KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set (38 page)

I smiled while admiring my sweet golden retriever's new look.

Chapter
13

Smokey's Smoking

When we arrived
at Smokey's Marina, we scanned the parking lot for police vehicles and anything that might look like an unmarked cop car. So far, so good.

We hustled to The Wizard's Grog and, finding it open for business, went in. Oz wasn't there, but Ol' Corky was tending the bar in Oz's absence, and Rabbit was sweeping the floor. See-Saw had found his usual place at the end of the bar, a Band-Aid on his forehead covering a scrape he'd gotten the previous evening. My young lady friend Jada was visiting with him from the next barstool.

I'd never known Jada's last name — and neither had anyone else around the marina. She'd never say and no one pressed her. We guessed she was somewhere around sixteen or seventeen, and we were pretty sure she was a runaway — from what we didn't know, but speculation was she'd escaped a life much worse than fending for herself.

She wouldn't take handouts, but worked odd jobs for a few bucks now and then. She slept regularly on unoccupied boats docked at the marina.

Jada and I had become good friends over the past months, and I'd used her computer savvy for various research.

I could see where she might become my very own
Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
, figuratively speaking. I didn't know whether or not she had a dragon tattoo, but she did have numerous bits of body art, as well as body rings and some very colorful, spiked hair.

Jazzy trotted past Zoya and me to nose Rabbit's hand, then went to Jada and See-Saw to exchange her excited tail-wagging and licks for their typical greeting of gentle words and affectionate pats.

I was disappointed Smokey wasn't there.

"Everybody," I said. "This is Zoya. She's helping track down the bastards who beat up See-Saw and Oz."

I noticed Ol' Corky and Zoya locked eyes momentarily.

As I finished introducing Zoya to the four in the bar, Smokey walked in the side door with her four-year-old in her arms, and my phone rang.

The phone display said "Beautiful," so I answered.

I smiled at Smokey. She was a beautiful sight; lovely full lips, large brown eyes, a petite sexy figure, and true to her Chippewa
heritage on her mother's side,
long, nearly jet-black hair.

She grinned back.

"Hey, Beautiful," I said into the phone.

Smokey began to answer, thinking I was speaking to her.

"Did you get the equipment from Tanner?"

As Beautiful Johnson answered, Smokey gave me a more than puzzled look, realizing I'd been speaking into my phone. She had never met Beautiful, nor had I ever mentioned him to her.

Strike one.

She glared at the young, short-skirted Russian lady who stood next to me, her arm laced with mine.

Strike two.

She noticed the biggest give-away mankind has ever known: lipstick all over my collar from my morning's tryst with Stella.

Strike three.

With little Dolly reaching out to greet me, Smokey turned and briskly exited the bar.

"Damn it!" I said, then, "Not you, Beautiful. Yeah, I'm at the bar."

Beautiful said, "We just pulled into the parking lot. Booger's with me. Be right in."

Smokey had given me the cold shoulder for pulling a boner before, but never like this one. The romantic forecast was for no sunshine for at least the next couple days. That said, I really didn't see I'd done anything wrong — I guess I'll never understand women; I'll always love 'em, but I'll never understand them.

This was especially true with what I'd loosely call a
relationship
between Smokey and myself. We'd been seeing each other for nearly nine months now. Even after several evenings of wine and merriment, movies, dinners, and Jimmy Buffet and Andrea Bocelli concerts, she was still unwilling to take our friendship to the next level past platonic. I was the batboy at this no hitter, and the guy keeping score had given up and gone home.

Don't get me wrong — I understood. She still held sacred the memory and honor of her dearly loved and departed husband. She held that memory too closely to her heart to let go, even after over a year and a half.

So, I'm not a complete Neanderthal — I do have some sense, and I thought I'd been sensitive and understanding with her.  At the same time, if I seemed to be getting too cozy with another female, the claws came out. I felt that understanding should be a two-way street. It's like this: if the scenic drive you'd love to take with your roadster is temporarily closed, you have to take a few detours for a while until that beautiful road is open again. It doesn't mean you wouldn't rather be driving the scenic route. And at the same time, the scenic drive shouldn't blame the guy's roadster for having a little fun on the side roads.

I'll just never understand women.

When Beautiful Johnson and Booker Ratcliff stepped in, I greeted them with man hugs, shoulder bumps and handshakes. It was good to see my old friend, Beautiful, the mountainous black man with a heart of gold. Since he got out of the Marines, he's worked as a Phys-Ed teacher for handicapped teenagers in San Diego.

 
And it was even good to see the more nefarious, Booger Rat. He was very thin and, when I shook his hand, I noticed the needle tracks on his arm. He claimed to be clean for three months, now. I hoped he was telling the truth.

When no one was looking, I slipped him three-hundred dollars — a sort of advance on the help he'd be providing.

After setting us all up at the bar, Ol' Corky asked young Rabbit to watch the door.

"Well," Rabbit said, "I sure wish I could do more. I mean, I know Mom and Oz and E Z are in a mess, right now. Can't I do anything else?"

Ol' Corky was gentle — a side of her I'd never seen. "Hon, we've got to find out who's behind this mayhem, and watching the door is important — you'll be our security team!"

"But I have an idea — "

Ol' Corky said, "Now, do as I ask. And if anyone pulls into that parking lot, you holler — especially if it's cops or international assassins with machine guns."

The boy's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Ol' Corky winked at me as she came back to the bar.

Before Rabbit had even gotten to the door, his mother came back in without Dolly. She'd probably left her daughter with Mrs. Perkins who ran the restaurant when Smokey was away.

