Condemned (63 page)

“Notice, there are no D.E.A. vans here,” said Sandro.

Tatiana looked along the avenue. “Why in Brooklyn, but not over here?” asked Tatiana.

“Maybe it's easier for the ‘Man' to put together a dog and pony show of the more traditional criminal figures than rooting out black suspects.”

At Sandro's direction, Tatiana brought the car to a stop just outside the church. As soon as Sandro exited the car, Anton Taylor came over and shook his hand. “Hello, Mr. Luca,” he said, nodding to Tatiana. “Leave the car. Half Pint,” he called to a short man with a cap, “park the lawyer's car.”

“Come on inside,” said Taylor, walking ahead of Sandro past the line of mourners. Money Dozier stood just inside the entrance. Judge Ellis had postponed his surrender date long enough that he could attend the memorial services.

“Hello, Sandro,” said Money as Sandro entered the back of the church. His voice was low, rumbling with grief. “Hello, Miss,” he said to Tatiana.

Red's ex-wife Leslie and her husband had come in from Pennsylvania. She was seated in one of the pews in front, greeting old friends and mourners. Her husband was seated next to her. When Leslie saw Sandro and Tatiana, she rose and walked over to them, shaking hands with Sandro, kissing him in on the cheek. Tatiana hugged Leslie. Then Sandro and Tatiana walked toward one corner at the back of the church. Money accompanied them.

“I'm really sorry about Red,” Sandro said to Money. “He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was. Yes he was, Mr. Luca. He was a good friend, too. To both of us. He really liked you. Let's get us some fresh air,” he said. “It's kind of stuffy in here with all the folks coming in.” Sandro walked with Money out to the sidewalk. Upon seeing Money, the crowd parted, giving Money and the two white people a circle of their own space.

“Miss Leslie was telling me that you were there, at her house, when Red met his death,” said Money. “You, too, Miss.”

“Yes,” said Sandro. “We were there. Red tried to lure the killers away from the house, from Miss Leslie and us.”

“That would be Mr. Red, gave his life to save others.” Money nodded in a reverie of thought.

“That's exactly what he did,” agreed Sandro.

“Miss Leslie was also tellin' me that the people who come to the house with the guns, they was talking a foreign language.”

“Russian,” said Sandro.

“Russian? Mmm, mmm, Russian. I never knew Mr. Red to know no Russian folks.”

“They were Russian, for sure,” said Sandro. “Tatiana is Russian. She understood what they were saying.”

“Mmm, mmm,” mused Money. “You know—Half Pint, hey, Half Pint,” Money called to the man in the cap. “Go inside and find Matthew, you know, Matthew the waiter—”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Money.”

“You know,” said Money reflectively, “a time back, Matthew was at the Flash Inn—Matthew's a waiter there—and he was telling me that some people talking a foreign language—not I-talian or Spanish—were there speaking with Red's nephew.”

“Red had some things to say about Awgust when we were in the house, just before he went out,” said Sandro. “Seemed to think he might have been involved with the Russians, based on something that you had told him.”

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Money?” said a short man with grey hair.

“Yes, yes, Matthew, this here is Mr. Red's lawyer, Mr. Luca, and his lady.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Matthew, shaking Sandro's hand, nodding his head to Tatiana.

“It was Matthew put me on to the situation in the first place,” said Money. “Tell them, Matthew, about the time that there was some people in the Flash, talking”—at this point, Money lowered his voice—”to Awgust Nichols, and they were talkin' a foreign tongue.”

“Yes, sir.

“Matthew knows I-talian and Spanish, how they sound.” Money lowered his voice a bit more. “And when Awgust tried to tell me the people were talking I-talian, Matthew takes me aside and tells me they were definitely not speaking I-talian, or Spanish. Something else, foreign. I was just wondering if it was the same language as the men who came to Miss Leslie's house.”

“Don't know,” said Sandro.

“I wonder Miss if you could talk some Russian. Maybe Matthew would be able to recognize it.”

“I don't know if I could do that, Mr. Money,” said Matthew. “I just know it was foreign, wasn't I-talian.”

“Well, just listen to a little,” said Money.

