From my early morning meeting with Olivia to my suspicions about Karen Rea’s activities in South Africa to Caitlin Long’s death and my arrest. Bukoholov sat back and took it in, asking questions at opportune moments so I could clarify points.
We were both silent for a moment once I finished. Eventually, Bukoholov nodded and searched through one of his desk drawers before straightening up and pressing a business card toward me.
“I keep a law firm on retainer. Call them when you are picked up next. Do not speak to anyone else.”
I glanced at the card before picking it up. Jonathan L. Meyers and Associates. If I were on my own, I’d have to mortgage my house to afford him. I hesitated. I needed a lawyer, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to let Bukoholov to sink another hook into my skin. I looked at the card and then to Bukoholov.
“That’s not a request, Mr. Rashid.”
I picked up the card and swallowed.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I take care of my associates. What’s your plan now?”
I had hoped he wasn’t going to ask that because I honestly didn’t know.
“The police confiscated my weapon,” I said, stalling. “There’s not much I can do without that.”
“Guns are easy. What are you going to do?”
I swallowed.
“I can’t let them kill another kid.”
Bukoholov nodded.
“I’m not concerned with your goals,” he said, his voice sharpening. “I want to hear what you’re going to do.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know yet.”
Bukoholov nodded again and leaned back from his desk.
“I have a source in your department who tells me that, as of this afternoon, you will have two detectives watching you at all times. What would happen if you pulled a gun on me in front of these men?”
“After your partners shoot me?”
Bukoholov’s lips drew back into a thin smile that wasn’t entirely devoid of humor.
“Yes, after that.”
“The police would probably try to find out who you are and why I pulled a gun on you. They’d also probably be curious why you had so many armed men around you.”
The old man nodded.
“And that’s what you have to do. Confront Miss Rea in public and let your old partners figure out why.”
Bukoholov’s plan was certainly simple, and it did have the advantage of ample field testing. Big game hunters had been using it while on safari for as long as safaris have existed. Of course, it didn’t always work out so well for the bait.
“I’d need a gun,” I said, stalling again.
“Agreed. On your way out, tell my nephew to give you the Sig. It’s clean, and he has no need for it. Now that you have a plan, you can go. I’ve got work to do.”
That was it. I swallowed. I didn’t know if I actually had a working plan or not, but it was obvious that staying in the office was out of the question. I stood up and walked to the door.
“Good luck, Mr. Rashid,” said Bukoholov, putting his glasses on.
“Thank you.”
I left through the club’s front door a few minutes later with a Sig Saur P226 tucked into a holster on my belt and two clips of forty–caliber Smith and Wesson ammunition in my pockets. I hadn’t checked the gun beyond a cursory examination, but it looked like it was in working order. A lot of cops carried Sigs, so I knew they were reliable weapons. I also knew they usually had a serial number stamped on the gun’s frame; mine didn’t.
I took a cab back to my house. I had to pay by credit card because I didn’t have any cash. My lawn was a mess. The Swat team’s van had parked on it, leaving a double row of muddy tire marks across the grass so deep that I’d have to reseed. A piece of two–by–four held a fresh sheet of plywood across my front door. That was nice at least. The police were legally required to seal a residence after breaking its door down, but they didn’t always do a very good job. It seemed someone still respected me enough to do it reasonably well.
Once the cabbie was gone, I slipped through my kitchen door. I didn’t know how much I could trust the detectives who were supposedly watching me, but I was too tired to care. If they killed me in my sleep, at least I’d go quietly. I kicked off my shoes and went to bed.
Chapt
er 22
It was seven that evening when I woke up. The sky outside my bedroom window was streaked with oranges, reds, and purples as the sun set and twilight began its evening rounds. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since my fried egg orgy that afternoon. I rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash my face and hands. I had dusk prayers in the living room but stayed on my knees long after I had finished. My family was the most important thing in my life. I prayed that God would take care of them if I didn’t make it.
