Genie for Hire (5 page)

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of semen that pervaded
Laskin’s bedding, at the places in the bathroom where Laskin’s aim had been
less than accurate. It was the unfortunate side effect of his highly acute
sense of smell; even the nastiest aromas of human life assailed him wherever he
went.

In a corner of the second dresser drawer, under a pile of
bikini briefs, Biff found a single key. It was flat and silver-colored, incised
with squared notches. Did it open a safe deposit box, Biff wondered? If so,
where was the box?

He opened his canvas bag and retrieved a small container of
Bell canning wax. He closed his hand over the key and focused on the blood
vessels in his hand, constricting them and transferring heat to the metal. When
it was warm enough, he  pressed it into the wax until the key was flush with
the surface of the wax. He removed the key from the wax, and released the
pressure on his blood vessels so that his hand returned to normal temperature.
Then he filled the cavity in the canning wax with a fast-drying epoxy. He put
the wax aside, returned the key to the drawer, and continued his search.

In the desk drawer, he found statements from Laskin’s bank
account, as well as a box of checks. The bank’s address was on Collins Avenue a
few blocks from the apartment, and a statement a few months before indicated a
debit for the rent of a safe deposit box.

Biff found a credit card receipt with Laskin’s signature,
and pocketed it.

His closet, though, was immaculate. A dozen suits hung with
a precise space between them. The laundered shirts across from them ranged in
color from white to black, with a dozen shades of peach, blue and pale green
between. An electric rack held a few dozen ties from various designers, ordered
in groups of patterns, stripes and solids, like a well-stocked pool table.

Even from the bedroom, Biff could feel the malevolent
influence of the nesting dolls, and it took an extra effort to push them out of
his mind. Under the tie rack Biff spotted a safe. Kneeling to the floor, he
began twirling the dials, tuning his exceptional hearing to the pattern of
clicks as the tumblers fell into place.

It wasn’t as easy as it normally was; the dolls were
interfering with the functioning of his senses, and he grew increasingly
irritated. The longer it took him to search Laskin’s apartment, the greater the
chance that he would be discovered. Though he had the power to transform
himself into a collection of dust fragments suspended in the air, he could only
do so for very short periods of time—enough, say, to slip past a guard or
through a locked door. Within thirty seconds his head began to buzz like a
swarm of angry bees and he lost the ability to remain invisible. And the more
stressed he was, the harder it was to demetabolize.

His fingers grew slippery with sweat as he turned the dial
on the safe’s front door. This was unlike him; he was usually so confident in
his investigations, letting nothing bother him and maintaining a zen-like calm.
But the evil dolls in the living room were somehow subverting his natural
abilities. He didn’t like that feeling of helplessness at all.

He squeezed his eyes closed and focusing only on the sound
of the tumblers clicking in to place, he was able to get the door to swing
free.

He opened his eyes, and whistled softly. The safe wasn’t
nearly so well-organized as the closet. A pile of four handguns shared space
with rubber-banded sheaves of hundred-dollar bills and a haphazard pile of gold
chains and bracelets. There was even a baggie of cocaine; Biff could smell it
and assess it as high grade without opening the zipper lock.

There were no computer disks or drives inside, though. Biff
took everything out and examined each item twice before replacing it. He was
tempted to take the cocaine, replacing it with a note that read “Say No to
Drugs,” but decided it was safer to leave as little trace of his presence as
possible.

Where were the files? Did Laskin have them on a laptop with
him? In another location? Perhaps with his girlfriend Natasha? And why had he
taken them in the first place? What had appeared to be a simple job was
beginning to get irritating as the cast of characters grew and the stakes got
higher.

He had been so focused on the safe and its contents that he
was surprised to hear the sound of a key entering the front door slot. Quickly
he looked around. There was a sliding glass door leading to the second floor
balcony, and he nicked it open just enough so that he could transform into
smoke and slip through. But as soon as he was outside he had to return to human
form.

He stepped up on to the railing and flattened himself
against the wall. He looked into the apartment and saw Laskin, wearing a pair
of dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the first few buttons undone,
showing off a hairy chest and a gold coin on a rope chain around his neck.

