JM01 - Black Maps (27 page)

A few food stalls were opened, including one that sold pretzels slathered in butter and cinnamon. A security guard leaned at the counter, eating one and dripping melted butter on his radio. He was maybe twenty-one, about five foot seven and a hundred and thirty pounds. His hair was already thinning, and he had bad skin and a ratty moustache. He wore a blue and gray uniform with Trident Metro Security patches on the shoulders and over the breast pocket. I saw a couple of his comrades as I strolled farther down the mall, but I didn’t see Trautmann.

At the midpoint of the mall, a wide corridor branched off to the left, leading to more vacant storefronts, the mall offices, the loading dock, and the rear parking lot. Trautmann was at the far end, with a tall, stocky guy in a Trident uniform. Trautmann had his big hand on the guy’s shoulder, and they were walking away from me, toward the doors to the loading dock. They went through, and the corridor was empty. I walked down. There was no one in the mall offices; the corridor was still empty. I walked farther down. The doors to the loading dock were ajar.

“I know how it is, Brian,” I heard a voice say. It was a deep, friendly voice, with a heavy New York accent and wry, amused undertones. It was a voice you could have a couple of beers with, and a laugh about the general ridiculousness of things. “You need a little extra cash, a little more than I’m paying you, so you move a little weed, maybe some crank. I know how it goes, Brian, believe me—”

Brian cut him off. “I swear, Bernie, it was just the once. No shit, just one time.” Brian was young and scared. “I got jammed up with this guy in Hempstead, and I had almost all the cash, and I went down to AC to get the rest, and nothing worked for me. I mean nothing. Not the craps, not the slots, not blackjack—I couldn’t do nothing.” Brian was practically wetting his pants. “And then the guy was really squeezing me, I mean bad, and I was scared and . . . I fucked up, Bernie, I know it. It was my bad, but it was just the once, I swear.”

Trautmann was laughing. “AC? Jesus, Brian, how fucking stupid was that? And playing the slots? What were you thinking? Shit, you might as well take your money and burn it—save yourself the trip.” He laughed some more, very relaxed. Mr. Friendly. “So, did it work—the dealing? Did you pay the guy off? He leaving you alone?” Mr. Friendly-Concerned now.

“Yeah, yeah he is.” Brian was relaxing. “Jesus, what a fucking prick that guy is, too. A big fucking hard-on.” Laughing now.

“Don’t you hate that?” Trautmann asked, chuckling. “Don’t you just fucking hate that?” And then there was a loud, wet, cracking sound— like a watermelon hitting pavement, and a startled cry and the sound of a body falling down.

“Gee, did that hurt, Bri? I guess that was my bad, huh?” Trautmann said, laughing. “Now don’t go crying like some kind of pussy, Bri. Be a man, for chrissakes. Here . . . stuff this in your mouth if you can’t fucking control yourself.” And then there was another cracking sound and muffled sobbing.

“So, this Hempstead guy’s a real hard-on, huh Bri, a real prick? Jeez, what does that make me? Fucking Mickey Mouse? Is that what I am, Brian?” Another crack, and then a bunch of dull thuds, like a sack of potatoes falling down stairs. More stifled sobs. “You think I give a shit what you do? You can fucking sell skag to babies for all I care. Just don’t do it on my time, or at one of my places.” A flurry of smacking sounds, like somebody pounding cutlets, and then some pleading words I couldn’t make out.

“Shh . . . shh . . . take it easy, now, take it easy.” Some shuffling and dragging sounds. “There you go, there you go . . . jeez, Brian, you fucking pissed yourself. Yuck.” Trautmann was laughing harder. “Okay, okay. Give me your wallet. Fuck, I’m not going to touch it. Just take the money out.” Trautmann chuckled. I heard bills folding. “You still driving that Camry? Yeah? Give me the keys. You’re going to send me the title when you get home today, right?” I heard jingling, then a quick shuffling of feet and a loud smack and another desperate moan. “Just so you don’t forget to send my title, yeah?” Then, the sounds of someone brushing off his hands and his clothes.

“Got to boogie, Bri, it’s been a blast. You go clean yourself up and then you get the fuck out of here, ’cause if I see you again, you’re going to think this was a walk in the park.
Capice,
buddy?” The outer door opened and closed, and then all I heard was Brian’s exhausted sobbing, my own heart pounding, and “Rockin’ Rudolf” playing through the loudspeakers.

