“I’ve built a good practice around Moscow Bain. He pays me very well. I have no grounds to complain.”
“All I’m saying is, you probably wish you could be free of him. Heck, I wish you could, and I only have to deal with his dirty looks and snide comments.”
“What are you getting at, Kyle?”
“What would you say if I told you I had the goods on him?”
“I’d say you were insane. I’d also say you were fired. I’m his lawyer. I’ve got all kinds of stuff on him. I also have a fiduciary duty. Don’t they teach that in law school anymore?”
The young man’s eyes held Grant’s for a long moment. “I’m not talking about privileged information. I’m talking about game-over stuff. Something outside the attorney-client relationship.”
“I don’t think I like the direction this is heading. And you shouldn’t, either. Moscow Bain is not somebody to fuck with.”
“Look, Grant…” Kyle stepped up to place a hand on his boss’s shoulder. Grant’s eyes slid down to the hand, then back. The kid had never called him that before. He wasn’t certain how to take it. “I haven’t exactly been honest with you.”
Kyle gestured in the direction of Grant’s office. Grant regarded him for a moment, taking in his brown eyes and dark tussled hair, then led him through the door. Kyle took the seat Moscow had been using. Grant circled his desk and sat in his own chair. It was custom-made from fine leather and expensive wood, with pneumatic lumbar support. Two thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine dollars, he recalled.
“I’m listening.”
“I took this job because you represent him. I came here to learn. To gather facts.”
“About what? And why?”
“Let’s just say I have my reasons. They have to do with my uncle. Let’s leave it at that. But more importantly, if you want a way out, you definitely want to see what I have to show you.”
Grant settled back into his seat and spread his hands. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
“Not here. Tomorrow. But first, you have to tell me something, and be honest about it. Do you want to be free from Moscow Bain? I mean really free? If you say no, I’ll quit and we can pretend we never had this talk.”
After studying the young man’s face for several seconds, Grant let his eyes float around the considerable expanse of his office, pausing over a few unjustifiably expensive items as he contemplated how to respond. A four-thousand-dollar stand-alone mahogany globe. A tapestry depicting a Persian archer on horseback – three thousand? A pair of ivory bookends that were at least a grand. Each.
“Okay, let’s just say I would like to be free of him. What then?”
“Not good enough,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “You have to let me know, one way or the other. Yes or no.”
Grant’s eyes dropped to the corner of his desk, where Moscow’s scuff marks still remained. The nerve of this kid, he thought. No way I’m going down this road, looking to some wet-behind-the-ears law clerk for salvation. No way.
“Yes,” he said. “I would like to be free of him.”
Kyle let out a short, audible breath. “In that case, you need to come meet me tomorrow.” He reached across Grant’s desk and pulled a sheet of paper off of a memo pad as he grabbed a pen from its holder.
“These are directions to a place out Brenham way. It used to be my father’s. Be there tomorrow evening around six.”
Grant took the piece of paper from Kyle’s outstretched hand. “Why can’t you just tell me?”
“You need to see this for yourself,” Kyle said, waving off further inquiry. “Believe me, it’s the only way.”
* * *
Shadows crept east as Grant made his way along the freeway from Houston. He had spent most of the day at his office, drafting callous letters in legalese to parties who stood between Moscow and money, haunted by thoughts of Kyle plotting and scheming against his client. He had changed his mind about going at least a dozen times, but now he was praying that whatever Kyle had to disclose would be big. Anything half-ass would place him in an untenable position, or worse. Blackmail ammunition wouldn’t do. Not with what had happened to Alvarez lurking in his mind. For information to be helpful, it would have to guarantee Moscow Bain would be put away for a long, long time. Grant shook his head, wondering what the state bar would think. So much for his duty of loyalty.
By the time he turned off the freeway, the sun was a blazing ball resting atop the rolling tree line. The two-lane highway twisted through thickets of oak and pine, their trunks wading in tangles of underbrush. The road came to a fork and he bore left, following the directions Kyle had written. After a mile or so, the densely wooded terrain opened into a stretch of fields. A stick-style farmhouse, its dull white paint tinged red by the dying fire of the sun, sat alone at the end of a long, unpaved drive.
