by Mike Knowles
The Russian was on stage screaming at one of the girls. The music still pumped as Igor’s words put a look of terror onto the girl’s face. Spit left his mouth as he screamed; it arced high in the stage lights before nose diving into the topless dancer’s hair. The floor staff, each wearing a T-shirt with SECURITY printed on the back, all turned their backs to the stage. Igor ran the club, and they knew better than to try to control him; they focused their attention on the audience. The crowd, drunk and horny, did not know how to deal with the spectacle. Many turned their attention to another dancer or their drinks; others got excited. There was part of the crowd that liked watching the intimidation and humiliation of the girl on stage, and there was a murmur of appreciation from the men still watching. The groom from the bachelor party screamed, “Hell, yeah!”
He broke free from the party he was with and approached the stage.
“You tell that bitch, man.”
Igor took a fistful of hair and pushed the stripper to her knees. He pointed to the pole she had used and screamed more words in her face. Igor backhanded the girl onto her ass, and the groom jumped. Both his hands were in the air, and he cheered loudly. I heard his hoot, over the bass, from my table. He clumsily pulled out a camera phone and held it high in the air as Igor slapped the girl again.
Igor’s body blocked the groom’s shot, so the fake jailbird drunkenly climbed onto the stage for a better angle. He stumbled around Igor and forced the camera towards the girl’s tear-stained face. Igor was surprised by the camera and even more by the presence of the man in the jail stripes on the stage with him.
The groom slapped Igor’s back and nodded to him. Igor looked around the club, squinting to see beyond the stage lights. More people had looked away, trying to pretend the degradation on stage wasn’t happening. The bachelor party at the bar was still all eyes, watching their captain. Igor slapped the camera away and sucker-punched the groom. His drunk body went down all at once, and Igor was on him. Igor mounted the groom’s body and began pounding down onto his face. His fist jackhammered into flesh. At first, he just broke skin and bruised flesh, but each successive punch did more and more damage. Blood began to spurt into the brightly lit air on the stage. More and more of the fluid shot into the air like liquid rubies. As the groom’s face gave way to becoming pulp, teeth skittered away from the limp body.
The bachelor party rushed past the floor security and hit the stage after the twenty-seventh punch. The groom was convulsing when a member of the bachelor party finally tackled Igor. A crowd formed around Igor on stage as everyone tried to get a shot in, but the VIP section upstairs was on stage before Igor got hurt. A brawl broke out between Igor’s men and the bachelor party. The twenty-something kids were all completely shit-faced, unlike Igor’s men, who were hardened toughs. Igor’s men had been drinking all night, but alcohol was an everyday thing to these men. The booze only dulled them enough to silence any morality that might try to speak up. They weren’t drunk; they were ice-cold numb.
The bachelor party was thrown off the stage one by one until none was left but the groom. Igor spat on the still shaking body and walked upstairs to the VIP lounge with his crew. The audience that had been ignoring Igor’s abuse of the stripper had taken notice of the fight and cleared their chairs. Everyone was on their feet trying to stay clear of the men being thrown from the stage — no one wanted to be mistaken for a member of the bachelor party. The floor security did double duty holding the crowd back and dragging the bodies of the bachelor party out the door one by one. There were murmurs and scared looks from the faces in the crowd until a new dancer hit the stage. It was amazing how fast a new gyrating naked woman on stage lured the crowd back to their seats.
Upstairs, the lounge was comprised of black leather, chrome tables, and neon lighting. Igor and his men sat on the shiny leather couches watching the action below. The lights made their angry faces demonic and made the roped-off area look like a modern circle of Dante’s Inferno. The hours that followed were full of binge drinking and sexual assault. Women went up the stairs with trays of drinks and ran back down with torn clothing. Igor screamed and yelled at the stage, and more than once he came close to falling over the railing to the floor below.
