Petra decided that meant she should join us as well. She thought she needed to skulk, lurking behind L girders, then dashing across the open spaces between them. It was Radke who told her she was attracting attention.
“Act normal,” he told her. “Act like you’ve got a right to be here. It’s the only way to be if a patrol-a cop, I mean-rides by.”
A keypad worked the front lock, but Petra had never been given the combo. The side door, which opened onto the parking lot, had a keyhole that sat flat against the panel. It was tricky but not impossible, although my sore palm enhanced the challenge.
While I worked the lock, Tim disappeared into the shadows behind us. I trusted him. Of course I trusted him. Even if he had a combat medal, he didn’t own expensive clothes-he wore a faded Army parka, not a “soft overcoat.” Still, I was relieved when the tongue of the lock slipped back, and he reappeared, a shadow sliding up to the door.
While I held the tongue flat, he slid a metal strip along the edge of the door and pried it open. When I tried to turn on the hall lights, nothing happened. The building was bitterly cold. Olympia, or perhaps the city, had shut off the power to lessen the risk of the fire restarting-or maybe to save money until reconstruction started.
As we moved deeper into the dark building, the acrid stench of charring began to choke us. Charred and frozen at the same time, what a gruesome end. I pulled my muffler over my nose and mouth. I didn’t want to think about what poisons the fire had released-the synthetic fabric in the curtains, the varnish on the stage floor, the polymers in the wire casings-all no doubt Grade A carcinogens when they burn. I imagined my lungs coated with some kind of black grease that would never go away.
“Not all the perfumes of Arabia,” I muttered.
“Say, what, Vic?” Petra demanded.
I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. Bad sign. I shone my flashlight up and down the corridor. The shadows made ghastly shapes-the wires looked like the tentacles of a giant praying mantis. I shuddered but moved forward. Even Petra was subdued, clutching Tim’s arm as we edged our way to the back of the stage.
The Body Artist’s computer was still there, still attached to the webcams and the plasma screens. I held the flashlight while Tim unplugged the connectors. We were out of the club and back in Petra’s Pathfinder within ten minutes.
Petra turned north onto Ashland, moving at a fast clip, talking in disjoint sentences. The adrenaline rush made her higher than a fistful of speed.
“Stop!” Tim shouted.
“I’m just saying-”
He grabbed the wheel from her and shoved his foot on the brake. We stopped inches from a green SUV that was blocking the intersection at Carroll. I twisted to look behind us and saw a Mercedes sedan pull up. As I looked, Rodney began to work his bulky figure out of the car’s passenger side.
“On three, you two get out and run as fast and far as you can. I’m getting into the front seat. No argument. Just go!”
My gun was in my left hand as I spoke, and Tim was already opening his door. On my count, he jumped from the passenger seat while I slid out of the backseat. Petra sat frozen in the driver’s seat. I yanked her door open. Tim ran around the back of the Pathfinder and pulled her out.
Men were climbing out of the SUV and heading toward us. I fired over their heads, and Tim and Petra took off down a side street, away from us. Someone shot back at me, but I was crouching behind the Pathfinder’s open door. I climbed into driver’s seat, put the car into gear, twisted the wheel, and floored the accelerator.
The wheels spun on ice, then grabbed. I crashed into the green SUV’s left headlight. The impact knocked me against the steering wheel, but I backed up, gears whining. Someone was firing at my windshield. The glass splintered. I bore down on the shooter, and he fell backwards, away from my mad driving.
I wrenched the wheel around again and managed a U-turn away from the shooter and toward Rodney and his Mercedes sedan. I slithered around him, but just as I thought I was home free, he shot out the Pathfinder’s rear tires. I bumped down the road on rims. In the rearview mirror, I saw him get back into the Mercedes and come after me.
Oncoming traffic honked at me or at the sedan blocking the right lane, but no one stopped to see what was going on. Too much MYOB, just like Mrs. Murdstone had said this afternoon.
