In for a Ruble tv-2

by David Duffy

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  I dialed another number.

  Gina answered on the first ring. “Turbo! It’s been months. I’ve been worried. How are you?”

  “You mean you were worried about your source of business drying up.”

  “You can be a real bastard, you know that?”

  “A growing consensus around that point of view. You want work?”

  “Sure.”

  I asked how soon she could get up to Beacon.

  “It’s my last semester, Turbo. I’m on cruise control, just waiting to hear from law schools. And I can use the money.”

  “I’ll send you a picture of a kid. His name is Andras Leitz. He took a train there last night, then went across the river to Newburgh. Probably arrived around nine. Work the cabs at the station, see if you can find one that took him.”

  “Got it.”

  “If anyone or anything feels remotely weird, catch the next train out of town.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  I doubted Nosferatu was in Newburgh, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I put down the phone.

  “I thought you worked alone,” Victoria said.

  “I use college students sometimes for jobs like this. Used to use actors, but they’re not always reliable. Gina’s a senior at NYU, applying to law schools. I’m hoping she gets into one here. She’s the best.”

  “Do I infer correctly that she called you a bastard?”

  “Not the first time.”

  “I think I’d like to meet her.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Gina called late that night.

  Victoria and I had spent the day on neutral ground—the Museum of Modern Art. We agreed to disagree on the relative merits of Impressionism versus Expressionism. I dragged her in front of Otto Dix, George Grosz, and Max Beckmann, she retreated to Monet and Renoir. We found some common ground in Picasso and Hopper, but lost it again when we got to Kelly and Diebenkorn.

  It didn’t matter, we held hands and were happy in each other’s company. I cooked a chicken in a pot full of garlic for dinner, and she bought another good bottle of wine, a Hermitage from France’s Rhône Valley. She said tonight was her turn on the stereo, so we were listening to a medley of Tammy Wynette and George Jones. I was trying to convince her that the fact that Charlie Parker liked country music was a good reason to listen to Charlie Parker—a losing argument, even I realized that going in—when the phone rang.

  Gina’s voice was full of accusation.

  “Turbo, you ever been to Newburgh?”

  “Once, I think.”

  “Then you know what a shit hole it is.”

  She’s never reticent about expressing her opinions.

  “You called to give me your impressions?”

  “Just noting there oughta be a premium for a burg like this, especially on weekends.”

  “You said you wanted work.”

  “What the hell are you listening to? Have you gone redneck?”

  “George Jones. I’m told he’s more American than John Wayne.”

  “Whatever. It took the whole day, but I found the cabdriver, and I found the motel where he took the kid. He remembered him because the motel is a total sleaze joint, and he didn’t think it was a place a kid like that would go. But now I’ve missed the last train and I’m stuck in this urban landfill overnight.”

  “I thought it was a shit hole.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Outside the motel—Black Horse Motor Inn. I tried to talk to the manager. He said he hadn’t seen the kid. Then he said if he had seen the kid—and he wasn’t saying that he had—the kid was long gone. Then he told me to get lost.”

  “You try money?”

  “Turbo, do you hire me because I’m a moron? I offered him a hundred bucks and tried to flirt with him, but I got bubkes. In fact, he kinda threatened me.”

  Gina has plenty of attributes. She’s smart, pretty, engaging—and can flirt with the best of them. If all that, plus a C-note, got her thrown out, then the Black Horse had something to hide. Another kind of approach was in order.

  “Get out of there. Find a decent hotel, I’m buying.”

  “Good luck in this dump.”

  She told me how to locate the Black Horse, and I assured her the check was in the mail. She muttered something about combat pay and hung up. Of the half-dozen kids who work for me, Gina really is the best. But you do have to listen to a lot of blowback.

  * * *

  The next morning at 7:05, I was doing sixty up the FDR in the Potemkin—alone. I wasn’t happy about it—neither was Victoria—but since I didn’t know what I’d encounter at the Black Horse, I told her I was better off traveling solo. She said that meant I was looking for trouble. Another argument I wasn’t going to win.

  The Black Horse was just as Gina billed—a seedy two stories tucked into a row of low-rent strip malls and fast-food joints on the edge of town. Newburgh’s had a tough time in recent years, tough enough that a few years ago the mayor offered to host a high-profile terror trial because he thought it might be good for business. Ten cars were parked in front of the Black Horse’s two dozen units. Just eight thirty, I sat in the lot, at the far end from the office, and watched. A door to one room opened and a red-faced man looked out, then left and right, before a heavy-set woman walked quickly to her car, head down, and drove off. That scene was repeated a few minutes later, a few doors down, except this time, a fifty-ish man in a suit with no tie held the door for a twenty-ish man in jeans, who made an equally speedy exit. The woman who left the third room, without bothering to check who might be watching, wore a short skirt and sheer blouse beneath her open coat. She looked ten years older than she probably was and had all but certainly spent the previous night working.

  Victoria introduced me to a Louisiana songwriter, Mary Gauthier, who has a song about the Camelot Motel and the grace-fallen people who stay there. I had the feeling I was parked in front of the inspiration.

