Genie for Hire (20 page)

“Talented amateur, Jimmy?” Biff asked. “I’ve got a PI’s
license.”

“You know what I mean, Biff.”

They both looked at Hector. “I want to take down these guys
as much as you do,” Hector said. “But if we break the law…”

“Nobody’s asking you to break any laws,” Biff said. “Just
put me in place at Customs, so I can tip you off when the next shipment of guns
comes in. That’s all. There’s no real difference between that and recruiting
somebody who already works there to provide you with information, is there?”

Biff watched Hector’s eyes as the server appeared with their
steaks. He could see the debate raging in the ATF agent’s head. “I won’t
interfere in the takedown or anything else,” Biff said. “I’m not some kind of
vigilante. Jimmy will tell you that.”

“He’s a good guy, Hector. He keeps his word.”

The server lingered by the table. “Can I get you gentlemen
anything else?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” Hector said.

The savory aroma of the meat filled Biff’s nostrils and made
his mouth water. Butter melted in the center of the baked potato and began to
drip out the side.

“Let me make some calls,” Hector said.

 “And just like that, my appetite’s back,” Jimmy said. He
lifted his fork and knife, and Biff followed suit.

Jimmy shifted the conversation as they ate, to sports teams,
highway construction, and weather-induced traffic delays, always fruitful
topics in South Florida. Biff paid the tab with cash from Laskin’s safe,
sending up a brief prayer to the Zoroastrian gods that the bills would not come
back as counterfeit.

The server returned his change with a smile, and Biff left
him a big tip. When they walked outside, Farishta was lounging by the stone fountain.
Shopping seemed to have rejuvenated her—or maybe it was the sex. She was
wearing a completely new outfit: a tight-fitting blue and gold sweater that
emphasized her curves, and a very short gold skirt. Her long, slim legs ended
in very high-heeled Christian Louboutins, with their characteristic red soles.

“Va-va-va voom,” Hector said, as she stood up.

“Watch it bud,” Jimmy said. “That’s Biff’s squeeze and you
don’t want to get on his wrong side.”

She had only a single shopping bag with her, but Biff was
sure she had bought a lot more—including everything she was wearing. Probably
still spending her cut of the oil tanker ransom.

She stepped surely across the pavement, leaning up to kiss
Biff on the lips, and his whole body tingled.

Jimmy said, “Don’t I get a kiss, too? After all we’ve been
through, Farishta?”

Uh-oh, Biff thought. He watched as Farishta leaned in close
to Jimmy, her lips pursed. He was sure she’d bite his nose off—or something
similar. Instead she kissed him, for quite a while, and when she backed away,
Jimmy staggered.

“Be careful what you wish for, Jimmy,” Biff said. “You know
those warnings on the Viagra packages? You might end up like that. Four hours
is an awful long time.”

Jimmy looked like he hadn’t been kissed like that in a very
long time, if ever. Hector purposefully stuck his hand out and said, “Hector
Hernandez. ATF.”

“Farishta,” she said, turning her head just a bit and
smiling. She took his hand and Biff smirked. He knew very well that she could
transmit that same sexual energy through a touch as well as a kiss.

Hector swallowed hard as he pulled his hand back. “Nice to
meet you,” he said.

“We’ve got some work to do,” Biff said. “Hector, call me
when you’ve got my credentials set up. Jimmy, we’ll be in touch.”

He put his arm around Farishta’s waist and the two of them
turned away, but not before Biff got a last glance at Jimmy’s and Hector’s
dazed faces.

“You’re wicked,” he said to Farishta as they walked through
the parking lot.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Are you jealous, my Bivas?”

“Insanely. But I know that holding onto you is like cupping
water in my hands.”

Biff put the top down and they drove through the glorious
sunny day, back to Biff’s townhouse. The living room was littered with small
and large shopping bags from nearly every expensive store at Aventura Mall,
which Farishta must have magicked back.

Raki sat on the floor, next to a bag from the Godiva
Chocolate store that lay open next to him. He had gnawed through the ribbon on
a gold ballotin full of nut-filled chocolates and popped the lid. His cheeks
were full, and he was holding a half-eaten piece in his paws.

“Can squirrels eat chocolate?” Biff asked.

