by Matt Goldman
“Yeah. I suppose you are.”
That’s what I did. The big guy hugged me back.
I said, “I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re going to vacation together.”
“When’s the last time you took a vacation with a guy?”
“Never, because I didn’t have one to vacation with.”
“I suppose,” said Jameson.
We said goodbye. I wheeled my carry-on back to Larchmont Boulevard and got in the car. Ten minutes later, I walked into the police station on Wilcox and bailed out Brit with $20,000 in cash.
I did not give the police the rest of the 5 million. I never intended to.
Brit got into the passenger seat and said, “You fucking saved me, Nils. Damn lawyer said she couldn’t post bond until tomorrow morning. I thought I was going to spend the night in there.”
“I figured if they hadn’t let you go, they must have charged you.”
“They did. About three hours ago. Manslaughter. Ugh.” She turned in her seat and looked at me. “Thank you again. I just want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.”
“That’s what you should do. But not at Ebben’s.”
“What? Why not?”
“You need to sleep somewhere else tonight. You’ll be safe. Vasily has Ebben. He has no incentive to hurt anyone else.”
“He knows where I live.”
“So stay at a nice hotel. On me.”
“No, I want to stay—”
“Brit. It’s not happening. You have no choice.”
She got small and quiet. We stopped at Ebben’s to pick up a bag of her stuff. When she threw it in the car, she saw my carry-on and said, “Are you going home tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
I didn’t tell her that because it wasn’t true. But I’d lied to Jameson, I should have had no problem lying to Brit. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Brit closed the tailgate and returned to the passenger seat. “Wait a minute. Are you pissed at me because you bailed me out?”
“Not even close. It wasn’t my money.”
“Whose was it?”
“Vasily’s.”
“What? How is that possible?”
I said nothing and headed to the Peninsula hotel in Beverly Hills, gave her $3,000 in prepaid credit cards, and told her it would all be over in a day or two so she should relax, eat some good food, and go nuts at the spa.
In front of the hotel, suit-clad men appeared at both driver and passenger door. I rolled down my window and said, “Just dropping her off.”
“Of course, sir.”
Brit didn’t move. She said, “Am I ever going to see you again?”
“Probably not.”
“Well, what about my actress turned private investigator idea? Who’s going to help me with that?”
I shrugged then got out of the Land Rover and grabbed her bag. The suit-clad man opened her door, and Brit stepped out. A man took the bag from me and wheeled it into the hotel.
Brit looked at me with wet eyes, shook her head, and hugged me hard. She sniffled in my ear and stepped back, gave me one last glance, and disappeared into the hotel. I got back into the car and drove east.
I took a circuitous route to make sure Vasily wasn’t following and called Gabriella.
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
Gabriella Nuñez said, “I’m glad you did. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I love you so much.” I didn’t know who might be listening to this phone call—it’s something you have to think about now. I said, “Can’t wait until I see you again.”
“When might that be?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”
“Just maybe?”
I said, “You know I love you like I’ve never loved anyone, right?”
“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”
“The rumors are true.”
“Good. And right back at ya, sailor. You taking care of yourself out there?”
“Trying my best.”
Neither of us said anything for ten or fifteen seconds. Then Gabriella broke the silence. “I won’t tell you to walk away from your job. I know how I’d respond if someone said that to me. But your lucrative paid vacation to California has changed into you being grossly underpaid to put yourself in harm’s way. And dammit, Nils, you had better use your best judgment. You had better keep yourself safe. Not for you. Not even for Evelyn. But for me. Yes, I’m going to be selfish about this. You’d better come back to me. ’Cause it’ll fuck me up if you don’t. Got it?”
I took a few breaths and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“All right. Good night. Come home soon.”
I didn’t want to get off the phone with her, but I had one more call to make. I said, “Being grossly underpaid to put myself in harm’s way is kind of what cops do.”
I could hear her smile. “It’s exactly what cops do.”
“Good night, beautiful person. I love you.”
“I love you, Nils.”
