Blood Hound

by James Osiris Baldwin

  “You look tired.” Speaking from down below the back of the stage, I had to raise my voice so it was loud enough for her to hear me over the music.

  Crina opened her eyes to look down, her expression softening with relief. Like me, she spoke Ukrainian, but her accent was interesting: part Balkans, part Germany. “Alexi, thank God. Please tell me you're bouncing tonight.”

  “Unfortunately not. I’m only here for a quick meeting.” I looked towards the exit door and ran my tongue over my teeth. Lev wouldn’t miss me for five more minutes.

  Crina smiled tiredly as I pushed myself up to sit on the edge of the stage, resting by her ankle. I stayed a modest distance from her bare leg.

  “Drecksnest.” She chuffed, leaning back on her hands. “It’s a bad crowd. End of exams, so all the frat boys are out, dicks in hand. My ass is going to look like a glazed donut by the end of tonight.”

  Solemnly, I lay my hand over my heart and bowed my head. “I pray their wallets are well stocked and their seminal aim is poor.”

  She laughed, rocking back on her rump. Crina was a magnificent person, everything I knew I should be attracted to in a woman: clever, bookish, well-educated. Because no attraction existed beyond a meeting of minds, we had become friends, and we played beard for one another. Crina was near the end of a degree in English language and comparative linguistics, and she appreciated being able to tell people like Petro that she was not available. I had only tried to date seriously once in my life and had no desire to make a second attempt. It had been a humiliating disaster.

  Crina leaned forward towards me, her eyes glittering with conspiracy. “So. Have you heard that Jung’s family is finally releasing Das Rote Buch? Not that I’m hinting or anything, but the library at my college might have pre-ordered a first print copy..?”

  My breath caught. The Red Book: C.G. Jung’s handwritten masterpiece, rumored to be a dialog between the psychologist and his own soul, and supposedly one of the greatest Occult tomes ever written. I straightened, and my mood lifted a little more. “Have they, now? And how much is this book worth, exactly?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.” Crina’s hand flew up in excitement, hovering near her face. “Can you believe it?”

  “I certainly can,” I replied. Twenty thousand or twenty million: it was a priceless Occult text written by one of the most insightful psychonauts in modern history.

  Crina bit her lip, swinging her ankles out over the edge of the stage box. “Well, I could, in theory, sneak it out when it comes in... and could, in theory, share it with a certain gentleman, if he’s interested?”

  I nodded slowly, feigning consideration, and rolled the mint around my mouth. It took the edge off the nausea brewing in the pit of my gut. “I think that would be quite acceptable. And if the lady wished to bring it to the gentleman’s home…?”

  Crina blossomed like a magnolia before my eyes, her face suffused with pleasure. “Let’s make it a date. How about Tuesday?”

  I snorted. Her choice of words made something deep inside my chest tense warily, but I was mostly grateful. “Me? Date? Come now.”

  “You know what I mean. We both know the date’s with Das Rote Buch.” She flashed me a little crooked smile. “Dirty bibliophile.”

  “No date,” I replied. “And you have a deal.”

  She reached down to me, fingers poised like a dancer’s. I clasped Crina’s small hand and shook it carefully. She giggled, and I wasn’t certain if she was making sport of me, if I’d done something inappropriate, or if she was just pleased.

  “By the way, my friend Vassily was released from prison today,” I said. “He is sleeping over and will still be in the house by next Monday, I assume. So, perhaps you could…”

  “I will be a perfect stuntwoman.” Crina laid a delicate hand across her heart. “Cooing and makeup and everything. Pat my thigh a couple of times and give me a glass of wine in front of him. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  We shook on that, too. She had literally been a lifesaver. A man without a woman on each arm is greatly suspect in our world, and if there was one thing that would seal my outcast status with the rank and file, it was my distinct lack of activity with the opposite sex. There were some things about me none of the men needed to know.

