Hardboiled Crime Four-Pack

by Jack Bunker

  By the time I get back to the kitchen, enough coffee has dripped for me to pour a cup. I pull the carafe out of the machine, but there must be a few grains of grounds caught in the drip valve because the coffee keeps leaking onto the black metal warmer plate. Each drop goes up in smoky steam as it hits, smelling of burnt coffee, leaving a little spot that looks like a bloodstain. I pour fast and jam the carafe back in before the thing self-destructs.

  Next, I call Melody to tell her not to come back to the house until I tell her the coast is clear. The last thing I need is for her to get caught up as a hostage by Cogswell in order to lure me out of hiding.

  “I told you not to mess with Vlad,” she says, “but do you listen to me?”

  “It’s not Vlad, it’s his lawyer.”

  “Same difference. How are you going to find Sophia?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t have her cell phone.”

  “Well, I’m around if you need some help or a place.”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m not sure where I’m going to stay until I figure out a way to deal with Cogswell, but my house isn’t an option.

  It would be a pain to move in with Melody because she lives in a tiny studio apartment, so one of us would have to sleep on the floor, or we’d have to squeeze into her standard double Murphy bed, which isn’t much more comfortable. More important, it won’t take much for Cogswell to learn that she’s my assistant, so I should steer clear of her for her safety as well as mine.

  Holly isn’t in the running either, for the same reason, even if she’d have me.

  Angel is a possibility. As far as Cogswell knows, he’s my lawyer, nothing more. But if, god forbid, Cogswell found out I was there, it would endanger Angel’s wife and kids. I could never forgive myself if something happened to them because of me.

  My mother’s place is out of the question for every imaginable reason, not the least of which is I’d rather face Cogswell than have to listen to her kvetching all day.

  I don’t have the money to move into a motel or short-term rental.

  That leaves Gloria. I get exhausted just thinking about living round-the-clock with her creative libido, but at least she’s equipped to take on the potential danger. I give her a call. She tells me to come on over and bring my dick. I could have done without the coda.

  I throw some clothes in an overnight bag, grab my swim bag and a few paperbacks from the pile by my bed, and head out.

  On the ride over, something’s bugging me. Something Melody said that roiled my subconscious. Some fleeting thought that never got a chance to slow down for a tête-à-tête. I replay our conversation.

  I told you not to mess with Vlad, but do you listen to me?

  It’s not Vlad, it’s his lawyer.

  Same difference.

  I can’t hook it. This is happening more and more. Am I growing senile? My phone startles me out of my reverie. I don’t have my headset on, so I scoff the law and answer by hand.

  “Nob?”

  “Sophia! Thank god! I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “Well, don’t stop now,” says a voice that ices my spine. It’s Cogswell.

  SIXTY-THREE

  “You can’t go up there alone,” Gloria says. “I can have a SWAT team rolling in ten minutes.”

  “No SWAT. No guns,” I say, feeling the press of the Chief’s Special against the small of my back. “He’ll want to make a deal. It would be too dangerous for him to kill me now. He knows we’re working together on this. He’s got to assume I told you about his visit. He’s too exposed.”

  I hear a whirring sound through the phone line and realize she’s grinding down Runt’s claws with her electric minigrinder. She does this once a week.

  “Cornered animals are irrational,” she says.

  “Cogswell doesn’t do irrational. Logic is his animal instinct. It’s what he falls back on.”

  “That’s why he hasn’t killed her yet. He needs her to lure you in so he can kill you both.”

  I exit the 134 at Forest Lawn Drive and head toward the back entrance to Griffith Park. Cogswell told me to go straight to the merry-go-round and wait there for his call.

  I get caught behind a garbage truck doing about five miles an hour. I have to control the urge to blow my horn.

  “I’ll tell him I already told the police he tried to kill me. He’d be writing his own death sentence by killing me now.”

  A motorcycle speeds by me so close that I think his jacket’s going to catch on my side mirror. He shoots around the garbage truck causing an oncoming car to swerve onto the shoulder.