I was happy to see her. She'd obviously decided whatever sexual weirdness I was involved in shouldn't get in the way of figuring out what was happening and what should be done to stop it. This would be especially important since the current situation affected the health and welfare of not only her business and livelihood but also her family.

Both women joined us in our own little "Omega-Team" strategy session at the bar, and the first thing I asked about was Osia Papadopoulos's condition. Smokey told us he was doing well and should be able to come home in a few days. He had a concussion, one broken arm, one that was badly bruised, a black eye, two broken teeth, a cracked rib and a whole lot of other bruises and contusions.

Rabbit hadn't been watching the parking lot for more than a minute before he said, "Hey, I'm needin' to pee. I'll be right back."

A couple of us nodded and thought nothing more about it.

Smokey pleaded with me, "But can't you go to the police and tell them what happened? Surely they'd understand."

"No, sweetheart. It's too complex for that," I told her. "With my record, they wouldn't believe me anyway. There's only one cop on the force that would pull for me, and I think she's probably gone over to the other side."

"Too late," Ol' Corky sneered. "I'm betting she's been batting for the other team for a while now."

I ignored her. "There's a little girl that will be killed if I go to the cops. Besides, these guys want me dead for the money — millions of dollars. That kind of green buys a whole lot of police blue."

"But they're police. They wouldn't..."

"There are bad guys, everywhere, in every shape, size and color — and in every uniform. The only thing that makes this ol' life worth living is that there's just as many good guys, like you, sweetheart. My dear Smokey, you're one of the good guys." I kissed her, realizing that I was starting to sound like Judge Hammer — a scary thought.

"But why you? Who are you...what have you done that they want to kill you so badly for?"

"I've been in a lot of terrible places, and I've done a lot of bad things to some very despicable people. I have no idea who's behind this. It could be any of several people — but I don't understand why they're looking for me now. I've been out of that business for nearly seven years. I thought I'd taken adequate care in getting out of their sights. But if someone has the right resources and wants to find you, there's no place on this Earth you can hide forever."

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she turned away.

"I'd like you to take the kids and get away for a day or two — give this thing time to blow over."

Smokey turned back. "I won't."

"But you have to, really. Two days at most. You've been away before. You were just gone for three days and Mrs. Perkins took care of the restaurant and marina just fine."

"Oz helped. It'd be real hard on her without Oz."

"Come on, she'll manage."

"No. I'm not going to run because I might be in jeopardy, and leave folks here in my place. That's not right. Besides, why should my safety come before theirs?"

"Smokey, they probably won't come back anyway. It's just that they might think they can still catch me here. If they know you and I have been seeing each other, they might try to get to me through you."

"How would they know that?"

"I don't know. They ask a few questions here and there, they get a few answers and piece things together. You can't stay here, it's too much of a gamble."

"I can, and I will. There's no reason for me to leave. You need to worry about you, not us."

"You're right. I should leave and make sure they know I've gone."

"No, I didn't mean that. We're safer
with
you than
without
you — no matter who's after you."

Ol' Corky said, "She's right. You ain't the mild-mannered sailor Clark Kent that you appear to be."

"I'm no Superman either. Smokey, I know you didn't mean you wanted me to leave, but it would be for the best. With the cops looking for me, my hands are tied, and I won't be able to resolve this mess if I hide out here. I've got to get Sophie Ryder back, and that won't be possible if I stick my head under the covers. Beautiful, Booger and Ol' Corky will make sure you and everyone at the marina are safe."

"That will be fine," Smokey said. She smiled. It was a nice smile. She patted my hand. "I appreciate your concern, but they're after
you
. Please be careful."

I forced a smile back.

It was time to move on with a plan, but we had to put all the pieces of this thing together first. Starting as near to the beginning of this chaos as we could, I asked See-Saw to tell us everything that had happened the evening before and what he'd
seen
.

Cecil "See-Saw" Esau was an amazing man, with an incredible past — you'd never guess by looking at him. He'd been a merchant marine as well as Osia Papadopoulos. Cecil Esau had been a ship's captain, with a career at sea that spanned over fifty years. Captain Esau had lost his sight while repelling Somali pirates who launched RPGs as they tried to board his vessel. The explosions caused a ship fire that took his sight. But they finally repelled the pirates and won the day. That was twenty years ago.

See-Saw told us when the shooter had accosted him outside the storeroom, See-Saw's hands were all up in his face,
seeing
its every detail. He'd listened to the man's voice, smelled not only the guy's aftershave and deodorant, but also his sweat and body odor. He knew the man was five-foot eleven, he was around forty years old and weighed about one-ninety. His accent was actually Sicilian, See-Saw told us. And the guy smoked Dominican Cohiba cigars, drank Pilsner beer, had a bladder problem and was dying from sclerosis of the liver — See-Saw had smelled it on his skin.

"Shi-it," said Booger, "did you get his fingerprints, too?"

See-Saw ignored the complimentary sarcasm, and said, "Their leader 'Karl' — yeah, Oz was right. He's a Russian — a Doukhobor Southern Russian. A group of 'em migrated into Saskatchewan around the turn of the last century. Over the years, their dialect has blended in with Canadian English. But, if you listen close, you can still hear it."

See-Saw turned his blind face to Zoya. "She's one, too," he said, pointing his white cane in her direction. "I heard it when she greeted us. But her dialect doesn't have that Canadian influence — hasn't spent much time in Canada, if at all. But's she's Doukhobor."

I asked her, "You know any Russians living in Western Canada?"

"Da," she said, staring at her hands, the words coming out mechanically, "That vhy Judge send me. The Russian name Kirill
Diakov. You know as Karl. Him very bad man. Killed many." She looked up and gazed at the small silent group in the tavern.