The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  Cocaine helped him work, it made him more sociable, it lifted his thought processes to a higher level. The drug was a problem only if you let it get out of hand. Used sensibly it was safer than cigarettes or alcohol, and as far as Anderson was concerned, the sooner it was legalised the better.

  He drummed on the steering wheel, nodding his head in time with the driving beat. He rubbed the bridge of his nose but found it hard to control the Corvette with one hand. He wondered if there was something wrong with the steering. Lately it had seemed that the car tended to drift at high speed, and he made a mental note to get it checked.

  The light was on in the porch as Anderson stopped the car in front of the single-storey building. It came on automatically at dusk. His wife had insisted on having the light installed after a spate of burglaries in the area. The upmarket homes of Towson provided rich pickings for the intravenous drug users and sneak thieves of the inner city, and burglar alarm systems and bedside handguns were the norm rather than the exception. Anderson's wife kept a loaded Colt automatic in a cabinet by the bed; there was a shotgun in the closet and a very expensive alarm system.

  He took the cocaine from the glove compartment and the pizza from the passenger seat and locked the car before stepping up on to the porch. A red light blinked on the Corvette's dashboard, another necessary security precaution. Car insurance costs were soaring in the suburbs as car thieves realised that the most expensive models were now to be found well outside the city centre. Middle-class professionals like Anderson had fled the city as it had fallen into decay, but by clustering together in suburban havens they'd only served to make themselves easier targets.

  He unlocked the front door and walked quickly to the hall closet. Inside was the circuit panel into which he had to tap a four-digit code to deactivate the alarm system within twenty seconds. He fumbled with the pizza, trying not to tilt it as he opened the closet door, but he frowned as he realised that the system had already been switched off. He stood staring at the white-metal wall-mounted box, trying to recall if he'd left the house that morning without turning it on. It wasn't like him.

  His wife had drilled it into him how important it was always to have the security system on when they were out. She scoured the local papers for details of robberies and muggings in their area and pinned them to the refrigerator with small fruit-shaped magnets, and even though she was out of town her conditioning meant that Anderson would no more think of leaving the house without activating the system than he would of going out without his trousers. Still, the evidence was there before him. His frown deepened. Maybe there'd been a power failure. No, that wasn't possible because the porch light was on. He shrugged. Maybe it had just slipped his mind.

  He closed the closet door with his shoulder and carried the pizza through to the kitchen. He dropped it down on the kitchen table and took the vial of cocaine out of his shirt pocket. Pizza or cocaine? It took less than a second to make up his mind. He could always reheat the pizza.

  He headed for the guest bedroom. That was where he normally snorted the drug, away from his wife's prying eyes.

  Even though she wasn't around, he still felt safer taking the drug behind closed doors. As he walked by the sitting room, someone spoke his name. Anderson jumped backwards. The vial spun from his hand and shattered on the wooden floor. His eyes were wide and his whole body was shaking. Disparate thoughts ran through his mind: was he being robbed, were they armed, could he reach his shotgun, how had they got into the house, would he be able to get the spilled cocaine off the floor? He backed into the kitchen. He couldn't see the man who'd spoken; he must have been in the shadows. There were two doorways leading off the sitting room, the one he had gone through and another that opened into the hallway. All his senses seemed intensified. He could hear his feet scrape along the floor and he could smell an aftershave he didn't recognise, sweet and sickly. He realised with a jolt that he was standing with the kitchen light behind him and that anyone in the sitting room would see him in silhouette. He'd be a perfect target. He ducked involuntarily and scuttled towards the back door, scrabbling for the key which was already in the lock. As he turned it he remembered that the last time he'd seen the key it had been hanging on a hook by the refrigerator.

  He yanked the door open. There were two men standing there. Big men with hard faces. Anderson turned, but before he could run a massive hand clamped down on his shoulder and gripped like a vice.

  'Maury, what the fuck are you doing?' called the voice from the sitting room. This time Anderson recognised the voice, but the recognition didn't make him any the less terrified.

  The two heavies stepped into the kitchen. The one who was gripping his shoulder had bad acne, his skin pockmarked and rippled as if the flesh had been dragged along an asphalt road some time in the past. He grinned at Anderson, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. 'After you,' he said, and pushed Anderson forward.

