The Four-Night Run (20 page)

32

N
OMAD
A
BOUD

The Russian dragged Scrbacek down a steep set of stairs, along a narrow hallway, and into a basement office, windowless, ruthlessly plain, with a metal desk and a few folding chairs. A number of closed doors led out from the office. Behind a sign on the desk that read
BOSS
sat a little man with a porkpie hat, counting money, licking his thumb as he went through the bills.

In a chair in front of the desk sat another man, leaning back casually, skinny legs crossed, hands folded atop his potbelly, as if all were as normal as could be even though he was sheathed crown to toe in thick brown leather, with brown gloves, brown booties, a brown mask with holes for his eyes, a leather thimble for his nose, and a slit for his mouth, the edges of the slit sewed almost together with leather straps.

“I told him I can’t do it,” said the boss as he continued to count. “It’s too much. But the bastard told me I had no choice.”

The man in brown leather replied with evident sympathy, his voice muffled by the mask, “It’s getting crazier out there, everyone’s telling me.”

“So now I got to find an extra two thou a month,” said the boss. “Every month. It’s gotten so bad, I have to charge a cover even though all I can afford to put onstage is my aunt Gethsemane, and believe me, she wasn’t so hot even before the menopause. It’s killing my business.”

“We could sell some of your mutual funds,” said the leather man.

“Not when the market’s down.”

“What about your insurance annuity?”

“Maybe. With Blaze leaving me for that trucker asshole, what’s the point?”

“Plus, your returns have been disappointing.”

“Excuse me, boss,” said the bald Russian, hand still gripping Scrbacek’s collar. “Remember guy fat private eye with busted face he said we should be looking for?”

The boss stopped his counting and glanced up at Scrbacek and then turned back to his money. “That’s not him. The guy we’re looking for is bigger, and there was nothing about no bandage on his nose.”

“Still, boss, this is guy.”

“And he was supposed to have some class. This guy’s a bum. Look at that schmatta he’s wearing. Forget about it, Sergei.”

“I’m not the guy,” said Scrbacek.

“See,” said the boss. “He’s not the guy. Let him go.”

“Fat private eye showed picture in paper, boss. Picture had beady eyes of chicken thief. See this guy? In Russia, he would have feathers in his teeth.”

The boss stopped counting and turned his attention to Scrbacek. “Remember what I heard about him?”

“Yah, boss. I remember.”

“So show me.”

The bald man spun Scrbacek until he was facing the front of the desk. With one hand firmly on Scrbacek’s shoulder, he pulled apart Scrbacek’s coat, and jerked up his still-buttoned shirt along with the T-shirt underneath, exposing his chest.

The boss put down his money and leaned forward. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

The man in leather twisted stiffly to get a view. “Talk about odd.”

“Just like we was told,” said the boss. “J.D. Scrbacek, the man with three nipples.”

Just then, one of the doors opened, and a tall, drawn man in a suit walked slowly out, a fedora tilted forward to cover his face. The man took small pained steps, ignoring everyone as he made his way to the stairs. A tiny drop of blood fell from one of his cuffs.

“Hey, Mr. Posey,” said the boss, “you’re dripping.”

The man started, looked down at his wrist, and clasped it tightly with his other hand. Then he smiled meekly and said, “Sorry, Mr. Aboud.”

“Just be more careful next time, all right? I’m running a business here.”

“Yes, Mr. Aboud.”

In the lull, Scrbacek made his run for it. He twisted out of Sergei’s grip, brushed by Mr. Posey, headed for the stairs. He was just hitting the hallway when he felt a hand clamp around his neck, pulling him back. Scrbacek kept churning his legs, but he wasn’t any longer getting anywhere.

Suddenly a loud crack shot through the room.

Scrbacek, sure he had been shot, winced so violently he almost fell to the ground, despite Sergei’s grip on his neck. When he recovered enough to look up, he saw a woman leaning against the frame of the doorway out of which the sanguinary Mr. Posey had just departed, and the sight of her froze him in place.

She was big, with piles of blonde hair and breasts like great mounds of saltwater taffy. She stood with a whip in one hand and a cigarette in the other, her right leg propped against the opposite doorjamb. It was hard to tell if she was pretty, because she wore a black leather mask, which matched her black leather bustier and long black boots. It was hard to tell if she was pretty, but she sure as hell was something.

