He walked to a small, dark hallway behind the bar. I poured a generous shot and choked it down. It was like chugging gasoline. I could feel it burn its way past my throat, down my esophagus, and into my stomach. It was terrible liquor, but at least it took the edge off things. I poured myself another and breathed in deeply. Rather than pound this one, I sipped it and turned around. About twenty pair of hungry, greedy eyes were on me. I shifted on my feet and pulled my jacket back to expose my sidearm.
“You guys want something?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and leaning my elbows against the bar behind me. A few glares lingered, but most men looked away. I cast my gaze to those still remaining. After a moment, even they turned their attention back to their drinks. The bar’s customers may not have liked me, but they knew I was there by Bukoholov’s leave.
I scanned the room from left to right. None of the men paid me much attention, so I turned back around and was about to drink the rest of my second shot when the bartender emerged from the nook behind the bar. An older man stood behind him. He wore a black Oxford shirt and black pants. His shoulders were as thin as a coathanger, and the skin on his neck was loose and wrinkled. His eyes were gray and devoid of life.
“Mr. Bukoholov,” I said, nodding. The older man inclined his head toward me slightly.
“I am,” he said. He placed his palms against the wooden bar and leaned forward. He made no move to shake my hand. I pulled out a barstool and sat down as the bartender went from table to table behind me, clearing the place out. The patrons went willingly. They knew their place on the pecking order. Bukoholov spoke again when we were alone. “I appreciate your bringing my nephew here. We operate a facility nearby. We will take him there. After that, we need to talk.”
I pushed my stool back from the bar and stood up.
“I don’t think so. I’m here to deliver. What you do now isn’t my concern.”
Bukoholov’s eyes darted over my shoulder, and I immediately felt a weight shove me forward into the bar. I should have been paying better attention to my surroundings.
“I’m asking you nicely,” he said. “Please do as I request.”
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
“I’ll insist.”
We left the bar through the front door, and I immediately went to my car while Bukoholov and the Incredible Hulk got their vehicle from around back. My charge was still alive and conscious on my back seat. He even seemed glad to see me when I opened the door. It’s nice to feel wanted. Bukoholov pulled up beside me a few minutes later in a lime–green Toyota Prius. I guess a black, Lincoln Towncar was too cliche for him. The Hulk was in the driver’s seat with Bukoholov in the back. Bukoholov didn’t look at me, but the Hulk rolled his window down and stuck a meaty forearm out, motioning me to follow.
I followed the Prius for a few blocks. The neighborhood surrounding the Lucky Bastard was gentrifying, so the longer we drove, the less graffiti I saw. Eventually the abandoned, dilapidated warehouses were replaced by limestone and brick commercial buildings interspersed with old, Victorian houses. We parked near the loading dock of a multistory office building, which, according to signs, had been converted to a veterinary hospital. I hoped Bukoholov had an actual doctor rather than some large animal vet.
The garage door in back of the building rolled up almost immediately. From what I could see, the interior looked bright and clean. Three men wearing scrubs pushed a gurney large enough to hold a horse towards my car. No one said a word to me. They simply grabbed my passenger and left; Bukoholov evidently had pretty good health insurance. With my passenger gone, I checked out the rear seat. There were two bright red stains on the vinyl. A little bleach could take care of both without issue.
I gripped the steering wheel and leaned back with my eyes closed, taking stock of my evening. I think it was fair to say that I had just experienced one of the worst nights of my life. Not only had I committed a major felony by breaking into Sunshine with a loaded weapon, I shot the nephew of a very powerful gangster and then watched evidence that could have saved my ass burn. Some mornings I really ought to stay in bed.
A hard rap on my window broke me from my thoughts. The Hulk was standing outside and motioning for me to get out. I considered flooring it but ultimately decided against it. If Kostantin Bukoholov wanted to speak to me, he’d speak to me whether I was in the parking lot of a large animal clinic, at home, or at work. I figured I might as well save everyone some trouble and see what he wanted.
I got out of my car, but before I could take more than a step toward Bukoholov’s Toyota, the Hulk grabbed me by the shirt and threw me against my vehicle.