  My skin vibrated in the relative silence of the elevator on the way upstairs, humming against my clothes. Yes, the dream bothered me. Nacari bothered me. Lev’s growing reliance on my services bothered me. He was competent, but not popular. I was similarly competent and unpopular, and he was reeling me in, perhaps trying to win me over to his inner circle. The problem, however, is that unpopularity in the underworld is often terminal for more than one’s career.

  The Sirens VIP Lounge was a whole other world compared to the pigpen below. The entry hall had grayish-purple carpet so deep it scrunched under my shoes. They kept the music low and rhythmic, the perfume expensive, and the decorations tasteful. I heard the raucous laughter of a small party of drunk men from one parlor, and dimly, the panting cries of a woman from behind another closed door. The double doors at the end of the hall guarded the manager’s office, which had been Sergei’s lair, then Rodion’s, and which was now sparingly used by Lev. Our Avtoritet was not a strip club sort of person: he spent most of his time in Manhattan overseeing his legal firm, another important subsidiary which kept the money flowing, our men out of prison, and the words “Russian Mafia” out of the press.

  Before I had a chance to touch the intercom box outside Lev’s office, the lock clicked. I let myself in, and a hush fell around my ears. Always cool, the room was decorated entirely in muted tones of aquamarine, turquoise, and pearl. A copy of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus took up most of the opposite wall. Lev’s desk was glass-topped, like most of the furnishings. Lev was already standing, the fingers of one hand elegantly splayed over his desktop. He looked up from them, smiling. He looked like the kind of guy you’d find doing your taxes, not managing the second-largest gun-and drug-running operation in New York. “Good evening, Alexi. Did Nicolai brief you for the meeting?”

  “He did not, Avtoritet. I didn't have a chance to speak with him.” I waited until he offered his hand before we shook. Lev had a firm grip for such a small man. Like Nicolai, his hands were covered in old smoky-blue tattoos. “HIs message implied there was a problem.”

  “A very inconvenient problem indeed.” Lev considered me with piercing scrutiny. For all his physical softness, he managed to carry the intensity of a hunting tiger. I realized, almost as an afterthought, that he was actually coldly furious over something, the anger tamped down under a shivering veneer of calm control.

  Maybe he knew Nic had been gossiping. “Have the Manellis learned about Nacari?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge. Possibly. This is a related but separate matter.” Lev folded his hands behind his belt. The arch of his lower back was stiff with anger. “It’s a lot more important.”

  I crossed my hands in front of me, and waited.

  “Our primary lead into the cocaine market was meant to be here by six,” he said, the words a little too crisp. “The man who cracked Colombia for the Northeast Coast. He’s been absolutely reliable for the entire three years we’ve worked with him, but he didn’t show up tonight. I am... concerned. No response to phone calls. I sent someone to his house. Nothing. I need you to find him.”

  My gut began to crawl with an uncomfortable sensation that had nothing to do with my sensory overstimulation. This was something new, and I didn’t like it. I had never, ever been asked to bring someone in like this. “Well, Avtoritet, I will, of course, but...”

  “But?” His gaze sharpened a little.

  “Generally speaking, I don’t bring men back to you alive, and if he’s run... well, sir, I’m not a private investigator.”

  “But you will,” he said.

  There wasn’t a lot I could say to that. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I will tell you what I know of him.” The charge between us ebbed slightly. �
��The man you will be searching for is named Vincent Manelli.”

  My eyebrows arched. It was not unheard of for people to move from one organization to another, but it was much rarer for blood family members to do so. “Manelli? A relation... one of John’s sons?”

  “Yes. The youngest. Vincent humbly defected from his family in eighty-eight and became a critical ally of George Laguetta. He is a personal friend of the Santos Twins, the brothers who run the cartel in Cali that supplies our operation.” Lev rose again, pacing aimlessly. “The likelihood of Vincent's return to his father is very low. George is the sole possessor of whatever sensitive matter drove Vincent out from his family in the first place, and he assures me that his return is impossible.”