I drove a few more blocks, circling back in a haphazard way to check for tails. Nothing. Stopped at a liquor store on Beverly and bought a bottle of Midleton. One hundred and eighty dollars, but the situation called for it, especially since it was Vasily’s $180.
When I returned to the car, I called Ellegaard and woke him.
He said, “Any word on Ebben?”
“Nothing new. Just wanted to say I should be wrapped up here soon regardless of what happens with Ebben. Only so much I can do.”
“Hmm,” said Ellegaard.
“Couple more things, then I’m done.”
“I don’t like the sound of that, Shap. That little talk we had in the office. I may have spoken without thinking things through all the way when I said you’d resent your family if you played it safe.”
“You’ve thought everything through all the way since you were born.”
“Nice of you to say. But playing it safe for me is different than playing it safe for you. And I didn’t take that into consideration.”
I said, “You want it stricken from the record?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll see you soon, Ellie. Go back to sleep.”
“Don’t call me Ellie. And I don’t like the sound in your voice.”
“Good night.” I hung up before he could say another word. I circled around the block again. Still no tail. A few minutes later I parked in Ebben’s driveway, grabbed my carry-on out of the tailgate, and rolled it through the front door. I went to the kitchen, found a solid lowball, and pressed it against a lever in the freezer door. Four ice cubes dropped into the glass. I usually take no ice. Sometimes one cube. But I needed that sound of ice tinkling in a glass of alcohol. Maybe I could have achieved it with water but it’s not quite the same sound. I filled the lowball with Midleton. I took it into the living room, sat in a comfy chair, put my feet up, and texted Vasily. Call me.
44
LAPD detectives Hall and Montanio showed their true characters when they wouldn’t go to their CO about the 5 million I suggested Thom Burke had skimmed and hidden in his house. The detectives were loud and clear. I could not trust them, and they didn’t give a shit about me. Or Ebben Mayer. I considered calling my FBI friends at the Minneapolis Field Office so they could relay what I’d learned to the Los Angeles Field Office, but I didn’t know the L.A. agents. And a field office, just like a police precinct, is only as good as its officers.
I considered setting a trap for Vasily. Law enforcement hiding in the closet and all that. But if taken into custody, he wouldn’t talk. He was far more afraid of whoever invested the 20 million through him than he was of the police or FBI. And if he didn’t talk, Ebben Mayer might starve to death wherever he was being held.
I thought of going to the press—maybe if they told my story local law enforcement would act properly. But that would lead to two thing
s: Jameson and I would get arrested for breaking into Thom’s house and stealing $5 million, and Vasily would become even more desperate.
Vasily was on the hook for $20 million. Whoever gave him the money wasn’t the type to write it off as a bad investment. They were the type to make an example of Vasily one fingernail at a time. One bone at a time. One testicle at a time. Maybe he’d been there before. Maybe with someone who made an example of him one eye at a time.
Vasily was fighting for his life. A rat in a glue trap. He’d chew off his own foot to escape. He’d sacrifice Ebben Mayer.
The eye patch called twelve minutes after I’d texted him. From yet another burner. He said, “Buddy, when does my 20 million come?”
I held the lowball near the microphone of my phone. I swirled the ice. It sounded like a Fairy Godmother had just waved her wand. “Vasily, Ebben’s family won’t pay. His fiancée is dead. The FBI is trying to raise the money.”
“Why FBI?”
“Kidnapping is a feral … federal offense…” I’d downed a couple ounces of alcohol, just enough to help me feel a slight buzz. The town was full of actors, but I wasn’t one of them so I needed a little help. “So that’s who you’re dealing with. The motherfucking FBI.” I slurped a sip of Midleton, held the phone away, and spit it onto my shirt. More ice tinkling in the glass. I could hear him thinking.
“Buddy, why you text me to call?”