“Himmelfarb,” she sneered.

“Yes, Mistress Brewster,” said the man in leather, dropping to his knees.

“Have you been a bad little accountant?”

“Yes, Mistress Brewster.”

“Well then,” she said as she casually snapped her whip, loosing another loud crack. “It’s time for your punishment.”

“Yes, Mistress Brewster,” he said before scurrying, still on his knees, to the doorway and crawling under Mistress Brewster’s outstretched leg.

Mistress Brewster inhaled deeply from her cigarette, winked at Scrbacek, pushed herself off the doorframe, neck arching back, and closed the door behind her.

“Believe it or not,” said the boss, shaking his head, “he’s a godsend on April fifteenth.” The little man leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat, Scrbacek. Make yourself comfortable.”

Sergei dragged Scrbacek to the front of the desk and threw him into a chair before letting go of his neck. Scrbacek rubbed at the bruises.

“The name’s Aboud. Nomad Aboud. So, Scrbacek, can I get you anything? Something to eat? Something to drink? Cash?”

Scrbacek just stared at him.

“Take this.” Aboud took a pile of bills bound with a rubber band from his desktop and tossed them to Scrbacek. “It’ll come in handy.”

“I don’t need your money,” said Scrbacek.

“You don’t need my money? That’s a new one. Hey, Sergei, in all the years you been with me, you ever hear that from anyone before?”

“No, boss.”

“You’re an interesting guy, Scrbacek. Scrbacek, huh? What kind of name is Scrbacek?”

“Lebanese.”

“Really? So was my mother. I got family still up the coast from Beirut. Uncle Yassir. He sends me oranges every Christmas. ‘Uncle Yassir,’ I tell him, ‘it’s nice you sending me oranges all the way from Lebanon, but haven’t you ever heard of Florida?’ So what’s your game, Scrbacek? We’re having a hard time figuring you out. You still working for Breest?”

“Not anymore. Now I’m just trying to stay alive.”

“That’s a good plan. That’s my plan, too. Well, listen, take the money or don’t take the money, it’s up to you. But anything you need, you let me know. I want to help. Here.” Aboud opened a desk drawer, reached his hand in, and plopped a large black gun onto his desk. Scrbacek flinched at the sight of it. “It’s a Zastava. Those Serbs might be bastards, but they know their guns. Unloads like so.” He hit the catch at the heel of the butt and pulled out the magazine. “Holds nine rounds with one in the chamber. Nine millimeter. Sweet.” He slapped the magazine back in place. “Untraceable, but it’s got a kick, so watch out.” He slid the gun along the desktop toward Scrbacek.

Scrbacek picked up the gun. It was heavier than he’d imagined, and it exuded the rich slick scent of machine oil. As he eased his finger into the trigger guard, his heart began to race with an excitement that was almost sexual. He could escape now, blast his way past Sergei and out of this basement. Nomad Aboud had just punched his ticket to freedom.

His hand tightened on the grip for just a moment and then loosened. “I don’t want a gun.”

“The way I hear, you’re going to need it. You know, my daddy, he taught me a lesson early. ‘Nomad,’ he said. ‘A man without a gun, he’s just a man. A man with a gun, now that’s a man to be reckoned with.’”

“What happened to your father?”

“Ran his car into a train. Never was the best driver, Dad, but he knew his way around a pistol. Look, Scrbacek, the old lady told me to look out for you, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“The old lady? Blixen?”

“I’ve known her forever. Most around here think she’s a crazy old loon, but I grew up with her daughter. Una Blixen. Nice girl, Una. She died in the ocean, surfing around the pylons of the pier. Wave caught her wrong, and she banged her head on a wooden post. She drowned not twenty yards from where the Mount Olympus now sits. The old lady’s never been the same, but I remember what she was before. Used to be some tony professor over at the university, though you wouldn’t know it to smell her nowadays.”

“That’s a sad story.”

“This town’s got a million of them. So what are you really after?”

“Answers.”

“And what are you going to do when you get them?”

“Damage.”

Aboud chuckled. “Then keep the gun. But you better do your damage fast before they do it to you.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Scrbacek leaned forward. “Who’s after me?”

“Good question,” said Aboud. “Some fat asshole PI was here this afternoon asking about you, an idiot named Trent Fallow. You know Fallow?”

