LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  He uncorked the schnapps, corked it back up and started pacing again. Let’s come at it from the other side, he thought. What if he was wrong? What if Claussen planned to pay him off and go back to Germany like he said? What were the disadvantages of killing him under these circumstances?

  Same as before: the bother of having to answer to Volkov, the return of the rental car. Avoiding these minor hassles was hardly worth the risk of waiting around to find out if his suspicions were justified. Claussen was a cunning son of a bitch you didn’t want to underestimate. He could turn the tables on you at the eleventh hour. Stein had seen it happen to others. The way to deal with him was exactly as Stein had planned. He would hide in the bay and let Claussen have it the instant he got out of his car.

  When would Claussen be back? He’d said seven thirty, so it wouldn’t be then. Perhaps six, perhaps nine. The best thing for Stein to do was to be ready for anything. He would go to the bay now and wait. If he fell asleep, it wouldn’t matter. The noisy metal door going up would wake him in plenty of time.

  He felt better. He had his direction. Claussen had finally run up against a man with the brains and courage to challenge him. It would, he thought, be satisfying to see the expression on that arrogant bastard’s face when he realized he had been outmaneuvered for the first – and last – time in his life.

  Stein heard a car in the alley. A dog barked. He started for his revolver but the car drove on past.

  Five thirty, and already he was jumpy.

  He poured himself his usual double shot and belted it down as he always did, not holding it in his mouth.

  He knew the instant he swallowed.

  He tried to spit it out. Nothing came up, not even saliva. He jammed two fingers down his throat to induce vomiting. All he produced was a searing belch that reeked of bitter almonds.

  A fire like a river of molten iron followed the course of the cyanide down to his stomach, consuming him from inside out. He clutched his neck with both hands, a fiery rage boiling within his pain, and dropped to his knees.

  His lungs stopped working. He could do nothing, absolutely nothing, he was suffocating and burning to death at the same time. For a man who considered helplessness life’s greatest indignity, it was a hell of a way to go.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “So Angie gets me up from lunch,” Joey DiStefano shouted over the growl of the diesel. “When Angie gets me up from lunch, I know it’s important. She’s not stupid enough to bother me if it ain’t.” The ride of the fully laden McNeilus mixer was loud and bumpy.

  “Why’d she do that?” asked his nephew, Chuckie Stafford. He had been trying his best all summer to learn the business.

  “Because there’s this foreign guy on the phone who won’t get off and won’t call back. He says he’s willing to pay cash provided we can move quickly. He’s got the insurance money in hand, someone at State Farm has recommended us, and he wants the job done now.”

  “What’s his rush, Uncle?”

  “The way I understood it, he’s got this second-level basement under his shop that should never have been built. Too close to the water table. The lower foundation started to sink and crack, and now the whole shop’s about to be condemned. The guy had the city engineers from Building Inspections out and they said, Forget the steel beams, you gotta use concrete. You gotta give up on that space and fill it in.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. So he’s nervous now, thinking if he doesn’t fill it in today his shop’s gonna sink to where all he’s got is a roof. Let’s pretend I’m on vacation and you’re running the business and you’re booked solid for the next week. How do you deal with this guy, Chuckie?”

  “I tell him I’ll do it tomorrow and get a deposit, then I do it when I get time.”

  Joey grabbed his nephew’s cheek and pinched him until he let out a howl. “You got your payroll to meet and a family to feed, Chuckie. You got three car payments, a two-grand-a-month mortgage and a daughter in private school who changes wardrobes more often than you change underwear. Who eats up most of your money?”

  “I don’t know. The house, the cars.”

  “Wrong. Uncle Sam. You got a guy willing to pay cash for a seven hundred yard job, you put everyone else off. You give him a little break, try to talk him out of a receipt. You save maybe ten grand on a job like this by not having the IRS vulturing in on the proceeds. Cash and no receipt, Chuckie. The opportunity don’t come along often, but when it does, you jump on it.”

  “I’ll jump, Uncle. But how do you know this guy’ll settle for no receipt?”

  “I don’t, Chuckie, not for sure. But think about it. He’s got his insurance money, he won’t be deducting the job from his taxes. We cut him a two grand break, he puts it in his pocket.”

  “I get it. Good thinking, Uncle.”

  “You might learn this business yet, kid. I hope I’m not too old to take a vacation when you do.”

  Joey eased the cement mixer over a stretch of rough road. He stuck his arm out the window and motioned for the convoy of mixers following him to slow down. “Goddamn city,” he said. “They ought to be ordering some of this stuff themselves.”

  ***

  Claussen, feeling fresh and renewed, dropped off his rental car at the airport and walked with his travel bag to a cab stand. He took a half hour ride to Will’s Diner, a block from Stein’s shop, and forced himself to eat an American breakfast of steak and eggs. He waited in the alley behind the shop until a scavenging bum moved on to the next row of garbage cans, then used the garage door opener. Once inside the shop, he closed and locked the bay door.

