Genie for Hire (25 page)

Biff sat up. “They found somebody behind it?”

“That’s a good word for it. Found
a
body. One that
had been worked over.”

“I had a feeling that was going to happen.”

“Not just him. Three other guys he was known to work with.
And to ice the cake, whoever it was, trashed his office, then burned it.”

“Poor schmucks. I’ll bet Sveta never told them she was selling
them dirty pictures of Viktor Petrov’s daughter.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Good news is Interpol was
nosing around these guys but couldn’t pin anything on them. Now their whole
network is down.”

Biff felt Raki squirming around by his feet, and then the
squirrel popped out from under the desk and leapt up onto the bookshelf.

“Jesus, you’ve still got that rodent around?” Jimmy said.

“He’s a member of the team now,” Biff said. “Interpol say
anything about tracking people who were buying those photos?”

“Nah. I think whoever trashed the office took the customer
list. But I don’t know why. Maybe to pick up the business – or go after anybody
who bought photos of Natasha.”

Raki began doing acrobatics, jumping from one level of the
bookshelf to another. Biff felt like he was disciplining a small child.
Stop
that!

Raki landed on the top shelf and stared at Biff. Then he pulled
his little paws in and dropped his head.

Biff looked back at Jimmy. “I wish I could say I feel sorry
for anybody involved. But I draw the line at kiddie porn—producers and
customers.”

“You and me both, brother,” Jimmy said. “You hear anything
more about the Customs thing?”

“Farishta figured out that the arms shipments are coming
from Baku, in Azerbaijan. It’s one of the former Soviet republics.”

“I know all about it,” Jimmy said. “Half the criminals in
Sunny Isles Beach come from there.” He shook his head. “Most of them Jewish,
too. Makes a bad impression, you know?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Biff checked the squirrel.
Raki had turned on his side, curled up and gone to sleep on the top shelf.
“Hey, it’s a long tradition,” Biff said. “Meyer Lansky, Dutch Schultz, Bugsy
Siegel.”

“Yeah, but they’re all dead. I don’t have to see them when I
go to shul.”

Biff had always known Jimmy Stein was Jewish, but the idea
that the cop was observant was a surprise. “You go to the same synagogue they
do?”

“Couple of the more recent immigrants. One of them’s even
got a kid in the same Hebrew school class as my son.”

“You continue to surprise me, Jimmy,” Biff said. “Anyway,
Farishta’s got an ear to the ground over there in Baku, and I’ve got a guy
looking into things on this end.”

Jimmy stood up. “You’ll keep me in the loop?”

“You don’t get the news from Hector Hernandez?”

“Those ATF guys wouldn’t piss on a local cop if he’s on
fire,” Jimmy grumbled.

“Jimmy, if you were on fire, I guarantee you I’d piss on
you.”

“Not an answer to the question, Biff.”

“I will certainly keep you in the loop.”

Jimmy stood up, and as he turned toward the door Syl
appeared there. He was wearing a white dinner jacket and pristine white slacks.
His bow tie and the handkerchief in his pocket both were patterned with
brightly-colored butterflies.

“Jimmy Stein, meet Syl. My new associate. Jimmy’s a cop with
Metro-Dade.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” Syl said, holding out a limp hand.

Biff couldn’t help glancing down at his own feet. Yup, he
was wearing the pointy-toed slippers. He remembered Jimmy’s comment that he’d
thought Biff might be gay because of his taste in footwear. Well, Syl would
give the cop food for thought.

Jimmy shook Syl’s hand, then turned back to Biff. “This the
guy you have on the ground here?”

“Well, not exactly on the ground,” Biff said. “Syl, you find
anything out about when the next shipment is coming in from Baku?”

Syl smiled. “You betcha,” he said, in a dead impersonation
of a certain Alaskan politician. “A little birdie told me there’s something
coming in on Friday.”

Biff noticed that Raki was awake again, sitting up on his
shelf staring at Syl, who was lounging against the wall.

“I’ve been working on my friendship with Laskin at the gym,”
Biff said. “I’d better let him know tomorrow morning about my Customs
connection.”

“Good timing,” Syl said. “He just found out himself a few
minutes ago.”

Jimmy turned to the sylph. “And you heard how, exactly?”

