Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  “Political activism. It had a rather negative impact on my ex’s medical practice. That was part of it, anyway.”

  “And the other part?”

  I lower the binoculars and look Scotto square in the eye. “I’m an alcoholic.”

  Her face falls. “Gosh, I feel kind of funny about before. I mean, I wouldn’t have . . . I’m really sorry.”

  “I could’ve said no. I decided otherwise.”

  She smiles sadly. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it?”

  “Classic denial. I know. Strange as it sounds, the cravings seem to have diminished as of late.”

  “As of late? Very strange. I mean, this job drives people to drink, not the reverse.”

  “Not at all surprising. But since leaving Moscow, I don’t know, I feel different.”

  “Well, change of environment sometimes—”

  “Hey?! Hey, it’s moving!” I interrupt, raising the binoculars.

  “What?”

  “The container, it’s moving!”

  Number 95824 hangs in a crossfire of work lights beneath the bridge crane’s boom. A rectangular frame of massive beams and pulleys grips the perimeter at the roofline. With surprising speed and precision, the huge, articulated structure rolls on its tracks, then stops, swivels, extends, and deftly deposits the forty-foot-long aluminum box in the bed of a flatcar.

  “Can you see the code?” Scotto prompts anxiously.

  “No, the angle’s all wrong.”

  “Come on,” she orders, jumping from the tailgate. “We better find one that’s right.”

  I keep my eyes pressed to the binoculars for a moment. One of the patrolling diesels hooks up to the flatcar and starts moving the two-billion-dollar cargo through the yard. “Hold it. I’m afraid we’re not going to have time.”

  Scotto fetches the radio and thumbs the transmit button. “Nutcracker . . . Nutcracker, this is Shell Game. It’s moving. The target’s moving; we need that chopper.”

  “Copy that. Bird is on standby as planned. ETA your location . . . twenty minutes. Any fix on target’s destination?”

  “Negative.”

  “That’s a copy. Be advised max range for chopper is three hundred miles.”

  “Yeah, yeah, just make it fast, dammit.” Scotto clicks off the radio with an angry scowl.

  The diesel negotiates a combination of switches and maneuvers to the incline, where the flatcar begins its ascent. Moments later, it rolls down the other side and couples to a long freight that’s being assembled. A half-dozen more railcars swiftly follow. The last one is a caboose. Within minutes, the three-unit diesel at the head of the train unleashes its awesome power and lunges forward. The grinding of drive wheels on rails, the angry creak of stressed metal, the rapid-fire bang-bang-bang of engaging couplers blend with haunting blasts from air horns that announce the fifty-plus-car freight’s departure.

  “I don’t know about you, Scotto, but after coming this far, there’s no way I’m stopping now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Following the money. After what’s happened, even if we knew the destination, where that container goes, I go. You coming?”

  Scotto glances to the sky forlornly. Still no sign of the chopper. I dash to the Buick and climb behind the wheel. I’ve just started the engine when she comes after me and rips open the door. “Scoot over, Katkov.” I hesitate. “Scoot over, dammit. Now!” I clamber over the transmission console. She shoves the shift lever into drive and takes off. The acceleration pins me to the seat. She weaves between the abandoned vehicles to the far end of the overpass. The cross street runs parallel to a concrete embankment that slopes sharply to the yard. Scotto puts the Buick into a high-speed slide and fishtails through the corner. As the car is settling down, long-haul halogens suddenly blast from between the vacant factories. An all-too-familiar tractor charges into view and tries to cut us off. Scotto instinctively snaps the wheel right-left-right. The sedan responds and slithers around the tractor. It’s so close I can read PETERBILT on the cowl.

  “What are they doing here?!”

  “Waiting for us. What else? One of ’em must’ve spotted me before.”

  I look back for the tractor. It swerves to avoid going over the embankment, then comes out of it and pursues. The entrance to the train yard is dead ahead. Scotto blows past some slow-moving trucks and rockets into the access road. The steep incline leads to a network of service roads. One parallels the tracks. She races the length of the yard—past the control tower, past lines of railcars, past signal towers and distance markers—in pursuit of the departing train.

