by Richard Cain
Before Nastos could say anything Carscadden speared a roll with the point of his chopstick and thrust it at him. He grabbed the mid-point of the stick and tried the roll. It was good, the perfect amount of smooth and heat, just like Carscadden.
“Not bad, eh?”
“Not bad.”
They had progressed from the kamikaze to the octopus when they saw the car. Nastos took pictures of the two men who exited it. The older guy looked like George Clooney. The younger kid with fake blond hair was flipping his index finger laterally across the screen of his iPhone. He was going through pictures. The doorman who took the car nearly blew the operation when he made it as obvious as hell that he was eyeballing the restaurant, trying to catch a glimpse of them in the window.
Carscadden wolfed down three bites of sushi and they didn’t get up until both men disappeared through the hotel’s revolving door. Dutifully the doorman hit the horn twice, garnering a glace back from Clooney.
Nastos said, “That right there is why I friggin’ hate trusting civvies.” He puffed out air. “Okay, first we work the car. Then we deal with the front desk to get their names and credit information.”
“Right.” Carscadden had this look on his face like the most exciting thing in the world was to break into a car in a parking garage.
In silence, they watched the doorman get in the Tahoe and drive away. A short time later the man returned, keys in hand. Carscadden grabbed them. “We won’t be long.”
The SUV was a short walk away in an underground lot. Well lit, with the aroma of car exhaust. Carscadden found the car by hitting the remote key and listening to the chirp. When they arrived at the car Nastos watched as Carscadden spent a few minutes peering inside before touching anything. A rental with leather interior, it was the cleanest car he had ever seen. There was nothing obvious inside the passenger compartment but he hit the button anyway and searched under and behind the seats, the glove compartment and the visors and found nothing other than lint. He pulled up the lever for the cargo area release and locked up the passenger area.
Nastos kept watch during all of this but no one came other than the doorman dropping off another car. Carscadden walked to the trunk door that had popped open an inch and swung it open the rest of the way. Considering how clean the front of the car was, it was surprising to find anything in the cargo area. Inside sat a laptop computer bag. Carscadden glanced around the underground parking and saw no one.
Nastos asked, “What?”
“I wasn’t sure what I expected — maybe a duffle bag full of guns, disguises, cash — but I didn’t expect a computer.” He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder. He gave the rest of the back a quick search then closed it up. “Cool. Let’s get out of here.”
Nastos replied with a thumb jabbed back toward the hotel. They walked to the King Edward at a good pace. Nastos allowed himself to be optimistic for the first time since he took the case. Maybe we’re going to put this mess behind us faster than I thought.
Carscadden handed the keys back to the doorman. “Thanks.”
The doorman took off a white glove and ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Get everything you need, officer?”
“Yeah. Our tech guys will copy the drive and we’ll put it back later. Thanks again.”
Carscadden turned, leaving the doorman and entered the revolving door into the main lobby of the hotel. The check-in area was to his left. To the south, up on the wall, was a large picture of a proud, portly man wearing a red tunic covered in medals and regalia. There was a martini bar to the right. Carscadden glanced left again and noticed Nastos scowling at him from the check-in counter. Carscadden joined him there, any enthusiasm he felt from finding the computer disappearing.
Carscadden said, “There’s cameras all over the main lobby. I know they have some in the elevators too but none in the hallways. What do you say we go through the computer now? We may not need to confront these guys at all.”
“And you know about the cameras how?”
“A previous domestic assault case.”
“Conviction registered?”
“My guy took a plea. Peace bond. He deserved jail though, asshole. So what do you say we back off?”
Nastos grunted, “These guys are essentially ghosts. Fake ID on the rental contract, probably fake everything. We might be able to get away with some fingerprints here and get their real names. I’ve dealt with organized crime before. Unless you have a warm body in front of you, you don’t have anything at all.”
When the woman came to the counter Carscadden provided their investigator’s ID. “Yes, ma’am. We’re investigating two men who are staying here. They are defrauding hotels and airlines and your co-operation would likely be appreciated by American Airlines, to whom these guys owe half a million dollars that we know of.”
She glanced at the ID then back to Nastos. “Should we call the police here?” Her blond hair was clamped behind her neck tight enough to give her forehead the appearance of having a shot of Botox.
Nastos had an answer ready. “This is a matter that our employer wants to resolve civilly before turning it over to the police. It’s a complex fraud. I guarantee that the ID they provided on check-in is bogus. Any credit cards will likely bounce. I hope for your sake they didn’t charge too many meals to the card, because sometimes those things don’t kick back NSF for a few days and by then these guys will be gone.”
She called the manager and Nastos had to go over the cover story again. They showed the investigator’s ID to the hotel manager. He was a tall, gaunt funeral-director-looking man, ageless and spooky with dark circles under his eyes.