“Like I said. A little birdie told me. And as soon as I
knew, I flew right over here, because I knew the boss man would want the info
ASAP.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Always something wacky going on over
here in Biff Land.” He pulled a small notepad out of his back pocket, curved
from the pressure of his butt, and flipped it open to a fresh page. “Details?”

Syl knew that a shipment of AK-47s was coming from Baku, and
Laskin had been instructed to get it past Customs, pick the guns up in a truck,
and deliver them to a ship on the Miami River which would carry them on to
their final destination, Nicaragua.

“You going to see Laskin tomorrow?” Jimmy asked, when he had
written everything down.

“He’s been religious about his workout schedule. I’ll be at
the gym and I’ll bait the hook for him. Then I’ll let you know if he bites.”

Jimmy closed his notebook and capped his pen. “Be careful,
Biff. These guys are serious.”

Jimmy left, and Syl settled into the chair across from Biff,
crossing his long legs languorously. The squirrel jumped down from the shelf
and scampered across the floor to Syl, then hopped up on the arm of the chair
and sniffed.

“Did I get you what you wanted?” Syl asked Biff, ignoring
the squirrel.

“Absolutely. You think you can hang around these guys for
the next couple of days, keep me up to date on what they’re doing?”

“This is so much more fun than working with air handlers,”
Syl said. “All the other sylphs are so jealous.” Absently, he reached a hand
out and petted Raki’s back. Raki hopped onto Syl’s lap and curled up there.

Biff was amused. “The other sylphs? What, you all live
together in a hive or something?”

“Not a hive. But we’ve got a piece of Greynolds Park staked
out, the part east of US 1 by Biscayne Bay.”

“If I need to get hold of you, I can get you there?”

“Even easier. I had these cards made up.” Syl pulled an
elegant silver card case from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. In a
flowing script it read “Sylphanus 18344857,” with a Gmail address below. The
card was decorated with tiny, multi-colored butterflies.

“Jesus, everybody has email these days.” Biff figured that
soon even Raki would have cards—though he didn’t know where the squirrel would
keep them. “You’ve got my card, if you need me. So, how am I going to pay you?
You have a bank account, too?”

Syl shook his head. “I don’t need much. A branch to perch
on, some nectar now and then. We’ll work something out.”

Syl lifted Raki gently from his lap and placed him on Biff’s
desk. The squirrel sat up on his haunches as Syl stood and stretched his long
limbs. “Well, have to fly. See you soon.” He opened the front door as a human,
and then flew out as a butterfly.

You and Syl are friends now
? Biff asked Raki.

Raki just yawned and leapt back to the bookcase.

Biff spent the rest of the day running Mrs. Himmelfinger’s
aides through databases. One woman had lost her license as a beautician when
she burned a client’s scalp with too much dye, but that was about it. The rest
seemed like ordinary hard-working immigrants.

By the time he shut down his laptop, stood and stretched, he
had cleared everyone who had regular access to Mrs. Himmelfinger’s apartment.
He could have started to look at every service person who’d had cause to visit,
but the pattern of loss indicated someone who had regular, not occasional,
access.

He called Mrs. Himmelfinger and made arrangements to visit
her the next day, after his morning workout. After he locked up the office,
Raki scampered up a palm in the parking lot and showed no interest in coming
with him, so Biff drove home alone.

Being on his own had never bothered him before—but now he
wanted Farishta to be at his townhouse waiting for him when he got there.

Too bad Farishta just wasn’t that kind of girl.

Biff had trouble sleeping that night, anticipating his
morning workout with Igor Laskin. He didn’t fall asleep until the early morning
hours, and then overslept. By the time he got to the Bolshoi Gym, Laskin was
already there.

He hurried to the machine next to the Russian and yawned as
he began his calf raises. “Sorry I’m late. Had to work late last night,” he
said.

“What you do?” Laskin asked from the neighboring machine.

“I work at Customs at the airport,” Biff said. “Schedule’s
been all screwed up since Fiorentino had his heart attack. Never know when I’m
going to have to fill in.”

“Really?” Laskin looked over at him.

“Yeah, that’s the problem with being management,” Biff said.
“You have to pick up where everybody else leaves off.” He motioned to the
weights. “You going to lift, or what?”