“What would you like me to say” Tatiana said in Russian. “I am Russian, and this is the language that they speak in St. Petersburg.”

“That sure is foreign,” said Money. “How 'bout it, Matthew?”

“Can't say for sure, Mr. Money. I can tell that's not I-talian, and it sure sounds foreign like those people were talkin' at the Flash with Awgust Nichols. But I can't be sure.”

“Did these people that you heard, did they call each other by name. Did you hear their names?” said Tatiana.

“Not that I would recognized, Miss,” said Matthew.

“Thank you, Matthew,” said Money.

“Yes sir, Mr. Money. Anything for you and Mr. Red.” Matthew nodded and walked back toward the church.

“You know Red was always talkin' about a snitch in our midst,” said Money. “That the Man knew things about us before we could get it out our mouths. And—” he lowered his voice again, “this Awgust lying that his friends were I-talian, and then it turns out that they wasn't I-talian at all.” Money leaned closer to Sandro and lowered his voice. “And then Red is killed by some strange speaking people. I never did trust that Awgust nohow.”

“You know,” Tatiana said, looking at Sandro, then at Money, “Something just occurs to me. One night, a week or so ago, my father and I went to Romanoff's, in Brighton Beach. And Uri, an old friend of my father from St. Petersburg, was there. And he was there with a black man.”

“Mmmm,” mused Money. “I'm imaginin', from the way you say it, Miss, that that's not a very common sight,” said Money, looking skyward.

“No, it's not. It is unusual, not that unusual, but a black man by himself at the Russian restaurant is unusual. They were talking, Uri and this black man, very secretly, off to the side. I can't say that it means anything, but now that we're putting Russian with black in a black place, I can also put black with Russian, in a Russian place.”

“Matthew,” Money called. Matthew, who was just about to enter the building, turned, walking back toward Money. Money waved the old waiter closer. “Would you do me a favor,” Money said softly, “go 'round inside, see if you see Awgust Nichols here.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Money.”

“This snitch, whoever he is, was doing things with the D.E.A., gave them directions about where we all went every day, even where they sat,” said Money.

“What you say is very interesting, Money,” said Sandro. “It may tie in with something else. Red was ambushed in the woods while he was in D.E.A. custody. An Agent took him by himself—which is very unusual; against regulations—the Government car was stopped at a spot in the woods where the Russians just happen to be waiting in a car in the woods. Then when he ran away to Miss Leslie's, the people knew where Miss Leslie lived, came there, and eventually chased him down out back of Miss Leslie's house. Mighty coincidental.”

“Mmmm,” Money mused again. “Maybe this snitch is workin' with the D.E.A.
and
the Russians?”

“Awgust is not here, Mr. Money,” said Matthew. “I looked around.”

“Okay. Thank you, Matthew.”

A large, old, black Cadillac convertible pulled up to in front of the church. It was Red's favorite car. Awgust Nichols exited from the driver's seat, gave the keys to Half Pint, and waved toward Anton Taylor.

Money's back was to the street, Sandro was next to him. Tatiana was looking toward them and toward the street beyond. She gasped, raising her hand to her face to hide her surprise. “That's the man from Romanoff's!” she whispered quickly.

Money turned. He saw Awgust, who had now reached the sidewalk and was mingling with some people there.

“You sure, Miss?” said Money.

“No question about it. I was introduced to him by Uri. We spoke. I looked right in his face.”

“Sneakin', treacherous … Sorry, Miss.” Money glanced back toward Awgust. “Not really a surprise.”

“You think Red's nephew could be the snitch?” said Sandro.

“Like I told you,” Money said softly, “I never, not since he was a sneakin' kid, did I trust that young man, not nohow.” Money's eyes narrowed as he stared toward Awgust. “That young man has a heap of trouble coming toward him. A heap! And soon.”

Sandro took Money's arm and turned, so that the two of them were facing away from Awgust Nichols. “Don't get steamed, Money.”

“I don't get steamed, Counselor,” Money said in a low voice. “I gets even.”

“What we need before you get even, Money, we need information,” said Sandro. “We need to know who he was working with in the D.E.A., who the Russians are. If something were to happen to him before we have that information, then the other people who are responsible for Red will be in the clear.”