  I’m watching with wide-eyed amazement.

  She senses it and grins. “Driving school. They teach us how to handle everything from motorcycles to that thing that’s trying to kill us.”

  I glance back over my shoulder again. The tractor is gaining. It’s a hell of a lot faster without that forty-ton trailer behind it.

  Scotto is radioing the backup units for help. A blast from an air horn interrupts. One of the other diesels is coming toward us on an intersecting spur, pulling a long string of boxcars. The engineer leans on his horn again. Scotto flicks a glance to the mirror and curses. The tractor is still coming like a runaway freight. So is the thundering diesel. The word CONRAIL is stenciled across its stubby snout. My heart’s climbing into my mouth. My brain’s screaming, Hit the brakes! Hit the brakes! The air horn’s still blasting. Scotto’s still ignoring it. She steels herself and stands on the gas instead. The Buick zips across the tracks. The onrushing train misses us by millimeters and roars across the service road, blocking the pursuing tractor.

  The freight carrying container 95824 is up ahead, traveling at the posted yard speed of 5 mph. We overtake it easily. Scotto keeps the pedal to the floor, racing along the service road that parallels the outbound spur. Railcar after railcar flashes past. The numbers on the target go by in a blur. She keeps going until we’re so far ahead of the train, it’s completely out of sight by the time she stops.

  We waste no time getting out of the car. Scotto starts stuffing a nylon gym bag with things from the trunk. I’m pulling my typewriter from the backseat with one hand and a suitcase with the other. Headlights sweep through a distant turn, startling us. If it’s the train, it’s moving so fast we’ll never get aboard. I’m not sure if our luck is holding or running out, but it’s not the train—it’s the tractor! Tinted two-piece windshield bridging its cowl like a pair of Ray-Bans, engine snarling behind vicious chrome teeth, stacks snorting fire into the darkness, the monster-on-wheels comes at us at high speed.

  We literally run for our lives, putting as much distance as possible between us and the Buick that blocks the narrow service road. The driver redlines every gear. The speeding tractor closes the distance in an eyeblink. It’s heading right for the sedan.

  “Shit!” Scotto exclaims, glancing back. “That son-of-a-bitch is gonna total my car!” She drops her bags, then pulls her pistol, steadies it with both hands, and coolly fires at the on-rushing vehicle. The windshield shatters. The engine growls like a broken lawn mower. A tire blows. The tractor swerves wildly out of control, narrowly missing the Buick. It rockets across a median, sending up a shower of gravel, and crashes into an embankment.

  “Yes!” Scotto whoops, pumping a fist in triumph.

  Despite the circumstances, I can’t help thinking it’s amazing the things people become attached to.

  “Stay back,” she orders, pushing me aside before advancing on the tractor cautiously. The door cracks open before she gets there. The shotgun emerges. She advances swiftly, then grasps the barrel and pulls hard, yanking Harlan from the cab. He gets a face full of gravel. Scotto gets his weapon. “Police officer! Don’t move!” she commands sharply, pressing a foot against the back of his neck. He remains facedown on the ground. She hands me the shotgun. “Shoot him if he moves.” She swings the door open wide, leveling her pistol at the driver. “Police! Out. Now. Move it!” He stumbles from th
e cab, blood trickling into his beard from a cut on his cheek. “Hit the deck,” Scotto orders, holding the pistol on him as she steps back.

  The wail of sirens rises as he flops facedown in the gravel next to his colleague. The backup units race along the service road and converge on the tractor. Krauss and Nutcracker are at the forefront of the agents who pile out of the vehicles, guns drawn.

  “All yours, Tom,” Scotto says coolly as they move in around the two truckers. Then, noticing a single headlight streaking through the darkness, she breaks into a cocky grin and adds, “Come on, Katkov. Don’t want to miss our train.”

  The long freight seems to be picking up speed as it exits the yard. At the least, we’re going to need a running start. Krauss and the other agents are wide-eyed as we scoop up our bags and start sprinting parallel to the tracks. The ground shudders violently as the throbbing diesel approaches, pushing air with jolting force as it passes.