The corridor was still empty. A ribbon of sweat slid down my spine. I headed back the way I’d come, at a jog. The mall was still pretty empty. I pushed through the doors to the parking lot and spotted my Taurus. The rusting pickup was gone, and in its place was a black Audi A8. I walked toward it. Trautmann got out and rested his forearms on the roof of the car and looked across at me.

“Do I know you?” he asked, smiling. “I mean, we’ve spent so much time together today, I feel like I should fucking know you.” His smile was broad and a little ironic, and there was an amused look in his narrow blue eyes. His leather jacket hung open, and I saw an automatic holstered under his left arm. I looked at him a while. His smile never wavered.

“We don’t know each other, Bernie, not yet. But I think maybe we should,” I said.

“Ohhh . . . you know my name,” he said in mock terror. “I got goose bumps all over.” He was still smiling. “You have some business with me—need to hire on some security, maybe? Or maybe you got a crush on me, looking for a pair of my shorts to sniff?”

“I’m sure your underwear’s really cool, but I just want to talk.”

“Talk is great, I love it. Can’t get enough talk. We can sit down and have some cocktails and talk our fucking heads off, just as soon as you tell me who you are and what you want and why you’re following me all over the fucking place.” He was still smiling, and his eyes hadn’t left me.

“My name’s March, and I want to talk to you about MWB and Gerard Nassouli,” I said. I didn’t expect he’d go pale and break out in a sweat and get weak in the knees and confess all—though it would’ve been nice. I didn’t think he’d go for his gun and shout, “You’ll never take me alive” and start blazing away, either. I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic, and Trautmann didn’t disappoint me. The smile stayed fixed, and so did the gaze. He didn’t bat an eyelash. He just was quiet for a couple of beats.

“You’re not a fed.” It wasn’t a question. He looked at me some more. “Not a cop. You private?” I nodded. His smile widened a little. “Maybe while we talk you want me to throw in some tips on running a tail, huh? I mean—no offense, buddy—but you were fucking terrible. You might as well have been riding in the car with me.” I smiled but didn’t say anything. Trautmann held his hands up. “Hey—I’m just busting balls. It’s a bitch to do with just one guy, I know. Who’d you say you’re working for?”

“I didn’t,” I answered and kept on smiling. Trautmann laughed. We stood there for a while, looking at each other and smiling, a couple of smart guys, wise to the world. Then I told him my story about the writer. He nodded while I told it, like it was the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard.

“A writer . . . that’s cool. I’m a big reader—love reading the way I love talking. Maybe I read some of this guy’s books. What’s his name?”

“You’d probably know it, Bernie. He’s a pretty well-known guy. And that’s the thing—until he decides he’s going to take on this project, he doesn’t want his name mentioned. Afraid it might get too many other people interested—kind of muddy the waters.” He nodded again, like this was just getting more and more reasonable.

“Muddy waters . . . yeah, I hate that shit too. And you want to talk about the bad old days, huh? Well, I’ll tell you . . . you got a first name there, March?”

“John.”

“I’ll tell you, Johnny, I spent about a million hours under the hot lights, talking to Uncle about the bad old days—everything about ’em, down to what socks I wore and when—and I’m pretty fucking talked out on that subject. Know what I mean? But, shit, I tell you what—you go down to Federal Plaza, and tell the boys down there they have my okay to tell you everything I said to them. You tell ’em Bernie sent you. They’ll fix you right up.” He laughed deeply. Then he put his hands up again. “Hey—I’m just busting balls again, Johnny. I can’t help myself, I swear. I need like a twelve-step or something. Seriously, you want to talk a little? You got some questions? I’ll see if I can help you out.” It was my turn to nod, like I believed every word. “Come on, let’s go grab some coffee. Or you want something stronger?” he asked.

“Coffee’s good,” I said.

“There’s a Starbucks up the street. Hop in; I’ll bring you back here after.”

I shook my head. “Right here is fine with me. I want to try one of those pretzel things.”

“Whatever,” Trautmann said, shrugging. He shut his car door and locked it with an electronic key. He walked around the car toward me. I stepped back a few paces and gestured for him to go first through the glass doors, into the mall. He smiled some more and walked ahead of me.

“Business must suck, huh, if the best you can do is that fucking rent-a-ride,” he said, walking ahead of me and chuckling. “Shit, there I go again. I told you, I can’t help it.” He reached for the doors, and an alarm exploded behind me.

