Authors: Jared Paul
The Russian leaned back in the booth and stubbed out the last of his cigar in the ash tray. He held a hand over his mouth, his pointed star tattoo poking out from under the sleeve of his shirt. When Shirokov opened his mouth again his tone had changed. He had been testy, aggravated before and now light and playful. Castillo felt like he was talking to several men at once. Maybe Shirokov was a schizophrenic.
“Are you a reading man, detective?”
“No.”
“No, I did not imagine that you were. You do not look like the type. Anyway, you were educ
ated. I assume that you know Leon Trotsky?”
Castillo shrugged and wished more than anything that he had a drink in front of him.
“Some big commie isn’t he?”
“Was. Yes, he was one of the biggest influences in the Communist party in Russia. He was a bright man, a thoughtful man, an intellectual. Lately I have been reading his
History of the Russian Revolution
.” Shirokov waited a moment and Castillo made a motion to indicate he hadn’t read it. “Fascinating content, Trotsky understood the sweeping movements in history as they applied to individual Russians, the philosophies of the people as they were coming together as part of this great wave. Interesting book, only there is one problem. Trotsky’s problem was that he assumed everyone else was as smart as he was. Now I am a well-read man, a learned man, and yet he makes allusions to organizations and names of which I have never heard of. He makes no explanation and moves right along with narrative. It makes me feel ignorant. It makes me very angry. You can understand this no doubt.”
“Yeah. Nobody likes an egghead.”
A brilliant smile flashed across the Russian’s face. Shirokov’s mood swings could be positively dizzying.
“Exactly, detective! Well spoken, I could not have said it better myself. Nobody likes an egghead yes. Nobody wants to carry on a conversation with a man who believes himself to be superior to you, or who withholds information that is necessary to comprehend what he is saying. Detective.”
All at once the Saint Nicholas-like glow on Shirokovs cheeks froze and his cadence changed.
“Detective? Do. You. Believe. You. Are. My… superior?”
“No of course not.”
“Then STOP withholding information. You say that you are being watched and so you cannot complete this favor for me. You will tell me who is watching you and you will tell me now.”
Castillo tried to swallow but he found his throat dry. Like some freakish Russian magician possessing a dark art, Shirokov had sniffed out his secret. Nothing could be hidden from him. Castillo was almost certain that he could read his thoughts, see into his past and watch his memories with his waking eyes.
“Ok. The detective you guys chased around on the bridge. The other day she brought this fed into the office.”
“Fed? What is this fed?”
“A
federale, an FBI agent. She called him in and went around introducing him to everybody in the precinct and when they bumped into me, this FBI guy he points at me and says ‘we know all about you’ down at the office. I’ve never seen this guy before, but he acts like he’s known me my whole life, or like my face is on a bulletin board somewhere next to yours. They know something. I don’t know what, but they know. I may be compromised which is why I have to be extra careful now. If I get caught then I’m no good to you, right?”
Shirokov’s
viciousness vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. He clasped his hands together and shook them like a grieving widow making a plea to any saint or demon who would listen.
“
Agh. Detective, I thank you. I thank you for telling me the truth. Does this not feel so much better than to hide things? To obfuscate?”
“I guess.”
“Of course you guess. But you have no need to worry detective. Now that I have information, now that we are equals again in conversation, I can understand your perspective. It is ok.”
“It’s really no problem?”
“Continue to do your work as you have been. Arouse no suspicion. Allow me to worry about your detective friend and the federal agent. Ok?”
Angling out of the booth,
Shirokov got up and spread his arms to embrace Castillo, who got up slowly and stood stiff as Shirokov kissed him on both cheeks, and then gently patted each of them. His laugh was soaked through with charisma. Castillo felt childish for being so afraid only moments earlier. He would have walked on fiery coals barefoot for this strange, wonderful Russian man.
“
Come I will see you out. You worry too much detective. No Trotsky, no problem.”
