In for a Ruble (22 page)

She acknowledged the gesture silently with a nod and a smile.

I said, “Why are you so interested in the Leitz case?”

“Because it’s yours. When I was sitting by the pool at the Gage Hotel, one thing I figured out for certain is, we’re in this together. If you’re absorbed in something that’s likely to lead to trouble, then I’m worried. If I’m on the outside trying to peek in at what you’re doing, like last time, we aren’t going very far. I can’t live that way, and I don’t think you want to either.”

I took her hand and looked into her eyes. “You’re right, of course. Want to talk about what you’re working on?”

Green flash. “You’re a bastard.”

“Just making a point. In the spirit of togetherness, however, I’m happy to discuss my case. Want to hear it?”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m being set up?”

“No setup. I’ve got two teenaged kids, each with eleven mil in the bank. They may be mixed up with an organized crime outfit called the Baltic Enterprise Commission. I know the girl is. Her father, her uncle, and her stepfather are all partners. The Leitz kid’s up to something with his uncle, the uncle’s being blackmailed by his brother-in-law. The client’s sister is a lush who won’t give her husband a divorce even though he’s sweet-talking any broad he can find into the sack. The client may or may not be carrying on an affair with the ex-wife of one BEC mobster, now married to another. He, by the way, tells me, everything’s fine. Welcome in.”

At some point during my summary, she’d removed her hand from mine, and now she was winding up to knock me silly. Then she smiled.

“You know, you make it goddamned difficult for a girl to do the right thing. This a national character trait, or did you learn to be a pain in the ass all by yourself?”

“Probably some of both. You read Tolstoy? Dostoevsky? No simple plots.”

“Try Faulkner, shug. Or Flannery O’Connor. No normal characters. You’d fit right in. Tell me one thing—would you know any of this without the Basilisk?”

“The problem isn’t phones, computers, credit cards, and bank accounts. It’s what people do with them.”

I almost could hear the Basilisk chuckling two blocks away, if rooster-headed, hawk-bodied serpents can chuckle.

“Including kids?”

“It’s all in the Big Dick. Age isn’t a factor.”

“That ain’t right,” Victoria said.

“It’s your country. Can you keep quiet for moment? I have to call Leitz and he’s going to want to lecture me on proper client relations.”

“I could give him a pointer or two, but I’ll do the dishes instead.”

I dialed Leitz’s number.

He came on right away.

“You finally surface,” he said.

“I’ve been busy—on your nickel.”

“I’m used to having my calls returned.”

“Apparatchiks at Lubyanka and Yasenevo used to tell me the same thing. One advantage of working in the field.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow as she picked up the plates.

“Lubyanka apparatchiks weren’t paying you,” Leitz said.

“Neither are you—yet. I need a photograph of your son.”

“Andras? Why?”

“The people who bugged your computers have touched every member of your family. I think he’s next.”

“WHAT?! What the hell do you mean?”

“Just what I said. They’ve visited your brother and sisters, but you know that by now.”

Pause. “He’s at school.”

“Gibbet School, Gibbet, Massachusetts.”

“HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW THAT?”

The voice was loud enough that even Victoria heard it. Her eyebrow went up again.

“Big Dick. Point is, if I know, they know.”

“You’re not saying … This has nothing to do with him.”

“Tell that to Nosferatu.”

“You haven’t told me what this is all about.”

“Only because I don’t know yet. But I do know—from personal experience—these people don’t hesitate to use violence. The photo?”

“Jesus. All right. But I don’t understand.”

“You’re up against some bad people. I’m doing the best I can to make sure they don’t hurt anyone any more than they already have. E-mail the picture. Soon as you can.”

“Tell me this. No business deal is worth my family. Should I back out of the bid?”

“Can’t answer that. Like I said, I still don’t know what this is all about.”

I broke the connection.

Victoria said, “You’re a bastard.”

“I’m on his side.”

“You used fear to get what you want. You have no reason to believe this boy…”

“It’s for his own good.”

“You’re still a bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

I dialed another number.

Gina answered on the first ring. “Turbo! It’s been months. I’ve been worried. How are you?”