Igor left at three, opting to drive himself home. I followed him out and stood ten feet away while he tried repeatedly to open his door. Igor had lost everything: his girl, his money, his job, all of it was gone. What he hadn’t lost yet was his usefulness. Igor could still get me off the hook with Morrison. He’d lost Sergei Vidal’s money; Sergei would not let that slide. The day’s grace Igor said he needed was three hours over. Igor was late, and now Sergei would come collecting. I had worked for a mob boss for a long time. Money drives every action, and pride keeps everything in line. Igor had fucked with both. It would be time to pay up very soon.
Igor got home in one piece. His tires dragged against the curb more than ten times, and he dinged the side mirrors of a whole row of cars on a side street, but he survived the trip. He parked diagonally in the driveway and walked towards the house, making only two detours into the flowerbeds before he managed to get to the door. Covered in dirt, Igor managed to fall into the open doorway.
I parked across the street and watched the house. No lights came on, and no curtains moved. I gave Igor five minutes before I opened the trunk and pulled out the cash I stole off him the night before.
I lugged the bag across the street and let it rest beside the front door. I unholstered the .45 and took out the house keys I’d stolen from the kitchen drawer earlier. I used my left hand to quietly ease the key into the lock. I turned the key to the right, but the mechanism offered no resistance — Igor had left the door unlocked. I crept inside, letting the black eye of the .45 lead the way. Tatiana was still in the kitchen, and Igor was nowhere in sight. I covered the first floor and then moved up the stairs. The second step responded to my weight with a groan, so I put my next step closer to the wall. The wood was more stable there. Halfway up, I saw a black shoe dangling over the edge. At the top of the stairs, I saw that Igor had done my work for me; he was sprawled out on his stomach — unconscious. His chest rose and fell at a regular rate, and his mouth pushed out puffs of air in measured gusts. Igor was alive, for now.
I went back down the stairs, opened the door, and pulled the duffel bag inside. I put the bag on the welcome mat and quietly unzipped the double zipper. I took eight of the paper-bound bundles of cash and walked into the kitchen. I ripped the bands and spread the money over the kitchen table, the counters, the floor, and Tatiana’s body. The bills landed on her blistered face and lay on top of the crusted blood. I took the rest of the money into the basement and used an old chair to stand on while I pushed free some of the ceiling tiles. When there was enough space, I put the bag up in the ceiling. The weight of the bag pushed some of the other tiles out of place and made an obvious lump in the ceiling. I left the chair in place below the money and walked back upstairs. Igor never stirred when I opened the door — he was dead to the world, just the way the rest of the planet wanted him.
I slid back behind the wheel of the car and got comfortable. Igor had been drugged and then had gone on his own bender — he would sleep for a while. I dry chewed more caffeine pills and chased them with warm soda while I watched the house. My plan would only work if the Russians responded in the same way every other gangster I’d worked with would have.
At 9:30 a.m., a black Hummer pulled to the curb in front of Igor’s house. The windows were too tinted for me to see inside, but I knew whoever was inside worked for Sergei Vidal. I memorized the plate while I waited for something to happen. Both the driver and passenger side doors opened, and I saw that I was right. Nikolai and Pietro, Nick and Pete, Sergei’s personal security, got out. They looked around the neighbourhood before taking a step away from the cover of the vehicle. They were not anywhere as big as the man they had replaced. Ivan had been six and a half feet tall and at least 300 pounds of beef. These men were unlike Ivan; they
were compact — five-ten, maybe 200 pounds. They had bodies built in the military. Running with heavy packs and relentless days of body weight exercises had left the men with hard, wiry physiques. They would be fast, tough, and relentless — like wolves. Wolves weren’t large, that would conflict with their purpose. Wolves hunted prey almost twice their size, and they always came home with dinner. They ran their prey down in relentless pursuit, then hit them where they were weak. These two men had the same feral look I saw every time I looked in the mirror.
