by Neil Plakcy
“Twenty-one,” Igor said. “But I have work since I am sixteen. I am man already.”
Biff was surprised that Igor was so young. He’d pegged the bodybuilder as in his late twenties at least. But perhaps that sense of age came from the hard life he lived.
“You’re still young,” Biff said. “You’ll meet another girl.”
“There is no one like Natasha,” Igor said glumly, and he resumed lifting.
Biff wondered how long he had before the next shipment of guns was due. The plan to set Laskin up with the ATF hinged on Biff being able to offer the bodybuilder help getting his guns through Customs now that Fiorentino, his previous contact, was out of the picture.
But what if Igor already had someone else at Customs to overlook the contents of the shipment in exchange for a bribe, and Biff never had the opportunity to offer his help? Was there another way to get at him and at Petrov?
He was so distracted he layered too much weight on his barbells and then kept lifting two hundred fifty pounds over and over again, as Igor stared at him open-mouthed.
“You are something, Bill,” Igor said, shaking his head.
And you’ll never know exactly what, Biff thought.
By then, Laskin was so worn out he could barely stand up, and he staggered to the shower for a long, hot sauna and a shower. Biff declined his offer to join him.
He drove back to his office, thinking alternately of Farishta, Raki and Syl. All three of them were out there somewhere, not communicating, and he worried about both of them. He’d always believed Farishta could take care of herself—but the way she had been so drained from her dealings with the demon trapped inside the nesting dolls had shaken that confidence.
For as long as he had known her—and that was a very long time – Farishta had always been so powerful that she never needed help, from Biff or from anyone. Now her powers were fading with advancing age. Would she let him take care of her? Or would her pride keep her always at arm’s length? What did he want, beyond having Farishta available for nights of passion?
He pulled into his regular parking space and was delighted to see Raki bouncing overhead on a palm frond. Well, one team member had checked back in. Maybe the others were on their way. He led the squirrel back into the office, brewed himself a cup of coconut aloha tea, and cracked open a package of halvah to share. Then he sat down to work on the case of the cranky old lady and her missing belongings.
He called Daisy Matluck, the owner of the home health agency Mrs. Himmelfinger was using. She had a strong Brooklyn accent and sounded almost as old as her clientele. “You know the Yiddish word farmisht?” she asked.
“I know it,” Biff said. “Means confused.”
“You pick up a Yiddish dictionary and look the word up, you’ll find Etta Himmelfinger’s picture there,” Daisy said. “She thinks she’s the sharpest knife in the drawer because she used to be the secretary to the president of a bank in New York. But I got news for you, her blade dulled so much you couldn’t use it to cut butter.”
He got the names, addresses and social security numbers of each of the aides Daisy’s agency had supplied during the last year, as well as the name of the agency she’d fired a year before. He began to research the first aide.
The outer door opened, and Jimmy Stein stepped into the tiny reception area, then rapped on the glass door into Biff’s office. At the sound, Raki dove under Biff’s desk.
Jimmy pushed the door open and asked, “The detective in?”
“Come on in, Jimmy. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“That crap you drink? No thanks. Anyway, this isn’t a social call. I’m on my way out to a crime scene and I figured I’d stop by and pass on some news.”
“Crime scene? Anyone I know?”
Jimmy settled into the chair across from Biff and crossed his hands over his ample stomach. Today’s microfiber outdoorsman’s shirt was a khaki green, and there was something bulky in the breast pocket. “Nope. But I did get a word back from the guy I know at Interpol. That address you emailed me, the one Sveta was using to send the kiddie porn to Russia?”
Biff sat up. “They found somebody behind it?”
“That’s a good word for it. Found a body. One that had been worked over.”
“I had a feeling that was going to happen.”
“Not just him. Three other guys he was known to work with. And to ice the cake, whoever it was, trashed his office, then burned it.”
“Poor schmucks. I’ll bet Sveta never told them she was selling them dirty pictures of Viktor Petrov’s daughter.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Good news is Interpol was nosing around these guys but couldn’t pin anything on them. Now their whole network is down.”