Grant was glad to see Kyle’s Mustang pulled up to the front of the house. He parked his Jag next to it and checked the time. A bit early, but not embarrassingly so.
The two-story house had the look of a rustic cottage, with clapboard siding and split-wood shingles. A veranda with scroll-sawn railing sat above a foundation of short brick columns separated by lattice vents. The place could have used a coat of fresh paint, but otherwise seemed well maintained.
Grant climbed the steps and knocked on the door. He waited several seconds, then knocked again. He was about to knock a third time when he heard the thumping of footfalls and the sliding of a lock.
“You’re early,” Kyle said.
“I didn’t know how long it would take to get here.”
“No problem. Come on in. I was in the basement.” Kyle stepped back from the doorway and beckoned Grant to enter. Once the door was shut and bolted, he led Grant into the living room. The furnishings were simple. Wooden tables, wooden frames. Cloth cushions hid behind lacy pillows, yellowed with age, and drab throw quilts. Islands of area rugging, ribbed ovals and rectangles, staked claims on the hardwood floor.
Kyle gestured for Grant to take a seat, then walked over to a television on a cart and retrieved a remote control. A white dot blipped in the center of the black screen when he pressed a button. The black screen eventually gave way to a blue one and a message appeared, telling the viewer to press play to begin. Below the television, the time on a VCR blinked 12:00 a.m.
“This should be cued-up,” Kyle said.
“So, you brought me here to show me a videotape?”
“Sort of.” Kyle turned back to face Grant. “I might as well get right to the point. What do you know about the disappearance of Danny Alvarez?”
Danny Alvarez. Grant told himself he should have known this would have something to do with him. Alvarez had made the mistake of investing in a limited partnership with Moscow, and Moscow played the game he always played, exploiting terms of their agreement to gain a financial advantage. But Alvarez refused to bend to Moscow’s unyielding will, refused to let his percentage be repeatedly diluted through bogus cash-calls. When Moscow tried to bury him in litigation, Alvarez’s lawyer claimed his client had serious proof of tax evasion and loan fraud, and threatened to go to the IRS and other agencies if Moscow didn’t back off. One day Alvarez’s lawyer simply stopped returning Grant’s phone calls. He was eventually found dead in a one-car accident. The police concluded alcohol was involved.
“I know he turned up missing, about a week after his lawyer wrapped himself around a tree. Nobody’s seen or heard from him since, as far as I know.”
“I assume you suspect Moscow was behind it.”
Grant let out a humorless laugh. “Given the timing of it, well, yeah. I had my suspicions.”
Kyle nodded. He pointed the remote toward the TV and VCR. “This should interest you, then.”
The blue screen was replaced in a flicker with a grainy video scene. The image was of a man strapped to a chair, squirming and twisting. At the sight of it, Grant moved as far forward as he could without sliding off the couch.
“That’s Alvarez?” Grant said, not quite cert
ain.
“Yes,” Kyle said. He turned up the volume with a press of his thumb. A moment later, he added, “Brace yourself.”
Grant heard the tinny, hollow audio of a voice in the background, competing with the sound of Alvarez groaning as he strained to free himself. The voice sounded a whole lot like Moscow calling someone a mugwump. Then Grant heard a scraping noise, the clanking, grating sound of metal being moved. Or opened.
As if reading his mind, Kyle gestured for Grant to remain quiet, never taking his eyes off the television.
On the screen, Alvarez began howling curses, bucking his body up and down, back and forth, frantically trying to break free of the straps around his arms and legs. Then the convulsing stopped. His eyes widened and he drew back. Everything about his expression grew larger and the camera zoomed in slowly, expanding the image until the man’s head and upper body dominated the center, his legs cut off at the knees. The lens finished refocusing just as he started to scream.
Kyle paused the tape. “You may not want to see the rest.”
Grant glanced up at Kyle, then back to the frozen image on the tape. It was the face of a grown man, racked with dread, screaming like a terrified child.
“Keep going,” he said.
