Genie for Hire (24 page)

“Evelyn said you did good work, but you were flaky. I don’t
like flaky.”

“There are plenty of private investigators you can choose
from.” Biff sat back in his ergonomic chair and steepled his fingers.

“What the hell,” Mrs. Himmelfinger said. “If you screw up
I’ll tell everyone how lousy Evelyn’s potato kugel is. She thinks her kugel is
so much better than mine. But it’s not.”

She scrawled her name on the contract and handed it back to
Biff, along with two hundred-dollar bills to cover his retainer. Then she
pulled a decorative bell from her pocketbook and rang it.

The aide opened the office door. “I’m ready to go,” Mrs.
Himmelfinger said. “We can stop at the Winn Dixie on the way home and get some
of that challah I like.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the aide said, expertly maneuvering the chair
around and smiling a goodbye at Biff.

He closed up the office then, looked for the squirrel in the
parking lot, and when he couldn’t find him, drove home. He relaxed, fixed
himself a light dinner, and then just before ten, he dressed for the party at
the Marouschka. He put on the new clothes Farishta had bought for him—designer black
slacks and a black and silver shirt that fit him perfectly but did not have any
of the goofy character of things he’d have bought for himself. As he drove to
the Marouschka, he allowed himself to wonder where she was and what she was
doing, then pushed those thoughts away when he reached the restaurant.

The parking lot was already crowded, and Biff followed a
group of twenty-somethings speaking Russian up to the restaurant’s front door. He
looked around for Syl but couldn’t see him, and he had no way to communicate
with him. Had he even picked up Laskin at the gym? The sylph had demonstrated
that he had a short attention span when he was in Biff’s office—suppose he’d
gotten distracted and given up on the assignment?

But then, Syl had only been a backup plan anyway. Biff had
always had to rely on himself to find information, and tonight was going to be
just another assignment.

He stepped inside the Marouschka. Though the interior was as
opulent as it had been the last time he was there, this time the staff were
dressed in contemporary clothes, mostly in black, and Biff felt that he fit
right in. His outer appearance made him look no older than thirty or
thirty-five, and though many of the girls were younger, the men ranged in age
from mid-twenties to early forties.

“I’m Bill Adams,” he said to the hostess at the front desk.
“Friend of Igor Laskin.”

She smiled and ushered him in. The Russian pop music was
loud, and the buzz of chatter in the room had to be even louder to compete. Biff
spotted Igor and Natasha in a corner of the room, with three other young women
and two young men—the bodybuilders Biff had first spotted at the gym, Yuri and
the friend whose name he’d never caught.

Igor welcomed him into their circle, introducing him to
everyone. The girls were all school friends of Natasha’s—Katya, Vera and
Galina, and Yuri’s friend was Vsevolod, but he said to call him V. “You look
familiar,” V said. “You work out at gym?”

Biff nodded. “That’s where I met Igor.”

The group resumed the conversation that Biff’s entrance had
interrupted, and he had a few moments to observe them. Katya was the prettiest
of the girls—but also the poorest, if Biff compared her wardrobe and jewelry to
that of her friends. Natasha was the best-dressed, and though she had a very
pretty face, she had the flattest chest. Vera and Galina had both already had
cosmetic surgery—Vera a nose job and Galina breast implants.

They all chattered away about movies and restaurants, and
then people began to dance. Igor offered his arm to Natasha in a courtly
gesture, and then Yuri went for the beautiful Katya, whose blonde hair cascaded
to her bare shoulders. V immediately invited the breasty Galina, leaving Biff
and Vera together.

“Do you dance?” he asked.

She smiled and extended her hand to him. He was lucky; Vera
was the best dancer of the bunch, and once they got accustomed to each other
they were stepping and swinging together in fluid movement. Galina danced like
her new breasts unbalanced her, hopping back and forth from foot to foot and
bouncing her girls so much Biff expected them to jump out of the filmy blouse
that held them in.

The others danced like Americans: awkward swaying and exaggerated
hand movements. Biff, who had spent a lot of time in Latin climes, swayed his
hips and rotated his shoulders, and Vera followed his lead. When the music
changed to a Russian version of “Strangers in the Night,” Igor led them all to
the bar, where they drank vodka shooters flavored with raspberry and cranberry,
even though it was clear to Biff, and probably the bartender, that the girls
were all under age. Biff enjoyed himself—but he’d rather have been with
Farishta, and he smiled to think how she would show up these young girls with
her beauty and her experience.