Biff felt Raki squirming around by his feet, and then the squirrel popped out from under the desk and leapt up onto the bookshelf.
“Jesus, you’ve still got that rodent around?” Jimmy said.
“He’s a member of the team now,” Biff said. “Interpol say anything about tracking people who were buying those photos?”
“Nah. I think whoever trashed the office took the customer list. But I don’t know why. Maybe to pick up the business – or go after anybody who bought photos of Natasha.”
Raki began doing acrobatics, jumping from one level of the bookshelf to another. Biff felt like he was disciplining a small child. Stop that!
Raki landed on the top shelf and stared at Biff. Then he pulled his little paws in and dropped his head.
Biff looked back at Jimmy. “I wish I could say I feel sorry for anybody involved. But I draw the line at kiddie porn—producers and customers.”
“You and me both, brother,” Jimmy said. “You hear anything more about the Customs thing?”
“Farishta figured out that the arms shipments are coming from Baku, in Azerbaijan. It’s one of the former Soviet republics.”
“I know all about it,” Jimmy said. “Half the criminals in Sunny Isles Beach come from there.” He shook his head. “Most of them Jewish, too. Makes a bad impression, you know?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Biff checked the squirrel. Raki had turned on his side, curled up and gone to sleep on the top shelf. “Hey, it’s a long tradition,” Biff said. “Meyer Lansky, Dutch Schultz, Bugsy Siegel.”
“Yeah, but they’re all dead. I don’t have to see them when I go to shul.”
Biff had always known Jimmy Stein was Jewish, but the idea that the cop was observant was a surprise. “You go to the same synagogue they do?”
“Couple of the more recent immigrants. One of them’s even got a kid in the same Hebrew school class as my son.”
“You continue to surprise me, Jimmy,” Biff said. “Anyway, Farishta’s got an ear to the ground over there in Baku, and I’ve got a guy looking into things on this end.”
Jimmy stood up. “You’ll keep me in the loop?”
“You don’t get the news from Hector Hernandez?”
“Those ATF guys wouldn’t piss on a local cop if he’s on fire,” Jimmy grumbled.
“Jimmy, if you were on fire, I guarantee you I’d piss on you.”
“Not an answer to the question, Biff.”
“I will certainly keep you in the loop.”
Jimmy stood up, and as he turned toward the door Syl appeared there. He was wearing a white dinner jacket and pristine white slacks. His bow tie and the handkerchief in his pocket both were patterned with brightly-colored butterflies.
“Jimmy Stein, meet Syl. My new associate. Jimmy’s a cop with Metro-Dade.”
“Pleased, I’m sure,” Syl said, holding out a limp hand.
Biff couldn’t help glancing down at his own feet. Yup, he was wearing the pointy-toed slippers. He remembered Jimmy’s comment that he’d thought Biff might be gay because of his taste in footwear. Well, Syl would give the cop food for thought.
Jimmy shook Syl’s hand, then turned back to Biff. “This the guy you have on the ground here?”
“Well, no
t exactly on the ground,” Biff said. “Syl, you find anything out about when the next shipment is coming in from Baku?”
Syl smiled. “You betcha,” he said, in a dead impersonation of a certain Alaskan politician. “A little birdie told me there’s something coming in on Friday.”
Biff noticed that Raki was awake again, sitting up on his shelf staring at Syl, who was lounging against the wall.
“I’ve been working on my friendship with Laskin at the gym,” Biff said. “I’d better let him know tomorrow morning about my Customs connection.”
“Good timing,” Syl said. “He just found out himself a few minutes ago.”
Jimmy turned to the sylph. “And you heard how, exactly?”
“Like I said. A little birdie told me. And as soon as I knew, I flew right over here, because I knew the boss man would want the info ASAP.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Always something wacky going on over here in Biff Land.” He pulled a small notepad out of his back pocket, curved from the pressure of his butt, and flipped it open to a fresh page. “Details?”