Shirokov
gestured towards the front door of the restaurant and fell in behind him. When the detective’s back was turned Shirokov grabbed a fistful of Castillo’s hair and forced the tip of an ice pick through the base of his spine. He jammed the blade in all the way to the handle.
Morris Castillo staggered, coughed once then collapsed forward through one of the tables. The white linen fell just right to cover the body from the torso up.
Petyr Zhadanov’s nightclub XZLENT was a trendy spot. The entrance had a felt rope, a bouncer, and a perpetually growing line of late teens and twenty-somethings braving the early spring chill with the hopes of getting in. Watching them shiver and bounce around in short dresses and heels made Jordan Ross feel very old. The guys in line seemed to be obeying a rigid dress code of blue jeans, dress shoes, and starched collar shirts with the top three buttons loose, exposing hairless chests. After two nights of watching them through his binoculars Jordan knew that he would never get in as is.
Worst of all the bouncers swept metal detectors over everyone before they were allowed into the club. So even if he got inside, he would be unarmed and surrounded by horny adolescents and vicious Russian gangsters. Nothing about it was going to be easy.
Jordan put a call in to Bollier and asked for some extra funds in order to get a proper outfit and a bribe for the doorman. Bollier balked at first but after Jordan described the clientele at XZLENT in some detail she agreed that he would never get in without a total overhaul.
The
look would have never worked prior to Jordan’s intensive exercise routines. Nearly all of the males lined up outside XZLENT every night were in impeccable shape, and their clothes were designed to accentuate every rippling muscle possible. Jordan had them beat on that count but making the look work required special magic. He shaved off the vast majority of his grunge rock star beard, clipping it down into a neat goatee. Then he bought a series of chain necklaces and hung them around a wife-beater tank top which he wore beneath his shirt. He rolled up the sleeves as far as they would go to show off his biceps.
When the disguise was complete and he resembled a hip, young, steroids-riddled boy from
Bensonhurst, Jordan stood in front of the mirror in his Morningside condo and shook his head.
“I am going to get so shot before I even get in this place.”
Even though he showed up relatively early Jordan had to wait in line forty-five minutes before he got up to see the gatekeeper. He stomped at the ground and nodded his head all the time just to keep moving so as not to freeze in place. The slang the kids around him used may as well have been encrypted alien communications from deep space. Doubt crept up inside him, and he started to think that he would never pull this off. Before he could lose his nerve however he found himself at the head of the line.
The bouncer’s neck was about as wide around as Jordan’
s waist. He looked over Jordan’s attire, which must have met his standards because he asked Jordan if he was on the list. Listening in from the CRV with a special device Jordan had learned that the quickest boot was given to those who did not meet the dress code.
“Are you on the list?”
Jordan stammered for a moment, absurdly anxious about not being allowed into the club, not because it was vital to the mission, but because it would be so embarrassing to walk away in front of so many people.
“Uh. No, I’m not. But I know that my friend Ben is.”
“Ben?”
“Franklin.”
Jordan patted his pockets and came out with a hundred dollar bill that he had folded seven times. He slipped the money into the bouncer’s enormous pork-chop of a hand and smiled as nonchalantly as he could manage. The bouncer glanced at the money, and then at Jordan.
A tight fear settled into Jordan’s chest as he waited for the bouncer’s answer. The guy lifted a walkie-talkie from his belt and called to someone inside.
“Say Chip.”
Without even realizing it
Jordan planted one foot half a pace back so that he could wind up for a strike. He could incapacitate even a doorman twice as big as him with two fast, well-placed chops, but if he signaled on the radio for help things could get out of hand very quickly. Someone on the other end of the walkie-talkie answered the bouncer.
“Yeah go ahead.”
“One coming in.”
The bouncer jerked his head towards the entrance and Jordan breezed past him.
