by Joseph Flynn
There’d always been some tension between Rosewell and Petrovich, neither willing to concede to the other who was boss. Still, after a half-dozen jobs, they’d always managed to make their scores and not kill each other. This time, Rosewell thought, would be the last time he worked with Petrovich, or maybe any other damn foreigner.
He stepped aside to make his call to Benard. Stan should have had time by now to get an okay from the man. That was confirmed when Benard answered his call.
“Mr. Benard, it’s me, Rosewell. I’m downstairs with the man I told you about … The truck? He’s just come from another job. If you want, I’ll tell him we can do it another time … Okay, we’ll do it now, only he doesn’t want anybody in your office to see him … Yeah, he’s real careful. So if you want to let your people go home a few minutes early, then we’ll be right up … That works for you? Good. See you soon.”
Rosewell ended the call and looked up to see Petrovich talking to Stan. Petrovich was speaking Russian. Rosewell didn’t understand a word, but he could see Stan was breaking a sweat on a day the weather definitely didn’t call for it.
Petrovich wasn’t holding a gun on Stan, and Rosewell thought that was the only thing that would equalize a fight between them, and then only if the Russian got off a first shot. So what the hell was going on? Rosewell decided it was better not to intrude.
Petrovich didn’t need to belabor whatever point he was making, and Stan soon began to nod repeatedly. Satisfied, Petrovich clapped him on the shoulder, turned and rejoined Rosewell.
“That guy’s Russian, too?” Rosewell asked.
“Polish. His parents brought him to this country as a child. His English is good, but there is still a trace of his homeland in his voice. That was what I heard when we arrived.”
Roswell hadn’t heard it but didn’t argue. “Poles can understand Russian?”
“Many of them learned the language when we managed their country for them. This one heard enough at home to understand me.”
“So what did you say?” Rosewell said.
“I asked him to be a good fellow and shoo away any other trucks that might want to pick up or unload while we are here.”
“No witnesses.” Rosewell nodded. “That’s good.”
“You made our arrangements with Mr. Benard?”
Rosewell nodded. “He should be sending everyone on his floor home right now.”
“Good. Then all should go well.”
“What about Stan? He’s seen us.”
Petrovich shrugged. “He hasn’t seen us do anything illegal, and I have the feeling he will soon forget we were ever here.”
Rosewell was inclined to think the same, but he wasn’t entirely persuaded.
Knowing just what he was thinking, Petrovich added, “Of course, if you are not satisfied, well, you’ve told me you killed two men. What would one more matter?”
Rosewell knew it would matter if they got caught. The guy who didn’t do the killing could rat out the one who did. Get himself a lighter sentence.
Thinking about things in terms of eliminating witnesses, though, it’d be better for both of them to kill each other. Eliminate the need to split the haul. Leave no witness to what they were about to do.
“Perhaps you wish to abandon this job?” Petrovich asked. “You seem uneasy.”
Rosewell couldn’t bring himself to do that. Maybe that was the power of gold.
“No,” he said, “let’s do it.”
Los Angeles, California
LAPD Captain Terry Adair, wearing a bespoke gunmetal gray merino wool suit — instead of his uniform — drove around the block where Emily Proctor lived three times looking for signs of trouble. He felt alternately smart and foolish for doing so. If Emily had set out a pile of poop for him to step in, while wearing his killer Ferragamo loafers, he’d certainly want to avoid that. On the other hand, what woman in her right mind wouldn’t recognize the mistake she’d made by trying to give him the brush-off?
Maybe that tall, pain-in-the-ass Canadian broad for one, but she hadn’t known the pleasure of spending a night with him. Let her do that and see how she’d feel. That notion sparked an idea in Terry’s mind: him, Emily and the Canadian babe.
That’d make for some long-lasting memories.
After they were done, he’d give that foreign frost-queen the old heave-ho.
And if her old man did try to scalp him, he’d show that Indian how the West was won.