The picture started moving again. Alvarez finished his scream and started another. A series of gasping cries followed, alternating between ‘no no no’ and ‘please please please’. In the background, Grant thought he heard the word mugwump again.
Out of breath, Alvarez turned his head away, clenching his eyes shut, and something moved into the frame from the upper right-hand corner. At first it looked like the boom on a soundstage, inadvertently caught on film. It continued to slide across the screen, dark and long, bobbing slightly. Trailing behind it was a large, egg-shaped bulb, and Grant saw the two were connected, one extending from the other. The bulb, pale and colorless, was connected to a thick, dripping appendage. The leading end, protruding from the bulb, gingerly touched Alvarez’s recoiling cheek. Only then did it occur to Grant that it was tongue.
In a sudden, violent motion, the bulb spread open, revealing itself to be a mouth. The mouth whipped forward and enveloped Alvarez’s head, burying it down to the neck. His body shook, writhing and jerking in the restraints.
It was still shaking when the bulb snapped back, pulling out of view. Grant’s heart skipped forward when he realized it had taken a considerable amount of Alvarez with it.
From the base of the neck up, Alvarez no longer had any flesh. Or hair. Or muscle tissue. Only eyes and gums remained, exposed and raw, set in a glistening skull. Grant saw the man’s eyes dart from side to side, and watched his tongue twitch as his fleshless jaw gaped open. Grant turned away, covering his mouth with his hand, stifling a heave.
“Moscow did that,” Grant said, still looking away.
Kyle turned off the television. “Yes.”
“That tape’s not enough to prove it was him. They may be able to do a voice print, but he’s slippery.” Grant ran a hand over his face, relieved the picture was gone. “Where did you get that? And what the hell was that thing?”
“The Australians call it a bunyip. As for where I got the tape, we’ll get to that. Look, there’s more going on. A lot more. But first, I have to know. Are you in or out? I’ll give you another chance. You can walk away now, if you want. We can pretend you were never here.”
“After seeing that? How could I possibly keep dealing with him? Suspecting him of foul play is one thing. But this… and you say there’s more?”
“Yes. Downstairs. It’s only fair to warn you… you may regret this. Regardless of how you feel about Moscow Bain.”
Grant took in a long breath. He swallowed to clear his throat. “Show me.”
Kyle made his way to the center of the house and opened a door. Grant followed him down a flight of wooden steps. A damp, musty smell attacked his nostrils, becoming more pungent as he descended.
“This was custom built by my father. He had plans for a wine cellar.”
The basement was much smaller than the first floor of the house. It was lit by a single unshaded bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were brick, but the one opposite the stairwell was hidden behind a dark curtain. In the middle of the room, Moscow Bain was bound to a chair, a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth.
“Oh, God. Kyle,” Grant said, pausing before he reached the bottom. “What have you done?”
Moscow rotated his head to look. He tried to speak, but could only manage a series of frantic hums and grunts. There was a volcanic ferocity in his eyes, but Grant noticed something else, too. Surprise, perhaps. Or fear.
“How…?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain it later”
Grant circled around the chair to face Moscow, the man’s head swiveling to follow him every step of the way. He looked at the straps, the chair, the floor bolts, then glanced at the walls. “Wait a minute. Isn’t this…?”
“Yes. This is the room in the video. After my father died, Moscow bought this place. From the estate.”
Moscow began grunting and humming again in a fierce display, whipping his head up and down and to the side. Veins were pulsing in his forehead, and Grant avoided looking him in the eye. He had to stop this, had to stop it now. He opened his mouth, searching for the words to tell Kyle this had gone too far when he heard the curtain slide open. He turned to see a huge tank with glass panels over an inch thick. It was covered with a sturdy metal grate hinged to a steel frame that was bolted to the walls. Inside the tank, a huge eye was pressed against the glass, blinking a transparent lid.
“And here’s Moscow’s little pet.”
The creature bore a scorpion’s imprint, with paddle-shaped forearms and tentacles instead of legs. One giant eye dominated the dome of its squid-like head. A gaping, scooped lower jaw extended to the side, and seemed flexible enough to face any direction, independent of the eye. The thing’s back curled into a long trunk with a bulbous end. It was using the bulb to pick things off the bottom of the tank and drop them into the huge lower jaw.