“You mean you were worried about your source of business drying up.”

“You can be a real bastard, you know that?”

“A growing consensus around that point of view. You want work?”

“Sure.”

I asked how soon she could get up to Beacon.

“It’s my last semester, Turbo. I’m on cruise control, just waiting to hear from law schools. And I can use the money.”

“I’ll send you a picture of a kid. His name is Andras Leitz. He took a train there last night, then went across the river to Newburgh. Probably arrived around nine. Work the cabs at the station, see if you can find one that took him.”

“Got it.”

“If anyone or anything feels remotely weird, catch the next train out of town.”

“You’re the boss.”

I doubted Nosferatu was in Newburgh, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I put down the phone.

“I thought you worked alone,” Victoria said.

“I use college students sometimes for jobs like this. Used to use actors, but they’re not always reliable. Gina’s a senior at NYU, applying to law schools. I’m hoping she gets into one here. She’s the best.”

“Do I infer correctly that she called you a bastard?”

“Not the first time.”

“I think I’d like to meet her.”

CHAPTER
20

Gina called late that night.

Victoria and I had spent the day on neutral ground—the Museum of Modern Art. We agreed to disagree on the relative merits of Impressionism versus Expressionism. I dragged her in front of Otto Dix, George Grosz, and Max Beckmann, she retreated to Monet and Renoir. We found some common ground in Picasso and Hopper, but lost it again when we got to Kelly and Diebenkorn.

It didn’t matter, we held hands and were happy in each other’s company. I cooked a chicken in a pot full of garlic for dinner, and she bought another good bottle of wine, a Hermitage from France’s Rhône Valley. She said tonight was her turn on the stereo, so we were listening to a medley of Tammy Wynette and George Jones. I was trying to convince her that the fact that Charlie Parker liked country music was a good reason to listen to Charlie Parker—a losing argument, even I realized that going in—when the phone rang.

Gina’s voice was full of accusation.

“Turbo, you ever been to Newburgh?”

“Once, I think.”

“Then you know what a shit hole it is.”

She’s never reticent about expressing her opinions.

“You called to give me your impressions?”

“Just noting there oughta be a premium for a burg like this, especially on weekends.”

“You said you wanted work.”

“What the hell are you listening to? Have you gone redneck?”

“George Jones. I’m told he’s more American than John Wayne.”

“Whatever. It took the whole day, but I found the cabdriver, and I found the motel where he took the kid. He remembered him because the motel is a total sleaze joint, and he didn’t think it was a place a kid like that would go. But now I’ve missed the last train and I’m stuck in this urban landfill overnight.”

“I thought it was a shit hole.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Where are you now?”

“Outside the motel—Black Horse Motor Inn. I tried to talk to the manager. He said he hadn’t seen the kid. Then he said if he had seen the kid—and he wasn’t saying that he had—the kid was long gone. Then he told me to get lost.”

“You try money?”

“Turbo, do you hire me because I’m a moron? I offered him a hundred bucks and tried to flirt with him, but I got bubkes. In fact, he kinda threatened me.”

Gina has plenty of attributes. She’s smart, pretty, engaging—and can flirt with the best of them. If all that, plus a C-note, got her thrown out, then the Black Horse had something to hide. Another kind of approach was in order.

“Get out of there. Find a decent hotel, I’m buying.”

“Good luck in this dump.”

She told me how to locate the Black Horse, and I assured her the check was in the mail. She muttered something about combat pay and hung up. Of the half-dozen kids who work for me, Gina really is the best. But you do have to listen to a lot of blowback.

*   *   *

The next morning at 7:05, I was doing sixty up the FDR in the Potemkin—alone. I wasn’t happy about it—neither was Victoria—but since I didn’t know what I’d encounter at the Black Horse, I told her I was better off traveling solo. She said that meant I was looking for trouble. Another argument I wasn’t going to win.