  "I see. When did you last speak to him?"

  Lev paused, and briefly, his expression fell. “I only talked to him recently, yesterday. He was concerned about his safety, so I had my contact put him up with protection.”

  My eyes flicked over Lev’s face, then down. While I was thinking about these things, I couldn’t watch people’s faces. They moved too much. “When you sent someone to his house to find out what was going on, was his bodyman absent?”

  Lev’s whole face sharpened. “Yes.”

  “Out of interest, was it Yuri? Yuri Beretzniy?”

  Lev’s gaze bored into me with renewed focus. I could feel it, even if I wasn’t looking directly at him. “I know we call you Charivchik for a reason, Alexi, but didn’t know your ability extended to fortune-telling.”

  “It doesn’t. If he disappeared from his home, it's natural that his bodyguard would either have been killed or taken with him. Otherwise, he’d have informed you straight away.” I glanced up but couldn’t look at Lev’s face. I chased the breadcrumb trail of events with a sense of faint exhilaration. “Yuri was your bodyguard before Mikhail, a trusted resource. He is supposed to be on shift. The only reason he would accept a work assignment was if his charge was coming with him. Vincent was scheduled to meet with you while Yuri was on the floor, and they would have gone home together.”

  “When you put it like that, it seems obvious, doesn’t it?” Lev’s voice held a hint of genuine regard. He folded his arms across his stomach. “Yes, you are correct. Yuri was guarding him, and neither of them were at Vincent’s house when the driver went to pick them up. He was to be assigned a safe house tomorrow. Do you think you could find him?”

  It wasn’t really a request, and my reply wasn’t entirely truthful. I hate lying, and the honest answer was really “maybe,” but I knew fishing when I saw it. Lev was fishing for one answer, and one answer only. “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes.” Lev smiled a tense smile. “You’ll be well paid for it. And incidentally, I should mention... Sergei will be back later this month.”

  Lucky us. Even so, I was surprised to hear it. Lev seemed... glad. If I were Avtoritet in place of a ten-year-absent landlord, “glad” is not the response I would see myself having. “I see.”

  “I intend to put in a good word for you to him.” Lev dipped his chin. “There will be something of a reorganization when I return the leadership.”

  My heart lurched. That was as much a threat as a promise. Regard from Sergei was worth a great deal, and if anyone could wrangle it, it was Lev. By the same token, if I failed... well. I had failed Sergei once, and only once, and that had been enough for me to never want to do so again. “How much is Mr. Manelli worth?”

  “Three hundred thousand to find Vincent. Another ten for Yuri.”

  I blinked, once, and managed to control my expression. It was difficult. I didn’t care much for money—not, say, compared to something like Das Rote Buch. I’ve driven the same old Mercedes since Sergei gifted it to me on my eighteenth birthday. Three hundred grand was nearly ten times my normal fee.

  “Well...” I cleared my throat in the pregnant silence that followed. “That is generous of you, Avtoritet. I will begin with the contact who helped arrange the money and safe house, if you will give me his details.”

  “Her name is Jana Volotsya,” Lev said, as he went around the desk and took his seat. “Of Moskalysk, Volotsya and Goldstein.”

  Chapter 5

  The waiting room of Moskalysk, Volotsya and Goldstein enfolded my senses with cool, perfumed solace. I’d gone home after the meeting, tried and failed to sleep, and ended up throwing back three antacid pills with a cup of coffee and calling it a night. Mentioning Lev’s name got me a nine a.m. appointment, which left plenty of time to talk to Jana and hopefully get a proper day’s sleep.

  The lawyers at Lev’s firm were rarely available to the public. He and the other two partners were constantly booked, with waiting lists that accepted no new clients. Their client list—Sergei, our bankers, and high-level American trustees—filled up their time with more than just court appearances.

  Jana had a private consulting suite, and the door had a brass plate bearing her name and a shortened list of her degrees. Tetyana Volotsya. I read her full name over as I knocked, leather-covered knuckles thumping on wood. Six syllables that tripped nicely over the tongue.

