Authors: Tod Goldberg
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew you’d be here?” he said.
“It hadn’t occurred to me,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “You’re an American spy. Well, you can thank your friend Sugar.”
“He bets with you, too?” Sam asked.
“No,” Big Lumpy said. “I had him kidnapped last night. I’ll keep him until you deliver Henry Grayson, if you don’t mind.” He closed his door then and the Escalade drove off, leaving Sam and me just as he’d hoped: dumbfounded.
“Well,” Sam said eventually, “that was a surprise.”
“I take it you didn’t leave Sugar in a safe location?” I said.
“I just took him home,” Sam said. “You didn’t want him in your house, did you?”
“No,” I said.
“So it looks like we’re in business with Big Lumpy,” Sam said.
“Strange,” I said.
“You believe a word he said?”
“Hard not to,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sam said. “Say what you want about him, but that psychopath plays it straight.”
“I think he just took the right odds with us,” I said, “just as we’d done with him.”
“What are we going to do about Sugar?”
“Find Henry Grayson, I suppose,” I said.
“You’re just going to hand him over to Big Lumpy?” Sam said. “That doesn’t sound like a wise plan.”
“No,” I said. “But if his debt is honest, which I suspect it is, then he should pay it. I just don’t think he should pay with his life.”
My cell rang. It was Fiona. “Where are you?” I asked.
“I just had tea with Yuri Drubich,” she said. “Lovely man.”
“Tea? Is that a euphemism for kneecapping him?”
“Michael,” she said, “I’m not a savage. We had a nice conversation and came to some very strong conclusions about Brent’s future.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “He intends to end any possibility of it.”
“Tell me some good news,” I said.
“I was able to convince them to go into business with us,” she said.
“That’s ironic,” I said, “since we just got Big Lumpy on the team, too.”
“And I can assure you Yuri will keep at least one of his hands clean,” she said and then went on to tell me about her pleasant cup of tea.
7
Fiona tried not to give too much thought to her transformation from top-notch criminal to top-notch-criminalwho-now-helped-the-poor-and-less-fortunate. It certainly wasn’t something she could have predicted; nor was it something she’d always wanted to do, as her normal inclination was to shoot first and ask probing questions later, if at all. But being involved with Michael had secondary issues alongside the normal relationship stuff. He just didn’t like to leave a trail of bodies in his wake anymore and Fiona had to respect that. At least a little. Most of the time. Half of the time. Some of the time, anyway.
So when Michael told her to go look into Yuri Drubich’s local operation, she knew that she couldn’t very well go in and execute every last person she encountered, as appealing as that sounded. Michael wanted information, and information meant talking. She’d do her best and if things turned bad, she’d see about hurting only those who deserved it the most, which, in these cases, was usually most of them.
But when Fiona pulled up in front of a cache of 1920s-era bungalows that had been converted into hip Coral Gables office space and cute shops with names like Peas and Pods, apparently some kind of maternity clothing store, and Re-Treats, which offered “All of the candies you loved as a kid,” she knew she could probably leave her gun in the car. She’d keep one in her purse, but that was just for normal safety. And really, since the address for Yuri Drubich’s import/export company corresponded to a lovely Russian tearoom called Odessa, Fiona had the sense that she’d need to play this investigation just a tad differently than most. Alas, she thought, she probably wouldn’t get to make anyone bleed today. But like that movie said, tomorrow is another day. . . .
And anyway, Fiona didn’t actually see any nefarious-looking men mingling about the tea shop, only women with babies in strollers, and then one waitress who looked like she was one bad Sylvia Plath poem away from ending it all. Fiona never understood women who wore horn-rimmed glasses and clogs. It was as if they just decided to extinguish sex from their lives forever. Fiona thought that at worst, she’d end up with a nice cup of tea and at best, maybe the girl in the glasses could provide her with at least a tiny bit of information.