After prayers, I stood and went to the kitchen. Hannah was the resident chef in the family, and with her absent, my dinner options were limited. I made two grilled cheese sandwiches and heated a can of cream of tomato soup. While my soup simmered, I grabbed the cordless phone from the office and dialed my wife’s cell.
Our conversation was quick because she needed to tuck Megan into bed, but it was a comforting reminder that I still had a few good things left in my life. I even got to talk to the kiddo. She had gone fishing with her Uncle Jack on the Geist reservoir and caught a catfish she claimed was big enough to swallow their boat. When Hannah got back on the phone, she called it a minnow. They were having fun, but they both wanted to come home soon. I told her that I was doing my best to make that happen; what I didn’t tell her was that my best option to do so would probably land me in jail. Some things are best left unsaid. She promised to call back the next evening.
After my call, I poured my soup into a bowl and took it along with my sandwiches outside to eat. The area was surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. When the weather was nice, the kids next door used my front lawn as part of their soccer field, so I could usually hear them all the way in the back. They were good kids and didn’t hurt anything, so Hannah and I didn’t mind. I guess my recent arrest made their parents leery of letting them play around my house.
I ate dinner quickly and silently. As I saw it, I had two realistic options to get my family back. Show everything I had to Mike Bowers or shove a gun in Karen Rea’s face. Neither were particularly good choices, although I was moderately less likely to get shot with Bowers than with Karen. The problem was that I doubted Bowers would do anything. He’d filter whatever I told him through his own assumptions and throw me in jail while he sought more information. That would leave Karen on the street, doing whatever the hell she was doing. On the other hand, if I could provoke Karen, there was a pretty good chance we’d both be in jail while Bowers continued investigating. I wasn’t a fan of jail, but if I had to go, I might as well take Karen and her lackeys off the street first.
I cleared my dishes from the table and walked back inside, trying to think things through. The plan Bukoholov gave me hinged on IMPD’s unwitting cooperation. With Bowers’ animosity toward me, I didn’t feel as if I had much to worry about in that regard, but insurance is always helpful. I went to my office. I had dropped my cell phone earlier that afternoon when I was arrested, but it still had a charge. I dialed Olivia’s home number.
“Ash.”
I could practically hear her grinding her teeth on the other end of the line.
“I’m taking care of Karen Rea tonight. I have the feeling that she’s going to be at The Abbey. It’s a bar in Plainfield. I’m going to swing by at about ten and end this before someone else gets hurt.”
Olivia was silent for a moment.
“What do you mean ‘end this’?”
“Use your imagination,” I said.
“Have you, uhm… do you…” began Olivia. I heard her sigh. “We should talk about this in person. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
“No. I appreciate the offer, but I’m done talking. I’ve got to end this now before someone else gets hurt.”
“Okay,” said Olivia, drawing the syllable out, as if she were thinking. “I’ll meet you there. If I go with you, we can talk this through. Do it together.”
“No. The place is going to be crowded enough as it is. I wanted to call to let you know what was up in case something happens.”
“Think about this. It’s not a good idea.”
“I have, and I haven’t got a choice. Take care of yourself if anything happens to me. I’m probably going to stir up some trouble tonight.”
“I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”
“I don’t have an option. Take care, Olivia.”
I hung up before she could respond. If Bowers and his men truly had my phone tapped as Olivia had said earlier, they now knew where I was going to be and when I planned to leave. The only way to be more explicit would be to send them an e–mail with directions in case they got lost. I grabbed my bottle of bourbon from my car and took it to my back porch to enjoy what I figured might be the last free night I’d have for quite a while.
***
Before I left, I wrote two letters, one to my wife and one to my daughter, and put them on the coffee table. I had never written letters like those before, but the words came easily enough. I told my wife that I loved her, and I told Megan that I was proud of her. Hopefully they’d never have to be read.
When that was completed, I hopped in my car and sped off. It was early, a few minutes after nine, but I was antsy. My street was dark and had relatively few cars, which made it easy to see if anyone was following me. I occasionally saw flashes of light in my rear–view mirror as headlights turned a corner, but no one was close. It wasn’t until I turned out of my neighborhood that a late–model Pontiac caught my attention. It stayed a few cars back, but it slowed when I did and turned every time I did. My shoulders relaxed a bit, and my breath came a little easier. I may not have had much, but at least I had backup.