  Sabatino was sitting in a winged chair by the window. On the table next to him was a large framed photograph of Anderson and his wife, taken on their wedding day. When he'd left the house the photograph had been in its usual place, above the fireplace.

  His heart began to race like an over-exerted engine. Sabatino stood up and held out his hands like an old man welcoming a nephew. 'Maury, I'm sorry that we've come to your house uninvited.' He looked across at the wedding photograph. 'I suppose we should be grateful that at least we haven't had to disturb your wife, huh?'

  'What do you want?' Anderson asked, all too well aware of how shaky his voice sounded.

  'A chat. Just a chat.'

  'Why here? Why now?'

  The two heavyweights moved to stand either side of Anderson, like huge bookends. He hadn't seen them with Sabatino before.

  The man always had bodyguards close by, but never ones as big or as mean-looking as the two standing at his shoulders. 'We wanted a private chat, that's why.'

  He became aware of another man in the room, standing in the opposite corner to Sabatino. He was taller than the Italian and thinner, with the gaunt look of a man who had trouble sleeping.

  As Anderson's eyes became used to the gloom he could make out a hooked, bird-like nose and hollow cheeks below dark spaces where he supposed the man's eyes were. He was standing like an undertaker overseeing a funeral, his back ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind him.

  'My brother,' Sabatino explained. 'Bzuchar Utsyev.'

  'Bzuchar?' Anderson repeated. The name didnsound in the least bit Italian. Nor did the man's surname. And n›hey were brothers, how come they had different names? None of th^'s made any sense.

  'Don't worry about it,' said the man in the corner, obviously sensing his confusion. He stepped forward and switched on a table lamp. In its yellow glow Anderson could see that the man's hair was close-cropped and grey, emphasising the skull-like appearance of his head. 'I'm Gilani's brother, and his business partner.'

  Anderson shook his head, confused. As far as he knew, Sabatino's first name was Sal, not Gilani. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said.

  Utsyev smiled cruelly as if he knew exactly how pleased Anderson was to have him in his home. 'Why don't you sit down?' he said. 'This won't take long.'

  'How did you get into my house?' Anderson asked.

  'Sit down,' Utsyev ordered, pointing to a sofa.

  The two heavies tensed and Anderson knew that Utsyev wouldn't ask again. He did as he was told, sitting as far away from Utsyev as he could get.

  It was clear that Utsyev was running the show. Anderson looked over at Sabatino for guidance. The Italian had always played fair with him. They'd built up a good working relationship over the previous three years and had always been on the best of terms. Sabatino avoided his gaze. Anderson's stomach churned.

  What he needed was a cocaine hit and the confidence that the drug gave him. He sat with his hands in his lap, all too aware of how sweaty his palms were. He wiped them on his trousers.

  The two heavyweights moved to stand at either end of the sofa
, their hands swinging freely at their sides. They were wearing black leather gloves. Anderson shuddered. Utsyev walked over to the side table next to Sabatino and picked up the wedding photograph. He looked at it, smiled thinly, then put it down again. 'Your wife is a very pretty woman,' he mused.

  'Thank you,' Anderson said.

  'No children?'

  Anderson shook his head. 'No. No children.'

  'I've never married,' Utsyev said. 'Never found a woman I wanted to marry.'

  'Ah,' Anderson responded, as if that explained everything.

  'So here we are,' Utsyev said.

  'What do you want from me?' Anderson asked.

  Utsyev sat down on a chair, smoothing the creases of his trousers. 'We are substantial investors in your company. But of course you know that, right?'

  Anderson nodded. 'Right.'

  'We have a sizeable stake in CRW. We'd like to increase that holding.'

  Anderson looked across at Sabatino. 'I know that. Mr Sabatino's already told me what your plans are.' Still Sabatino wouldn't look him in the eye.

  'No. Now we want complete ownership of the company.'

  Anderson's mouth dropped. 'Say what?'

  'We intend to take over CRW. Lock, stock and barrel.'