He was fast—very fast. I was looking for it—waiting for it—and all the same he nearly cleaned my clock. I started when the alarm blared— my eyes flickered involuntarily to the Audi, and my attention wavered for a half second—less. But it was enough for him. Trautmann pivoted into a high, fast, spinning kick, and if I hadn’t been already tensed and waiting it would’ve taken my head clean off.

I leaned away and tried to block it with my right arm, but his boot tagged me on the shoulder and slid off and grazed my head above the ear. My arm went numb, and I heard the muffled
whump
before I felt the impact and saw the stars. I rolled with it, then bent and pivoted on my right foot and threw a kick backward at him with my left. I don’t know what I was aiming at or if I was aiming, but I caught him on the hip as he was setting up another kick. It threw him off balance and sent him skidding backward into the doors. I followed fast and covered up with my right arm, which was still mostly useless, and caught him once with my left fist in the kidneys and again with my forearm in the face. It was like hitting a sandbag.

Trautmann grunted, and tagged me hard in the ribs with a short left. Then he grabbed a massive handful of my sweatshirt and dragged me in close and brought down two big, fast overhand rights. I caught some of them on my left arm, but not enough. His fist was like a sack full of cobblestones, and now my left arm was numb. A few more of those would send me down. I stepped in closer to him and jammed my left thumb at his eye. He saw it coming and turned his head, but he didn’t see my right thumb. It caught him in the soft part of the throat, under his Adam’s apple, and I dug in hard. He gagged and drew back a little, and when he did I slammed my head down on his nose. I heard a liquid crunch.

“Fuck!” he roared, and I pushed him away and my shirt tore and he stumbled backward, holding a hunk of it. “Motherfucker!” he yelled. He scrabbled upright and had his hand on his gun and stopped when he saw the Glock in mine.

He stood there, coiled in a half crouch, breathing hard, his hand on the butt of his gun, looking at me. His nose was bleeding and it was pulpy looking and might have been broken. There was an angry purple patch at the base of his throat, and a welt on his cheek. But there was no hatred in his eyes and no anger—no emotion at all—just cold appraisal.

My heart was pounding, and it was tough to hold the gun steady. Feeling was coming back in my right arm, but I didn’t know how it’d take the recoil if I had to shoot him. Then he dropped his hand and put his palms out and stood up, relaxed and smiling. I took a deep breath and stepped back a couple of paces.

“I guess we’re not going to have that talk, huh?” I said, after a while. Trautmann snorted.

“Oh, we’ll talk, Johnny,” he said, chuckling. His voice was raspy. “I’ll do a little homework, and then we’ll have a long talk. See, I know something about you now. I know you’re not just a pussy PI like I thought. I know you’re quick, and you take a punch pretty good. And next time we talk, I’ll know even more. We’ll have a great fucking conversation.” He blew his nose onto the pavement, and a lot of blood came out. He looked at it and shook his head and smiled. “That’s a promise,” he said, and he went through the doors into the mall, laughing to himself.

I walked back to my Taurus and leaned against it and took some deep breaths. I looked around. The lot was quiet. The traffic on Roslyn Road was sparse and distant. It was a quiet, cold, gray day. It was barely nine-thirty. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, and my arms and legs were shaking. Pain was starting to register. The cut above my right ear was bleeding down the right side of my face. The other side was tender and starting to swell, and the inside of my mouth was cut. I was pretty sure I had a busted rib, and my arms would soon be a purple mess. I got in the car and drank some water and breathed some more. I put my gun on the seat next to me, and then I left Roslyn Meadows, and drove slowly and carefully back into the city.

Chapter Seventeen

“Ai-yah,”
Jane Lu gasped, “what happened to you?” She was getting off the elevator as I was getting on. She was dressed in an orange turtleneck, khaki pants, and a black leather jacket. Her perfect brow was knit with concern, and her mouth was set in a small frown.

“I’d smile insouciantly, but my face hurts too much. What are you doing home now? I thought you had a real job.” It was Friday afternoon, and I was just back from the St. Vincent’s emergency room, where I’d been poked, prodded, scanned, and pronounced more or less fit. Rest, ibuprofen, call if I started seeing things, lay off running for a couple of weeks. The pills they’d given me hadn’t fully kicked in, and I was still enveloped in a thin haze of pain.