Once she was inside, Fiona saw that the tearoom occupied a bungalow that hadn’t been renovated as much as the other shops had—the kitchen was still being used as the kitchen, but walls had been moved, clearly, and what must have been the living room now housed a small shop and a few tables. Charming, really. Most of the sitting area was out front on a sun-dappled patio that wrapped around to the bungalow’s original side yard. The shop and the indoor part of the sitting area smelled like cinnamon and jasmine and, low in the background, music played. It was a female singer doing a number about being sad and lonely (or at least that’s what Fiona surmised—she couldn’t actually hear all of the lyrics, apart from the constant refrain of “I’m sad and lonely”). None of it felt very Russian at all. Rather, it was more like a Starbucks that had been denuded of all corporate pretension and coffee.
Fiona spent a few minutes looking at the various knickknacks—mostly different devices for storing or making tea, a field of retail that she assumed was small but apparently infinite. There were also small pieces of art—pictures on tiny easels, tea bags photographed in black and white and then matted, paintings of teacups in open fields, that sort of thing—that Fiona assumed were purchased only by people who had run out of space for cats in their home.
“Can I help you?”
Fiona turned around to find the smiling face of the Sylvia Plath girl. Surprisingly, she detected just a hint of a Russian accent. Interesting. And helpful.
“Yes. Yes, you can,” Fiona said. She decided to try on one of those plain American accents she always heard inside Target when she went to buy dish soap. An accent that conveyed just enough education to be presumptuous and just enough lack of worldliness to still hold Russians in real suspicion. Or, in other words, your average government worker. “Is Mr. Drubich here?”
“No,” Sylvia Plath said, her accent thicker now, her demeanor immediately defensive. Maybe she wasn’t a Sylvia Plath kind. Maybe she was more of a Natasha Fatale in a bad dress. But Natasha would never wear those glasses. Russian women always did have a certain brio about them.
“When do you expect him back?” Fiona asked.
“He doesn’t work here,” Sylvia Plath said.
“But you’re aware he owns this establishment, correct?”
“Who am I speaking to?” Sylvia Plath asked. Her accent was so pronounced now that Fiona was actually surprised by it. This woman wasn’t exactly keeping deep cover. Or else she was just your average waitress who didn’t want to scare off the ladies who drink tea by sounding like the enemies they remember from childhood.
Fiona reached into her purse and took out a pen and a small pad that she usually used to write down ideas for different explosives that came to mind when she was out shopping or driving in traffic. She flipped to the middle of the notebook. “What’s
your
name?” Fiona asked.
“Am I under arrest for something?”
“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “Have you done something wrong?”
“I asked you who you were first,” Sylvia Plath said.
“This isn’t two kids in a sandbox, young lady,” Fiona said, and then she realized that the voice she was channeling was actually Sam’s and that got her very frightened. How had it happened that a man she used to hate was now her go-to dumb American voice? Well, thank God for small linguistic favors. “Those rules of decorum don’t apply, unless you steal my shovel.”
Sylvia Plath glared at Fiona. Odd, Fiona thought. Why isn’t this woman frightened? Her defiance told Fiona that either Sylvia Plath had been prepared for this moment or she wasn’t taking Fiona seriously. Maybe it was the pumps Fiona had chosen to wear. They didn’t exactly scream government worker, but even going undercover required a strict adherence to fashion trends. Plus, Fiona knew she could whip off her shoe and stab someone with its heel in one swift move. She’d done it once before to . . . who was it? She’d beaten up so many people in the last few years, it all tended to blur.
A group of women walked into the shop then and Sylvia Plath greeted them warmly, her glare dissipating immediately. Must be regulars. And truth be known, Fiona rather liked the tea selection here and, under different circumstances, could see herself popping in every now and then. Getting a decent cup of tea anywhere in Miami was impossible. She could live without the constant strain of female singer-songwriters complaining over twangy guitars about how their man did them wrong, but, well, if she were one of these ladies with babies having afternoon tea, perhaps she’d feel differently.
“If you could wait just one moment,” Sylvia Plath said. Or, really, she rather hissed her words. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Fiona said. Fiona circled the shop and began really looking at the items for sale, picking them up and examining them, and each time she came away with another tidbit of information. A set of bone-white teacups from India. An electric teakettle from Dubai. An assortment of herbal teas from Pakistan. Nothing, it seemed, was from America. It helps to have plenty of shipments from countries like Pakistan to ease fears that you’re bringing in, say, guns or drugs. Bring in ten boats every year filled with herbal teas and people might just begin to think you’re nonthreatening and not examine your load too closely.