I jumped from the car at Lake and sprinted toward the L steps. I’d almost made it when a figure in black outran me and pulled me down. I rolled over and away, got in a crouch, gun out, but someone else came from behind and hit me on the side of the head.
35 Send in the Marines
I never really lost consciousness. Someone pinned my arms behind me. I tried to fight free, but I was woozy, moving slowly, a dream figure. Another someone stuck his hands inside my sweater, feeling my skin. I kicked backward, connected with a boot, not a leg, and the groping hand pinched me hard, then flung me to the ground. I twisted to the side, trying to scrabble away.
“Where is it?” Rodney Treffer was looming over me in the dark. His breath stank of too many beers.
“What?” I kicked at his kneecap.
I was sluggish, and he moved away easily, kicking me in the stomach as he came back at me.
“Don’t get cute with me, girlie, I know you have it.”
Someone came up and seized my feet. Called to another thug. Two or three others were in the background, I couldn’t see.
Rodney bent close to my head, grabbed my hair. “Where is it?”
The Body Artist’s computer. I couldn’t remember if it had still been in the front seat when I got into the Pathfinder.
“AIDS, you mean?” I said. “Swine flu? Is that what you think I have?”
He let go of my hair and punched at my face, but I moved my head in time, and he hit my coat shoulder. Good job, V.I. Not dead yet.
“We know you took it, bitch! Where is it?”
He kicked me in the stomach, and I threw up. The hold on my feet eased, and I bucked and twisted away from Rodney’s oncoming boot. He lost his footing, slipped in my vomit, fell hard, head bouncing against the ice.
I rolled over to the L steps, clutched the rail, and tried to hoist myself upright. The thugs grabbed me before I could get to my feet. I dropped to the stairs and kicked out hard with my right leg, smacking one in the midriff. His motorcycle jacket took most of the impact, but he couldn’t punch without exposing his stomach to another kick. His companion tried to circle around me from the other side, but the stairwell kept him at bay. I prayed for a train.
“Your kneecaps,” a cold voice spoke from behind my attackers. “My gun is trained on them. Get up, come with me, or forget about ever walking again.”
It was the rumbly-voiced man who’d been in command at Club Gouge last night. I got up.
“Ludwig, Konstantin, bring her to me.”
The two grabbed me and shoved me toward the voice. The gun barrel looked cold and gray under the thin light of the streetlamp. The man holding it was tall, with a fur hat adding another few inches. When he smiled at me, the streetlamp glinted on his gold teeth.
The roar of an oncoming train drowned whatever he started to say. He gestured with his head, and the men holding me shoved me forward into the backseat of the Mercedes sedan. They sat on either side of me, pinning me to the seat, while the commander got into the front next to the driver. Nobody paid any attention to Rodney, who was still lying on the sidewalk near the stairs.
“Tell me where you are hiding it.” The rumbler’s voice filled the car.
I shook my head. “It’s Anton Kystarnik, isn’t it? If I knew what you were looking for, it would be easier for me to tell you where it was.”
“Don’t play games with me, Warshawska. I can make you talk.”
The softness of his voice was more frightening than Rodney’s loud shouts. “I’m sure you can. Torture can make anyone talk. It just can’t make you tell the truth about stuff you never heard of.”
“Maybe it can help you remember, though.�
�
I didn’t say anything. A third-degree street fighter? I’d been flattering myself. The train pulled in, and four people climbed down the L stairs. I looked at them helplessly through the Mercedes’ smoky windows. They stepped around Rodney-I suppose he looked like a drunk they couldn’t bear to touch, lying there in my vomit and all.
“What were you doing at Olympia’s club tonight?” Anton asked.
“Looking for the Body Artist. Karen Buckley. You know her? She’s disappeared.”
Anton laughed, an ugly sound. “Don’t worry yourself about little Karen. She knows how to look after herself, first and last. Don’t imagine her as the scared little girl she pretends to be.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know you and she go way back, back to when Zina was still alive. Why did she change her name?”
“She was thinking she could hide from me, but no one is that smart or that lucky. When I want to find them, they get found.”