  “Let yourself in.” Her voice was faint through the walls.

  Jana’s office was immediately, overwhelmingly white—white and cream and light beech wood. Poised, pale, and elegant, the attorney stood by a small beech-and-glass flower stand, dressing and arranging a bunch of fresh lilies, their waxen buds and petals still untouched by the heat of the day.

  “Good morning, Mr. Sokolsky, a pleasure.” She turned her head and paused in what she was doing, smiling gracefully. Jana had a strangely proportioned, but not unattractive face, heart-shaped and strong-jawed, with green eyes a shade brighter than Lev’s. Her Russian was thick, a prominent American accent coloring her words. “Come in and take a seat. I won’t be long.”

  I inclined my head stiffly and took the edge of a chair in front of her desk, cataloging the details of the room. It had the vaguely sterile feeling of a doctor’s office, with high shelves ironically laden with books on criminal law. Everything was built of light-colored wood; her desk was topped with a cream leather desk pad, and it was immaculate, no ink stains or pencil smears. Jana herself wore a pantsuit of the same eggshell color, with sharp shoulders and solid, low-heeled shoes. I found myself watching the back of her head while I waited for her to finish. Her flossy blonde hair was braided up in a coil like a girl’s, a tight halo around the back of her skull held firm with a tortoiseshell pin.

  “There we go. Sorry... you caught me just as I had them out of the paper.” Jana took her seat in the other guest chair across from me like a counsellor, rather than behind her desk. The scent of the flower arrangement followed her passage, spreading the thick smell of lilies throughout the room. With her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap, she mirrored my pose. This piqued my interest immediately. I was dealing with someone who had trained in the art of manipulation for many, many years.

  My gaze flickered down momentarily. A single ring—platinum—on the wrong ring finger. She had very clean nails, polished like the inside nacre of a seashell. “It is hardly a problem, Ms. Volotsya.”

  “Lev called me early this morning.” Jana leaned forward a little and pressed her lips together, wetting them just a bit. Not too much—she wore her lipstick expertly, testimony of long practice. “He’s an old friend of mine, you must understand. I’m very concerned.”

  If news of Semyon's demise had filtered into the firm offices, no doubt she was concerned about the fate of 'old friends'. Letting a guy she had arranged protection for slip through her fingers wasn’t good for her reputation, even if it wasn’t actually her fault. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to banish the odd sensation the scent of the flowers caused. It was associated with a fairly neutral shade of reddish pink, but my nose translated it into a sandy, slippery thing on the palate. The whole experience, taste and sensation, blended with the sound of Jana’s unfamiliar voice. “As are we. Tell me what happened in the days leading up to this
.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a little background. Vincent came across from his family a few years ago, seeking asylum with the Laguetta family over some private business.” The attorney sat back in her seat, her face a mask of concern. The chair was a starker white than her suit. “Something drove him out of the family very suddenly. Of course, he knows a lot about their business. I don’t know the details of what he does for us, of course, but given that he knows the Twins personally, you can imagine how valuable he’s been. Both for the Laguettas and for your people.”

  Your people. She nursed the fantasy of clean hands. Discreetly, I let my vision slip, reaching out to sense for any kind of arcana out of idle curiosity. “I see. He’s worth his weight in gold, from what I hear.”

  “Not quite gold.” Jana’s mouth curled at the corners. “But close. Since then, he’s been the boy wonder of the family. I can’t lie—part of the reason he’s been so consistently reliable is because George and Lev keep him in a very fancy cage. However, Vincent has his protection, and he has made an incredible amount of money for himself.”

  “It is always best to bind allies with the cords of gifts that cannot possibly be repaid.” I bowed my head.

  Jana’s eyes danced. She reached up to her collar and pulled a chain free from her jacket. It was plain, with a large silver teardrop pendant that she rubbed between her fingers as she thought. “I see why they put you on this. You’re a real detective.”