By two a.m., he was getting ready to leave, when he saw Igor
and Natasha arguing. His extra-sensitive hearing allowed him to eavesdrop. “You
cannot do this,” Igor said.

“I do what I want!” Natasha stepped backward.

“You are childish!” Igor said, advancing on her. He took her
by the hand and towed her toward the same back door he’d ducked out with Ovetschkin
the first time Biff had come to the restaurant.

Biff kissed the cheeks of the three girls, shook the hands
of the two bodybuilders, and made his excuses, then walked out the front door
of the restaurant. It was hot and humid, especially after the pleasure of the
air conditioning. He was already sweating by the time he rounded the corner of
the building to the rear service drive. Lurking in the shadows, he listened as Natasha
and Igor continued their argument. “She was awful woman!” Igor insisted. “Is
good she is dead.”

“You don’t understand,” Natasha said, stamping her delicate
foot, encased in a strappy sandal. “She paid me. Without her I have no money.”

“I give you money.”

“I want my own!”

Igor’s face reddened. “Sveta take pictures of you when you
younger. Is terrible. But do she still pay you to pose?”

“Not for years. I’m too old, don’t you know.” She put her
hands on her hips. “But every time I referred a girl to her, she gave me a
percentage of what she made on the pictures.”

“You were like pimp for her? Finding girls?”

Natasha laughed harshly. “Not a pimp, Igor. I never made any
girl do something she didn’t want to. I just connected pretty girls I knew with
Sveta.”

“Baby girls.” Igor stepped back from her.

She fanned herself with her open palm. “Not babies. I would
never get involved in something like that. Girls who were thirteen or fourteen.
Old enough to know what they were doing.”

“Your father, he knows this?”

“Of course not. Daddy would go ballistic.”

“You are supposed to be good girl, Natasha. Go to college.
Maybe I tell your father, so he protect you.”

Natasha reached out and slapped Igor on the cheek. “You
better not,” she said. “You say anything to him and you know what he’s going to
do. Lock me up somewhere until I have to leave for Yale. And that means no more
going out with you.”

“I don’t wish to go out with you again,” Igor said.
“Goodbye, Natasha.”

He turned and walked back into the restaurant, leaving
Natasha standing in a shaft of moonlight, clutching her tiny evening bag in her
right hand.

Who would have thought Igor Laskin had a conscience, Biff
thought.

The next morning there was no sign of Raki at the townhouse.
Biff had been just fine on his own, he thought, as he got into his car. Then
Raki had showed up, then Farishta, then Syl. He had a team. Now he was on his
own again. It was disconcerting.

Laskin was already at the Bolshoi Gym when Biff arrived, and
the sweat stains on his tight-fitting tank top indicated he’d been there for a
while. The gold coin was around his neck as always. From his tight jaw to the
fists clenched around the handles of the bicep-tricep machine, the Russian
radiated anger.

Biff slid into the machine next to him and simply nodded,
then began his workout. Laskin was a good six inches shorter than Biff, and
though he was muscular, he was top-heavy—too much focus on pecs and biceps and
not enough on legs. Biff’s physique was better proportioned.

They moved silently around the circuit for a half hour.
Without Laskin’s conversation to distract him, Biff worried about Syl. He
couldn’t see the butterfly in the gym, and he didn’t want to stop his workout
to focus on finding the sylph’s magic signature, which was so tiny that it
would require opening his third eye and concentrating.

Biff had only known the sylph for a short time, and though
he accepted that Syl was an ephemeral creature, he was worried. It wouldn’t
have been hard for a stiff breeze to blow the sylph away, or for him to get
swatted by a careless human or eaten by a bird, lizard or snake. Raki was most
likely okay; squirrels were resilient creatures. And Farishta? There was no use
worrying about what she was getting up to. But that didn’t stop Biff.

It was Laskin who spoke first. “You worried about something,
Bill? You are lacking focus this morning.”