“So you know where she is now?”
“I don’t care where she is now.”
“What about her website? You don’t care about that anymore?”
Anton laughed again, this time more loudly, almost like an operatic stage laugh. “I fixed that problem. Now you are my new problem. Why are you caring about these people?”
In the warmth of the car, I was starting to feel the place in my abdomen where Rodney had kicked me.
“Which people?” I tried to sound alert, but I could tell that my voice was thick with fatigue. I tried to imagine how Anton would react if I simply fell asleep. He wouldn’t like it, I decided.
“These stupid Mexican girls who get themselves killed, in Iraq, in Chicago.”
Konstantin and Ludwig were watching Anton, and Anton had his back to the street. I didn’t tell them someone hiding behind the L stairs was stretching an arm out to dig into Rodney’s pockets.
“Get themselves killed? Is that like getting yourself pregnant all alone with a turkey baster in the basement? They stand in front of someone like you who’s holding a gun and say, ‘Shoot me’?”
Anton thought that was funny. “These girls are behaving like that. ‘Shoot me. Blow me up,’ maybe they should all wear signs, put that message on them. Now, you will tell me where you are hiding the papers.”
The figure had disappeared from the L stairs. Through the Mercedes’ whisper-proof windows, I could just hear another train roaring in, and then a loud report, right below us. A second shot sounded. The driver floored the accelerator, but halfway down the block, the sedan spun to the right and slammed into an L girder. An oncoming car honked furiously and swerved out of the way.
Konstantin, or maybe Ludwig, opened his door. I put everything I had into my right shoulder, shoved against him hard enough to knock him out of the car. I rolled over on the seat and followed him.
Three people were pounding toward us up the middle of Lake Street. I got to my feet and swung my arms wildly. Behind me, I could hear the front door of the Mercedes open.
“Vic! Vic! Is that you?”
My cousin’s voice, high-pitched, terrified, more welcome than an angel just then.
I shouted to her to get out of the road, to get out of the way. “Anton has a gun. They all have guns. Get down!”
I was ducking behind a parked car as I shouted. A door opened in a building behind me. A couple of men in waiter’s aprons came outside to smoke. I yelled at my cousin that I was going into the building. A moment later, Petra arrived, with Tim Radke and another man, one I didn’t recognize. All three were out of breath.
Inside, a jazz combo was playing an old Coltrane piece, or sawing at it. In the dim reddish light of the room, I saw that only half the tables were occupied and that no one was paying much attention to the music. A young man came up to us and asked if we wanted a table.
“There’s a ten-dollar cover whether you sit down or not,” he said when we shook our heads.
I stuck a hand into my pocket, fishing for my wallet. My gun was there. The thugs hadn’t patted me down, that was how ineffectual I’d looked to them. I found the wallet and took out two twenties, then cracked open the door.
The Mercedes was listing toward its right side, both tires completely flat. As I watched, Anton’s driver flagged down a passing cab. He held the door open for Anton and climbed in next to him. Konstantin and Ludwig started to get into the front seat, but apparently Kystarnik didn’t want them along-they shut the door and darted looks at the club we’d entered.
“Uh, you guys want to sit, or what?” the manager asked us.
I flashed a smile, or at least tried to. “We’re looking for Club Gouge. We wanted to see this Body Artist everybody talks about.”
“Oh. They burned down last night. But we have a good act coming on in half an hour, a stand-up comic. Take a seat, you’ll see.” His heart wasn’t in the spiel.
I watched Konstantin and Ludwig kneel behind parked cars as I opened the door all the way.
“Konstantin! Ludwig! We’re in here. Come on, the act’s going to start in half an hour!” When they didn’t stand up, I shouted, “Come on guys, no games tonight-it’s too darned cold!”
The two smokers outside the door looked from me to the two thugs. The manager hovered nervously behind me. “If you’re drunk, maybe you should come back another night. You’re kind of making too much noise.”
“You’re so right,” I said. “Petra, just hold the door here while Tim and your friend and I go tell those two bozos to head for home. If anything happens, well, dial 911.”