  We’re running clumsily with our cargo alongside an empty boxcar. I toss the typewriter and suitcase through the open door. Scotto does the same with the canvas sack and her shoulder bag. There’s a boarding handle welded to the doorframe. It takes me several tries, but I finally get hold of it and belly flop aboard. The train is moving faster. Scotto is running like crazy to keep up. She accelerates and makes a desperate headfirst lunge for the doorway. I manage to get hold of her wrist. She hooks a leg over the sill—half of her in, the other half hanging perilously out—and claws at the floor for a handhold. I grab the seat of her pants with my free hand and drag her inside. We stumble away from the door and fall against opposite walls of the boxcar, gasping for breath.

  “You . . . you okay?” I finally ask.

  She nods, unable to speak.

  “I . . . I . . . think . . . I’m starting to understand.”

  “You . . . you mean about . . . getting back into the field?”

  “Uh-huh. . . . You’re . . . you’re amazing.”

  “I know . . .” she wheezes with a grin. “But I think . . . maybe . . . I’ve lost a step or two. . . . Gotten a little . . . broad in the beam.”

  “I believe . . . I mentioned that when we first met.”

  “A born diplomat.”

  “Think positively. . . . It gave me something to hang on to.”

  “That’s what my husband says. Don’t start getting sexual on me, Katkov.”

  “Thought’s never crossed my mind.”

  “Nice to know I can always count on you for an ego boost.”

  I smile. So does she. We’re sitting there like rag dolls, watching the city go by, when it dawns on me we haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going.

  29

  I’m jolted by a sharp poke in the ribs. An elbow, to be exact. Scotto’s elbow. I don’t know why, but it seems she’s always waking me up. I roll over, eyes gritty and heavy with sleep. She’s lying on the floor next to me, alternating the painful jabs with angry tugs of a small blanket that barely covers us.

  “Katkov? Come on, shake out the cobwebs, dammit.”

  I’m staring at her face as if I’ve never seen it before. My disorientation lasts a few seconds. Then the train’s rhythmic clack penetrates the haze, and the last forty-eight hours come back in a numbing rush.

  “What? . . . What?” I rasp, worried something’s happened to the container. “Something wrong?”

  “Bet your ass,” she snaps. “Why aren’t you over there where you belong?”

  I groan, relieved, despite her shrill pitch. “Well, it got quite chilly for a while. I figured there’d be no harm in sharing the blanket. So . . . I slipped beneath it.”

  “Next to me.”

  “Next to you. Yes. I had little choice. Unless you’d prefer I’d taken it back to where I belong.” I angrily toss it aside. My body is sore and stiff from the boxcar’s hard floor, and I’ve no tolerance for her pettiness. I let my head clear, then stagger to my feet and roll the corrugated steel door aside.

  A thin shaft of daylight knifes into the darkness and gradually widens. Humid air with a sharp, salty bite follows. I inhale deeply, squinting at the glare. Beyond the lush tropical foliage that borders the right of way, a sparkling expanse of ocean stretches to a faint horizon and blends into a cloudless sky. The climate and vegetation leave little doubt we’re traveling south.

  Scotto drifts over and stands next to me, looking appropriately contrite. “Sorry ‘bout that,” she says, raising her voice over the sound of clacking wheels and rushing air that snaps at her hair. “I’m one of these people who wake up grouchy.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Hey, it was selfish of me to hog the blanket in the first place. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply, feigning I’m still offended.

  “Something’s bugging you, isn’t it?” she prompts, taking the bait.

  “No, really.”

  “Come on, I can tell. Spit it out.”

  “Well, it’s nothing of any consequence; but I found it a little unsettling last night when you started moaning, ‘Marty! Oh, Marty!’ in the middle of your orgasm. Other than that . . .”

  She laughs lustily. “Only in your dreams, Katkov. Only in your dreams.”

  We’re standing in the doorway, watching the coastline go by, when the train leans into a curve. The freight is soon stretched out over its entire length, and we can see container 95824 at the other end. I doubt anyone else is keeping an eye on it. I heard rotors several times during the night, but we must be well beyond the three-hundred-mile range by now, because there’s no helicopter in sight.