“What can it do to him?” Farishta asked, shrugging. “He has
already died once.” She leaned down and picked up the box and the bag. “But
this is not for you, Raki! Bad squirrel.”

She pointed her finger at him, and it was as if he’d been
plugged into an electric socket. His fluffy tail stood straight up, his mouth
fell open, and he dropped the piece of chocolate he was holding. Then she
released her finger, and the squirrel toppled over. “You won’t do that again,”
she said to him.

Biff reached down and picked up the little rodent. His heart
was still beating, so Biff laid him down on a cushion to recuperate.

Farishta began opening shopping bags and pulling items out.
With a flick of her hand, she had him completely redressed—in an Armani
Exchange black T-shirt with leather chevrons on the short sleeves, a pair of
skin-tight boot cut jeans from 7 For All Mankind, and soft leather loafers from
Cole Haan.

She looked at him and nodded approvingly. “I am leaving for
a while. I want to know how my amulet ended up in that cave with the Div-e Sepid.
Maybe that will give me a key to get the amulet back.”

Biff nodded. “Good idea. I’ll keep an eye on Laskin. If he
does get arrested, how will I let you know?”

She reached into a tiny pocket of her skirt and produced a
business card. “I have email,” she said. “And you can reach me at
Farishta.com.”

“No phone number?”

“Cell phone plans are too restrictive. When I need to speak,
I call.”

“You never cease to amaze me, Farishta.”

“One must keep up with the times.” She stepped up close to
him. “One more kiss before I go?”

He leaned down and kissed her, closing his eyes and
surrendering to the sensation. His body buzzed and he felt himself caught in a
tornado of desire. When he sagged back to the sofa and opened his eyes,
Farishta was gone, as were all the shopping bags. All that remained was Raki,
dozing on his cushion.

After a long nap, Biff woke late on Friday afternoon and
ordered delivery from Baba Go-Nosh, the Middle Eastern restaurant around the
corner from the shopping center. A half hour later, Abdi, the smiling Iranian
ex-pat driver, who had been a doctor in Iraq  but couldn’t pass the English
language exams in the US, delivered his platter.

He laid out the baba ganoush, beef kebabs, pita bread, and
watermelon salad on the kitchen table, and fed bits to Raki as he ate. Then he
went back to bed. A few days with Farishta was enough to tire any man out.

Saturday morning, though, he woke up early and kicked
Operation Laskin into gear. He needed to establish himself as a regular at the
Bolshoi Gym, become Laskin’s friend, then convince Laskin to let him take over
Fiorentino’s role at Customs. It would take some time, but Biff could manage
it.

He opened the safe in the back of his closet and scanned
through the various sets of ID he had. He decided on a driver’s license and
credit card in the name of Bill Adams. Because his own name – or the one he had
adopted for this time and place—was so distinctive, he didn’t think it was a
good idea to let Igor Laskin know it.

Bill Adams was generic enough that it would be hard to track
him—though he did have a Facebook page under that name and a LinkedIn account
that called him a self-employed security consultant. And Bill was close enough
to Biff that he’d have little problem answering to that name.

He dressed in his workout gear and Raki followed him out to
the Mini Cooper. At the  Bolshoi Gym, Raki jumped out of the car and scampered
up a pine tree, the fronds bouncing as he hopped from one to the next.

Biff asked the clerk at the front desk how to sign up for a
membership, and a minute later a perky young blonde in a pair of sea-green
shorts and matching tank top came out of the back office. “Hi, I’m Melanie.
You’re interested in joining us?”

“I am.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “You’re in great shape. Come
on back to the office so I can take your measurements and get you set up.”

He tried to short-circuit her long questionnaire about his diet
and workout goals, but she wouldn’t let him. She made him stand up so she could
measure his biceps, chest and waist. Then he had to take his shoes off and
stand on a scale that not only weighed him but calculated his body fat.

“Wow, nine percent,” she said. “That’s terrific. You must
take good care of yourself.”

“I try.” She led him through a long talk about fees,
contract and so on. When she was finished, they sat back down at the desk,
where she handed him a card with a magnetic strip on the back. “You swipe this
every time you come in,” she said.

“You’re keeping track of my workouts?”

“Only if you want us to,” she said. “If you sign up with a
personal trainer, then he’ll have access to your records.”