He was chuckling to himself as he pulled to the curb. His watch, a Breitling Navitimer, told him he had a few minutes yet before he was supposed to rap on Emily’s door. He’d run through any number of scenarios of how he should announce himself. Wear his dress uniform and bang on the door with a billy-club. Some women he’d known would like that … but not this one. He’d considered dressing the way he was now and bringing some crazily expensive gift … only Emily had told him specifically not to do that. So he’d only got dressed up in his best suit and shoes, and added just a dash of Tom Ford Oud Wood cologne. If that didn’t buckle her knees … hey, maybe the Canadian broad was more than just a friend.
Hell, if Emily was like that, all she had to do was tell him.
He’d say adios, no hard feelings.
Not that he still wouldn’t like to corral both of them on the same Tempur-Pedic.
Terry got out of his car. He no longer had any time to spare looking for signs of a trap, but his eyes still went to the house on his left, the one with the old broad who had an assault rifle and claimed to be a Marine officer. Shit, wasn’t that half of the world’s problems, women pretending they could do a man’s work?
The other half being people of both sexes not being content to stay right where they’d been born. Not just Mexicans. Put Canadians on the list, too.
People from out of state, too. Especially New York.
By the time he’d analyzed all of the world’s problems, and it looked like the hard-assed old biddy next door wasn’t at home, Terry rang Emily’s doorbell. He was pleased when he heard her call out, “Be right there.”
The quick response was gratifying enough, but the tone of Emily’s voice said she was happy. Glad to see him. Made him overjoyed once again Mom and Dad had sent him to the best orthodontist in Beverly Hills.
He was smiling molar to molar when the door opened.
And who the hell should he see but the crone from next door? Wearing a goddamn Marine dress uniform. Looking fierce enough to scare an addict away from his needle. Jesus Christ, she hadn’t been kidding. Terry took an involuntary step backward.
Colonel Maeve Donahue clamped a vise-like hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t go rushing off, sonny. Emily will be right out. She’s just saying goodbye to a few friends who dropped in for tea.”
Terry blinked as a bright light went off in his eyes.
His mind was too awhirl to realize he’d been photographed.
The colonel stepped past him, and here came another woman Marine in a dress uniform. She looked like she might cut his heart out, too. And then there was another and another and …Then came a line of female LAPD officers in Class A uniforms. For just a second, Terry’s spine stiffened, until he saw the same look of contempt in each pair of eyes that met his own.
There was no fear, no respect, not even a bit of deference.
No chance they’d follow any order he might try to give them.
He thought things couldn’t get any worse but, what the hell, here came three women with baseball bats on their shoulders, two wearing Dodgers jerseys, one in a Giants jersey. He feared he was about to catch a serious beating, was about to turn and run when the broad in the Giants jersey caught his sleeve and told him, “Emily will be right out. Hang on another minute.”
He wasn’t sure he wanted to, but then he saw what was coming next.
The goddamn Mounties, four of them, again in dress uniforms. One of them was Emily’s sassy pal; three others were strangers. One of them was another old biddy and she looked just as tough a
s the first one. The fantasy of bedding any Canadian woman died a sudden death.
Then, at last, Emily stood in front of him. In contrast to all the others, she wore an old T-shirt from a Neil Diamond concert at the Hollywood Bowl, a pair of cut-off jeans and raggedy flip-flops. She held two open cans of Coors beer in her hands. She handed one to Terry.
It was still cold.
Emily told him, “My friends and I are having a little party tonight, Terry, but you’re not invited. Still, it would be rude not to offer you a drink. One for the road, since our paths will never cross again if I can help it. What do you say? Can we end things, once and for all, on a civil note?”
Terry didn’t have to turn around to know that every woman who had passed him by was staring at him now. They’d descend on him like Patton’s Third Army if he tried anything physical, maybe even if he just got foul-mouthed. For all that, though, he was relieved. If Emily had done anything less dramatic, he would have kept coming back at her.