XZLENT was packed to capacity. Strobe lights and lasers swept over the crowd of upraised hands and gyrating hips as a deafening hip hop mix roared over the sound system. Each beat of the bass reverberated in Jordan’s chest so heavy he marveled that the kids dancing closest to the speakers were not keeling over in cardiac arrest. Jordan scanned through the sea of glistening pectorals and push-up bras, looking for armed guards. He counted three by the dance floor and one stationed next to the DJ booth which was raised above the floor like a dais in a medieval throne room.
Jordan walked through the wriggling mass of humanity and made his way to the bar.
Customers were milling around the bar four deep, waving hands and money in the hopes to be seen. Two bartenders in black muscle shirts worked feverishly, pouring rows of flavored vodka shots and mixing drinks that looked like they all had the word “tini” at the end of their name.
While he was waiting to catch a bartender’s eye, a
cute girl came up alongside him and said hello.
“Hi. I’m Trina.”
Trina had a pink mid-rift on that revealed a pierced navel, yoga pants and platform shoes. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or possibly sixteen at the most. Thinking of Emma, Jordan tried not to look at her.
“Hello Trina.”
“Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”
“
No I won’t be doing that.”
“Why not? We can just talk. Or maybe you can buy me a drink.”
One of Trina’s fingers reached out to trace the line down the middle of Jordan’s chest.
Groaning, Jordan turned and gently placed his hands on Trina’s shoulders.
“Listen to me Trina. You seem like a nice girl so I’m going to do you a favor by warning you. You need to get out of here. Gather up all of your friends and get out of this club as soon as you can. Then you get in your car and drive straight home and hug your parents and never come back here.”
“What do you mean?
Why?”
“
There’s going to be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“People are going to get shot. People are going to die. You’re a smart girl I can see that. You probably think that I’m joking so I want you to look in my eyes. Look in my eyes and know that I’m telling you the truth.”
For a moment Trina looked like she was going to laugh but she did not. She searched Jordan’s eyes for sarcasm, which she seemed to expect
from every human interaction in her life. When Trina did not find any her face dropped and she turned and hustled away from the bar. Jordan watched her go and thought again of Emma in the backseat of the station wagon, drawing and kicking her little pink shoes.
When he finally flagged down a bartender Jordan ordered a gin tonic. For payment he gave him a hundred dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“Awesome, thanks man!”
“Just do me one favor. Tell
Petyr Zhadanov that I want to talk to him.”
The bartender hesitated a moment but then pocketed the money and slipped out from under the bar.
He went over to one of the guards by the dance floor. The guard glared in Jordan’s direction and then pushed through the crowd and disappeared through a doorway that read restricted for employees only. Jordan sipped at his drink which was disappointingly watered down considering how much he’d paid for it. A few seconds of blissful relief came at the end of the song, but then another even more obnoxious and impossibly loud beat took its place. Underneath all of the electronic wizardry, the skips and stops and starts and crashing drum lines, the song sounded vaguely like the old Motown hit
I Want You Back
by the Jackson Five. Jordan wondered why someone would take a work of art and take a giant shit on it. If he survived the night intact, Jordan knew that he would have a migraine in the morning that might make him wish he hadn’t.
He had just finished his drink when a different guard approached and tapped him on the shoulder. The weapon in his hip holster was a .38.
“You the guy that asked to see Petyr?”
“Yeah. Tell him I’ve got a business proposition.
”
Jordan gave the guard his last remaining hundred dollar bill and prayed that it would be all the convincing that was needed to see the man. The guard studied Jordan closely
then patted him over, searching for concealed weapons. His inspection complete, the guard said something into the walkie-talkie that got lost beneath the din, and then he led Jordan to the back towards the employees-only door.
The cacophony was cut in half on the other side of it. Leading the way, the guard ushered Jordan through a narrow hallway, and then up a short flight of stairs. He stopped outside another door and knocked.
“Yeah who is it?”
“It’s Chip. I’ve got that guy out here.”
