by Julie Beard
“Your soul,” Mike said softly, looking out the open window as a wren flew by.
“What did you say?”
He looked back at me with a little start, as if he’d momentarily forgotten I was there. “I said, this time the price will be your soul.”
When his meaning penetrated, an ominous chill raced over my flesh like a sudden frost. Murder was one way to lose your soul, but there were others. Mike wasn’t psychic, but sometimes he spoke like a prophet, and all too frequently, his prophecies turned into realities.
Chapter 18
Date with the Devil
I threatened Lola within an inch of her life to get her to set up another meeting between me and Gorky. She knew something big was up, but I refused to let her in on the secret. She was infuriated to think that I would have my own secrets regarding her good “friend” Vladimir, but I knew she would blab everything to lover boy if I clued her in. Like the last time, Gorky would meet me at Rick’s Café Americain at nine o’clock. Those were the only details I was willing to entrust my mother with at this point.
I spent the rest of the day getting ready. I meditated, stretched and worked out with Mike as best I could, then took a pain pill. If the evening ended with a fight for my life, I didn’t want to lose because a few aching ribs held me back.
Finally, I bathed and dressed for the evening. Last time we’d met, I wore a minimal of clothing to show Gorky I had nothing to hide, including weapons. But he ended up leering at my low-cut top. It was rare that a man could make me feel tacky, but he had. I guess because he was tacky himself. This time, I would use my femininity to my advantage. If I didn’t use it, he would. Like a politician, I needed to control the message.
I wore a shell-pink, knee-length skirt slit up the front to my thighs, a short-sleeved, dove-gray blouse with a high, starched open collar that rode up my neckline to the bottom fringes of my blond hair.
Next came the gifts from Sydney that I admired but rarely wore—a classy pink pearl earrings-and-necklace set. Then came matching pink lipstick and fingernail polish. Instead of applying my usual facial tattoo, I wore a blue-and-silver dragon bracelet that curled up my left forearm. Finally, I climbed into gray chammy ankle boots and tucked a six-inch dagger alongside my right ankle.
Spinning in front of my full-length bedroom mirror, I concluded that my presentation was perfect. I was feminine, elegant and ready to cut Gorky’s carotid artery in a pinch. In medieval times, small daggers were used to deliver the coup de grâce, or cut of mercy, to the enemy after a brutal and maiming battle. Who knows? Maybe I would decide that Mike was right about Gorky and put him out of his misery before the night was through.
When I entered Rick’s Café Americain, tropical air spinning from the ceiling fans, entwined with Turkish cigarette smoke and old-fashioned French colognes, infused my senses, reminding me of simpler days when my only lover was the club’s star compubot. In retrospect, my affair with Bogart seemed pathetic, but I still had fond memories and wondered if I’d see him tonight.
After being greeted by the maître d’, I scanned the crowd of twenty-second-century patrons mingling with compubots dressed like film extras from Casablanca. The bit players wore World War II suits and dresses and always looked tense, as if they couldn’t wait for an illicit passport to flee Nazi-occupied French Morocco.
I spotted Sam behind the piano. Gleaming with perspiration, he smiled and sang his heart out. Ilsa and Victor Laszlo dined in the corner. It looked like Gorky hadn’t arrived yet, so I pressed through the crowd of drinking and laughing customers in search of Bogie.
I couldn’t see him anywhere, but spotted a man reading the daily news—the old-fashioned kind printed on paper. His face was hidden. On the off chance it was Bogie, I sidled up to him and sat on a bar stool. If it wasn’t Bogie, he’d find me here sooner or later.
“I’ll have a club soda,” I said to the bartender.
The man lowered the paper and winked at me.
“Marco?”
“Yes, Angel?” he said coolly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Reading the paper.” He raised it again, apparently so no one could see his face.
My heart thundered into high gear. The last thing I needed right now was a complication. Was this a coincidence, or had Gorky sent Marco to scope out the scene before he made his grand entrance?