The Black Horse was just as Gina billed—a seedy two stories tucked into a row of low-rent strip malls and fast-food joints on the edge of town. Newburgh’s had a tough time in recent years, tough enough that a few years ago the mayor offered to host a high-profile terror trial because he thought it might be good for business. Ten cars were parked in front of the Black Horse’s two dozen units. Just eight thirty, I sat in the lot, at the far end from the office, and watched. A door to one room opened and a red-faced man looked out, then left and right, before a heavy-set woman walked quickly to her car, head down, and drove off. That scene was repeated a few minutes later, a few doors down, except this time, a fifty-ish man in a suit with no tie held the door for a twenty-ish man in jeans, who made an equally speedy exit. The woman who left the third room, without bothering to check who might be watching, wore a short skirt and sheer blouse beneath her open coat. She looked ten years older than she probably was and had all but certainly spent the previous night working.

Victoria introduced me to a Louisiana songwriter, Mary Gauthier, who has a song about the Camelot Motel and the grace-fallen people who stay there. I had the feeling I was parked in front of the inspiration.

I got out of the car and shivered in the wind. Dust and trash flew around the parking lot, more potholes than pavement. I started toward the office, but something on the ground caught my eye. I knelt for a closer look. A used syringe, its plastic chamber ground into the asphalt, the needle still intact. I strolled the lot and found six more, by which time I was cold and went back to the car. Detroit gets justifiably criticized for its automobiles, but I’ve never heard a bad word against its heaters. I warmed up while I thought about what I’d found.

The door to the end room on the ground floor opened, directly across from where I sat, and a thin man in his twenties came out, wearing only a flannel shirt and dirty jeans. The cold didn’t seem to affect him. He walked toward the fast-food place next door, his right hand scratching his left arm, before he disappeared among the dumpsters that demarcated the two properties. I got out and followed.

The burger joint was doing a good breakfast business and smelled of grease. The average weight of the customers, somewhere north of two-forty, regardless of height or gender, indicated a cause-and-effect relationship at work. The thin man had to wait. He fidgeted and scratched. A sharp face, goatee, long hair tied in a grimy ponytail. I stood in the next line, two back. When his turn came, he ordered egg biscuits with gravy and two coffees light with extra sugar. The guy behind the counter slipped a foil packet into the bag and palmed a fifty in return. Breakfast of champions.

I followed Skinny back to the motel, closing the gap as we approached his room. He took the foil packet from the bag and put it in his pocket. He was still twitchy and didn’t notice me until I grabbed his arm as he unlocked the door.

“What the fuck?!”

“Inside.”

I shoved him in and closed the door. A woman about his age, also thin, sat on the bed, naked, except for the sheet around her waist. She had gray-blue skin, sunken eyes, fallen breasts, and a needle track running up her left arm. She made no attempt to cover herself. Crumpled foil, a spoon, hose, and syringe on the bedside table.

“Who the fuck are you?” the thin man said.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not here for you. What’s your name?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

I took a twenty from my pocket. “Play your cards right, you could earn a couple bucks this morning. Or I can make a shitload of trouble. You choose.”

“You wanna fuck Cindy, it’s gonna cost ya more than twenty,” the man said, leering. I was tempted to hit him, but that wouldn’t help things.

“I asked you a question. What’s your name?”

“You a cop, mister?” Cindy spoke for the first time, her voice just above a whisper.

I shook my head.

“Talk to the man, Les, we can use the bread.”

Les started to tell her to shut up, then thought better of it. I picked up the tinfoil.

“Little short this morning?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“True. But maybe I can help you out.” I held out two twenties this time.

“Listen to the man, Les,” Cindy said.

“Your girlfriend’s giving you good advice.”

“She ain’t my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

I was tempted to tell him if she was my wife, I’d wrap her in something for warmth if not decency, but that was none of my fucking business either. I showed them the photograph of Andras.

“I’m looking for this kid. He was here Saturday night. You see him?”

I thought recognition flickered through his eyes, but he shook his head. Cindy raised herself on her knees and looked over his shoulder.

“I remember him. I…”

“Shut up, stupid cunt!”

Les spun and slapped her. She fell backward across the bed. Enough for me. I took him by the belt with one hand, the back of the shirt with the other, and ran the skinny body across the room into the wall, headfirst. I dragged him into the bathroom, grabbed the foil packet from his pocket, and dropped him in the tub. He looked up with half-conscious eyes.