Syl knew that a shipment of AK-47s was coming from Baku, and Laskin had been instructed to get it past Customs, pick the guns up in a truck, and deliver them to a ship on the Miami River which would carry them on to their final destination, Nicaragua.
“You going to see Laskin tomorrow?” Jimmy asked, when he had written everything down.
“He’s been religious about his workout schedule. I’ll be at the gym and I’ll bait the hook for him. Then I’ll let you know if he bites.”
Jimmy closed his notebook and capped his pen. “Be careful, Biff. These guys are serious.”
Jimmy left, and Syl settled into the chair across from Biff, crossing his long legs languorously. The squirrel jumped down from the shelf and scampered across the floor to Syl, then hopped up on the arm of the chair and sniffed.
“Did I get you what you wanted?” Syl asked Biff, ignoring the squirrel.
“Absolutely. You think you can hang around these guys for the next couple of days, keep me up to date on what they’re doing?”
“This is so much more fun than working with air handlers,” Syl said. “All the other sylphs are so jealous.” Absently, he reached a hand out and petted Raki’s back. Raki hopped onto Syl’s lap and curled up there.
Biff was amused. “The other sylphs? What, you all live together in a hive or something?”
“Not a hive. But we’ve got a piece of Greynolds Park staked out, the part east of US 1 by Biscayne Bay.”
“If I need to get hold of you, I can get you there?”
“Even easier. I had these cards made up.” Syl pulled an elegant silver card case from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. In a flowing script it read “Sylphanus 18344857,” with a Gmail address below. The card was decorated with tiny, multi-colored butterflies.
“Jesus, everybody has email these days.” Biff figured that soon even Raki would have cards—though he didn’t know where the squirrel would keep them. “You’ve got my card, if you need me. So, how am I going to pay you? You have a bank account, too?”
Syl shook his head. “I don’t need much. A branch to perch on, some nectar now and then. We’ll work something out.”
Syl lifted Raki gently from his lap and placed him on Biff’s desk. The squirrel sat up on his haunches as Syl stood and stretched his long limbs. “Well, have to fly. See you soon.” He opened the front door as a human, and then flew out as a butterfly.
You and Syl are friends now? Biff asked Raki.
Raki just yawned and leapt back to the bookcase.
Biff spent the rest of the day running Mrs. Himmelfinger’s aides through databases. One woman had lost her license as a beautician when she burned a client’s scalp with too much dye, but that was about it. The rest seemed like ordinary hard-working immigrants.
By the time he shut down his laptop, stood and stretched, he had cleared everyone who had regular access to Mrs. Himmelfinger’s apartment. He could have started to look at every service person who’d had cause to visit, but the pattern of loss indicated someone who had regular, not occasional, access.
He called Mrs. Himmelfinger and made arrangements to visit her the next day, after his morning workout. After he locked up the office, Raki scampered up a palm in the parking lot and showed no interest in coming with him, so Biff drove home alone.
Being on his own had never bothered him before—but now he wanted Farishta to be at his townhouse waiting for him when he got there.
Too bad Farishta just wasn’t that kind of girl.
28 – Cleaning Service
Biff had trouble sleeping that night, anticipating his morning workout with Igor Laskin. He didn’t fall asleep until the early morning hours, and then overslept. By the time he got to the Bolshoi Gym, Laskin was already there.
He hurried to the machine next to the Russian and yawned as he began his calf raises. “Sorry I’m late. Had to work late last night,” he said.
“What you do?” Laskin asked from the neighboring machine.
“I work at Customs at the airport,” Biff said. “Schedule’s been all screwed up since Fiorentino had his heart attack. Never know when I’m going to have to fill in.”
“Really?” Laskin looked over at him.
“Yeah, that’s the problem with being management,” Biff said. “You have to pick up where everybody else leaves off.” He motioned to the weights. “You going to lift, or what?”
Laskin set up his weights, and Biff spotted for him. Then Laskin returned the favor, and then the two of them continued their circuit. It wasn’t until they were finished that Laskin said, “You know Fiorentino?”