“Come in.”
Petyr
Zhadanov was lounging back on a red leather sofa in what appeared to be an exclusive VIP room. He had pale blonde features and a sharp beak of a nose with cocaine resting on its tip. Aside from Chip and one other guard there was no one else around. Zhadanov dipped his face forward and sniffed a line from a glass mirror, then set it down on the couch next to him.
“You
vant some?” He asked in Jordan’s direction.
“No I’m good.
I don’t touch the stuff”
Chip was standing directly behind Jordan with his burly arms crossed over his chest.
“So who are you? What business have you?”
“I’m a buyer. I don’t use it myself but I definitely have use for that.” He pointed at the cocaine. “My supplier got himself indicted so I need a new one. I’m looking to buy in bulk.”
Zhadanov examined Jordan and then the second guard, standing a few faces to his left with an uzi resting comfortably in his grip.
“Really.
Zat is fascinating. So what? You just come in here and assume zat I am a big time drug dealer?”
“I heard you were the man to see.”
Shaking his head, Zhadanov laughed and went for the white powder again. He gasped after taking inhaling another line up his nose.
“You know what I sink? I sink you are police.”
Jordan could have drawn the conversation out and tried to convince Zhadanov that he really was a buyer. If it worked perhaps he could get more information on their operation but he doubted it. He wasted no time. With a sudden lurch he threw his head back as hard as he could and landed vicious blow square on Chip’s nose. He whirled around and slipped the .38 from the stunned guard’s holster and shot three times at the other guard with the uzi, hitting him twice. Jordan cringed and twisted his frame behind Chip’s as the man squeezed the trigger as he was falling, firing a string of bullets into Chip. In less than three seconds, both bodyguards were down and dead.
Zhadanov
hustled up from the couch and swung the glass mirror at Jordan, clipping his hand and knocking the gun out of it. Jordan ducked the next blow and punched him in the kidney on the way up, then caught Zhadanov’s arm and wrenched the mirror from it. He delivered four brutal punches to the kidney and then one to the bridge of Zhadanov’s nose and broke it.
Sinking to the floor and moaning,
Zhadanov whined. He would put up no further resistance.
“Why do you do
zis? What did I do?”
“All in good time. Stand up.” Jordan twisted
Zhadanov’s arm behind him and put the gun into his back. “How many more guards are there?”
“Two.”
Jordan twisted harder.
“Aye
aye! Ok ok there are four more.”
Moving
Zhadanov over behind the red leather couch, Jordan waited until he heard footsteps. The door to the VIP room opened and Jordan shot the first guard who came charging through, dropping him instantly. Out in the club area Jordan could hear screaming and a rush of foot traffic. Slowly he pulled Zhadanov up, still keeping his body between him and the door. He pushed him out into the hallway where they met another guard who fell after Jordan fired a round through his eye.
Zhadanov’s
nose was bleeding all over the front of his crisp white shirt. With each step he yelped like a kicked puppy. Jordan shoved him aside and kicked the door to the club open and found it deserted. Drinks were spilled everywhere, abandoned in mid sip. Several pairs of high heels and platform shoes were left forever forsaken on the dance floor. Up in the elevated DJ’s booth a record was still spinning, filling the deserted club with another vile remix.
The last two
of XZLENT’s security guards apparently had chosen a different path than valor, whatever it was. Jordan told Zhadanov to push open the front door for him and when he refused to obey Jordan clapped an open-handed blow to his right ear that got him crying in earnest.
Whimpering,
Zhadanov pressed his hands on the glass and swung it open.
“Where are you taking me?”
“We’re going on a ride, Petyr. Then we’re going to have a nice long chats and I’ll ask you some questions about Shirokov’s little drug running business. And each time I get an answer from you that I don’t like I’m going to break one of your fingers. When I run out of fingers I’ll move on to your toes. When I run out of toes I’ll improvise.”