I spotted Bogie in the corner, apparently fending off the advances of a young admirer adorned in exotic body piercings, orange hair and a skirt so short she may as well have been a Skinny. I went to Bogie’s rescue so I could give him a hard time myself.
“Please, Mr. Blaine,” the teenager said, “just go to bed with me once so I can say I did it with Humphrey Bogart. Please?”
“I’m sorry, Miss—what is your name?”
“Belinda Mathews.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Mathews, I’m not available. Now I suggest you go home and get yourself a good night’s sleep.”
“Hello, Rick,” I said, interrupting.
Belinda looked me up and down as if I were the competition. “Go on and get out of here, lady, he’s mine.”
“No, he’s not,” I replied. “Rick Blaine doesn’t go to bed with anyone who acts like a tramp.”
Tears filled her eyes and she turned in a huff, tromping off.
Sighing, I said, “I guess I was a little rough on her.”
“That’s my Angel,” Bogie replied. He always wore a slight frown, but underneath his jaded exterior was a man of humor and integrity. Or rather, a compubot programmed with those qualities. It was easy to forget when I was in Bogie’s manly, unflappable presence. He gripped my elbow, saying, “Come with me, sweetheart, where we can talk in private.”
He led me to his gaming room, where a few invited patrons engaged in private card games. I knew from past experience that the stakes in the games were high.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
I shook my head. “I left my seltzer at the bar. I have to have a clear head tonight.”
He took out a cigarette case and lit up, each move precise and thoughtful. “So you’re meeting with Vladimir Gorky tonight.”
“How did you know?”
“He called in a reservation and asked for the same table you had the last time.”
“Rick, do you know why Detective Marco is here? Did Gorky send him?”
“Gorky? Look here, Angel, Detective Marco may have his faults, but he’s no stooge for Gorky.”
I wasn’t sure about that and even less certain how Bogie would know one way or the other. Still, it was nice to hear some reassurance about Marco.
“Then why is Marco here?”
“Because I asked him to come.”
I frowned. “You?”
“That’s right. He’s concerned about your welfare. I thought it might be a good idea to have him here in case your chat with Gorky goes awry.”
“But I don’t want him here.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure I can trust him.”
“Who can you trust in this world, sweetheart? But you can’t let that keep you from taking a chance with someone you love. Whatever his faults, Detective Marco gives a damn about you.”
“How do you know?”
Bogie raised his brows provocatively. “He told me. Now, get out there and give Gorky hell.”
“Gladly.” It was time somebody put the heat on Vladimir Gorky. I’d get things started and let the devil take it from there.
I headed out to the main dining room and saw Gorky being seated at our table. “Our” table. What a weird concept. Once again, I would have to give the performance of my life. Interesting how this horrible human being inadvertently brought out the best in me.
I straightened my shoulders, held my head high and headed his way, only briefly locking eyes with Marco. His dark glance spoke volumes, but I was too nervous to translate hidden text. He could be saying “Be careful,” or “So long, sucker.”
I qui
ckened my pace until I reached the semicircular dais at the back of the room where Gorky waited for me in intimate shadows and candlelight.
“Hello, Mr. Gorky.” I stepped up on the dais, but didn’t bother to offer my hand, since I knew he wouldn’t take it.
“Ah, Angel moy.” He rose to his considerable height and gripped my upper arms. They seemed like twigs in his hands. He kissed both cheeks with flair, saying, “It is so good to see you again. Please, take a seat.”
Considering his apparent plot to murder me, his warmth was patent hypocrisy, but I said nothing and slid into place, immediately sipping from the waiting goblet of water to clear my dry throat. We assessed each other silently, like two people who hadn’t seen each other in half a century, with none of the discomfort that often came during pauses in social conversation.
He looked as impressive as ever, with his thick shock of silver hair, high Slavic cheeks, unusually broad shoulders and lean waist. Only the hair, his tough-as-leather skin and milky circles around his sky blue eyes hinted at his seventy years of age. Otherwise, he seemed ageless. I’d noticed that tendency with immensely powerful men. I guess it was easy to look young when you wasted no time worrying about the moral ramifications of your actions.