  I got out of the car and shivered in the wind. Dust and trash flew around the parking lot, more potholes than pavement. I started toward the office, but something on the ground caught my eye. I knelt for a closer look. A used syringe, its plastic chamber ground into the asphalt, the needle still intact. I strolled the lot and found six more, by which time I was cold and went back to the car. Detroit gets justifiably criticized for its automobiles, but I’ve never heard a bad word against its heaters. I warmed up while I thought about what I’d found.

  The door to the end room on the ground floor opened, directly across from where I sat, and a thin man in his twenties came out, wearing only a flannel shirt and dirty jeans. The cold didn’t seem to affect him. He walked toward the fast-food place next door, his right hand scratching his left arm, before he disappeared among the dumpsters that demarcated the two properties. I got out and followed.

  The burger joint was doing a good breakfast business and smelled of grease. The average weight of the customers, somewhere north of two-forty, regardless of height or gender, indicated a cause-and-effect relationship at work. The thin man had to wait. He fidgeted and scratched. A sharp face, goatee, long hair tied in a grimy ponytail. I stood in the next line, two back. When his turn came, he ordered egg biscuits with gravy and two coffees light with extra sugar. The guy behind the counter slipped a foil packet into the bag and palmed a fifty in return. Breakfast of champions.

  I followed Skinny back to the motel, closing the gap as we approached his room. He took the foil packet from the bag and put it in his pocket. He was still twitchy and didn’t notice me until I grabbed his arm as he unlocked the door.

  “What the fuck?!”

  “Inside.”

  I shoved him in and closed the door. A woman about his age, also thin, sat on the bed, naked, except for the sheet around her waist. She had gray-blue skin, sunken eyes, fallen breasts, and a needle track running up her left arm. She made no attempt to cover herse
lf. Crumpled foil, a spoon, hose, and syringe on the bedside table.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the thin man said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m not here for you. What’s your name?”

  “None of your fuckin’ business.”

  I took a twenty from my pocket. “Play your cards right, you could earn a couple bucks this morning. Or I can make a shitload of trouble. You choose.”

  “You wanna fuck Cindy, it’s gonna cost ya more than twenty,” the man said, leering. I was tempted to hit him, but that wouldn’t help things.

  “I asked you a question. What’s your name?”

  “You a cop, mister?” Cindy spoke for the first time, her voice just above a whisper.

  I shook my head.

  “Talk to the man, Les, we can use the bread.”

  Les started to tell her to shut up, then thought better of it. I picked up the tinfoil.

  “Little short this morning?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “True. But maybe I can help you out.” I held out two twenties this time.

  “Listen to the man, Les,” Cindy said.

  “Your girlfriend’s giving you good advice.”

  “She ain’t my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

  I was tempted to tell him if she was my wife, I’d wrap her in something for warmth if not decency, but that was none of my fucking business either. I showed them the photograph of Andras.

  “I’m looking for this kid. He was here Saturday night. You see him?”

  I thought recognition flickered through his eyes, but he shook his head. Cindy raised herself on her knees and looked over his shoulder.

  “I remember him. I…”

  “Shut up, stupid cunt!”

  Les spun and slapped her. She fell backward across the bed. Enough for me. I took him by the belt with one hand, the back of the shirt with the other, and ran the skinny body across the room into the wall, headfirst. I dragged him into the bathroom, grabbed the foil packet from his pocket, and dropped him in the tub. He looked up with half-conscious eyes.

  I held up the smack. “You make a single sound before I’m through here, this goes down the drain. You hit Cindy again, I will find you, wherever you are, just like I found you today, and pound you until there is nothing left to pound. You understand?”

  He didn’t move. I stomped on his ankle. He yelped in pain.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Y… yes.”

  “Don’t come out of here until I’m finished.”

  My threats were meaningless, except to flush his heroin, which he’d realize as soon as I left, but they made me feel like at least I tried. I returned to Cindy, wide-eyed on the bed, still naked. I found some jeans and a shirt on the floor, which I handed over.

  “Put these on.”

  I turned my back, ever gallant Galahad, while she dressed.

  “Okay.” She was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “If I gave you enough money for a bus or a train, is there somewhere you could go, get yourself cleaned up, start over?”

  “You mean… leave Les?”

  I nodded.

  She thought about it but not long enough. She shook her head. “He’s all I have.”

  “He’s scum, Cindy. Look at this dump. Is this what you want? He get you hooked?”

  “He… He’s all I have.” She started to cry.

  I’d tried. Breaking her away from Les would take more than one attempt by one leather-coated Galahad on a cold January morning.

  “Tell me about the boy.”

  She looked away.

  I held out the foil packet, making the shift from chivalry to shit. “Tell me about the boy, or I’ll throw this into the wind.”

  “No! Please…”

  “You saw him. When? Saturday?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. About nine, I guess. Maybe later. We were going out, get something to eat. He and a girl were a couple doors down. They were yelling, that’s how come I noticed.”