After some negotiating, he okayed the release of the customers’ ID that they used to check in. It was a photocopy of their driver’s licences. They were obviously fakes, which only bolstered the story that the two men were some type of organized crime.
Carscadden left the manager a business card then he and Nastos spoke at the elevators. Nastos began, “Room 313. They don’t look like much but you never know. We go in, I’ll do the talking, then we take what we need and it’s over.”
16
Vince lay on top of the bed staring up at the smooth ceiling. There were no coffee-coloured water stains or spiderwebs let alone blood splatters. He stared until he began to see the illusion of depth. Do kids still stare at the clouds? Do they put down their stupid cellphones long enough to leave their houses?
He pondered the lifestyles of the type of people who could live in such perfect places as this, free from the stress of providing the basics for their families. Or do the challenges just change? He answered himself with a quote from Plato that a professor had told him while he was at military college. Only the dead know the end of war.
He rolled over to face Christian. He was still hard at work with one of the two prostitutes that they had dialed up to the room earlier. The other girl was in the shower, freshening up, she had said seductively. He had a vision in his mind of what she was actually doing in there and had to force it from his mind. With a chipped tooth and odour of stale beer, she was a long way off from anything remotely resembling seductive. The girls and the drugs were the worst part of the lifestyle.
Christian was groaning louder and Vince tried to block it out, the only respite being that Quickdraw would be done soon. Thank god the kid is quieter than last night or I’d have to shoot him and toss the girls out the window. The worst part of working with Christian was the constant reminder of how uninterested and awful he would be at leading a criminal organization. In the military Vince had learned that leaders had to lead. They have to be the most sober, the most prepared and ambitious for growth, not a hedonist with no corporate knowledge. Vince stood abruptly and grabbed his phone from the counter. He started for the door but was interrupted.
Christian’s bed creaked out of rhythm. “Where you going?” he asked. “Your girl’s gonna
be out soon.”
“I’m going to hell, Christian, you and me both.” Vince stepped out into the hallway letting the door slam shut behind him then walked down to near the elevators. He dialed a number that was committed to memory. A man answered, “House.”
“This is Vince Druer. I’m in town. I need an appointment to drop by, talk some business.”
“Vince Druer? Are you serious? You wanna come here?”
“I have an offer. You can understand that I want to be discreet. I understand that you will take some serious security measures.”
There was silence on the phone, not even the sound that it was an active line anymore. A minute later the voice replied, “Call back tomorrow for the time.” The line disconnected. Vince checked the phone screen to be sure the call was done then deleted the number from the call log. There were few things that gave him butterflies. Not killing, not torture, not roller coasters, not sex with working girls, however, meeting with these men made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It represented more than escape; it was the biggest “fuck you” to Christian and the entire organization that he could engineer.
He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. There wasn’t time for another call but he made one anyway. He dialed a number and took a photograph out of his breast pocket. As the phone rang he held the picture away and studied it.
Her voice was quiet. “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. It is.”
She sighed. “Why are you calling? Is everything still —”
“Good. Nearly there.” It was a feeling of lightness. It wasn’t until this moment that he felt like he had finally allowed himself to acknowledge the decision that would change his life forever. “It’s time. It’s happening this week. I made the call, I meet them tomorrow. You have to be ready to move fast.”
“Call me after. So I know it went okay.”
“I will. And like I said, nearly there.”
“Oh, thank god. I can’t wait until this nightmare —”
“Baby. Just be ready to move. I gotta go.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up and put the phone in his pocket while he still appraised, no, absorbed the picture. He took a breath and put it away. He turned back to the room feeling at peace. Like the essence of him, the part that he had to keep hidden and under control no longer needed to be suppressed.
He opened the door with the key card and went inside.
His girl was out of the shower, naked, an amateur tattoo on her shoulder read, Thugs Life. She lay back on the bed, her legs spread-eagled and good to go. She was propped up on her elbows drinking vodka straight from the bottle and watching the show Christian was providing in the next bed over. She hooted when she saw Vince and said, “Well, well, looks like there’s a new cowboy in town.”
“No thanks, honey, I’ve got a headache.”
Her face twisted. “Stage fright?” She giggled and took another long drink.
“No. I’d rather just save it for my wife.”
In that world, love was a curse word, morality was a punch line, and this comment had them all laughing in no time.
He went over to the bed. She perked up. When he sat she tried to coil her legs around him but the thought of her crotch anywhere near him was revolting. “Why don’t you hop in the other bed? You might have a better time.” Then under his breath, “I know I will.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
He yanked the bottle of vodka away from her. “It means anyone who’d fuck you is too lazy to jerk off. Now move your ass out of my bed.”
Her face contorted into a scowl. “What’s your problem, asshole?”
The other girl laughed. Mid-chuckle Christian aggressively finished with her, his face in a snarl, trying to catch his breath. His girl barely flinched, too busy laughing to put a show of pleasure on for him.