Sylvia Plath returned to the shop holding a teakettle in one hand and a tray of plates in the other. Fiona thought that it must have been quite a cumbersome task carrying all of that while also fostering the burden of guilt for . . . well, whatever. She’d probably done something, right?
“Pardon me,” Sylvia said, “I just need to set this down and then we can talk.”
“No problem,” Fiona said.
And then Sylvia Plath smacked Fiona upside the back of her head with the teakettle; Fiona’s only thought before she slipped into blackness was that she was pretty sure the girl didn’t actually read poetry.
When Fiona came to—it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes, since the same singer-songwriter woman was still going on about rainbows and her man over the speaker system—she was sitting on a folding chair somewhere in the back of the house. It looked to Fiona like a break room perhaps—a small table, three chairs, the wall decorated with papers detailing side work and the employee schedule for the next week.
Fiona wasn’t tied up and there was a glass of water and a Ziploc bag filled with ice on the table in front of her. Fi took the bag and placed it against the back of her head, which throbbed with her pulse. She reached back, touched her scalp, felt the raspberry that was bulging through her hair and also a good-sized cut that slowly leaked blood, and determined that someone today was going to get some payback. It was just that simple.
Her neck was also sore and her right ankle looked a bit swollen. You get hit in the back of the head with a teakettle, it’s expected you’ll be feeling a touch out of it. Mostly, Fiona was angry that she’d been knocked out by a woman wearing a peasant dress and horn-rimmed glasses. Element of surprise, that’s all.
She stood up and tried the door but found it, un-surprisingly, locked. She could pick it in an instant, but then she’d likely walk into the path of men with guns.... Speaking of guns . . . Fi’s purse was nowhere to be found, which wasn’t good.
It was unlikely that someone would come in and shoot her in the face considering she was still in the tearoom, so she sat back down, took a sip of water, pressed the ice pack to her head and waited patiently for whatever was to come.
She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and a man of about fifty walked in, followed by Sylvia Plath. The man sat down across from Fiona while Sylvia set out two cups, a plate of cookies and two small metal kettles along with an assortment of teas.
“Thank you, Gina,” the man said.
“Shall I stay?” she asked.
“No, if there is a problem, I think I can take care of it,” he said.
“Very well,” she said. She looked at Fiona and shook her head slightly. “I’m sorry I had to hit you. You left me no choice.”
Gina. Her name was Gina! She didn’t look like a Gina to Fiona. She looked more like someone who, at some point later in life, would have her throat in Fiona’s hands. That thought made Fiona very happy, so much so that when the girl left Fiona and the man alone, Fiona actually felt rather giddy.
“You smile,” the man said. “This is a fun day?” His accent was off-the-boat thick, but everything else about him looked Western. He wore a white dress shirt opened at the collar, a tan sport coat, expensive jeans, black leather loafers, a Rolex.
“I’m having a lovely day,” Fiona said. “No reason not to smile.”
“Do you know me?” the man asked.
“Yuri Drubich, I presume,” she said.
“You are correct,” he said. “We have some business together?”
“Not yet,” Fiona said.
Yuri picked through the teas, found one he liked and then dropped it into his kettle to steep. “Please,” he said, “I bring in very fine tea.”
Fiona found a bag of Adam’s Peak White Tea in the box, which was really quite a find, placed the tea in her cup and poured the hot water over it. It wasn’t the best way to make a cup of expensive tea, but it was a decent enough weapon in a pinch.
“Your employee hit me,” Fiona said. “Is that how you treat all of your customers?”
“Only those who come in asking about me,” Yuri said. “Do you know how many people know that I own this shop?”
“Why don’t you just tell me? That way we can get to drinking our tea in peace.”
Yuri reached across the table for a cookie and then handed the plate to Fiona. It held an assortment of butter cookies, some covered in chocolate, others in fruit compote, others plain. Fiona opted for the chocolate and then watched while Yuri thoughtfully nibbled on his cookie. He didn’t seem terribly happy or terribly upset at the moment. It was a studied ambivalence.