Against the Wall (22 page)

Joutsamo crossed her arms. “Sure would be nice if Suhonen told us what he’s up to.”

Takamäki shrugged. “You gonna be here much longer?”

“Should I?”

“Nope, as long as there’s nothing urgent. I’ll help Kohonen with the phone taps, but it doesn’t look like we’ll find anything there.”

“These prepaid phones seem to indicate a professional hit.”

“It’s odd that a junkie like Saarnikangas would get mixed up in a professional job like this. He’s more the type you’d find dead in the bathroom of a downtown bar.”

“Exactly the same thing Suhonen is wondering.”

* * *

Someone slapped Suhonen hard on the shoulder, and the impact nearly made him drop his glass.

“Damned if it ain’t Suikkanen,” the man bellowed.

Suhonen recognized the voice and dropped into a boxer’s crouch. He kept his glass in his left hand and swung a playful right hook, stopping just short of the man’s fat belly.

“Waltsu, you fat hog,” Suhonen grinned. The man grinned back with a broad, bearded face. He wore a tattered denim jacket.

“Suikkanen, you’re still quick as a hippo and sharp as Dumbo.”

They bumped glasses. “You’re almost empty there,” Waltsu growled and shouted at a skinny weasel-faced guy standing in front of the bar, “Hey pal, one more for Suikkanen. It’s on me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like you’ll pay,” the weasel muttered. Nevertheless, he ordered a beer from the barkeep and fished three euros out of his pocket.

Suhonen gave the man a quick nod of thanks and turned back to Waltsu, making sure he could still see the door. “Come on now, I’ve been to the gym a couple times at least.”

“Ha! In the pen, you mean?”

Suhonen laughed. “Nah, I’ve managed to stay out this time. At least so far.”

“Yeah, but seems like you haven’t been around much lately.”

The weasel handed the beer to Suhonen and glowered at Waltsu.

“Thanks,” said Suhonen, and he raised his glass.

“Forget it,” Waltsu said and lowered his voice. “You heard of anything going down? You know, anything where a guy could earn a little cash?”

Suhonen knew that unemployment checks and welfare benefits weren’t enough to fund a constant stream of liquor. In his time, Waltsu had owned an excavator and operated a variety of businesses around the country. His
divorce had cost him the firm. Waltsu didn’t really miss his excavator, and the wife even less.
Now he brokered small gigs: matching thieves to lucrative targets and getting a small cut of the action.

“Dunno,” Suhonen answered.

“You wouldn’t happen to be setting up a company? I have a couple clean guys. You can have their names for two hundred.”

“Do I look like I’d start up a company?” Suhonen said. Suikkanen was no boss man—more the type to operate quietly in the background.

“No, but you never know nowadays. With globalization and all, it’s become trendy to have your own business.”

The entrance door swung open, and in came the plump “Princess.” Waltsu noticed her too. “Oh shit, here she comes again.”

“Who, Princess?”

“What, you know her?” Waltsu asked.

“Nah. Just know of her. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Steer clear of her,” he groaned.

The weasel had abruptly disappeared from the bar.

The crowd parted, and Princess waddled
straight toward Suhonen and Waltsu. The bearded man took a couple steps backwards, “Sorry, Suikkanen. Gotta go.”

“Waltsu, stop!” the woman snarled, and he froze.

Suhonen dodged the perfume-drenched royalty and glanced at the door. At the same time, a tall man in a blue sports jacket entered. It seemed like he was looking for someone. Markkanen, Suhonen guessed.

He wasn’t going to rush right over; he wanted to eyeball the guy first. It was possible Markkanen wasn’t alone. A single glance could reveal an accomplice.

Princess was chewing out Waltsu, and the weasel smirked to himself. Suhonen took a swig of his beer. Markkanen glanced at his phone, and Suhonen decided that now was the time.

He weaved through the crowd towards Markkanen. The big man saw him coming in his leather jacket.

“Hi,” Suhonen said. “You’re Markkanen?”

“Maybe. Who are you?”

“We’re supposed to meet.”

He looked at Suhonen with surprise. “You’re not Saarnikangas.”

“No. But Juha asked me to come.”

Suhonen watched him tense up. He seemed nervous and looked around the room. Perhaps he suspected that Saarnikangas had set a trap.

“What the hell is this?”

Suhonen smiled. “Hey, I don’t know anything. I’m a friend of Juha’s, and he asked me to come. I was supposed to meet this Markkanen, and he described someone who looks like you. So here I am.”

Markkanen eyed Suhonen carefully.

“Well, get us a table, and we can talk.”

“A table?”

“You know, one of those things you sit at?”

Suhonen would have smiled, but Suikkanen just scowled.

The cop turned and surveyed the tables in the room. The table where the two wanted men were sitting was the most promising, and he steered over to it. Their beers had been empty for a while, and neither had got up to fetch more.

“Fellas,” he said coolly.

Neither one answered.

“Here’s the deal. I need your table. I’ll give you twenty for it.”

The men looked at Suhonen, who smiled initially, then abruptly scowled.

“Thirty,” the younger one said, though his hesitation revealed that twenty would suffice.

“Punks,” Suhonen muttered and dropped a twenty on the table. “You can buy three beers a piecewith that.”

The younger one took the money, glanced at his friend as they both stood up, and said, “S’il vous plait.”

“What, you fucking with me?” Suhonen barked.

“No, no,” the guy said, grabbing his jacket off the chair. “It’s just French. It means…”

“Get lost.”

The pair slunk into the crowd, and Suhonen waved to Markkanen, who had a beer in each hand.

“You loaded or something?” Markkanen asked, taking a seat. He set one of the beers in front of Suhonen.

“Not really. I just don’t know anyone around here, and sometimes it’s better to do things the easy way.”