Scrbacek’s shoulders stiffened. “Yeah, I know Fallow.”

“You know who he’s working for?”

“I thought I did, but not anymore. Could be anyone waving a turkey leg in the air.”

“So you do know him. Look, there are hoods who ain’t pleased with what’s happened in the last few days, and he might be shilling for them, but they’re not the ones who started it all. That car bomb thing and the fire in your building, if you didn’t do it, then we don’t know who did.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Of course you didn’t. If you did, the gun would already be pointed at my face. Too bad about that kid in the car, though. Was he a friend?”

“Yes.”

“This is a bad business all around.”

“Tell me about Malloy.”

“Malloy,” said Aboud, shaking his head sadly. “Now there was a man to be reckoned with. You got to understand how bad things have gotten. You have Breest on the one hand squeezing everything to death. And on the other hand, you got the state coming in on behalf of the casinos, trying to sweep us out because we”—making quotation marks with his fingers—“‘adversely affect their resort image.’ The state’s trying to buy us out, the carrot, and kick us out, the stick. Speaking of sticks, you’ll never guess who’s in my club tonight.”

“The first assistant county prosecutor?”

A chuckle. “You’re an impressive guy, aren’t you?”

“He’s waiting for me. I asked him to come.”

“Next time pick some other joint. It makes me nervous him sitting in my shop. He’s been fighting for years to clean Crapstown of its vices on his way to the governorship. But what’s the point? I mean, let’s be honest, without the vices there’s nothing left in this whole damn town.”

“About Malloy.”

“Malloy. Malloy.” Aboud propped his shiny brown loafers on the desktop. “We couldn’t figure out whose side to be on—Breest’s, who at least wants us to stick around, or the state’s, which pretends to be on our side even though they’d be happier if we just disappeared. It was always one way or the other. Malloy was telling us about a different route.”

“Different how?”

Aboud looked at Scrbacek for a long moment. “The Inner Circle’s split on you. Some think you’re nothing but trouble. I figure the way things are going, trouble’s an improvement. Anyway, take this at least.” He took a card out of his pocket, flipped it over, started writing. “I’ll give you the private number.”

“Tell me about the C-Town Furies.”

“Sorry, pal, there’s only so much I’m allowed to say. You were Caleb Breest’s attorney, after all. But at least you’re asking all the right questions.” Aboud passed the card to Scrbacek. “You need anything, anything at all, give me a call.”

Scrbacek took the card and stared at it for a moment before sticking it in his shirt pocket. Then he slid the Zastava back across the desk. “I don’t want the gun. I’m liable to kill somebody with it.”

“That’s the point. It’s like in that gangster movie. Someone comes at you with a fist, you bring a knife. Someone comes with a knife, you grab a gun.”

“They’re coming at me with guns. What do I bring, a bazooka?”

“You interested?” said Nomad Aboud, smiling. “Because if you’re interested, I know a guy who knows a guy.”

“Yeah,” said Scrbacek, “I just bet you do.”

33

G
ETHSEMANE
’
S
T
EETH

Upstairs at Nomad’s.

Scrbacek slipped through the beaded curtain, under Sergei’s stern gaze, and headed into the red-tinged darkness. On the stage, Aunt Gethsemane’s belly shook to some brassy song piped through the speakers. Scrbacek winced at the sight as he passed a sad and thin assortment of bored drinkers, two men with hats at the bar, a lady with a bag on her lap. A pretty young thing who was neither pretty nor young reached out a claw for him as he walked by. He stopped, finally, at a booth that had a view of the stage. The prosecutor eyed him severely as Scrbacek slid into the bench opposite him. There were two beers on the table and a bowl of peanuts.

“What is happening to my town?” said Surwin, rage clenching his teeth.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“That’s what you’re trying to find out? Who the hell elected you to save the city?”

“Let’s say I was drafted.”

“And who’s your supervisor, Scrbacek? Who makes sure half the city doesn’t burn down as you conduct your little search? Who protects the innocent citizen who gets in your way, like Ethan Brummel? Who protects the Constitution? What is going through your head? Are you insane?”

“Insanely pissed.”

Surwin’s jaw locked, and his neck flared. He tried to speak, but only a growl came out before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was under control. “You look like hell,” he said.

“Rough couple of nights.”

“What happened to your nose?”