  We settle on the floor and go to work on the junk food and bottled water Scotto hastily stuffed into the gym bag along with the blanket and some clothing. Once fortified, she slips her pistol from its holster, extracts the clip, and checks there isn’t a bullet in the chamber. Then, with sure-handed authority, she begins breaking the weapon down. This is a satisfying ritual, not a chore; and, like Vorontsov’s medals on the lace tablecloth, the precisely machined parts are soon neatly arranged between us on the blanket, along with the box of shells and cleaning kit Scotto takes from the gym bag.

  I’m reflecting on how she handled those truckers and wondering why she craves living on the edge instead of in a house in the suburbs. “Tell me something, will you, Scotto?”

  “Do my best.”

  “Why’d you become a cop?”

  “Easy one. I dated a guy in college who was a criminology major. Much more interesting than European History—than him, for that matter. Definite FBI type. So I switched.”

  “That’s how you became a cop. I asked you why.”

  “It’s exciting. Makes me feel secure, and"—she inserts a long brush into the pistol’s barrel, then looks up at me and giggles—“I get to play with guns. Last but not least, there’s my Uncle Angelo.”

  “The one who taught you to shoot craps?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You followed in his footsteps?”

  She bursts into laughter and shakes her head no. “I’d be in the slammer if I did that.”

  “He’s in prison?”

  “Was. I said he was a bit of a hood. Got caught running numbers out of his trattoria.” She deftly slips the hammer assembly into the housing and locks it in position. “Made the best Sicilian pizza in Bensonhurst. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as skilled when it came to making bail.”

  “So then what? You got into law enforcement to prove that all Italians aren’t mobsters?”

  “Nothing that idealistic.” One by one, her fingers insert bullets into the clip as she explains. “He was a great guy, lots of laughs, affectionate. All the guys in my neighborhood were like that, but a lot of them had a sort of—I don’t know—a pathological split in their personalities. They’d be hugging their kids one minute and pistol-whipping a shopkeeper who wouldn’t pay protection the next.”

  “There’s a lot of pistol-whipping going on in Moscow these days.”

  “Yeah, well, my girlfriends married those guys. They stayed
home, cleaned house, cooked, and had kids—perfect little housewives who are still lying to themselves about where the money comes from.”

  “And you figured getting into law enforcement would keep all the split personalities at bay.”

  “Yeah, and it worked. I’m married to a decent guy who wants a little house in the ’burbs with a wife, kids, and a dog.” She slaps the clip into the handgrip, holsters the weapon, and fastens the tie-down. “All that figuring sure came back and bit me on the ass, didn’t it?”

  Several blasts on the locomotive’s air horns save me from having to reply. The insistent clanging of a bell follows as the train thunders through a crossing on the outskirts of a town. A quaint, steepled station with a sign that reads PORT ST. LUCIE flashes past.

  “Florida,” Scotto announces brightly. “We’re in Florida, Katkov. My Aunt Adele lives down here.”

  “Uncle Angelo’s wife?”

  “No. Uncle Hank’s. He was a golf pro.”

  “You had an uncle who was a golf pro?”

  “Yeah,” she replies indignantly. “They weren’t all hoods. He had a driving range when I was a kid. Way ahead of his time.”

  “Way ahead of mine too. People try to hit a little ball into a hole from five hundred meters away. I don’t get it.”

  “Me neither. They’re always grousing about a hook, or a slice, or getting up and down, whatever the hell that means.”

  “Something to do with impotence, I imagine.”

  Scotto laughs. “Beats me, but I can tell you where we’re going. . . .” She lets it tail off with that look she gets when pieces fall into place. “Miami.”

  “Miami? How do you know that?”

  “It’s the fluff-and-fold capital of America. The creeps get that cash into the banking system down there, they can wire it anywhere in the world. I mean, there’s more than a hundred international banks with branches in south Florida. Some collaborate outright, some are negligent, some are just plain stupid. We’ve been leaning on ’em pretty hard lately.”

  “I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve been under the impression your banking system is rather highly regulated.”