Now, he knew he had to put her behind him, no two ways about it. Just the two old broads would probably kill him in his sleep, if he caused Emily any more trouble. He raised his can in a gesture of salute.
“You’re too tough for me, Emily.”
She clinked her can against his and they both sipped.
“Be good, Terry,” Emily said.
“As good as I can,” he told her.
“Terry?”
“Yeah?”
“Each of the women here? All of us will come to her aid, too, if she needs us. We got to talking today about women standing up for each other. That idea is going to spread across town, across the country and around the world. So learn to take no for an answer.”
For just a moment, Terry looked as if he might object.
Until Arcelia and Rebecca stepped forward.
Arcelia gripped her bat like she’d swing for the fences and added, “Learn fast.”
Omaha, Nebraska
The outer cubicles and offices of Brice Benard’s real estate empire were empty when Rosewell and Petrovich got off the elevator. The door to Benard’s corner office stood open, so the two men walked right in. Before either of them said a word to Benard, they caught sight of the large bar of gold sitting in the middle of his desk, gleaming like it was lit from within by its own personal sun.
Sonofabitch, Rosewell thought, how could a chunk of metal hold such power?
He’d never before seen gold in any form bigger than a gaudy ring. But this thing, it made him think of kings, conquests and the power to have any damn thing he wanted. Rule the whole frigging world if he could get enough of it.
Intruding on his flight of grandiosity, Rosewell could sense Petrovich reacting in much the same way. Only the Russian hadn’t lost the ability to speak. He said to Benard, “You make quite a first impression, sir.”
Benard smirked. “That damn thing is quite an ass-tickler, isn’t it?”
Remembering his earlier conversation with Petrovich, Rosewell said, “That’s a standard bar, right? How much does it weigh?”
Dazzled more than a little himself by his treasure, Benard lost sight of the fact that Rosewell’s question evinced a knowledge of the subject at hand that most Omaha cops and PI’s wouldn’t possess.
“Yeah, it’s a standard bar,” Benard said, “and —”
Petrovich held up a hand. “Let me guess,” he said. He studied the bar of gold, seemed to be communicating with it in some silent way. Then he nodded as if he’d heard an answer. “Four hundred ounces.”
Benard sat back in his chair. “Sonofabitch, that’s exactly right.”
Rosewell turned to the Russian. “What’s the price per ounce today?”
“Thirteen hundred and fifty-one dollars.”
“So that one bar is worth?”
Petrovich had no trouble doing the math in his head. “Five hundred and forty thousand four hundred dollars.”
That feat of multiplication did make Benard uneasy.
“Who the hell is this guy?” he asked Rosewell.
The Russian held up his hand again. “One moment, please.”
He closed the door to Benard’s office. Petrovich’s training and experience told him that a man such as the one he was about to rob would not shy away from placing his employees under video surveillance, and might even record their conversations. It was always best to learn early who might be plotting against you.
On the other hand, any wise ruler always strictly guarded his own privacy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Benard said to Petrovich. “I already sent everyone home, and the cleaning staff won’t be here for hours.”
“How many hours?” Rosewell asked.
“Three hours. They don’t come in until eight. Two hours after the rest of the staff usually leaves. They were happy about getting off early, I can tell you.”
“May we sit?” Petrovich asked.
He was pleased Rosewell had spoken up and asked the same question he’d had in mind. That diverted Benard’s attention, made the question seem less out of place, less threatening even if the fellow had bothered to take his head out of his rectum.
“Yeah, go ahead, both of you. Let’s get down to business already.”
Rosewell and Petrovich sat.
The Russian said, “If we might delay for just a moment, may I ask, by any chance, have you read Dostoevsky?”
“Who?” Benard asked.
“The famous Russian novelist, the author of Crime and Punishment.”
“Are you kidding me?” Benard turned to Rosewell. “Is he kidding me?”