“Turn around.”
“Easy,” I said, turning around and putting my palms flat against my car’s roof. The Hulk’s hands were on my shoulders a moment after that. He disarmed me and took my keys and wallet. I shifted as his hands made a return trip up one leg. “Watch your hands.”
“Shut up,” he said. Once he took his hands off me, I turned around. He stood about a foot from me. He glared at me.
“Are you done?” I asked.
“For now.”
I straightened my jacket and pants. It was nice to have the weight of my weapon off my chest, but I would have gladly traded that minor inconvenience for a bit of protection. Not that a gun would have helped me much, though. The Hulk must have been pushing three hundred pounds. Even if I could get a couple of shots into him, he’d probably keep coming. And then even if I did manage to take him down, we were on Bukoholov’s turf. I’d run out of bullets well before he ran out of lackeys.
I walked toward Bukoholov’s Prius. The aging gangster rolled the rear passenger window down when I approached.
“We need to talk. Get in.”
“No. I did you a favor, but now I’m going home.”
Bukoholov’s already cold eyes narrowed.
“You shot my nephew. Get in the car before my brother–in–law kills you.”
I glanced to my right. The Hulk was staring at me. His face was red, and a vein throbbed across his forehead. Shooting his kid would explain the hostility. Rather than wait around for the big man to get angrier, I climbed into the Prius and sat beside Bukoholov. The car still had the fresh–from–the–factory smell of plastic and adhesives, but I thought I caught a slight whiff of marijuana, too. I would have leaned over to check the ashtray in the front console, but Bukoholov and I were packed tight enough that I would have bumped into him if I had. The Hulk climbed into the driver’s seat and tilted his seat back far enough that he might as well have been sitting on my lap.
We left the parking lot without saying a word. Since I didn’t know that part of town well, I memorized streets as we passed. It wasn’t a particularly helpful activity, but it beat the alternative of doing nothing. The buildings became taller and more upscale the longer we drove. For whatever reason, the Hulk seemed attracted to Monument Circle. That was okay by me. I knew that area. Cops patrolled it heavily.
“Where are we going, Mr. Bukoholov?” I asked.
“Around. You never know who’s watching.”
I nodded. Paranoia was probably a helpful character trait for someone in his line of work.
“If we’re here for a tour of the city, I’d just as soon get out now.”
Bukoholov shrugged.
“You can get out anytime you want. You’re not my prisoner.”
“Then pull over anywhere.”
“I said you’re free to leave anytime you want. I didn’t say we’d slow down.”
I heard the Hulk snicker. If I had the room, I would have kicked the back of his seat. As tight as the car was, though, I could barely move.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
Bukoholov shrugged again. He seemed to be fond of doing that.
“I’m curious what a detective was doing breaking into that building.”
“I’m on the job. As soon as my colleagues hear what you’ve done, you’re going to have so many cops crawling up your ass that a visit to work will be like a visit to the proctologist’s office.”
“That’s a truly disgusting reference, but I’ll take my chances,” he said. “Even if you are a detective, we both know this is off the clock.”
“You’re not going to get away with kidnapping me.”
I grimaced as soon as I said it because it sounded like something Daphne would have said on Scooby Doo. Bukoholov chuckled again and patted my knee like my Grandfather would have done.
“You might be surprised.”
I shifted in my seat and swallowed.
“What do you want from me?” I asked for the second time that night.
“I want to talk. Share information. You and I both know what goes on in that warehouse. We might be able to help each other.”
If Bukoholov knew what went on at Sunshine, he knew more than I did. I wasn’t going to say that, though.
“Fine. Karen Rea killed my niece and her boyfriend. She also killed a friend of mine. That’s why I was there.”
Bukoholov nodded and squinted at me.
“So you’re taking care of your family. I like that. We can work together.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Bukoholov shouted something to the Hulk in Russian, and we made a U–turn so sharp that two of the Pruius’s tires might have actually come off the road.
“I need you to see something so we can understand each other,” he said.
“Whatever.”