The military campaigns in Afghanistan would be a problem. You shoot at some corner thug, he runs. Maybe he shoots back at you over his shoulder as he goes. Army is different. Combat veterans don’t lose their heads, and they don’t run unless there is a tactical reason for it. They will take cover and shoot back, and not over their shoulders. Most of the veterans who took a job in the streets were adrenaline junkies who got spoiled in the service. Pulling the trigger for a paycheque was a high they couldn’t shake, and normal life didn’t have an equivalent.
The blond, Nick, unholstered a gun and held it against his thigh between the Hummer and his leg, while Pete walked to the door. The light reflected off Pete’s scalp as he crossed the driveway. His hair was shaved so short that it was hard to tell what colour it was without squinting. He kept a hand behind his back while he peeked in the darkened windows. He finally tried the doorknob, and when it worked he motioned Nick over with a single hand gesture. Nick hid the gun inside his leather coat and walked up the driveway. On the porch both men looked around one more time before drawing their guns and nodding their heads.
The two men entered the house in a professional two-man formation keeping their shit tight. Their guns went up in two-handed grips, and Pete went in straight. Nick followed, covering Pete before angling off to check the front room. I saw Nick cross the doorway, and then the door closed. I pulled the Colt from my shoulder holster and put it in my lap. Igor had never noticed me parked across the street, but he sucked. Nick and Pete might have caught sight of me from the tinted Hummer. They could have decided to scout me out from the house and use the back door to come at me from a spot I wasn’t watching. I rolled down the window and slouched in the seat, making as small a target as possible. No bullets came. Instead, Nick and Pete came out the front door with Igor. Both had a hand on a shoulder, and Igor’s face was bloody — Nick and Pete had asked some questions with their hands. Igor didn’t struggle, he just got into the back seat with Pete. Nick threw a grocery bag into the front seat and got in. I figured the bag had some of the money I’d spread around the kitchen.
The Hummer slipped away from the curb and headed into the city. I gave the boxy vehicle a head start, but I kept it in sight as I followed behind.
Morrison’s CI’s had done their job. Sergei Vidal heard through his twisted grapevine that Igor was stealing, and the proof came when he was late with the money. Sergei had sent his two best to pick up Igor — that meant Sergei was focused. I had come across Sergei’s focus once before in an office building belonging to a bunch of computer programmers. In broad daylight, in a crowded neighbourhood, Sergei sent a crew to execute more than ten men and women. He sent his right hand after the most important man in the office. Everything would have gone down according to plan if I hadn’t gotten there first. I put a bullet in Sergei’s right-hand man, three more a day later. I didn’t deal with the rest of Sergei, and now he was back with two new right hands.
They worked fast and by the numbers. There was no sloppiness or rust on Nick or Pete. Whatever Russian military outfit they bounced out of left them with good habits. Good habits made moving on Sergei tough — not impossible, just tough.
We drove down Main Street until it turned into King. We kept on King going out of Hamilton into Stoney Creek. Stoney Creek was famous for ice cream from the Stoney Creek Dairy and for a battlefield where some soldiers mixed it up during the War of 1812. Around these sights, a town for the upper middle class sprang up. The town was an appendage of Hamilton. If Hamilton was a diseased body, Stoney Creek was the manicured hand.
The Hummer stayed on King until it pulled across traffic to the curb in front of an off-track betting building. I kept my distance, double-parking a couple hundred metres down the street. It was just later than a quarter after ten, and the Jackpot OTB looked closed; its patio was empty, and the white plastic outdoor chairs were still up on the tables. Nick and Pete got out of the Hummer, bringing the money and Igor with them. Nick and Pete stopped at the door. Both men scanned the street with their arms just inside their jackets. Satisfied with what they saw, Nick pulled the door open and ushered Igor inside. I drove past the OTB, circled back, and parked across the street.