“So, dorogaya moya,” he said. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.” He’d called me “my dear,” but he didn’t seem quite as lecherous as the last time, so I allowed my demeanor to thaw a degree. He wore a traditional gray tuxedo with a Nehru collar and hidden buttons down the front. “You’re dressed up tonight. Are you getting married?”
He threw back his head and let out a gruff belly laugh. “That is very funny, Angel moy.” My Angel.
This creepy, false affection from a man who was killing my friends was beginning to irritate. But I couldn’t blast him until I’d at least tried to reason with him.
“No, I am not getting married. And what did I tell you about calling me Mr. Gorky?” He poured two shots of vodka. “You must call me Vladimir. Vlad, even.”
When he held out one of the clear shot glasses to me, I took it, unlike the last time. He smiled broadly at my acquiescence and held up his shot glass. “Za zdorovje.”
“Cheers,” I replied, then tossed back the clean, burning liquid. I had to negotiate fast, because I didn’t want to have to drink any more to grease the social wheels. Gorky was a prodigious drinker, and if I tried to keep up I’d soon be passed out under the table.
“So, Angel moy, why did you want to meet this time?”
“Because I wanted to personally tell you that I think what you’re doing is despicable and cowardly.” I looked askance at the bottle of Russian vodka. One shot had obliterated all discretion.
“You think I am despicable and a coward?” His thick gray eyebrows curled with great finesse as his twinkling blue eyes turned to steel. “What have I done to make you think these things?”
“Murdering two of my colleagues, not to mention the mayor’s son, was a good start.”
He made no move to deny it. Pouring himself another shot, he leaned back and regarded me with slightly less hostility. “I see. Is that all?”
I huffed incredulously. “That would be enough, but no, there’s more. I just busted your set-up across the street from my apartment. I know you’ve been watching me and using my mother to get to me.”
“And how have I been doing that?”
My cheeks reddened, but I refused to avert my gaze. “By seducing her, buying her clothes, making her feel attractive, just so you can find out what I’ve learned about your murderous plot.”
“Perhaps I do find her attractive.” His upper lip curled disdainfully. “You young people think you have exclusive rights to beauty and love. Wait until you no longer have the indulgence of youth on your side.”
Carl, Bogie’s white-haired and sophisticated waiter, came to the table. “Are you ready to order, sir?”
“What would you like, Angel?”
“Whatever you are having,” I told Vladimir with uncharacteristic docility. I was too preoccupied with his last comment to care about the menu. While he conversed with Carl, I wondered if it was possible I had misread his interest in Lola. I did have a tendency to think the entire world revolved around me, and I guess that was one of the indulgences of youth he’d been referring to.
“So, what other accusations do you have, dorogaya moya?” he inquired when the plump waiter bustled off.
“I know you’re planning to kill me next. I just don’t how or when.”
“And why would I want to kill you?”
Fear screwed into my chest, making it difficult for me to breathe. It was insane to remind him of his threat, but I needed to impress him with my deductive reasoning. If he didn’t think I was at least as smart as he was, he’d play me like a Russian balalaika.
“You want to kill me, Vladimir, because you couldn’t find the Maltese Falcon in that Chechen farmhouse I saw in my vision.”
He entwined his massive fingers as he contemplated my assessment. The third finger on his right hand beamed like a headlight with a diamond so huge I wondered how he had the strength to lift it. “Well, Angel moy, I see you have this all figured out.”
“Yes.” Pride flushed through my body like an illicit and addictive drug. “Yes, I do.”
“There is only one small problem with your conclusion.”
“Oh?”
“I did find the Maltese Falcon. And it was exactly where you said it would be.”
I blinked. “You did?”
“Yes. You should be proud of yourself.”