“As you saw, this thing eats people. Devours everything. Even the bones, by the time it’s done. Doesn’t leave a trace.”
Grant thought of Danny Alvarez, and his eyes drifted over to Moscow, who was glaring at him and hurling muffled invective.
“Here’s your chance,” Kyle said. “Freedom. I unlock this lid, and all your problems are over. No more Moscow Bain.”
Even the bones, Grant thought. No more Moscow Bain. No more evicting people who had done nothing wrong, no more screwing tenants out of leaseholds, no more suing innocent people to accommodate his client’s greed or pride. And no more fear of becoming a target himself. It wouldn’t even be murder. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on him. He would simply allow the man to suffer the same fate he had inflicted upon Danny Alvarez. And who knows how many others.
“So, what do you say? Do I release the mugwump on him?”
Grant looked his client in the eye and watched as a sudden stillness seemed to claim the man.
“Yes, do it,” he said, feeling a weakness shoot from his gut through his legs. Then he looked over to Kyle. “Hey, did you just call it a mugwump? I thought you said it was called a bunyip?”
“I said the Australians call it a bunyip.” Kyle thrust his chin toward Moscow. “He calls it a mugwump.”
Grant’s gaze shifted back to Moscow, whose own beady eyes, still burning with anger, seemed ready to explode. “Why does he call it that?”
Kyle began to unfasten the latches that held down the grate over the tank. “Mugwump was an Indian word used to describe Republicans who bolted the party in 1884, refusing to support the party’s presidential nominee. Moscow thinks this thing’ll turn on you the first chance it gets. He calls any person or thing he can’t trust a mugwump.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Oh, I neglected to mention,” Kyle said, pulling open a latch and turning to face Grant. “Moscow’s m
y uncle.”
Grant felt a jarring thud in the back of his head. When his face hit the cement floor, he hardly felt anything at all.
* * *
The first thing Grant became aware of was the pain, a skull-crushing, throbbing ache thumping through his head. Eyes fluttering open, he tried to reach his hand up to his crown, but found himself unable to move.
“Good,” a voice said. “You’re awake.”
It took his eyes a moment to focus. When they did, he saw Moscow Bain standing in front him. Kyle was off to the side, leaning against a wall near the tank, a smug, almost bored look on his face.
“My nephew,” Moscow said. “He kills me. Always with the angles. Like when he comes back from bumming around Australia and says, ‘Hey, Uncle, I want you to pay these guys for this thing, this rare monstrous thing.’ I say, ‘what do I want with some weird animal?’ And the price! But he’s always got a new angle. Never could say no to him.”
Moscow turned and walked back a few steps to where a video camera was mounted on a tripod. “Take you, for example,” he said, stooping to check the flip-out display panel and adjust the lens. “He says to me, ‘Uncle,’ he says. ‘Uncle, why don’t you let me check out that lawyer of yours. Can’t be too careful,’ he says.”
Grant glanced over at Kyle, who lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug.
“You don’t need to do that, I tell him,” Moscow continued, leaving the camera and approaching Grant again. As he neared, he leaned forward, close enough for Grant to smell his rancid breath. “No, Grant’s a stand-up guy, I said. He’s no fuckin’ mugwump. If he wants out, he’ll just tell me. But I let him anyway. Then, when he says you do want out, he tells me I need to test you, for loyalty. That nephew of mine, he’s always one step ahead. Just like when he told me how to deal with that other mugwump, Alvarez.”
Moscow gestured to Kyle, who pulled on a length of rope that fed through a pulley above the tank. The metal grate shifted. “All set, Unc.”
“You know,” Moscow said, lowering his voice a notch. “I gave you every hint. I told you I wouldn’t ever force myself on anyone, told you to listen to me and not to trust Kyle. But, like I said, you don’t know shit about judging people.” Moscow gestured toward the tank. “Mugwump, meet mugwump.”
American Nocturne Page 22