  Stein, he thought, was the only person he had ever seen who looked the same dead as alive. Claussen dug his keys and wallet out of his pocket, then dragged, rolled and bounced the corpse into the second basement. He brought up the two dozen Bendix, Pratt & Whitney and GE parts they had stamped serial numbers on but not yet put into the parts stream, carried them to the adjoining garage and placed them carefully in the trunk of Stein’s Audi.

  The car’s registration was current. Claussen compared it to his bogus Washington State driver’s license, which he’d had made for himself before leaving Germany. The forgery was in Stein’s name but bore Claussen’s photograph. The data match was perfect.

  He lifted the hood to check the oil and water. The engine was spotless, the oil on the dipstick clean as honey.

  In Stein’s apartment above the shop, he found the dead man’s passport, identical except for the photograph to the one Claussen now carried. He would get rid of it. He didn’t want two passports with the same I.D. number in circulation any more than two aircraft parts with the same serial number.

  Little precautions made big differences.

  He turned off all the appliances, prepared a neat “Closed for Remodeling” sign and taped it to the inside of the front window glass. None too soon. He could hear the cement mixers rumbling toward the shop like an armored column.

  He glanced at his watch: 8:00 a.m. Nothing to do before he left but unlock the old coal chute cover and pay the men.

  ***

  Joey stopped the cement truck in the alley as Stein had told him to do.

  “Get out, Chuckie,” he shouted over the growl of the mixer. “Wipe the mortar off your ass and observe. Collecting is the hardest part of the job. How am I gonna leave you in charge of the business if you don’t know how to collect?”

  The two concrete men, one in his late forties with graying sideburns and a pot belly, the other a handsome young 20-year-old hotshot, climbed down from the idling truck and walked up to the bay door. Chuckie looked around for a bell, then beat on the sheet metal with his fist.

  “Hey, cut it out,” Joey said, grabbing his arm. “What’s wrong with you? You wanna piss off a guy who’s about to hand you money?”

  “He said he’d be waiting for us, didn’t he, Uncle? Cash in hand? If you ask me, this is a bad sign.”

  “Yeah, well no one asked you. Look over there.�
�

  A gray Audi pulled out of a garage one door down and stopped in front of the line of cement trucks. A trim, serious-looking man got out and came toward them. He was carrying an expensive looking attaché case.

  “Mr. DiStefano?” he asked.

  Joey put out his hand. “You got that right. You’re Mr. Stein?”

  “Yes.” They shook. Chuckie extended his hand but Stein ignored him.

  “Come with me, please,” Stein said. He pointed to a rusty, large-diameter iron cover near the shop wall. The weeds and vines had recently been torn back to expose loose dirt.

  “What’s that?” Chuckie asked.

  Stein addressed Joey. “A coal-fired boiler used to be down there in the space you’ll be filling. I would like you to pour directly through the coal chute. If you keep the mixture wet, as I recommended on the phone, you’ll get even distribution. Take the cover off and have a look. I’d like to get your opinion on this before we start.”

  Joey and Chuckie struggled with the metal plate for a while, trying to get under it for a grip. “It’s locked,” Chuckie said, tapping with a knuckle on the key hole.

  “Christ,” grumbled Stein. He added his hands to theirs and yanked. The cover came up far enough for Joey to get hold of it and roll it to the side. He and his nephew stood staring down a deep hole with slick metal sides.

  “Well, Mr. DiStefano?”

  “I don’t see any problem. Like you say, if the mixture’s wet, it’ll spread out. It’s gonna take a long time to dry, though.”

  “That’s all right. How long until it’s poured?”

  “We’ll have it for you before lunch.”

  “Very good. Did you make up a bill?”

  “I was gonna talk to you about that, Mr. Stein. If you’re paying cash anyway and aren’t deducting, then maybe – ”

  ”I understand,” Stein said. “There’s no use giving Uncle Sam more than you have to.”

  “A man after my own heart. It comes to thirty nine seven but we can take it down to – ”

  ”Just do the job right, Mr. DiStefano. That’s more important to me than a discount.” Stein counted several bundles of hundreds from his attaché case and handed them to Joey. “And please put the cover back on when you’ve finished. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Joey and his nephew watched Stein drive off. When he was out of sight, Joey counted the money. “Forty grand, that was nice of him.”

  Chuckie whistled. “I sure would like to look down that hole before we get started, Uncle. I got this feeling someone’s down there.”

  “You know something, Chuckie? You make another remark like that, you’re gonna be right. Only trouble is, it’s gonna be you.”

  Joey pinched his nephew’s cheek and stuffed a $100 bill into his T-shirt pocket. “Let’s get to work. We don’t wanna be late for lunch. Angie’s making gnocchi.”