I wanted to be, but not for that. Not now. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He waited until Carl placed salad plates before us and departed. Then he waved his ring finger, showing off the enormous cushion diamond. “This was one of the treasures contained in the falcon. It’s the Regent Diamond. You may have heard of it.”
“The Regent Diamond,” I repeated, recalling something about it in the news.
“Once owned by the Duke of Orleans, the Regent of France, it was later bought by Napoleon.”
“How many carats?” I braced myself.
“Just a little over 140.”
“Wow.” I exhaled. “I would think the French government would keep it as a historical heirloom.”
“It was in the government’s possession in Paris until two years ago.”
“I see.” Then it hit me. I remembered seeing pictures of the diamond in the news after it had been stolen from the Louvre. I didn’t want to ask what I already instinctively knew. Gorky had masterminded the daring heist.
“If you found the statue and reclaimed your precious diamond, then why would you want to kill me?”
“Precisely,” he said with a smug smile.
I watched Gorky wolf down his meal in a matter of minutes, poking at my food but eating little. I’d already had my fill of crow. I only half listened to his rambling stories of his childhood and youth. I was preoccupied with trying to figure how I could force him to admit his culpability now that the revenge motive had fizzled.
How do you tell a very evil human being you think they’re plotting to murder you because they’re a very evil human being? It wasn’t easy, especially when the person in question had no apparent sense of right and wrong. And if I couldn’t get him to admit his guilt, there would be no way to negotiate an end to the conspiracy.
I’d make a lousy lawyer. Thank heavens I wasn’t representing myself in court, or I’d end up with one hundred consecutive life sentences. I glanced furtively at Marco. He eyed me intensely over the top of his paper, as if he somehow knew I’d backed myself into a corner. Though Marco couldn’t help me now, I was glad he was here.
“Let’s go,” Gorky said abruptly, tossing his napkin on his empty plate. He stood and motioned impatiently, tossing a pay chip on the table.
“Go where?” I stood in spite of my innate reluctance.
“Come into my car. I have a limo waiti
ng outside.”
“Why would I want to get in a car with you?”
The mobster put his hand over his heart. “It hurts me to think that Lola’s daughter doesn’t trust me. I wanted you to think of me as an uncle.”
Okay, I thought, that’s a new one. “Look, Mr. Gorky…Vladimir…I think I’ve done a really bad job of communicating here. I believe you’re going to murder me.”
“I’m not plotting to kill you. But I know who is. Now are you fucking coming with me or not?”
He said it with a smile. I had to give the guy credit for being the master of the unexpected.
Startled into complacency, I left with him, to my everlasting regret.
Chapter 19
Don’t Look Now
The silver stretch aerolimo sat at the curb. Two sgarristas climbed out as soon as they saw Gorky exit Rick’s Café Americain. I followed a step behind, knowing there was no point in attempting to flee. I’d sealed my fate when I’d set up the meeting with Gorky. But I’ll admit I was shaken when I turned back for one last glance at the bar and found Marco looking at me like I was already dead.
One of them, dressed all in black with black shades and greasy black hair, opened the door for Gorky and spoke in a language that wasn’t quite Russian. I assumed it was Chechen. He was apparently fluent in both languages.
“Please, step in,” Gorky said, allowing me to enter first. I slid across the long seat, straightened my skirt and plastered myself against the far door, trying not to wince from the pain in my ribs. He climbed in and his assistant shut the door. He reached for two glasses of champagne that fizzed, awaiting our palates, handing me one and raising the other. “May this be the beginning of a long and trusting friendship.”
Instead of raising my glass, I brought it to my lips and drank. By now, I really did need a drink. The limo hummed to life, lifted a few feet off the ground, then began to cruise at a slow speed.
“So who is killing off my friends?” I asked point-blank.
Gorky rested his champagne flute on one of his big knees that seemed cramped in spite of the spacious, private compartment we shared. “It amuses me that you would suspect me, Angel moy. After all, I am the one who set up the operation across from your apartment to track your moves and insure your safety.”