"You sure you want to do this?" I say, check
myself in the mirror, straighten my tie. Silence from the stall. Then a
zip, a flush. The door opens and I’m looking three days of heroin
withdrawal in the face.
"Yeah," Nathan says, hollowed out eyes looking
at me like I’m a thousand miles away. "I want to do this."
His shakes have stopped, but he’s sweating like a
Mormon at a whorehouse. I wet a paper towel, slap it on the back of his
neck. "Get some water on your face. It’ll help."
He washes up, let’s the cold water run across his
cheeks for a few seconds. I don’t rush him. We’ve still got time and
once things start to move there’s no going back.
He hands me the dirty paper bag he’s had at his side
since I picked him up at the Greyhound station yesterday afternoon.
Stacks of thousand dollar bills still wrapped in purple bank tape. I
pull the bills out, start to count.
"It’s all there," Nathan says. He sneers.
"Don’t trust the junkie?"
"Charity only goes so far," I say. And in this
case charity’s donated double what’s in the bag to this little
venture. Normally, I’d charge three times what he’s handed me. There
are arrangements to be made, things to organize. Not to mention my fee.
I count out bills, place stacks into envelopes, slide
the rest into my coat pocket. The envelopes go in the towel dispenser,
the bag goes in the trash. I’m not worried about evidence. The money
will see to that.
"One last time," I say, once I’m done
prepping the cash. "You sure about this?"
"The fuck you think I’m doing here?" he
says. I get it. The stress, the withdrawals, the whole point of being
here. Doesn’t matter.
I grab him by his throat, slam him against the wall.
"Do not," I say, squeezing until his eyes start to bulge,
"get pissy with me. I let you be here because of Terry. Do not
forget that." I let him go, spin his head toward the urinal just as
his guts let loose and he pukes all over the tile wall. He’s on hands
and knees, coughing, gagging.
"Clean yourself up," I say, and leave to wait
for him in the foyer.
* * *
"Don’t fuck this up," I say, as we walk
toward the restaurant’s dining room. I have a reputation on the line
here. "You paid for the introduction. Don’t make me finish
it."
"That all you’re here for?" he says.
"The money?" No, and he knows it. He just wants to fuck with
someone, anyone, and I’m the closest guy around. I check to make sure
his hands are out of his jacket pockets. Him being so twitchy, I don’t
want him going for the gun.
We come to the two bodyguards, Nicolai and Gregor,
standing at the dining room doors. Big guys, Russian. I heard Sergei
hired Spetsnaz, and seeing them there, evil looking sub-machine guns
hanging from their shoulders, I can believe it.
Nicolai steps up, returns the nod I give him.
"Frisk them," he says to Gregor.
Gregor doesn’t make a move. "They’re
clean," Gregor says.
Nicolai opens the door for us, steps aside. "Bon
appetit,"
he says.
* * *
"It’s been too long, David," Sergei says,
setting his spoon next to his borscht, throwing his sausage arms wide in
a greeting. Sergei doesn’t get up from his seat at the table. That’s
Sergei’s way. Keep your back against the wall, keep your distance,
hire the best.
"It has," I say and we sit in the chairs
opposite him.
The restaurant’s empty. He shuts it down once a month
to conduct business. It’s a testament to how badly things are going
for him. We’re the only people who’ve come to see him.
Sergei’s eyeing Nathan like he’s an especially odd
lobster. Not sure whether to kill it and eat it, or just kill it. Nathan’s
giving him the same look.
"Your friend," Sergei says, as though Nathan
isn’t in the room, "he doesn’t look so well."
"He’s having some troubles," I say.
Sergei nods, the sage grandfather, ready to dispense
advice. He understands. He understands everything.
"Have your young friend see Nicolai," he says.
"He can hook him up with one of my retailers. Special discount for
friends." Sergei’s seen withdrawals before. Uses them sometimes
to get an upper hand. All the best businessmen do.
"He saw one of your retailers, once," I say.
"He hasn’t been in town for a while. It was, what, four years
ago? Five?"
"Five," Nathan says, his voice barely a
whisper.
"Got him started," I say. "But he’s
working on kicking the habit. Been interfering with his family
life."
Sergei’s not sure what to do. "With this, I
cannot help him," he says. There’s a glimmer of recognition in
Sergei, but I figure it’ll be a while yet.
"Well, that’s really not why we’re here,"
I say.
Sergei brightens at this chance to help us out. It can’t
be easy, losing ground, watching your businesses get gobbled up,
struggling for relevance. Gangsters like Sergei are like politicians.
The mark of their success is based on people, influence. They need you
more than you need them. The trick is in making it look the other way
around.
"Whatever I can do, my friend," he says.
I pull a small photo from my coat pocket, hand it to
Sergei. It’s a teenage boy, younger than Nathan by a good six years,
but the similarities are obvious once you know what to look for.
"Seen him?"
He takes the photo, and to give him credit he barely
winces when he sees it. "I do not know this boy." He looks
over at Nathan. "This is a friend of yours? I am happy to help. I
will have my men find him."
"No," I say. "We know where he is. Small
cemetery in Santa Monica. The funeral was this morning."
Sergei is starting to sweat a little. "I don’t
understand."
"He was my brother," Nathan says. The words
sit there like a flat tire.
Sergei shouts for his men outside in the foyer. Any
second now the doors should burst open in a splinter of wood and glass,
and his two pet Bolsheviks should run in, guns blazing.
But they don’t.
"We have a proposition for you," I say. I pull
a stack of bills from my coat pocket, drop it on the table. "That’s
ten thousand dollars," I say. "That should make you go
away."
Sergei stands from his seat, knocking it backward to the
floor, Makarov pistol conspicuously visible in his waistband. His face
is almost purple with rage, flabby jowls working overtime. "This is
insult." He spits on the bills. "Leave for ten thousand
dollars? This is a joke."
"Not a joke," I say. "Pinewood boxes are
expensive these days."
He gets it a second too late, draws the Makarov, but I’m
already up, knocking it from his hand. It skitters across the floor, out
of reach.
"You don’t know what you’re doing," he
says, backing up, panicked eyes looking for the door, hoping for
salvation. He calls out for Nicolai and Gregor again as I throw the
table aside, kick him to the floor. He falls over the upturned chair,
lands like a turtle. Gasping for air, fat limbs flailing.
"Christ, Sergei." I say. "Everybody skims
a little. You know that. Did you have to kill him?"
Nathan steps up, hands shaking. Pulls the snub-nosed .38
from his pocket, points it at Sergei’s head.
"No, I--" Sergei’s last words are punctuated
with the sound of gunshots.
Nathan’s shakes stop. Like every ounce of energy went
into those two trigger pulls.
"You okay?"
He nods. "Yeah," he says. "No. I don’t
know." He looks at Sergei’s pulped head, blood spreading in a
thick fan across the hardwood floor. He looks at me, suddenly the kid I
remember, he and Terry running on the beach, kites in the air, hot dogs
on the barbecue. Smiles forever, like they’re never going to grow up.
"It’s over?" he says.
I take the gun from his limp fingers, slip it into my
coat pocket. "It’s over," I say.
"Thank you," he says, his voice quiet.
"Thank you, Uncle David." I nod, and take him out the back
door.
Copyright 2008 by Stephen Blackmoore
Stephen Blackmoore lives in Los
Angeles with his wife and two immense dogs, writing about his city more
than is probably healthy. His work has appeared in Demolition, Shots,
Spinetingler, Thrilling Detective, and Plots with Guns.
Stephen can be reached through his website, L.A.
Noir.