“Come on, Vasily. You’re being stubborn. Bring me Ebben, and I’ll give you $5 million. Think of what you can do with that.” I felt a burp rising in my chest. I let it escape. “Five million. You can disappear. Hey, you know where it’s supposed to be just awesome now? Colombia. It’s safe. And beautiful. And the women. Come on, man. You could live like a king for the rest of your life on 5 million in Colombia. A big house. A live-in maid. A chef. A pool surrounded by bikinis.”
Vasily didn’t respond. I planted an idea, but he had to cultivate it, make it take root. He said, “I think about it. When could you get money?”
“That’s the best part! I have it. Now.”
“When bank opens.”
“No! I have it. I found it at Thom’s. Hidden in a safe that was inside an old TV.”
“I don’t want safe. I want 5 million.”
“No, no, no. Vasily, you don’t understand.” More tinkling. Another sip. I held the phone away and spit it out. “It wasn’t a high-security safe. Average piece of shit you’d buy at Office Universe or one of those kinds of places. I drilled the shit out of it and opened it in less than an hour. I have the 5 mil in cash. Well, 4.9 something of it and 20,000 of it is in prepaid credit cards but those work just like cash. Even better. Because you can buy airline tickets with them.”
“Buddy, you have 4.9 million. Right now? In cash and cards?”
“Yes. In Ebben’s living room. Come on, Vasily. Bring Ebben home. I’m tired.” After a long pause, I said, “Vasily? You still there?”
He said, “Go sleep, buddy. I call in morning.” He hung up.
I walked to the kitchen, uncorked the bottle of Midleton, poured some down the sink and some on my clothes, then refilled my glass. I went to the back door to make sure it was unlocked then returned to the comfy chair in the living room to wait next to my roller bag filled with money.
My phone battery was close to its end-of-day death. I plugged it in, checked my email, sent one to Ellegaard I was sure he wouldn’t see until morning, read some news, avoided social media in case anyone was paying attention, drank more whiskey, read some more news.
The back door opened.
I’d left all the lights on, but had drawn the blinds. It was 1:02 A.M. I felt tired but my head was clear. My heart fluttered. My glass was three quarters full. I took one big sip. Footsteps in the kitchen. One set of footsteps. Even if Vasily had brought Ebben, he would have left him bound and gagged in the car. But I doubted he brought Ebben. Ebben was Vasily’s ticket to staying alive.
My eyelids felt heavy. I let them droop.
“Buddy.”
I looked up. Vasily stood at the other end of the living room.
He said, “You awake. Why no sleep?”
“Thinking of getting in the hot tub. But just thinking about it. What are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
“Door not locked. Walked in. Buddy. You drunk.”
“Eh. Long day. Just relaxing.”
“I saw bottle in kitchen. Half gone. You little man.”
“Join me. There’s vodka if you’re feeling homesick.”
“I not drink tonight. Another time.”
“I thought we were friends. Friends drink together.”
“You put hot stick in my neck. Not friends.”
“You shot Jameson.”
“He okay. We make trade now.”
“All right. Get Ebben.”
“No, buddy. You show money.”
“I have the money, Vasily.” I belched, rubbed my chest and winced. “I need to see Ebben to make sure he’s all right.”
“He fine. I promise you. All good. Buddy. Is that money?” He pointed to the roller bag next to my comfy chair. “The 5 million? In there?”
I stood. “You can’t have it unless you give me Ebben.”
“Just you here, buddy. I see no more cars.”
“Bring me Ebben.”
“Buddy. I’m going to take money.” He stepped closer, kept his eye on my hands, then looked up to my eyes. He walked toward me. Calm and steady.
I feigned drunkenness to legitimize my poor judgment in telling Vasily the money was at the house sitting in the living room all ready to go. Now I had to put up a legitimate fight. At least in appearance. I couldn’t hold back. Vasily needed to hear the whiskey’s effects in my speech, smell it on my breath and on my clothing. The big wild card had yet to be revealed: whether or not Vasily had brought a gun. Brit’s bear spray lay sandwiched between chair and cushion. It would stay there unless I felt he intended to execute me.
I said, “Who fronted the 20 million?”