The drive to Plainfield was thirty–five minutes of monotony until I came to The Abbey. The place was busy as hell. There were cars circling its gravel lot looking for spots, while many in four–wheel–drive vehicles simply parked on the neighboring fields. I’m sure the farmers loved that. There were people everywhere, many of whom were drinking beside their cars before going in. I imagined the club’s management would have put a stop to that if they had known about it, but the bouncers were so busy checking IDs and frisking party goers that I doubted they had even seen it.
I drove slowly, the gravel crunching under my car’s tires until I came to the small employee’s lot behind the building. Like the front, every parking spot was taken, but I didn’t care. I parked behind Azrael’s gray BMW, blocking him in. I looked around before turning off my car. I couldn’t see the Pontiac, but hopefully it was still around.
My heart thudded against my breastbone, so I took a couple of deep breaths to get it under control. I’m not sure why, but reality took that moment to hit me. I was going to shove a gun in a cocaine dealer’s face while surrounded by her supporters. When put in that light, it didn’t seem that bright, even if it was the best plan I could come up with. I took more breaths, forcing my heart to resume its normal pace as I opened my door.
Slim was still in charge of the bouncers at the front door. I skipped the line and flashed my ID at him. He looked at me from my head to toe as if gauging my intentions. He nodded to the other bouncers to let me through. Since I knew where I was going this time, I skipped the front room and went straight to the club’s main room. There were a hell of a lot more people there than the last time, but none stood out on my quick scan of the room.
I forced my way through the crowd. The club goers were drunker than they had been on my previous visit, and several ran into me along the way. Some offered slurred apologies while others ignored me. One girl in a lacy, white bustier even licked her lips, exposing artificial fangs, and motioned me forward when I came near. Old guys were in apparently. I put my hands up and smiled no thanks as I made my way towards the bar area. Mick tossed ice and bottles of beer into a cooler as I leaned against the counter. He didn’t notice me.
“Hey.”
I shouted to be heard over the music until Mick looked up and tossed me a beer. I twisted off the cap and nodded thanks as he stood straight.
�
�You want to tell some of my other customers off?”
“Not tonight.”
The auxiliary bartender shouted something I couldn’t understand, and Mick leaned under the bar and grabbed a pitcher of thick, red syrup and a stack of clear, plastic cups the size of shot glasses. He filled each cup halfway with the red syrup and slid them down towards his partner who finished the drink with vodka. A redheaded waitress grabbed a tray full of them and disappeared.
“What do you want?” he asked, taking a break and leaning against the bar once the drinks were dispensed. “I’ve got shit to do.”
“Wrap it up because something’s going down tonight. How many fire exits does this place have?”
Mick furrowed his brow and cocked his head at me.
“Enough. Why?”
“Because you need to make sure they’re unlocked. Trust me.”
Mick shook his head and pointed toward the exit.
“For your own good, get out before you do something stupid,” he said. “These people you’re messing with are seriously pissed off, and I’m getting there myself.”
I shook my head.
“I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got plainclothes detectives in your parking lot and inside. My advice is to stay near an exit.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” I said, taking a step back from the bar and looking over my shoulder at the balcony overlooking the dance floor. I motioned towards it with my head. “Those are your VIP rooms, right?”
I didn’t think Mick was going to answer for a moment, but he eventually nodded.
“Remember what I said,” I said. “For your own good, make sure every exit is open. Try to stay near one if you can.”
Mick muttered something else, but I couldn’t hear him above the club’s music. His tips would be down for the night, but long term he’d be better off if I took out the trash for him. I put my beer on the bar and slipped back through the crowd. I noticed at least one skirt hitched up higher than it ought to have been as a couple gyrated against each other on the dance floor. The two were so intent on groping each other that they barely noticed me as I passed.