Inside the OTB would be at least five people plus Igor. Nick and Pete I saw, but Sergei would have two others at least. They weren’t going to kill Igor right away; if they wanted him dead, it would have happened at his house. They brought him back because they were told to do so. When Sergei saw the money, he would send men back to find the rest. They would tear the house apart until they found what I left in the ceiling. Once the money was recovered, Sergei would have Igor killed and disposed of. It would always be money first, blood second.
I pulled out my cell phone and dialled a number I knew never changed. When I finished my call, I called another number I heard on the radio the day before. I was dialling a number I could see on a sign a block down the road when two different men left the OTB. I spoke into the phone as I watched them get into a Cadillac sedan and drive away. The two men were in suits. The jackets looked to be a size bigger than the pants, probably to conceal the weapons underneath. Muscle often never thought about tailoring a coat to conceal a gun the way I had done — they just wore bigger clothes. The two men were not like Nick and Pete. Their bodies weren’t the same; these men had the bodies of bruisers. Each had to be 250 pounds of muscle. The Cadillac seemed to wince as they got inside and began adjusting the mirrors and seats. Both men were bald by choice; they had shaven their heads completely, leaving nothing but razor burn and glare. Most would think that the two huge men were Sergei’s security, but I knew better. The two bruisers were like guard dogs — big and scary animals who kept most people away. Nick and Pete, the real killers, looked nothing like those men, but that was the point. They were sleek like matadors — they let you get in close before they drove the sword home.
I finished my call, then dialled Detective Sergeant Huata Morrison’s private number, the one left on the back of his card. He picked up right away but said nothing. I listened to the silence and matched his with my own.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I let a bit more of the silence run down his battery before answering. “It’s time to move.”
“No.”
“No?”
“We’re done,” he said. “You went too far, and now we’re done.”
“What happened?” I asked, knowing the response.
“What happened? What happened is you took a shot at a cop, that’s what happened.”
“What are you talking about?” I lied.
“Enough! You thought you could play me with all of your lies, and I’m telling you it’s done. You’re done.”
“What cop got shot at?”
Silence answered me.
“Morrison, I can prove to you I didn’t do it — just tell me what cop it was.”
“Miller,” he said. It sounded like it came out through clenched teeth.
“When?”
“Last night.” I heard teeth grinding in my ear.
“Where?”
“Outside some restaurant downtown, the Secret Garden. Like the fucking Springsteen song.”
“And why do you think it was me?”
“You got a hard on for Miller, and we both know it. You asked about him too many times for you not to be involved.”
“You know what the Secret Garden is?” I asked.
“A shit restaurant and a bad fucking song.”
“It�
��s a front for the Fat Cobra Society. Their drug money goes through it.”
I got no answer.
“Why was Miller there?”
Still no answer, so I repeated the question.
“Traffic stop,” Morrison said.
“That normal for the Lieutenant? Pulling traffic stops? Or did he just feel like going above and beyond the job yesterday because that is the kind of outstanding cop he is? He can’t let even the smallest infractions to the law go? Was this upholding of the law a day or night event?”
“Night.”
“Miller work nights in the city a lot?”
Silence answered me.
“So you got Miller doing a traffic stop at night, in the city, outside a Chinese drug front, and you think I shot at him? You think I’m dumb enough to make enemies of the Chinese and the cops? You’re a fucking detective, look at the facts and detect something from them. ’Cause if it looks like fire and smells like fire, it’s probably a fat crooked cop.”
“Why did you call?” Morrison asked.
“We made a deal. I’m giving you something, but you’ll need to do some detecting. Can you handle that, Columbo?”
“Tell me.”
“I told you about a name — Igor.”
“I remember.”
“You need to get to his place right now. It’s right by . . .”
“Bayfront Park,” he said, finishing my sentence. “I’ll know the place because there will be a yellow car parked out front.”
Morrison was even faster than I had thought he was. He was stalking me using the one clue I let slip, and he was now just a step behind. If I had taken any longer, he would have found me staking out Igor’s house. Then the game would have changed to something bloodier. “You’ve been there?” I asked, knowing he hadn’t.