  “Only if we can prove it,” she says. “These guys have a lot of practice getting away with murder. On the other hand, if he doesn’t kill the two of you, either one of you can testify against him on the kidnapping charge. It’s a calculated risk.”

  I hear Runt yelp in the background. Gloria swears, and the whirring stops. She must have hit the quick of a claw. I imagine her reaching for the styptic powder while lying on top of Runt to keep him down.

  “At least let me meet you up there. It’s stupid to go alone.”

  “Stupid is my middle name.” It just comes out. I’m not sure what I mean. Another one of those just-barely-a-writer moments. But I don’t want any police presence. If Cogswell wants to kill me, there’s not much I can do about it in the long run. In the short run, I don’t see how setting up a shootout is going to help.

  “Besides, there’s no time,” I say. “He said I had to be there in exactly thirty minutes.” I check my dashboard clock. I’ve got two minutes left. I try to peer around the garbage truck to see if I can pass, but he’s too wide. I try to calm down. The truck slows to a stop at a stop sign. I cut around him and see a car at the opposing stop sign. I slam into a left turn in front of him, blasting my horn to make sure he sees me. He blasts his horn in return but doesn’t move.

  I can see the merry-go-round in the moonlight now, just down the road, but the seconds are ticking like hatchet blows. I swerve into a right turn through another stop sign and stomp on the gas to climb the hill fast. I swing into the parking lot on the dot and grab my phone in expectation. My finger hits a key and the phone lights up to show me that I’ve got no cells. Not a single bar.

  In a panic, I throw the car in gear and screech around the parking lot, staring at my screen, praying for a cell. Nada.

  Now what?

  I shut off my engine and drop my head on the steering wheel in frustration. I feel like banging it. Instead, I hear Melody’s voice.

  I told you not to mess with Vlad, but do you listen to me?

  It’s not Vlad, it’s his lawyer.

  Same difference.

  No it’s not!

  I jam the car back into gear and screech down the road heading for the 5 Freeway.

  Stupid is my middle name! How could I not see it before?

  I drive out of the park with the reckless determination of a kamikaze pilot, almost hitting a golf cart crossing the road as I check my missed calls. Why the hell is a cart here after dark? There’s one call from a blocked number that must have been Cogswell, but there’s no message. I’m not surprised. Either a message or a return number could be used against him in a court of law. But if he thinks I’m going to sit on my ass and stew in my own fear until he decides to call again, he’s in for a nasty shock.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I rush through the door like a freight train and run smack into a human wall. How do they move so fast? Only this time it’s not Petya and Isaak, it’s two other lugs. The Ugly Twins must still be with Cogswell. And Sophia. Somewhere else.

  Before I can even open my mouth I feel the cold circle of a gun barrel on the back of my neck and a hand slipping my .38 out of my waistband. I didn’t even remember it was there, but I guess these guys can smell them. Just to be safe, he pats me down.

  I strain to see into the back of the room, but there’s no sign of Vlad the Impaler. One of the Slavic monoliths has a plastic cigarette dangling f
rom his mouth, some sort of quit-smoking device. He’s wasting his time in here. The secondhand smoke is thicker than a Code Purple smog alert.

  “I need to see Mr. Bakatin,” I say.

  He takes the fake coffin nail out of his mouth. “He don’t need to see you.”

  I see the bartender/barista watching us intently and call out to him. “Leon! Remember me? Mr. Bakatin had you make me a dople. He knows me.”

  The thugs look over to Leon for some kind of sign. He reaches for a phone and punches a number. The place is silent as a shark, but he speaks into the receiver so softly that I can’t hear a word. Time stands still. After a moment he looks up.

  “He’s busy.”

  “Tell him I can prove he’s being double-crossed. If he doesn’t think what I have to say is worth his time, he can have my yáytsa after I’m finished.”

  Leon says something into the phone then smiles and hangs up.

  “He told me to sharpen my knife,” he says, then smiles as if savoring the prospect.