  'Wait a minute,' Anderson said. He leaned forward, his whole upper body tense. 'This is a private firm. We have shareholders, sure, but we're not a listed company. You can't launch a takeover bid just like that.'

  Utsyev smiled without warmth. 'We don't plan to launch a takeover bid,' he said. 'We will simply buy out the major shareholders.'

  'You just don't get it,' Anderson said, shaking his head sadly.

  'It's a family business. Katherine Freeman is the daughter of the founder. She'll never sell the company.'

  'It's up to you to persuade her,' Utsyev said.

  Anderson turned towards Sabatino. 'Will you explain to your brother that…?'

  The slap was almost hard enough to knock Anderson off the sofa. He was so shocked by the blow that he didn't feel any pain. He looked up to see Utsyev standing over him. Utsyev backhanded him across the face again. Anderson fell back, his hands up to defend himself from further attacks. Utsyev glared at him, his forehead furrowed and his lips as thin as razors. 'You're talking to me, not my brother,' he hissed.

  Anderson touched his face gingerly. He pressed his lips and his fingers came away covered in blood. Tm bleeding,' he a*i? Utsyev pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to him with a flourish. Anderson took it but didn't use it. He sat staring at the linen square, a look of amazement on his face. 'You hit me,' he said in disbelief.

  Utsyev went back to his chair and sat down again, taking care to straighten the creases of his trousers. 'We are taking over the company, and you're going to help us. We're prepared to offer two million dollars in cash, and we'll take on the company's debts.'

  'The company's worth more than that,' Anderson whispered.

  'We're not talking about a fair market value,' Utsyev said.

  'We're talking about what we're prepared to pay for it.'

  'But…'

  Utsyev held up a warning hand. 'I don't want to hear anything that starts with the word 'but', okay?'

  Anderson nodded. 'Katherine won't sell. She and her husband know what the company's worth. They're on the board, they have access to the accounts. Besides, the bank won't allow it.'

  Utsyev snorted quietly. 'We've already taken care of the nigger.'

  'What?' Anderson said.

  'The nigger. What was his name?'

  'Nelson,' Sabatino said.

  'Yeah, Nelson. We've already taken care of Nelson.'

  Anderson was stunned. He looked at Sabatino, then back to Utsyev. 'You killed Nelson?'

  Utsyev shrugged. 'I had it done. I can do that, Maury. As easy as breathing.'

  Anderson was lost for words. He flopped back on the sofa, the handkerchief forgotten in his hand.

  One of the heavyweights sighed as if blowing out a candle.

  Utsyev scowled at him and the heavy straightened his back like a soldier standing at attention. 'Nelson was getting too close to us. Did you know he'd hired a private eye?'

  'No, I didn't,' Anderson said. He felt as if his world was falling down around him. He needed cocaine and he needed it bad. The thought that there were several grammes sprinkled over the floor by the kitchen was driving him crazy.

  'Yeah, he was digging around trying to find out who owned the company. Broke into our lawyer's office. Can you believe that?'

  'No, no I can't believe that,' Anderson said. He rubbed his jaw. He could taste blood at the back of his mouth and one of his front teeth felt loose.

  'Yeah, so we're gonna have to move quickly in case the bank puts someone else on our case. Once we own CRW and the bank's paid off, there'd be no point in anyone sniffing around.

  You've as much to lose as we have, you know. If they find out what you've been doing…' He left the threat unfinished.

  'I hear you,' Anderson said. He wondered who this man was, this man who'd assaulted him, broken into his house, killed a banker and done God only knew what else. Sabatino had always been so pleasant, so helpful, ready with investment money when CRW needed it and with free cocaine on tap. This didn't make any sense.

  'Okay, so you're gonna help us take over CRW. The Freeman woman and the rest of the shareholders can walk away with the cash, and everyone's happy. That okay with you, Maury?'

  Anderson shook his head. 'Katherine won't sell,' he repeated.

  'Then, like I said, it's up to you to persuade her.' Utsyev flashed a wolfish grin. 'Try pillow talk.'

  Anderson sat bolt upright as if he'd been plugged into the mains. 'What?'