Laskin set up his weights, and Biff spotted for him. Then
Laskin returned the favor, and then the two of them continued their circuit. It
wasn’t until they were finished that Laskin said, “You know Fiorentino?”

“Yeah,” Biff said. “Not the smartest of guys, but he had his
fingers in a couple of pies I’d like to sample, now that he’s out of the picture,
if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” Laskin said. “You are open to – opportunities?”

“I’m an open kind of guy. As long as there’s something in it
for me.”

Laskin appeared to be considering something. Then he said, “Listen,
I gotta talk to you. But not here.”

Biff looked up at the clock on the wall. “I’ve got a couple
of hours before I have to get to work,” he said. “You want to talk over
coffee?”

“Yeah. You about to finish up?”

“Sure. Give me five.”

In the locker room Biff stripped down, spritzed with body
spray, and then pulled on a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt. Laskin was
standing outside the gym, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. A tiny white
butterfly hovered just under the building’s roofline.

“Those things will kill you, Igor,” Biff said.

Laskin barked a short laugh. “Lot of other things will kill
me first.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the pavement and nodded toward the
Starbucks across the parking lot.

“What can I do for you?” Biff asked, as they walked. The sun
was already high, though it was early morning, and heat rose off the pavement
in waves.

“You said you work in Customs, right?”

“Yup. Fifteen years. Pay is shit, but you know—there’s
always a way to make a couple of extra bucks.”

“About that.” Laskin stopped on a grassy island and looked
at Biff. “Fiorentino was going to look after a certain shipment for me, make
sure that it didn’t get caught up in paperwork. Now that he’s out of the
picture I’ve been in big trouble.”

“I’m good at getting people out of trouble,” Biff said.

Laskin smiled. “I knew you were my kind of guy, Bill.”

Biff started walking again. “I’ll need to know the flight
number the shipment’s on, the date and time, and who’s signing for it.”

“I can get you all that. What’s it going to cost?”

Biff smiled broadly, and put his arm around Igor Laskin.
“Igor. My friend, My
tovarisch
. We’ll make a deal together.”

“I am very glad to have met you, Bill,” Igor said. “I have
been sweating bullets over this shipment now that Fiorentino is gone.”

By the time they had finished their coffee, Biff had
negotiated a fee, and gotten all the information he needed from Laskin. As they
were walking out of the Starbucks, Igor’s cell phone buzzed, and he waved
goodbye to Biff and walked off. Biff saw the butterfly flit away behind him.

Biff waited until he was back in his office to call Hector
Hernandez. Then, with Hector’s permission, he conferenced Jimmy Stein on the
call. He explained what he had learned from Laskin. “How do we proceed?” he
asked. “You want me to go down to the Customs office at the airport? Somebody’s
going to have to tell me what to do to move this shipment through.”

“Let me get back to you,” Hector said. “We probably want you
to pass it along so we can track where it’s going. But I’ve got to push it up
the line before I can say for certain.”

He hung up, organized the research he’d done the day before,
then locked up the office. Raki scampered across the shopping center parking
lot in pursuit of something, and Biff drove over to Jade Winds. He had a
fondness for the building because it was so incongruous, and reminded him
somewhat of Istanbul. A  circular ten-story tower with triangular windows and a
pointed finial at the rooftop, it looked like it had been dropped into the
middle of acres of catwalk buildings and parking lots by an alien spaceship.

He took the elevator up to Mrs. Himmelfinger’s apartment.
The aide answered the door and led him through a foyer crammed with boxes,
piles of newspaper, and assorted junk. The atmosphere in the apartment was
heavy and oppressive, weighted down with gloom and anger, and it smelled like
cleaning fluid with an undercurrent of urine and blood.

Mrs. Himmelfinger was sitting in a high-backed armchair
wearing a housecoat in a pattern that pretended to be a patchwork quilt. She had
fluffy red slippers on her feet that matched the bright polish on her nails.
Through arched window behind her, Biff could see a small lake curled against a
bend in I-95, egrets picking at the mucky bed as semi-trailers rumbled a few
feet away.

The living room was nearly as crowded as the foyer.
Magazines were piled haphazardly on the coffee table, and the sofa and other
chairs were piled with stuffed animals. Every available surface was covered
with knickknacks, and the china cabinet was filled with expensive porcelain and
crystal. On one wall was an elaborate map that he recognized with a jolt.