“Some hood tried a little nip and tuck in the alley behind Ed’s.”

“The gangbang I heard about. How’d you survive?”

“I’ve got skills,” said Scrbacek.

“Not those skills. And what’s with the sleeve of your raincoat?”

Scrbacek looked at the loose flap of material. “A sniper, sitting outside as my building burned to the ground. He took a shot at me when I fled the flames.”

“A sniper?”

“With a silencer. Went right through my arm. An unlicensed sawbones patched me up.”

“So you didn’t blow up your own car or burn down your own building?”

“Does that even make sense?”

“I could make it make sense in court. But I’ll probably never get the chance, since half the force thinks you’re guilty as hell and wants to shoot you dead to spare the citizenry the expense of a trial.”

“Is that the half of the force that showed up at Jenny Ling’s house ready to kill me on sight?”

Surwin took a handful of peanuts. “I always liked Jenny.” He shook the peanuts in his hand. “She seeing anyone now?”

“Me.”

“Funny, I didn’t get that impression.”

“Why, what did she say?”

Surwin smiled and popped some of the peanuts into his mouth. “Tell me about Freaky Freddie Margolis.”

“Someone stole my phone and fenced it through him. When he turned it on, the people after me traced its location.”

“What happened on Ansonia Road?”

“Someone called Dirty Dirk to tell him of my presence there.”

“Dirk?”

“That’s right, and a few moments later a hit squad came after me. You want to know who was leading the squad?”

Surwin just stared.

“Remi Bozant,” said Scrbacek.

Surwin’s eyes widened.

“And you want to know who was with Dyer when she stomped into Jenny Ling’s house looking for me, and who ghosted out the back door just as you rolled up?”

“Remi Bozant?” said Surwin.

“You’re catching on.”

“Let’s go back to the office. I’ll take your statement. We’ll get a task force grinding on the problem.”

“Forget it.”

“You just can’t run around my town, Scrbacek, like a woodchuck with his tail on fire.”

“A woodchuck? With his tail on fire?”

“That’s right.”

“How does that happen, his tail catching on fire?”

“Maybe like an idiot, he ran through a campfire, or maybe it wasn’t his fault at all. Maybe it was an act of God. See, that’s the thing. It doesn’t matter how the fire started. Running around like a woodchuck with his tail on fire as the city burns down behind you is a guaranteed way to lose your popularity. But we’ll protect you. We’ll find the answers. Come on in.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think you guys could protect a tennis ball.”

Surwin leaned back and took a long pull from his beer. “I could arrest you on the murder and arson charges right now.”

“But you won’t.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you said you wouldn’t, and because you know I’m being set up.”

“I do?”

“Let me guess. All those weapons found in the basement, all that plastic explosive. Not a fingerprint.”

“You were careful.”

“Careful enough to leave no fingerprints but sloppy enough to leave the weapons in my basement so they could be discovered after the fire? I was set up. By Bozant and Dyer. The phone message, the visit to the Brummels, it was a setup from the start.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

Surwin took another pull from his beer and looked around at the desolate surroundings. “The dancers here used to be younger.”

“So I heard.”

“I must say, it was a little livelier when the dancers were younger.”

“Why, Prosecutor Surwin, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

Scrbacek looked up at Aunt Gethsemane going at it onstage. She shook her belly, grinned madly, and her teeth fell out.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Scrbacek as he stood.

Surwin watched him for a moment and then stood himself, dropping some bills on the table.

“I’ve got more questions,” said Surwin as they walked side by side through the bar, past the beaded curtain, past Sergei on his little stool, into the cool night air. “I need details.”

“Uh-uh. It’s my turn,” said Scrbacek. “Last night, in that house they burned down on Ansonia Road, I had my fortune read by the Contessa Romany.”

“The Contessa Romany? From the boardwalk? With the sign?”

“The same.”

“I’ve had a few chats with her myself.”

“Tarot?”

“Bunco.”

“Well, the Contessa, she said the answer to who is trying to kill me is in my past, my present, and my future. I’ve already checked out my past. You’re going to show me my present.”

“And how do I do that?”

“I’m haunted, it seems, by the ghost of one man, still very much alive, whom I served, for good or ill, to the best of my abilities.”

“And who would that be?”

“Caleb Breest,” said Scrbacek. “It’s time I learned who my client truly is.”