“I can bide my time. He ain't goin' nowhere I can't find.” Money's attention was fixed on Awgust, Anton Taylor, and the people around them. His eyes were not fluttering. “Tell me what you think we should do, Counselor.”

“We should try to find out who Awgust knows in the Russian community, who he was working with in the D.E.A. These are the people responsible for Red's and Tony Balls' deaths.”

“Who is Tony Balls?” asked Money.

“Another client, real good client, like Red. I went to his wake before I came here. Somehow, his death resulted from some involvement with Russians and the D.E.A., and drugs.”

“How do you propose we find out this information?” asked Money.

“I have an idea that, under the right circumstances, Awgust will tell you everything he knows.”

“What circumstances are they?” said Money.

As they continued to stand on the sidewalk, Sandro discussed with Money some ideas he had that might cause Awgust to give up information. As Sandro spoke, Money nodded, never taking his eyes from Awgust. When Sandro had finished explaining his ideas, Money walked toward Awgust and asked if he could speak to him—alone. He looked sternly at the friends who were around Awgust.

“You seem to be agitated,” Awgust said to Money as they walked together away from the church toward the corner of 126
^th
Street.

“I am agitated,” said Money. They turned at the corner into 126
^th
Street.

“What's the matter?” Awgust asked apprehensively.

“Come in here,” Money said, taking Awgust by the arm into an empty lot between buildings.

“It's dark in there, you can't see a thing.”

“When I come out, I'm sure I'm going to be seeing a lot of things I don't see at the moment,” said Money, his words emitted in a slow, rumbling cadence. Halfway into the alley, Money twirled Awgust around, so that they were face to face. Money put his hand on Awgust's forearm, clamping Awgust in place. Awgust couldn't see Money's face well, but he could feel the intensity, the danger, emanating from his entire body.

“What's this all about, Money?” Awgust exclaimed, trying to move back. Money's hold on Awgust's arm was tight.

“It's about I-talian people who are really Russian people,” said Money.

“What?”

“Remember when I was in the Flash Inn, a couple weeks ago, and I was telling you that Red wanted you to make him more liquid? And the waiter, Matthew, said that he hoped your friend's girlfriend was feeling better. And you said these friends were I-talian? You remember all that, don't you? Them folks wasn't I-talian, Awgust. They was Russian.”

“Russian?”

“Don't be trying to fool Money. I'm too old a dog for that. Those folks was Russian, and you know it.”

“I don't know what they are. I mean, what's the difference?”

“You know what they are. You know they're Russian, right?”

“I—”

“Right?”

“I don't—”

Suddenly, Money pulled Awgust tight to his face, pressing their foreheads together. “Don't be lyin' to me, son, your life is hanging by a very slim thread, an' I ain't just a foolin'.”

“I don't know what language they was speaking, I really don't,” pleaded Awgust.

“You remember about a week ago, maybe two, you were in Brighton Beach?”

“Brighton Beach?” said Awgust.

“Yes, sir, Brighton Beach, all the way in Brooklyn, and you were in a restaurant, name, I think, Romanoff—”

“Romanoff?

“Why you just keep repeating what I say, boy? You tryin' to play with me?” Money growled.

“No, no, I—”

“Tell me right out and right now! They was Russian, and you was in Brighton Beach with them, at Romanoff, right?”

“I—”

“You better speak now, son,” said Money, grinding his forehead closer, their noses, literally touching. “I—am—not—I—repeat, so—you—don't—make—no—mistakes—I—am—not—fucking—with—you.”

“Yes, yes, they were Russian,” Awgust stammered. “But, so what, so what that they were Russian. It don't mean nothing that I know Russians.”

“Oh, yes it does,” Money said in the dark. He pulled his head back, but grabbed Awgust by his shirt front. “It means you a lying, sneaking, sniveling rat son of a bitch who I ought to flay right here, right now, 'cause, first of all, you been lying to me. And, you know how I hate liars.”

“I didn't think it meant anything—”

“Oh yes you did, you miserable, slimy snake, boy. You know, and now you know that I know, a lot more, a lot about the fact that Mr. Red, your uncle, who you betrayed, was killed by Russian people, probably the same Russian people that you was in that drunken club with.”