We drove for another fifteen minutes and ended up outside a nightclub occupying an old Masonic temple downtown. The exterior was gray limestone and had columns out front, making it look like an old courthouse. A line stretched halfway around the block, which, in my experience, meant there was more than likely a cop somewhere within shouting distance. I had the option to run, but at the same time, I wasn’t exactly replete with allies at the moment. If Bukoholov wanted to help, I wasn’t in a position to turn him down.
I crossed in front of the car and met Bukoholov on the sidewalk. The Hulk drove off. The frail Russian held his hand in front of him and gestured for me to precede him inside.
“After you, my friend.”
I didn’t know we were on friendly terms, but I nodded. Bukoholov apparently knew the bouncer because he let us inside without even having money exchange hands. That got us some angry stares from people in line. They were easy to ignore, though.
The club’s interior was big enough that there were activities for just about everybody. There was a burnished concrete bar along one wall with video games and electronic dartboards beside it. I couldn’t see it, but I figured there was a pool table amid the people there, too. If patrons were more interested in dancing, there was a raised platform in the middle of the room and cages suspended a few feet above the ground. The music was so loud I couldn’t even understand Bukoholov when he leaned into me and yelled almost directly in my ear. He put his hand on my upper back and guided me past the bar to a hallway in back.
At first, I thought he was leading me to the bathroom, which would have been strange, but we pushed past them and turned a corner. It was so dark that I could barely see the guy standing in front of me or the door he was standing in front of. The walls muffled the music enough that we could speak.
“The restrooms are back that way. Nothing but offices back here.”
“I realize that,” said Bukoholov. “Open the door.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Bukoholov,” the bouncer said, knocking on the door behind him. A peephole slid back like at a 30s–era speakeasy, and the bouncer had a quick conversation with someone on the other side. The door opened a minute later, and Bukoholov and I were waved in. The back room looked like a men’s lounge at a long–forgotten resort. There were high–backed leather chairs against the wall and cigar smoke in the air. My skin prickled as goose bumps formed up and down my arms. Six men huddled around a card table in the middle of the floor. Surprisingly, I recognized one. Jack Whittler.
Bukoholov stepped in and greeted the men at the table before waving me over and introducing me as a friend of his. Whittler never took his eyes off me, and I only took my eyes off him to greet the other players. Alongside Jack, the highest–ranking law enforcement official in the county, I met two reps from the Indiana House of Representatives, a circuit court judge, the deputy mayor, and the
CEO
of a regional bank headquartered in the city. I was totally out of my league.
Thankfully Bukoholov didn’t linger around the table, and we stepped into his actual office a few minutes later. Unlike the card room, the office was pedestrian. Bukoholov had an antique–looking desk in the middle of the room as well as a couple of chairs and a small couch. There were no windows and little ornamentation. It was absolutely silent.
“How much do you know about cocaine, Mr. Rashid?” asked Bukoholov, taking a seat behind his desk. I took that as my cue to sit down.
“Never tried it.”
“You should. It might loosen you up,” he said, leaning over and reaching into one of his desk drawers. He pulled out two sandwich bags and dropped them on the green felt blotter that covered his desk. Both bags held white powder, but one sparkled like snow while the other had dull yellow tones in it.
“This is mine,” he said, holding up the bag with the yellowing powder in it. He then picked up the bag with the sparkling white powder. “This is Miss Rea’s. My stuff is good. It’s seventy–percent pure, and it has no harmful additives. Ms. Rea’s stuff is too good. It’s ninety–five, ninety–seven percent pure. Customers take their usual amount and overdose. There’s no room to screw up.”
I nodded. That told me something new about Bukoholov. I hadn’t heard he dealt with drugs. Murder and prostitution, but never drugs.
“Why does this concern me?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
“Because it concerns me. That bitch is destroying a market that took me fifteen years to develop. And I’m not the only one she’s hurting. Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Louisville. It’s the same thing everywhere. I know my competitors. We talk and set prices together. It keeps us all safe. This crazy bitch doesn’t talk to anyone. She moves in with her cheap shit, and prices go through the floor. We’re losing money and market share.”