Markkanen sipped his beer. “At least we’re sitting.”

“The end justifies the means.”

“Works for me. What’s your name?”

“Suikkanen,” he stated, and took a hard swig of beer in true Suikkanen style.

“Suikkanen? You got a first name?”

Suhonen grinned and took another gulp. They kept their voices low enough that nobody sitting nearby could hear them over the din. “Sure, but I save that for the judge. Barely remember it. Always gone by Suikkanen.”

“You from up north?”

Suhonen wrinkled his brow. “Hell no. From Lahti, man.”

Markkanen grinned. “Soccer or hockey?”

“Street boxing,” he stated flatly.

Suhonen was really from Lahti; he wouldn’t think of saying anything else. He could fool people pretending to be Suikkanen, but only if he could handle the details.

“Okay.”

“So what the hell are all these questions about?” said Suhonen abruptly. “I thought you had some business to talk about.”

“I gotta know who I’m working with,” Markkanen grumbled. “I was expecting Juha, and I got Suikkanen. I know him, but I don’t know you. I need some background.”

“Well, alright,” said Suhonen, understanding the man’s angle. Suhonen knew that Saarnikangas was a stranger to Markkanen, but the big man was
pretending to be on a first-name basis with him.
Suhonen was also pleased that Markkanen seemed interested in Suikkanen’s services, maybe even a little excited.

“First off,” Markkanen continued. “How do you know Juha?”

“I don’t. I know of him. He’s a worthless junkie I couldn’t care less about.”

Markkanen raised his eyebrows.

“But,” Suhonen went on, “I knew his dad. Cell mates. Before he died, he asked me to look after his kid. I didn’t see him for probably ten years. Then last spring I ran into him, and of course he tried to hit me up for money. I know where that would’ve gone, so I said no. I figured his old man wouldn’t want me to support his smack habit. Anyway, I gave him my number so he could call if he needed something...”

“Did he say he’s in trouble?”

“Is he?” Suhonen asked, but regretted his haste. Suikkanen would have said casually that Juha’s always in trouble.

“Nah,” Markkanen answered, assessing him from the other side of the table.

“How much does this pay?” Suhonen steered the conversation away from Saarnikangas.

Markkanen scratched the back of his neck. “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Uh-uh. I need to know if it’s worth my time,” he switched to arrogance as a tactic.

Markkanen’s lips were smiling, but his eyes were hard.

“Sure it is.”

“If you say so.”

“Did you come all the way from Lahti?”

“Yup,” Suhonen nodded. He wasn’t driving, so he could drink the beers necessary for the role.

“Where you staying?”

Suhonen smiled broadly. “Juha said I’d be able to make enough money to pay for a hotel room. So I thought, since I’m coming to Helsinki and all, I may as well relive some memories over at Hotel Katajanokka.”

“The brig hotel?”

One of Finland’s oldest prisons had been turned into a Best Western hotel with a penitentiary theme. The hotel had been completed in ’07, with remodeled rooms, but the corridors still had prison bars. It had a long history—the first prison at the site had opened in 1749, and the oldest portions of the p
resent
building dated back to the 1830s.

“I just had to. Maybe I could expense it, you know.” Suhonen said, downing the last of his beer.

“I ain’t paying for extra expenses, but your total fee will cover it. Let’s go outside. There’s something I wanna tell you.”

Markkanen led the way out the door, and Suhonen wondered what this was about. The big man had enough assaults on his record that they could be headed for a fight. But based on the conversation,
that was unlikely, at least for now.

It was snowing harder now, and a wall of falling flakes beneath the glow of the streetlights split Helsinki Avenue in two. The pub across the street was no longer visible.

There was still no bouncer at the door. Suhonen wondered if it was intentional, or if Lydman had skipped his shift. But he could find out later.

Two inches of wet snow covered the sidewalk, and after the first few steps it started to soak into their pant legs. The men walked eastward along the largely deserted road.

Markkanen stopped. “Listen, Suikkanen. You seem tough enough, but I’m gonna need a sample of your work.”

Suhonen kept quiet.

“Right now, the street looks empty, but once we round that corner, someone’s bound to come along.”

“And?”

“Well, you claimed you were a boxer in Lahti. Three punches for the first chump that comes along and the job is yours.”

“Huh?”

“Yep. You hit the first person you see. If it’s some gang of ten heavies, you can skip them, but anything else goes. Don’t hurt ’em too bad, just a few good shots. After that, the job is yours.

Suhonen stared at Markkanen. “In Lahti, there was always a reason. We didn’t just beat up anybody.”

“You got a reason now. The job is easy and pays three grand, but I wanna see if you have what it takes.”

Suhonen wondered if Markkanen suspected he was a cop. This was the classic test for smoking out a rat. A cop could blow through a red light or dabble in illicit activities, but they weren’t supposed to steal, much less harm anyone.

“What the hell,” said Suhonen and strode down the street. “It matter if it’s a chick or a kid?”

“Nope,” Markkanen answered and held back about thirty feet before following along.

Shit, Suhonen thought. He couldn’t beat up anyone, not even by faking it. He couldn’t go that far. His Glock was tucked behind the waistband of his jeans. Maybe he could pick a fight, lure Markkanen closer, then arrest him. He could bust Markkanen for inciting an aggravated assault, and the guy would do time. But the trial would be a damn nightmare, and a media circus. Claims of provocation would fly, and one way or another, Suhonen would end up in the dispatch center, answering 911 calls. Nothing wrong with a desk job; he just wasn’t ready for that yet.

He reached the corner, looked around and spotted a shadowy figure on the other side of the street, maybe fifty yards off. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but it was clearly coming towards him. It would be thirty seconds max before they met.