Rosewell didn’t answer directly. He only asked, “How about Elmore Leonard? Have you ever read any of his books?”
“Da,” Petrovich said, “Leonard was one of your countrymen.”
“Da? Countrymen? Are you two serious?” Benard looked from one of his visitors to the other. He clearly thought they’d both gone nuts. “I don’t think I should trust either of you bastards. Get the hell out of here.”
Neither man moved.
Until Rosewell disappointed him worse than the last time. He pulled a gun and pointed it at Benard. Then Petrovich did the same. Benard looked at the two of them bug-eyed … until his gaze shifted to the bar of gold on his desk. The one valued, for the moment, at better than a half-million dollars.
“That’s what this is all about?” Benard asked. “You came here to rob me, you sonsabitches?”
“We did,” Rosewell said calmly.
Petrovich elaborated. “Only not just that one bar. Everything you have here, and all that you have at your home also. With people like you, there is always some treasure at home. In fact, that’s usually where most of it is.”
The expression of hatred on Benard’s face told the two thieves Petrovich had it exactly right.
“Fuck the both of you,” the real estate tycoon said. “I’d sooner die than hand over all my gold.”
Petrovich nodded. “I believe you would, if only we would be so kind as to kill you quickly. However, that is not our plan. Wilbur knows something of my past. He has even seen me ply my tradecraft a time or two. No one on the four continents where I’ve worked has ever resisted talking to me or has even held out very long. I am very good at what I do.” Petrovich smiled. “And I do enjoy it so.”
Benard put his eyes on Rosewell. “You are a scumbag sonofabitch.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Rosewell agreed, “but I’m getting on to retirement age. So I need to start putting money aside.” Then he turned to Petrovich. “You do know what’s even more important than the gold now, right?”
Without taking his eyes off Benard, the Russian said, “Of course, I do, Wilbur. Mr. Benard was willing to pay us a very large sum of money to kill someone. The only reason to do that is he stands to take in even more money than he would pay out.”
“A lot more than a half-million,” Rosewell said.
“Yes, well, you are more familiar with capitalism.”
Benard ja
bbed a finger at Petrovich, and said, “You commie bastard.”
Taking no offense, the Russian looked at his partner in crime and said, “I agree, Wilbur. We will have to learn both of this proud capitalist’s secrets: who he wants to have killed and how richly he expects to be rewarded.”
Rosewell nodded. “And we need to get him and all of his gold out of here before the cleaners show up. Then grab the gold he’s got at home.”
“As well as any loose cash he has lying about,” Petrovich agreed.
Smiling at Benard now, the Russian added, “Even being raised as a Socialist, I never let an opportunity to make money pass me by.”
McGill Investigations International — Los Angeles, California
After thanking Colonel Donahue, Deputy Commissioner Murphy, and all the other women who’d made the banishment of LAPD Captain Terry Adair possible and promising to be available to help any of them if they were ever confronted by similar circumstances, Emily, Rebecca and Arcelia said farewell to the male guests who’d taken in the show from Emily’s living room: her dad, Lee Proctor; President of the Police Commission, Bob Sifuentes and Canadian Consul Edmund Wolcott.
Hugs, handshakes and congratulations on a job brilliantly done were the order of the day. Rebecca was told by the Consul to be sure to attend as many of the cultural and social events at the General Consulate as she was able. The year-round warm weather in Southern California was great but contact with her native culture would be a tonic for any case of the missing-home blues she might feel. Her American friends would always be welcome, too.
As the visitors were departing, Bob Sifuentes handed Emily his business card.
“Just in case Adair loses all his marbles,” he said in a quiet voice.
Emily thanked him, but she honestly didn’t think he’d be back.
Lee Proctor hugged Arcelia and Rebecca as well as Emily.
“I always thought having another daughter or two around the house would have been nice. Now, I know I was right.” He took a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Rebecca. “Here’s the material you asked for, Rebecca. Hope you can make good use of it.”