  “A girl?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Angry yelling?”

  “I think so.”

  “Angry about what? Please try to remember.”

  She closed her eyes and scrunched up the hollow face. She was trying or putting on a good act. I waited.

  “I know! I remember!” Her eyes popped open, and she smiled, pleased with her accomplishment.

  “That’s great,” I said, clapping my hands in encouragement, feeling like a fool.

  “He kept shouting, ‘Where is he? Where the fuck is he?’ She kept saying, ‘How should I know? This was your stupid plan, remember?’”

  She looked doubtful for a moment, then her face brightened again.

  “At least I think that’s how it went. Yes, that’s it. I remember the part about ‘stupid plan’ because she was really angry about that, like he’d done something without telling her, and she was pissed, just like I would have been.”

  I wondered how often Les left her out of the plan. That was probably unfair, if only because Les didn’t seem the type ever to have a plan—beyond securing the next fix.

  “Did they say anything else? Anything about this guy they were expecting?”

  “No. You don’t have it right. They weren’t expecting anybody, only him, he was. And she was pissed because he hadn’t told her.”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry.” Having remembered her story, she was sticking to it. “What did the girl look like?”

  “Tall, blond hair, I think. I didn’t get a really good look at her. She was wearing, like, a ski parka. And a wool hat pulled down over her head.”

  “How old?”

  “Same age. As the boy, I mean. Young, twenty, maybe less. I don’t know.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. I mean, they shouted back and forth three or four times, I think. The same thing about where is he, how should I know, then they went inside. We left.”

  “And when you came back?”

  “Didn’t see them again.”

  “Were they still here, you think?”

  She shrugged.

  “What time did you come back?”

  “I don’t know. Ten thirty, eleven, maybe.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t see them again?”

  “No.”

  She looked up at me with her sunken eyes. “Can I have my fix now, please. I need it.”

  I looked over at the bathroom door and made one more stab.

  “You sure you don’t want to get out of here? I’ll take you. You just tell me where.”

  Her eyes followed mine, stopped on the bathroom door for not long enough, then swung back to me.

  “I need it. Please.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The motel manager didn’t add much to Cindy’s story. He didn’t want to add anything until I placed a used syringe on the counter and told him my next stop was the Newburgh police if he didn’t rearrange his attitude.

  A man had rented the room by phone, one night, under the name Brian Murphy, from New York City. The kid had collected the key and paid the bill in cash. The manager didn’t see the girl, or if he did, he wasn’t saying.

  “We get a lot of folks through here, bud. None of them want to be remembered. We do ’em that favor.”

  If it wasn’t the truth, it was a damned good lie.

  I returned to the Potemkin’s heater and thought about how far I wanted to take this. I’d been hired for one job, and I had the answer to that—at least the pieces. Nosferatu had placed the bug. Coryell was his agent. No doubt in my mind he was the man the cleaners had described. Nosferatu worked for Konychev. Konychev knew Leitz. Leitz wanted a name. That was enough to secure my fee and the Malevich. But I didn’t have the connections. What was Nosferatu after? What did he have on Coryell? Why had Coryell
sold out his brother-in-law? What did Thomas have on Coryell? And what was Leitz’s multimillionaire son up to? The last question was none of my affair, but I’ve always found it hard to walk away from anomalies like that.

  What the hell? Nothing to lose, except maybe my client, and I was all but done with him anyway. I dialed the number of Andras Leitz’s cell phone.

  “This is Andras.” A pleasant-sounding voice, slightly high in pitch, counterbalanced by low volume.

  “My name’s Turbo. I work with Foos. I’m doing a job for your dad and I have a question for you.”

  I waited while he processed that. “Dad didn’t say anything about you calling.”

  “I didn’t tell him I planned to.”

  I waited some more.

  “What’s the name of Foos’s parakeet?” he asked.

  “Always good to be sure,” I said. “It’s a parrot, as you know. Pig Pen. He calls me Russky. He flunked charm school, which you also know if you’ve met him.”

  He laughed, relaxed. “That’s for sure. He calls me Whiz Kid.”

  “At least that’s complimentary.”

  “It’s embarrassing. Especially around Foos. You said you have a question. Sorry to rush. I’ve got class in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll be quick. The job I’m working on has to do with your dad’s office security. I don’t know that much about computers, your father’s in meetings all day, and Foos isn’t around, or I’d ask him. Is your home networked through the Leitz Ahead system?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So if someone’s online at your house, they’re inside the network, inside the firewall.”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Foos thought he spotted traces of unusual activity. I was trying to think about where it could have originated.”

  I expected a few moments of silence then a feeble lie. That’s what I got.

  “I do all my work here at Gibbet, on the school’s network.”

  “Sure.” Except during vacations and breaks. I was willing to bet he got straight As in math.

  “Tell me one more thing, and I’ll let you go.” I think I heard him sigh with relief. “When was the last time you talked to your uncle Walter?”

  Relief morphed to apprehension, maybe fear. “Why?”