He was surprised that Laskin had noticed. “My girlfriend
went off on a trip on Sunday, and I haven’t heard from her. Just thinking about
her.”

“I hear you,” Laskin said. “I break up with Natasha after
party last night. Makes me angry, and sad. But is best, after all. She go off to
college in August.”

Biff was curious to see how much Igor would reveal. “What
happened? It kind of looked like you guys had a fight.”

“She is not nice girl I think she is,” he said. “All time
she is not having sex with me because she is good girl, right? And I am stupid.
I say I will wait until she is eighteen.”

“Smart move,” Biff said. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” Igor said. “But I have work since I am
sixteen. I am man already.”

Biff was surprised that Igor was so young. He’d pegged the
bodybuilder as in his late twenties at least. But perhaps that sense of age
came from the hard life he lived.

“You’re still young,” Biff said. “You’ll meet another girl.”

“There is no one like Natasha,” Igor said glumly, and he resumed
lifting.

Biff wondered how long he had before the next shipment of
guns was due. The plan to set Laskin up with the ATF hinged on Biff being able
to offer the bodybuilder help getting his guns through Customs now that
Fiorentino, his previous contact, was out of the picture.

But what if Igor already had someone else at Customs to overlook
the contents of the shipment in exchange for a bribe, and Biff never had the opportunity
to offer his help? Was there another way to get at him and at Petrov?

He was so distracted he layered too much weight on his
barbells and then kept lifting two hundred fifty pounds over and over again, as
Igor stared at him open-mouthed.

“You are something, Bill,” Igor said, shaking his head.

And you’ll never know exactly what
, Biff thought.

By then, Laskin was so worn out he could barely stand up,
and he staggered to the shower for a long, hot sauna and a shower. Biff
declined his offer to join him.

He drove back to his office, thinking alternately of
Farishta, Raki and Syl. All three of them were out there somewhere, not
communicating, and he worried about both of them. He’d always believed Farishta
could take care of herself—but the way she had been so drained from her
dealings with the demon trapped inside the nesting dolls had shaken that
confidence.

For as long as he had known her—and that was a very long time
– Farishta had always been so powerful that she never needed help, from Biff or
from anyone. Now her powers were fading with advancing age. Would she let him
take care of her? Or would her pride keep her always at arm’s length? What did
he want, beyond having Farishta available for nights of passion?

He pulled into his regular parking space and was delighted
to see Raki bouncing overhead on a palm frond. Well, one team member had
checked back in. Maybe the others were on their way. He led the squirrel back
into the office, brewed himself a cup of coconut aloha tea, and cracked open a
package of halvah to share. Then he sat down to work on the case of the cranky
old lady and her missing belongings.

He called Daisy Matluck, the owner of the home health agency
Mrs. Himmelfinger was using. She had a strong Brooklyn accent and sounded
almost as old as her clientele. “You know the Yiddish word
farmisht
?”
she asked.

“I know it,” Biff said. “Means confused.”

“You pick up a Yiddish dictionary and look the word up,
you’ll find Etta Himmelfinger’s picture there,” Daisy said. “She thinks she’s
the sharpest knife in the drawer because she used to be the secretary to the
president of a bank in New York. But I got news for you, her blade dulled so
much you couldn’t use it to cut butter.”

He got the names, addresses and social security numbers of
each of the aides Daisy’s agency had supplied during the last year, as well as
the name of the agency she’d fired a year before. He began to research the
first aide.

The outer door opened, and Jimmy Stein stepped into the tiny
reception area, then rapped on the glass door into Biff’s office. At the sound,
Raki dove under Biff’s desk.

Jimmy pushed the door open and asked, “The detective in?”

“Come on in, Jimmy. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“That crap you drink? No thanks. Anyway, this isn’t a social
call. I’m on my way out to a crime scene and I figured I’d stop by and pass on
some news.”

“Crime scene? Anyone I know?”

Jimmy settled into the chair across from Biff and crossed
his hands over his ample stomach. Today’s microfiber outdoorsman’s shirt was a
khaki green, and there was something bulky in the breast pocket. “Nope. But I
did get a word back from the guy I know at Interpol. That address you emailed
me, the one Sveta was using to send the kiddie porn to Russia?”