He remembered sensing the magical power emanating from
Laskin the first time he encountered him, at the Marouschka restaurant. Now he
understood that the magic came from the gold coin. There was something familiar
about its energy signature, and Biff felt that with proper study he might be
able to identify the magician who had imbued the coin with its power.

But once again, the coin was not the problem; Laskin’s
presence was. Biff could not make himself invisible; that was a power reserved
only for the highest level of genies. He could transform himself into a puff of
smoke, but only for a moment, long enough to glide through a doorway, or slip
past a watchful eye. He could not stay outside for long or else someone might
notice him, and he could not get back into the apartment and out the front door
without Laskin’s seeing him.

He was trapped there. He could, with much effort, change his
corporeal body, but that would take days, and would do him no good out there.

He closed his eyes and focused on Laskin inside the
apartment. He peered around the corner with his third eye, trying to locate
Laskin and figure out what he was doing. And then, without warning, a foul
smell attacked him, coming from inside the apartment.

Laskin had farted.

Biff wrinkled his nose in disgust, but then he sensed the
man heading for the bathroom. Laskin didn’t close the door, and Biff heard the
sound of Laskin’s pants, heavy with belt, keys and wallet, hitting the tiled
floor.

He took that opportunity to slide back inside the apartment,
then walk as lightly as he could across the living room. He heard grunting
noises coming from the bathroom, and smelled more of Laskin’s disgusting farts.
With relief, he slipped through the space between the front door and the jamb,
and out into the hallway.

A couple in the next apartment were arguing in Yiddish and
Biff hurried down the hall, sure at any moment either the husband or wife would
come barreling out their door, followed by a barrage of kitchen equipment. He
sighed heavily as he reached the stairwell, just as the couple’s door opened
and the man tumbled into the hall, holding his hands over his head in
protection.

A flying colander came sailing out after the man, and Biff
didn’t wait around to see what happened next.

Biff woke at first light and went for a jog around his
neighborhood. Gated communities of townhouses stood next to a small industrial
park, and the streets curled around in a series of cul-de-sacs lined with palm
trees. South Florida reminded him of other hot places in his past, and he was
happy to live just off the beaten path, yet close enough to the ocean that he
could smell the salt air when the breeze was right.

While he ran he thought about Sveta and her stolen files. His
next step had to be to visit the bank where Laskin kept his safety deposit box.
He ended his run at his office, just a couple of blocks from the townhouse. He removed
the key he had copied the night before from its waxy bed and used fine
sandpaper to clean the edges. A special and very illegal program on his
computer allowed him to fill in a template for a Florida driver’s license,
inserting his own picture, along with Laskin’s name, address and license
number, which he had obtained when he lifted the man’s wallet. He practiced
Laskin’s signature a few times, then signed the blank and slipped it through
his laminator.

Then he called Jimmy Stein, a detective he knew with the
Miami-Dade Police department, which handled investigation for the
unincorporated parts of the county, like the neighborhood around Biff’s office.
“What time’s your break?” he asked. “I’ll buy your coffee.”

“You can buy me a bagel with a shmear,” Jimmy said. “I’ll
see you in an hour at the Bagel Barn.”

As Biff was locking the front door of his office, he saw
Sveta approaching down the mall hallway. He was embarrassed to be caught in his
jogging clothes rather than his usual business outfit of Hawaiian shirt and
khakis, but from the look on her face Sveta didn’t seem to mind.

She wore a shapeless smock with cartoon animals on it, and
her hair was bundled up in a pile on top of her head. “I am worrying, Mr.
Andromeda. Mr. Ovetschkin, he call me again this morning wanting files. You are
finding who stole them?”

“Please, call me Biff,” he said. “I know who stole your
files.”

“
Chorosho
! When will you get them back?”

“It’s not that easy. The man who stole them works for
Ovetschkin.”

Sveta’s mouth dropped open. “But why? Why take pictures of
boss’s wife?”