  ***

  Claussen drove east, enjoying the mountain scenery and the Mozart concerto on the classical station. It irritated him when the announcer interrupted the music to bring word of the murders and theft at Boeing.

  But he forgave her when she informed him that police were looking for a Cole Dehumidification Systems van seen before dawn in the area of the crime.

  Hassan Aziz was going to have a very bad day, which meant an excellent day for Hans-Walter Claussen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “We’ll work on your serve and volley next week,” Steven said as they gathered up their gear. “I want you to start coming to the net in singles too, not just doubles. If you don’t get in the habit soon, you’ll be stuck on the baseline for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s just how I feel,” Nicole said. “Stuck on the sacré baseline.”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re curable.”

  He tossed her a towel and watched her wipe the perspiration from her face and neck. His lust, as Sophie called it, had not subsided. But something else was happening, and he was powerless to stop it: they were becoming friends, God forbid. After just one short month, he was prepared to confer on her the impossible rank of “soul mate,” a rank held until now by Sophie Marx alone. The implications for his assignment were grave. What the hell was he supposed to do when one of his soul mates was bribing him to screw the other one? It was a nasty dilemma – but one he had plenty of incentive to solve.

  “It hasn’t worked in the past,” Nicole said.

  “What?”

  “Steven, you’re daydreaming again.”

  “I was thinking about how good a beer would taste.”

  “You’re worse than my cousins at communion. You were telling me I should come to the net. I said, ‘It hasn’t worked in the past,’ to which your thoughtful professional response was, ‘What?’”

  “It’s been a long hot week. The reason it hasn’t worked in the past is that you’ve been taught to worry more about your form than winning the point. I’m trying to teach you a more visceral style of tennis. If you master it, you’ll be invincible.”

  “I’d like to learn to play better. I know I’m too timid. It was fun watching you trash Philippe.”

  “You’ll be playing like you’re on the women’s tour by the time Philippe gets back. He’ll be a basket case when I insist on a departing pro match for myself and designate you as my second. I think you’ll beat him.”

  “Right, Steven. And you’ll be the next President of France.”

  “Sure, why not? I’m good at delegating. Listen, I’ve got a proposition. Why don’t we follow the wisdom of my daydreams and have a drink on the terrace?”

  “I’d love to, Steven, but – ”

  “But what?”

  “A lot of people have been watching us.”

  “They should. We’re more interesting than anyone else around here. If they want to watch us drink a beer, what’s the big deal?”

  She snapped her towel at him and laughed. “For someone who wants to be President of France, Monsieur, there’s a lot you don’t know about this country. If you and I sat on the terrace of this establishment and had a drink, I’d be the talk of the club for months. ‘My God, did you see them?’ ‘Scandalous, the way she’s hanging out with that American.’ ‘You don’t suppose she’s seeing him without her father knowing?’ ‘She could make that poor man the laughing stock of France.’ Steven, I tell you, these people are incurable gossips. Malicious, too.”

  “Laughing stock of France for having a beer with an American? I guess I don’t get it. Maybe I’m not ready for the presidency. Anyway, how’s this for a solution? What if we meet far from here where the gossips don’t congregate? Is there such a place within a radius of, say, one thousand kilometers?”

  She handed him back his towel and smiled. “Would it surprise you if I said, Yes, there is such a place and yes, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Mainly it would delight me. I don’t have a lot of friends here.”

  Nicole reflected for a moment. “Have you ever been to the harbor at St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat?”

  “No, but I’m sure I can find it.”

  “Good. There’s a café where the fishermen go. We won’t have to worry about gossips.”

  “You’re on. What time?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Tonight, before dinner. Six o’clock.”

  ***

  This August, as every August, the city of Nice swarmed with gorgeous women. Whiling away the sweet fragrant evenings in town, Steven had studied the passing female droves with the critical eye of a connoisseur, and he had been very impressed. But the instant Nicole stepped into the café, the beauty of the city’s women paled by comparison.

  She wore a white cotton sun dress, gold hoop ear rings and leather sandals whose straps climbed her ankles in a provocative crisscross pattern.

  She pushed her sunglasses up on her jet-black hair and glanced around for him. He was about to stand and wave but thought better of it. He sipped his beer and looked off in another direction.

  When she approached, he could f
eel her nearness like a charge of static electricity. She smelled good, too, some new fragrance he didn’t recognize. “Nicole. You made it.”

  “Hello, Steven. Of course I made it.” She sat before he could pull out a chair.

  “Something to drink?”

  “Sure. A kir.”

  “A kir? I doubt they know what it is.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t mean to be a snob. I haven’t spent a lot of time around working people.”

  “You could join the plebeians like myself for a beer, you could have an apéritive or I could get us a bottle of the white wine some of these guys here are drinking.”