“Yeah,” Biff said. “Not the smartest of guys, but he had his fingers in a couple of pies I’d like to sample, now that he’s out of the picture, if you know what I mean.”
“I know,” Laskin said. “You are open to – opportunities?”
“I’m an open kind of guy. As long as there’s something in it for me.”
Laskin appeared to be considering something. Then he said, “Listen, I gotta talk to you. But not here.”
Biff looked up at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got a couple of hours before I have to get to work,” he said. “You want to talk over coffee?”
“Yeah. You about to finish up?”
“Sure. Give me five.”
In the locker room Biff stripped down, spritzed with body spray, and then pulled on a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt. Laskin was standing outside the gym, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. A tiny white butterfly hovered just under the building’s roofline.
“Those things will kill you, Igor,” Biff said.
Laskin barked a short laugh. “Lot of other things will kill me first.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the pavement and nodded toward the Starbucks across the parking lot.
“What can I do for you?” Biff asked, as they walked. The sun was already high, though it was early morning, and heat rose off the pavement in waves.
“You said you work in Customs, right?”
“Yup. Fifteen years. Pay is shit, but you know—there’s always a way to make a couple of extra bucks.”
“About that.” Laskin stopped on a grassy island and looked at Biff. “Fiorentino was going to look after a certain shipment for me, make sure that it didn’t get caught up in paperwork. Now that he’s out of the picture I’ve been in big trouble.”
“I’m good at getting people out of trouble,” Biff said.
Laskin smiled. “I knew you were my kind of guy, Bill.”
Biff started walking again. “I’ll need to know the flight number the shipment’s on, the date and time, and who’s signing for it.”
“I can get you all that. What’s it going to cost?”
Biff smiled broadly, and put his arm around Igor Laskin. “Igor. My friend, My tovarisch. We’ll make a deal together.”
“I am very glad to have met you, Bill,” Igor said. “I have been sweating bullets over t
his shipment now that Fiorentino is gone.”
By the time they had finished their coffee, Biff had negotiated a fee, and gotten all the information he needed from Laskin. As they were walking out of the Starbucks, Igor’s cell phone buzzed, and he waved goodbye to Biff and walked off. Biff saw the butterfly flit away behind him.
Biff waited until he was back in his office to call Hector Hernandez. Then, with Hector’s permission, he conferenced Jimmy Stein on the call. He explained what he had learned from Laskin. “How do we proceed?” he asked. “You want me to go down to the Customs office at the airport? Somebody’s going to have to tell me what to do to move this shipment through.”
“Let me get back to you,” Hector said. “We probably want you to pass it along so we can track where it’s going. But I’ve got to push it up the line before I can say for certain.”
He hung up, organized the research he’d done the day before, then locked up the office. Raki scampered across the shopping center parking lot in pursuit of something, and Biff drove over to Jade Winds. He had a fondness for the building because it was so incongruous, and reminded him somewhat of Istanbul. A circular ten-story tower with triangular windows and a pointed finial at the rooftop, it looked like it had been dropped into the middle of acres of catwalk buildings and parking lots by an alien spaceship.
He took the elevator up to Mrs. Himmelfinger’s apartment. The aide answered the door and led him through a foyer crammed with boxes, piles of newspaper, and assorted junk. The atmosphere in the apartment was heavy and oppressive, weighted down with gloom and anger, and it smelled like cleaning fluid with an undercurrent of urine and blood.
Mrs. Himmelfinger was sitting in a high-backed armchair wearing a housecoat in a pattern that pretended to be a patchwork quilt. She had fluffy red slippers on her feet that matched the bright polish on her nails. Through arched window behind her, Biff could see a small lake curled against a bend in I-95, egrets picking at the mucky bed as semi-trailers rumbled a few feet away.
The living room was nearly as crowded as the foyer. Magazines were piled haphazardly on the coffee table, and the sofa and other chairs were piled with stuffed animals. Every available surface was covered with knickknacks, and the china cabinet was filled with expensive porcelain and crystal. On one wall was an elaborate map that he recognized with a jolt.