“That’s the question,” Biff said. “I don’t want to confront
him until I know more about what’s going on. “

“But Ovetschkin want files. He threaten me.”

“I know, Sveta. I’m working on it.” He looked at his watch. “As
matter of fact, I’m on my way to check something out.” He didn’t want to tell
Sveta he was breaking into Laskin’s safe deposit box or that he was talking to
a cop; that would only worry her. And he didn’t want to mention the AK-47s he
heard Ovetschkin and Laskin speaking about the night before either.

She stood up. “I have photo session with baby. You will let
me know?”

“Of course.” He jogged back to his townhouse, where he
changed from his jogging shorts and T-shirt into a conservative business suit
that disguised as much as possible his impressive musculature. Carrying his
laptop, he drove to the bank on Collins Avenue. He counted on there being so
much traffic through the bank that the clerk wouldn’t remember Laskin.

But he was wrong. The clerk, a young Hispanic woman whose
name tag read Yunexis, looked at the ID and then at Biff. Then she looked at
the ID again. “Please wait here,” she said, and she got up from behind her
desk.

“Is there a problem?”

“I just need to get my manager to sign off. I’ll be right
back.”

Biff could tell from the way she held herself stiffly and
avoided direct eye contact that she was lying. Either the cops had an alert on
Laskin, or she knew the man personally and realized Biff was an impostor.

“That won’t be necessary,” Biff said. He smiled at her and
opened his third eye, sending a jangle of confusing signals to Yunexis’s brain.

She stopped and looked at him, cocking her head like a bird.
“What was I doing?”

“You were about to take me to the safe deposit vault.”

“Oh. Yes. Come this way, please.” She pressed in ten numbers
on the key pad which Biff couldn’t help following and remembering. He figured
that you never knew when information would come in handy.

Then she turned to face him. “I’m sorry, I forgot your box
number.”

“No problem.” Biff read it off to her, and she found it in
the wall of similar boxes. She put her key in and turned it, and then Biff
inserted his.

“When you’re finished, just stop by at my desk,” she said.
Once she stepped out of the room, Biff withdrew the box from its drawer.

There was a neat stack of hundred-dollar bills, and another
of hundred-euro notes. A small velvet pouch which contained a half-dozen uncut
diamonds. A half-dozen gold coins in shrink-wrap. And beneath it all, a 2 MB
jump drive.

He opened his laptop and turned it on. Then he inserted the
jump drive and viewed thumbnail shots of the contents. He established that they
were boudoir photos of a very beautiful young blonde woman. Each one was named
“douschka” with a number. Satisfied, he shut down the laptop and pocketed the
jump drive. Before he closed the box, though, he counted out a wad of cash to
cover his fee and expenses. After all, why should Sveta have to pay, when
Laskin had stolen from her? It fit his notion of justice.

He returned the box to its slot and the lock snapped in
place. He waved at Yunexis as he walked past her desk, receiving only a
confused stare in return. Then he drove to home for a quick change of clothes,
then to the Bagel Bar, tucked away in an industrial complex off Ives Dairy Road
and only a few blocks away. He ordered a pumpernickel bagel for Jimmy, salt for
himself, along with a small tub of cream cheese and several strips of lox.
Coffee for Jimmy and orange juice for himself.  

As Biff was sitting down at a table by the window, Jimmy
walked in. He was in his mid-fifties, a portly guy with a crew cut and a New
York accent. “You never look a day older,” he said, shaking his head when he
saw Biff. “How do you do it?”

“Clean living.” Biff raised his orange juice glass in a
toast.

“Like I believe that.” Jimmy sat down heavily across from
Biff as the waitress brought a tray over with their food. “Jesus, how do you
eat so much salt?” he asked, watching Biff layer the lox and cream cheese on
his bagel. “Your blood pressure must be through the roof.”

“I like the taste. So listen, you know someone in the police
department over in Sunny Isles Beach?”

“What are you looking into?” Jimmy asked. He wore a khaki-colored
button-down microfiber shirt of the type favored by hunters and fishermen, with
mesh venting and odd-shaped extra pockets.