That was easy, Biff thought. When she went into the back
office to get his new membership packet, he took a quick look at her computer
and discovered that Igor Laskin worked out regularly in the mornings, usually
from eight to nine. Saturday and Sunday, however, he came in later. If Biff got
moving, he might run into Laskin now.

By the time Melanie came back Biff was sitting once again
across from her desk. He got his card from her, and then walked through the
locker room and into the weight room. He didn’t even have to look around; he
could pick out Laskin’s scent immediately. He was lifting weights at the half
cage.

Biff lingered around the Russian as if he was waiting for
the machine, and as Laskin struggled through his last reps, Biff asked him,
“Need a spot?”

Laskin grunted and nodded, and Biff stood by to make sure
that Laskin could safely finish his set. “Thanks,” Laskin said, when he was
finished. “I am out of practice. Maybe I take on more than I can handle.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Biff said. “I’m Bill.”

“Igor. You want machine?”

“Yeah. Will you spot me?”

“I must return the favor,” Igor said, smiling.

Biff used his towel to wipe down the bench. Laskin had been
lifting two-twenty; Biff added twenty pounds to each side of the bar, wiped his
hands on his shorts, and lay down on the bench.

When he finished and stood up, Laskin nodded approvingly.
“You are strong man, Bill.”

“I work out,” he said. “Just joined this gym this morning.
Good place?”

“Yeah, good,” Laskin said. “Lots of different equipment.
Always in good shape.”

They moved on to a pair of side by side leg squat machines.
Neither spoke much as they worked, but in between sets, as they recharged with
water, and as they walked back to the locker room, they talked in bits and
pieces.

“You are going to come often?” Laskin asked at the door to
the locker room, pulling off his sweat-soaked T-shirt.

“Try to work out every day,” Biff said. “Usually eight to nine
or so on the weekdays. Later on the weekends.”

“Ah, me too,” Laskin said. “Not tomorrow, though. Big party
tonight. My girlfriend Natasha graduates from school. Tomorrow I will sleep
in.”

“I’ll see you Monday, then,” Biff said. “Das veedanya.”

“Vy gavareet pa-russky?” Laskin asked.

“No,” Biff said, though his Russian was reasonably fluent.
“Just a word or two here and there.”

“Ah, well, you are good guy anyway, Bill.” Laskin clasped a
sweaty hand on Biff’s back, and then walked into the locker room.

When he walked out of the gym he whistled, and Raki came
swinging through the palms, taking a major leap that landed him right in the
back seat of the open convertible.

“One of these days you’re going to kill yourself doing that
kind of thing,” Biff said, putting the car in gear. Raki chittered from the
back seat.

Biff drove back over to his office and parked. He was
surprised to see the crime scene tape gone from Sveta’s storefront and the door
open. Leaving the squirrel behind, he walked over to the studio and stepped
inside. As he did, a bell rang, and a dark-haired guy in his twenties stepped
out of the workroom.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a voice devoid of accent. “Are
you interested in scheduling a sitting, or in picking up work you’ve already
ordered?”

“Neither. I’m Biff Andromeda, from the investigation agency
down the hall. Sveta was a client of mine.”

“I’m Mike. Sveta’s cousin. I’m taking over the studio. Did
Sveta owe you money?”

“No, just stopping by to say hello. I’m sorry for your loss.
You’re a photographer yourself?”

“Not like Sveta. But when I was a kid she used to take
pictures of me, and let me hang around.”

Biff wondered if the pictures Sveta had taken of Mike were
like the ones she’d taken of Natasha Petrovna, but he didn’t want to bring that
up—at least not yet.

“Well, if you decide you want to come in for a portrait, let
me know,” Mike said. “I’ve got a lot of work in the back, trying to catch up on
what’s going on.”

“Sure. I’ll let you go.”

Biff walked back out into the sunshine. Interesting. Mike
would undoubtedly find the emails about Sveta’s pedophile operation, if he
didn’t already know about it. Probably a good idea for Jimmy to drop in and
make it clear that the business needed to end with her death.

When he opened the door to his office, Raki scampered in
behind him, and hopped up onto the bookcase, finding an empty space to snuggle
where some of the books Biff had removed had rested.