  'You heard me,' Utsyev said. 'You've been screwing CRW's major shareholder. I'd have thought that might give you some leverage with the lady. What do you think, Gilani?'

  Sabatino shifted uneasily in his chair. 'I guess so.'

  'Yeah. I guess so,' Utsyev said, getting to his feet. He walked over to where Anderson was sitting and loomed over him. Anderson flinched. Utsyev pushed his face up close so that Anderson could smell the man's bitter breath. 'Look, Anderson, my brother has been supplying you with enough coke to keep half the city wired. We've got photographs of you entering and leaving several motels with Mrs Freeman, and we know where you and your lovely wife live. I'd say that gives us some leverage with you, huh?' Anderson said nothing.

  He dabbed the handkerchief to his mouth. Utsyev raised his hand and his lips tightened. 'Wouldn't you?'

  Anderson nodded quickly. 'Yes,' he said.

  Utsyev smiled and lowered his hand. 'Good. Then we understand each other.' He walked over to the fireplace and stood by it, rocking backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. 'We'll give you a week. Do what you have to do.'

  'I don't understand,' Anderson said.

  Utsyev raised his eyes in exasperation. 'I suggest you persuade the Freemans by whatever means necessary that it's in their best interests to sell the company. It shouldn't be too hard bearing in mind the state it's in. Gilani tells me that you're gonna be losing money this year.'

  'If it's in such a bad state, why do you want to buy it?' Anderson asked. 'I'll be able to get the books straight eventually, then you'll be in the clear.'

  'That's for me to know,' Utsyev said. 'All you've got to worry about is getting control of the company. And look, there's an upside to this for you. We'll write off the coke Gilani's given you, throw in a few ounces more, and you can run the company for us until we've done with it.'

  'What do you mean, done with it?'

  'We only want some of the assets. We've no interest in the rest.'

  'The land?'

  'Like I said, that's for me to know. But if you haven't persuaded the Freemans and the other shareholders to sell, I'll take care of it. And I'll take care of you. Do we understand each other?'

  Anderson nodded. He looked at the handkerchief. It was spotted with blood.
'Keep it,' Utsyev said. He nodded at the heavy with bad skin. 'Get the car, Ostrovetsky,' he said. The heavy disappeared into the hallway and a few seconds later Anderson heard the front door open and close.

  Utsyev smiled, showing chipped and yellowing teeth. Anderson smiled back. He felt like a turkey being fattened up for Thanksgiving.

  'I'll do my best,' he said.

  Utsyev nodded like a priest taking confession. 'I hope that'll be good enough,' he said. 'Kiseleva, give our friend here a little something for his habit.'

  The heavy with the red scarf walked nonchalantly over to Anderson and handed him a small polythene bag of white powder. Before he could take it, the heavy had dropped it into Anderson's lap and walked out, followed by Sabatino. Utsyev patted Anderson on the shoulder. 'You'll do just fine,' he said, like an undertaker addressing the recently bereaved.

  The brothers climbed into the back of the limousine and settled back into the plush leather seats. The car pulled away smoothly from the kerb and headed for the city.

  'What an asshole,' Utsyev said.

  'Yeah,' Sabatino agreed.

  'I'm gonna enjoy taking him on a picnic,' Utsyev grinned.

  'A picnic,' Sabatino agreed.

  When the brothers Utsyev had been enduring their Siberian exile, a year before their mother died of malnutrition and a broken heart, they lived on a farm, working in the frozen fields in exchange for a bed in the barn and just enough food to keep them alive.

  There was a cat on the farm, a big bruiser of an animal with a fight-scarred face and eyes full of hate. The cat hated the brothers Utsyev, and they hated him in return. It would sit and watch them as they toiled in the fields and tended the scrawny pigs and cattle as they collected the eggs from the few chickens that hadn't been slaughtered for the pot. Whenever they tried to get near it, it would stalk off with a bow-legged strut, its tail held high and its nose up in contempt. At first Bzuchar had tried to make friends with the cat. He'd cornered it once in the barn and had offered it his hand, a token of friendship. The cat had responded by hissing and striking out with a clawed paw, drawing blood and ripping a strip of flesh from his hand. From then on it was war.