Crow's Landing (15 page)

Yuri's office was a shit kicker's dream. The walls were covered with movie posters—
Shane, The Searchers, The Outlaw Josie Wales,
and a dozen others. A bronze sculpture of an Indian on his pony sat on a scarred wooden desk. A lasso hung from a coatrack and there was a real Western saddle, resting on a Navajo blanket, across the back of a sagging couch against the wall.

The cowboy named Yuri walked around the desk and sat down, laced his fingers behind his neck, and smiled at the two men. Hoffman sat in a chair opposite. Soup hung by the door, uncertain what to do.

“I just as soon be going now,” he tried.

“You're not going anywhere,” Hoffman said. “You signed on for this.”

“I didn't sign on for nothing.”

“Take load off, Mr. Soup,” Yuri said, indicating the couch with the saddle. “Sit a spell, and we see what Mr. Hoffman has to say for himself. We see what this cop has for me.”

Hoffman hesitated. It almost seemed as if the Russian, if that's what the fuck he was, was taunting him. “I got a hundred pounds of pure cocaine for you,” he said defiantly. “That's what I got.”

Yuri's expression did not change, although one eyebrow cocked, and he glanced quickly at Soup, who was staring at the floor, wanting only to be gone. Yuri turned back to Hoffman.

“Is my understanding that cocaine is illegal in this country,” he said. “Yet here you are cop telling me this. I am just a poolroom operator.” Yuri extended his long arms straight out to the sides, his palms raised, then he shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated manner.

“I'm an ex-cop,” Hoffman said. “If you really need to know, let's just say the cocaine is part of my severance package. The legality of this situation is not something we need to worry about.” He made a point of taking in the shabby office before he continued. “Unless Soup found me the wrong guy. That's the case, I'll be on my way.”

“Hold on to your horses, Mr. Hoffman,” Yuri said. “You just get here. You are in big hurry all of sudden? Maybe I want to help with this severance package. Maybe I am civic-minded citizen. Where is this cocaine?”

“Not far.”

Yuri's eyes went to the door that led outside to the alley. “You realize that I must see it, to know it is real deal, before we can discuss transaction.”

“I realize that,” Hoffman said. “But that's where it gets a little tricky.” He hesitated, then he got to his feet. “Come on.”

He led the way outside, into the alley, with the cowboy trailing and Soup bringing up the rear. Hoffman opened the trunk of the sedan to reveal the cylinder there, nestled on the bed of blankets he'd made for it that morning before carefully lowering it inside. Yuri stepped forward for a better look. He took the cylinder by one of the steel handles and tipped it forward, obviously looking for a lid or some sort of access point.

“What are you doing, cop—trying to sell me pig in a poke?”

Hoffman started to speak but then he gave Soup a look. He
pulled a five from his pocket. “Soup, run across the street and get me a coffee, will you? Double, double.”

Soup, chafing at being designated a gofer, took the five reluctantly, eyeing Hoffman in contempt. He turned and started out of the alley.

“And Soup,” Hoffman said, “don't you get lost, boy.”

When Soup was gone, Hoffman reached farther into the trunk and pulled out a manila envelope that had been tucked beneath the blankets. He retrieved an X-ray from inside and handed it to Yuri the Russian cowboy, who held it up above his head to have a look. The image was obviously of the cylinder, and inside were a dozen or so packets of something, along with a lumpy mass connected by a jumble of wires to a small rectangular device. A small rectangular device that could very well be a keyboard.

“Whoa, doggie,” Yuri said. “Is little surprise in here. Like Cracker Jack.”

“Rumor has it this thing's been booby-trapped,” Hoffman said. “Rigged to blow if the wrong person opens it.”

“Is something in there, darn tooting,” Yuri agreed. “One way to find out.”

“You want to open it?”

Yuri smiled and handed the X-ray back to Hoffman. “I think is maybe something you contract out, a job like this.”

“Who can you trust though?”

“Maybe I know a man,” Yuri said. “But let's hold up for one minute. First you are telling me you have pure cocaine and now you are telling me you have never seen it. This gives me trouble.”