  The human wall responds to some hidden signal and opens up. At the same moment, Vlad Bakatin steps through a door in the back and sits down at his usual table. I head back to join him. This place is beginning to feel like a second home.

  “You got balls, Mr. Nob Brown,” he says as I take my seat. “We’ll see if you gets to keep them.”

  “Believe me. I didn’t come here for fun. Gary Cogswell came to my house tonight with Petya and Isaak. Did you know that?”

  His face is impassive. This is a guy who’d kill me at poker. I just hope that’s the only thing he’d kill me at. But I find it encouraging that his lack of response invites me to continue.

  “They tried to kill me and Lana Strain’s daughter. Then they kidnapped her when I escaped. It didn’t make sense. I asked myself, ‘Why would you send Cogswell and two goons to take a huge risk to stop a story about Lana Strain, a story that has nothing to do with you?’ And then bang, it hit me. You didn’t send him; he’s operating behind your back. And you have to figure a smart guy like Cogswell is not going to do something that stupid unless the alternative is even worse. He’s got to be hiding something from you that he’s afraid I’ll write about.”

  I haven’t thought this thing all the way through, so I’m winging it here, but I’ve still got his interest, so I must be on the right track. Vlad still says nothing, but he doesn’t stop me either.

  “So I ask myself, ‘What do I know about him that you don’t?’ It’s got to have something to do with Lana Strain. If he killed Ginger, that could be a problem, since she was a golden egg, and I know you’ve got a stake in Fun with Dick and Jane through Kocibey Development.”

  His eyes narrow. He’s not happy that I know this.

  “Look, it’s public record. Anyone can find out. If you’re worried about it, just pay your taxes. There’s nothing illegal about Dick and Jane.”

  “Just tell me vat you know.”

  “Well, I don’t think he did it, because he’s got no motive. So what else could it be? He was nervous about my story from the start. He broke into my house to search for my notes after the first time I came here. Why? Because he looted Lana Strain’s estate when he was her lawyer. Only Cogswell could have embezzled from her daughters without getting caught. But if that was all it was about, he’d have nothing to worry about. The statute of limitations has run out. He wasn’t afraid of the law, he was afraid of you. He knew that if you learned about his history, you might double-check your own books, and he’d get caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  The Impaler smiles. “You are full of theories, Mr. Brown, but vere is the facts.”

  “How about the fact that your consigliere has been sleeping with your porno partner behind your back?”

  “Jane vould not give Cogsvell time of day.”

  The way he says it makes me realize he’s been sleeping with her, too, and he thinks she’s been faithful.

  “She’s not fucking him for his body, she’s doing it to keep him in line. Jane’s in a perfect position to skim cash from Fun with Dick and Jane, and Cogswell’s in a perfect position to cook the books so you don’t find out. It’s a match made in heaven.”

  “Is just cheap gossip.”

  “I followed her to his house.” I actually followed him, not her, but I figure the little white lie couldn’t hurt.

  “He is attorney for company. It could be business meeting.”

  “Why hide it from you if it’s business?”

  Vlad says something to one of his thugs in Russian. The thug’s reply is impassioned, as if he’s defending Cogswell or, more likely, Petya and Isaak. Vlad looks increasingly persuaded. Finally, he turns back to me. “Boolsheet.”

  “I watched her let herself in the gate with a code. Is he the kind of guy who gives his security code to business acquaintances?”

  He resumes his discussion with his thug, seemingly reasoning something out. I’ve been assuming these guys are all muscle, including ear to ear, so I’m impressed that Vlad is considering the guy’s opinion. I don’t know what they’re saying, but it doesn’t look like the gist of it is leaning in my favor.

  “He’s got a good friend of mine,” I say. “I want her back.”

  Vlad moves a finger, and his thugs grab me and lift me out of my chair. I panic for my yáytsa.

  “I can give you proof!” I blurt.

  Vlad nods and they drop me back in the chair. I land on my tailbone and let out a yelp.

  “What kind proof?” His eyes sharpen with suspicion.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and feel four hands constrain me like an iron maiden.