The three of us ran across the street. Anton’s men got to their feet, guns drawn, but Tim hurled himself at one man’s knees, knocking him into the path of an oncoming car. The driver slammed on his brakes, stopping inches from the thug’s head.
I pressed my own gun against the base of the other man’s skull. “Drop your gun. Now!”
The driver of the car had rolled down his window and was yelling at Tim. My thug thought about turning around to slug me, but I had my left leg outside his and slammed him behind the ear with my left hand. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him out, but it dazed him, and he dropped his weapon. My anonymous teammate scooped up the gun and put our guy in a choke hold.
I hurried to the car and bent down to talk to the driver. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Our friend is drunk. We were trying to get him to come with us to the L, and he tried to fight us off. You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. If I’d hit him, it would have been your fault.”
“You’re absolutely right. We’ll get him out of here right now.”
The thug in the street was groaning but getting to his feet. “They attacked me,” he said blearily to the driver.
“That’s right, Ludwig, we attacked you. That’s right, that’s what we’ll tell your wife when we get you home. Upsy-daisy, now. Tim, get him back on his feet and out of the street before someone really gets hurt.”
Petra hurried out to join us. “Guys, the manager, he’s, like, calling the cops. What are we going to do?”
“I’m parked just over there on Lake Street,” our new helper said. “Can we get these lowlifes that far?”
“Marty, we’ll cover them,” Tim said. “You go get your truck, if that’s okay with Vic, here: double-time.”
Marty sprinted down the street. The manager and the waiters were crowding the sidewalk outside the club entrance. Tim had taken over the choke hold on Marty’s thug. The guy who’d been knocked into the street was too dazed to fight, but I kept my gun on him, anyway. Petra’s teeth were chattering, and she kept up a flow of nervous, worried commentary: Where is he? Doesn’t he know we have to get out of here? What will we do if the cops get here first?
“Say your prayers, sweetheart,” I finally said to her.
A battered pickup bounced to a stop next to us. Marty got down and helped Tim and me shove our captives into the backseat. Tim and I joined them, leaving the front seat to Marty and Petra.
I leaned back in my corner as Marty pul
led away from the club. We’d reached the intersection of Racine before blue strobes swept up the street to the club.
36 A Trip South-Alas, Not to Sunshine!
Now what?” Petra said.
The backseat hadn’t been designed for four. None of us could maneuver well, and I wasn’t happy at the possibilities this gave the thugs when they regained their equilibrium. I told Marty to pull over and let me put Petra into a taxi home. If we had more violence tonight, or the police caught up with us, I didn’t want her involved, anyway.
We were just a few blocks from the heart of the restaurant scene, where taxis were plentiful. My abdomen was so sore that it was painful to climb down from the pickup and hard to walk, but I made it to the curb, flagged a cab, got my cousin tucked away. I gave her a twenty and told her to get home to bed, to call me in the morning before she tried to go to the office.
I climbed into the front seat next to Marty. “Who are you, by the way? And how did you guys show up like that?”
“Marty Jepson,” Tim said for him. “He was a Marine staff sergeant in Iraq. He’s one of the gang who Chad and me met at the VA. I texted Marty as soon as Petra and me left you, and he was at Plotzky’s, so he hustled over to help out.”
“Bless you, Staff Sergeant. Was that you who shot out the Mercedes’ tires?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tim here thought the guy who was passed out back there by the L might have a gun, so I crawled over and found it and shot into the rims-fastest way to deflate tires. What do you want me to do with these bastards, pardon my French?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to drive them down to Thirty-fifth and Michigan, give them to Detective Finchley, see what he can pin on them. They must have records for extortion or murder or something.”
The men began spewing invectives, curses in two languages. If their English was any guide, they didn’t think much of me in Ukrainian, either.
“On the other hand,” I said, “if we learned a couple of things from them, like why they thought I had a piece of interesting property, and why Anton Kystarnik is interested in whatever it is, we might let them go off into the night.”
Body Work Page 26