“Let's just say its reputation preceded itself,” Hoffman said. “This shit came straight up from Colombia. It's been in cold
storage for seven years. Waiting for you, cowboy. So what's it worth?”

Yuri shook his head. “Until I have the powder in my hand, it is worth nothing. All you have shown me is a piece of steel. I can buy steel at the junkyard.” He turned to watch Soup, entering the alley with Hoffman's coffee.

“You're not going to be disappointed,” Hoffman said.

“I believe you,” Yuri said. “For now. I don't think a cop would come to me with bogus shit. I think this is real deal.” He watched as Soup handed the coffee over. “However. If this is the cops setting me up—then I kill you and I go to jail. You are dead and I am in jail. Not good situation for anybody.” He paused. “Oh, I kill you too, Soup, for bringing this to me. Did not mean to leave you out. Is bad deal for everybody. Do you agree?”

“Shit, got nothin' to do with me,” Soup said. “This ain't my deal.”

“It's not a setup,” Hoffman said.

“Then we have no problems,” Yuri said. “So we go, we find a man to cut open the thing.”

Hoffman's cell rang and he answered it to hear Brownie barking at him. “Slow down,” he said. “What's going on?”

“You still got the cylinder?” Brownie asked.

“I'm looking at it right now,” Hoffman said. Yuri was watching and listening.

“Well, somebody's on your trail, and they're fucking serious.”

“Who?”

“The original owner. Or one of them.”

Hoffman considered this. “You at the marina?”

“Yeah.”

“On my way.”

He hung up the phone and turned to Yuri. “We're going to have to postpone this. I got something to take care of.”

“Wait one dang minute here,” Yuri said. “You are suddenly going to vamoose? You show me this, and tell me story about pure cocaine from Colombia, and now you leave? Are you cock-teasing me, Mr. Hoffman?”

“No,” Hoffman said. “There's not a problem.”

“But you get phone call just now and you are talking about cylinder,” Yuri said. “This I know because I am eavesdropping. And I hear you say who? And then you say you are on your way. How do I know you did not just receive other offer? Tell me how do I know this?”

“It's nothing like that.” Hoffman closed the trunk lid. “Just somebody sticking their fucking nose in where it doesn't belong.”

Yuri thought for a moment. “You know what, Mr. Hoffman? I did not go looking for you.
You
came looking for me. But now I think your business is my business. I think I will stick to you like glue. Until we see what we have here.” He paused, glancing at Soup. “I think we are a team, the three of us.”

Hoffman wasn't happy with the new partnership, but the Russian made it clear that it wasn't up for discussion.

“Ain't it funny how things turn round, Hoffman,” Soup said. “Bottom rail on top now.”

 * * *

Brownie's right ear was still attached to his head, but that was the only positive he could take from the incident. He'd gone to emergency and had things stitched back together, after concocting a story about a mast from a catamaran falling on him. The doctor who had sewn him up, a young woman who had been summoned to the hospital from some social event,
questioned the story but only briefly. It seemed as if she didn't believe it for a minute, but also that she didn't care. The fact that Brownie had a noseful of dried blood and was reeking of scotch and fear-induced sweat might have affected her bedside manner. She put in forty-odd stitches, taped some gauze over the wound, and returned to her party.

Brownie was back at work the next day, running the tackle shop and managing his pain with aspirin and vodka. Before opening the shop he'd spent a good half hour cleaning his own blood from the glass counter, the carpet, the concrete wall, and even the front of the safe. The woman's fingerprints would be in evidence all around the shop, he knew, but he didn't need them. He knew exactly who she was. If he wanted her arrested, all he had to do was call the police. But the police would want to know why the woman had attacked him. Brownie knew the answer to that too, but he didn't feel like telling it to the local cops. So he called Dick Hoffman instead.

Hoffman showed up a little past noon, with a large grinning cowboy and a shifty-eyed skinny black kid who was either an addict or a refugee from some ghetto hell or both. Mudcat McClusky was sitting there when the trio arrived, finishing his lunch. He had a dab of mustard on his nose, the result of attempting to ingest in two gulps a foot-long hot dog from the carnival across the road. When Brownie saw Hoffman and his little crew walking across the parking lot, he told Mudcat to wipe off his nose and go check the cash box at the boat launch.