Vince stood up and took a long pull from the bottle then set it down on the table. When she reached for it he slid it away and growled, “No.”
Christian rolled off of the girl, onto his back and began pulling his pants up. “Jesus, Vince, what’s up with you?”
“Listen, I’m sick of living like this.” He opened the top drawer of the bedside table and brought out a Sig Sauer pistol. The body and grip was black, the slide, stainless steel. He tucked it into the back of his pants.
Christian forgot about his pants and reached down to the floor to grab a bottle of Drambuie. He cracked the seal and took a drink. “We’ll have a better time without you.” He pointed his index finger to the girl on Vince’s bed then turned his hand palm up and beckoned her over. “Why don’t you come over here and join the dark side?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She stood up, raised her nose at Vince then turned to Christian and slithered over to the bed. “You ready to saddle up, big boy?”
“Make me happy and make it snappy, I just need a line first.”
Vince dropped his head back and closed his eyes. Jesus, kid, don’t ever let a hooker know you have blow. We’ll never get rid of them now.
Christian sat up on the bed and pulled the bedside table over. Out of the bottom drawer he took out a small plastic bag and delicately ripped open the red-lined zip at the top. He was hunched over and in a rare moment, serious.
It was all Vince could do to not kill them all there and then. Fantasies ran through his mind of making it look like a failed rape-murder, or drug rip-off, framing Christian and the two whores in each other’s deaths. The only reason he stopped himself was that the room was rented in his name, and the place was littered with gang insignia that Christian demanded the girls notice when they came in the room.
Vince turned to leave. “I’m a little cranky so I’m heading down to the bar to cool down before I blow someone’s head off,” he said to everyone and no one. He reached for the handle but paused when he heard a knock at the door.
17
Carscadden straightened up from the door. “Sounds like someone is home.” He put down the laptop computer and pressed his ear against the door. “Can you make anything out?”
“Let’s just get this over with.” Nastos hammered the door with the bottom of his fist. “We find out what they have to say for themselves then we confront the cops when we have all of the facts.”
The door swung open. Nastos immediately appraised the man, seeing that it was the person they had watched earlier out front of the tattoo parlour then again getting out of the car downstairs. What he saw he didn’t like. Angry, hostile, wanting a confrontation.
“We’re from the concierge desk. We’d like to offer you a complimentary bottle of the champagne of your choice.”
Carscadden was cool; he didn’t react to the sudden change of plans.
The man at the door was perplexed. “Complimentary champagne?” He stuck his head out into the hallway. “You have a cart with you?”
“No. We’re here to take the order in person . . .” Nastos trailed off, peeking into the room and seeing the three-way sex show on the far bed. Up the man’s entire arm was a tattoo that read Dogs of War. “If you’d rather we can come back later.”
The man at the door said, “That’s my fucking computer.”
Nastos felt the adrenaline dump into his blood. His heart thumped in his chest making him feel as if he were in an elevator that had gone into free fall. He nodded for Carscadden to leave.
Carscadden smiled, in mock surprise. “No way, you have the same kind as me?”
The world began to move in slow motion. They watched as the man began reaching his right hand around to his lower back, the index finger and thumb apart with the other fingers curled to grab something, and it wasn’t the place people kept wallets or business cards.
Nastos reacted to t
he threat cue immediately. He tackled the man, forcing him into the room. While in the Robbery Unit he had gone through special weapons training with the Tactical officers. He had learned pistol-stripping drills, one-hand takedowns and strangleholds. He could hear the instructor yelling in his ear. Be aggressive. And if aggression didn’t work, be more aggressive.
Carscadden followed him in. Nastos tried to get on top of the man, but he was agile, adeptly ducking a punch and grabbing Nastos around the neck in a fluid movement. Carscadden saw the other man rising from the bed and body checked him to the floor. When he tried to get up, Carscadden started punching him repeatedly. The man Nastos was fighting was clearly a trained fighter. Trying forearm locks, repositioning his feet, it wasn’t long before he was able to get out from under Nastos. The gun had fallen away, likely under the bedframe, but it was hidden by the bed skirt and Nastos had bigger problems.
It was a gouging, frantic, desperate fight and Nastos knew he was outmatched. Blows rained down on him from every direction. His thighs and upper arms ached. He sacrificed a chance to throw the man to twist savagely and grab Viktor’s gun from his waist. The man struck Nastos’ hand, sending the gun sliding across the carpet. If he lost to a vicious man like this, he would die on the floor of this room. His head was twisted sideways with a knee pressing on his neck. He bucked and flailed his legs, trying to twist his way up to no avail. With his throat constricted he couldn’t shout for help from Carscadden, who might even be losing his own fight. He had seen Carscadden tackle the other man but had no idea what happened after that.
The girls had screamed and shouted at first but now they were quiet, gathering their clothing, frozen between running down the hallway naked or watching two men get beaten to death.