“Go to sleep, buddy.”
“Why would you be the middleman? What’s in it for you?” I took another sip of whiskey.
He said, “You Americans can no drink. Why you not learn? Too many laws. Wait till twenty-one. In Europe kids drink wine and beer. It nothing. When turn twenty-one not care anymore. You stupid drunk now. Like little boy. Why not America learn?”
“Vasily, why are you involved in Veins of Gold? There’s no writing credit on the screenplay. Did you write it?”
“Buddy. Shut face. I take money now.” I stood. He stepped into my personal space. “No big man come save you now. No hot metal stick. Sit down, Nils Shapiro. Sit now or I make you sit.”
I did not sit. “Bring Ebben and you can have the money.” Vasily said nothing. He put his left hand in the pocket of his leather jacket. I said, “What are you doing? Why didn’t you bring Ebben? Did something go wrong? Did Ebben escape? Or is he dead, Vasily? Did something go wrong? Did you kill him?”
Vasily’s left arm twitched. I didn’t know if he was about to pull out a gun or a knife but this was my chance to put up my best fight. I swung hard with my left hand. Vasily spun away, my fist grazing his chin. When he turned back toward me I saw what was in his left hand. Brass knuckles. Fuck. I lunged at him. He threw a punch into my midsection. It hurt like hell, but I kept my wind and threw another punch, which he ducked. I lost my balance, and Vasily came back at me with an elbow into my chest.
The last time I’d been in a fight was in sparring class at the Minneapolis Police Academy. So never, really. That was eighteen years ago. I was young, quick, and fully padded. And I still stunk at fighting.
I dove back toward the chair, crashed into it, and grabbed my lowball off the end table. I spun around, cocked my arm, and Vasily stepped back. He smiled and said, “Buddy. Put down glass.”
I couldn’t fight but I could throw. I may have pitched beyond high school if I’d weighed more than 140 pounds. And two-plus decades later,
my aim was true. I’d proven it within the last month throwing snowballs at trees while snowshoeing with Gabriella. But Vasily didn’t know that. So I threw hard just left of his head. His missing eye robbed him of depth perception, and he lifted his arms to shield his face. He heard the lowball shatter on the wall fifteen feet behind him. He lowered his arms, his eye filled with fury. He rushed at me hard.
This was me playing it safe. Before Gabriella and Evelyn, I would’ve drawn Vasily to the 5 million, let him take it from an empty house, and followed him back to Ebben. Once there I would’ve tried to rescue Ebben myself. Maybe I would have called in backup if I knew someone in L.A. I could trust the way I trust Gabriella or Ellegaard or Annika. Jameson was in L.A. but he wasn’t trained for a situation like this. Either way, I would’ve made sure I learned Ebben Mayer’s location firsthand.
Instead, I put myself in a minimum amount of danger and hoped it would work out for Ebben. I put my safety above his. And on paper, this was the safest way to play it. But even the safest way meant some risk. Hell, we all take some risk. Every day of our lives. Luck goes our way. Or it doesn’t.
Vasily head-butted me. My nose split and, just as the pain started to register, I saw a flash of metal in my right eye. That was the last image I remember.
45
I cannot see but I can hear. Sometimes. Other times I fall asleep inside my sleep. The doctors and nurses talk to me. They tell me what they’re doing. I feel something on my arm—a nurse says they’re taking my blood pressure. I feel a sting on the back of my hand—a nurse says they’re changing my IV. I feel my weight on my right side—a nurse says they’re adjusting my position so I don’t get bedsores. A different nurse tells a doctor, “This one can hear us. I’m sure of it. Not all of them can, but you can see him twitch when you ask him questions.”
A different nurse tells me everything. He says he’s wheeling me to imaging. My brain is bleeding and swollen, which puts pressure on my brain stem and that caused the coma. They’re going to put me in the MRI and see if things are getting better or worse. He jokes it can be claustrophobic in there but coma patients don’t seem to mind. He says after, if I’m good, some visitors want to see me.