Mudcat met the three men as he was going out and they were coming in, and he slowed at the sight of them, glancing back toward Brownie before leaving; Mudcat was a nosy man and it was clear he wasn't happy about being dismissed.
When he had quizzed Brownie earlier about his ear, Brownie had snapped at him and advised him to leave it alone.

When Hoffman entered, he walked directly over to Brownie, standing behind the counter. The cowboy commanded the middle of the room while the junkie held back by the door. Hoffman indicated the bandaged ear.

“They did that?” Hoffman asked.

“Forty fucking stitches' worth,” Brownie said.

“And it was Parson?”

Brownie didn't reply for the moment. He looked at the cowboy, who was standing spread-legged, still smiling at God knows what. Maybe he was an imbecile. If he was, why was Hoffman traveling with a druggie and an idiot? Whatever his reasons, Brownie would have preferred he had left them both outside. He was embarrassed enough to tell Hoffman the story, let alone tell it in front of a couple of strangers.

“No,” he said. “It wasn't Parson. Somebody working for him, is my guess.”

“Well, who?” Hoffman asked.

Brownie had a vodka and orange juice tucked down below the register, out of sight of any customers, and he reached for it now and took a drink. “It was the girl,” he said, almost in a whisper.

Hoffman didn't hear. “What?”

Brownie looked up, his lips tight. “It was the girl,” he said, a little louder this time.

“The girl?” Hoffman repeated. “What girl? Wait a minute—you mean the fucking girlfriend? From the boat that night?”

“Yeah.”

“How the fuck did that happen? She's back running with Parson?”

Brownie thought for a moment he'd say she hadn't been alone. But he knew he'd look even worse if the truth came out. And it would. “She got the jump on me,” he said. “I'm half in the bag, and she's got … a fucking machete or something. I'm locking up and she jumped me from behind.”

“What did she want?”

Brownie took another drink. He'd gone through half a quart of Absolut and it wasn't one o'clock yet. “Asking about the cylinder. I told you on the phone.”

“Asking what?”

“Who found it. Where. All that shit. What I want to know is—how the fuck does she even know about it? Why don't I get a heads-up? Maybe I could have been ready for her. I never knew the fucking bitch was even out of jail. Is Parson behind this?” He stopped, staring defiantly at Hoffman. “Lot of questions here, Dick.”

Hoffman ignored them all. “Did she ask what happened to it?”

Brownie exhaled heavily. “What do you think?”

“What did you tell her?”

Brownie shook his head, disgusted at what he'd done, and pissed off that he was being forced to admit it.

“What did you tell her?” Hoffman asked again.

Brownie exploded. “What do you want me to say? That I spilled my guts? Well, I did. She was cutting my ear off! Did you somehow miss that part? She was cutting my fucking ear off!”

“What did you say?”

“I told her. All right? I told her you took the cylinder.”

“My name?”

Brownie had another drink, his nose in the plastic cup like he was inhaling the contents. He nodded his head.

“That's nice, Brownie,” Hoffman said. “That's real nice.”

The cowboy spoke for the first time. “I suggest you cut off his tongue too,” he said to Hoffman. “To prevent further indiscretions.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Brownie snapped.

“I am associate of Mr. Hoffman,” the cowboy said. He smiled. “In charge of tongue removals. If he so wishes.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brownie said. He turned on Hoffman and indicated the other two. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“What else did you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Listen, you better take care of me, Dick. Wasn't for me, you wouldn't have the thing to begin with. I got an idea what it's worth. You owe me.”

“You're fucking right I owe you. What else did you tell her?”

“I don't know,” Brownie said. He tried to remember. “I told her it turned up a couple of miles upriver. It was like she was trying to figure out if it was the real thing. She was asking about the guy who hooked it.”

“Why him?”

“I don't know. I got the impression she'd talked to him.”

“What's his name anyway?”

“Virgil Cain.”

“And she'd been to see him?”