  “They’re just photos,” I say. Vlad flicks an eyebrow and his hoods let me go. I slowly extract the printout I’d made for just this purpose and hand it to the Impaler. It has six shots in sequence.

  “It’s Jane,” I say, “letting herself into Cogswell’s house. Check her key ring. You’ll find his key.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I have the air conditioner on full blast, every vent pointed straight at me. The temperature in the car is probably in the low sixties. I’m still drenched in sweat.

  Why hasn’t Cogswell called?

  I try to conjure the gentle rhythm of Sophia’s breathing as she sleeps, the quiet purr of her latent snore, the sweet gust of her breath on my neck, the silky warmth of her skin against mine, but instead I see her in some backseat, crammed onto the floor, bruised, aching, and scared, her wrists duct-taped behind her tightly enough to make her hands throb from loss of circulation, her head filled with visions of a painful death.

  Call, damn it!

  In theory the Odessa is only fifteen minutes from Gloria’s, but in traffic it is taking twice that long. I went through a half dozen doples before hitting the road, and now I feel like I’m peaking on speed but stuck in a tar pit. I finally pull up in front but keep the motor running for the AC while I spring open my sunshade and wrestle it under my visors to cover the windshield. I spend another minute glaring at my cell phone, willing it to ring. The proverbial watched pot.

  Gloria’s not home, so I get her hide-a-key from the garage and let myself in. Runt pretends to be a watchdog for about half a second then runs up with his tail wagging, whining with excitement. I knead him with both hands behind his ears, and he flaps them for me.

  The place is hot but not lethal. Gloria has her thermostat set to “Oldsmobile,” as she calls it, by which she means eighty-eight. Hot enough to conserve energy but cool enough to keep Runt from slow roasting on days like this. I turn it down to “trombones.” Seventy-six.

  I want to jump in a cold shower to rinse off the sweat, but I’m afraid he’ll call while I’m in there. I settle for filling the sink with cold water and dunking my face a few times for as long as I can hold my breath. On the fourth dunk, my cell finally rings.

  I swipe my face with a towel so I don’t short out my phone. Then I answer.

  “Don’t you care about the girl?” he says.

  “You sent
me to a place without cell service.”

  “Bullshit. We checked it out.”

  “Your boys must not have AT&T.”

  “What does it take to get through to you, Brown?”

  I wish I knew what he wants me to say, but I don’t. Between the pressure of the situation and my worry for Sophia, it’s tough to think straight.

  “Just tell me what you want,” I say.

  “I want to tell you to your face.”

  “So you can kill us both? I don’t think so.”

  “Why would I want to kill you both?”

  “I don’t know. But you already tried once.”

  “If I wanted you dead, that’s what you’d be.”

  “I think you tried and failed. I’m not willing to give you a second shot.”

  “Do I have to send her ear in a box?”

  The thought of Sophia listening to his end of this conversation hits me with a wave of nausea.

  “Somewhere public,” I say.

  “Fine. But I won’t bring the girl.”

  “I’ll want to talk to her on the phone.”

  “Arclight Hollywood. Forty-five minutes. Just you.”

  I wonder if he knows I’m only ten minutes from there. I don’t tell him. We agree to meet in the bar and hang up.

  I wish Bakatin had returned my gun, but he hadn’t. I’m sure Gloria’s got an extra stashed somewhere. I could call her and ask, but I’m afraid of spilling the beans. The last thing I need is the cops showing up at my meet. I’m better off unarmed anyway. What am I going to do with a gun? Pull it out in a crowded theater?

  It’s just short of eleven p.m. when I order my iced coffee. The Arclight Cinema bar is dead, but the adjoining lobby is busy. Both privacy and witnesses, the perfect meeting place.

  The bartender puts a straw in my iced coffee and slides it in front of me. Tough guys don’t use straws. I leave it on the bar and drink from the glass. Appearance may not be everything, but right now it may be all I’ve got.

  I pick a semicircular booth with a view of the entrance and sit at one end. That way I’ve got a quick exit if I need one.