Setup On Front Street

by Mike Dennis

  "Nice shot, Milton," I said. "Real finesse. You got this game down."

  He came up to me. "What do you want?"

  "I heard you were a world-class pool player. I just wanted to see an exhibition. You know, the game as it was meant to be played."

  Meanwhile, his opponent sank the seven, eight, and nine in quick fashion, scooping up the two twenty-dollar bills that lay on the table's rail. Another player stepped in to challenge the winner, throwing down a twenty of his own.

  Milton went over to the wall to rack his cue. He grabbed his half-full bottle of beer, then swigged from it, hoping I would go away. I didn't.

  "Now, we can move over to the corner here and speak privately, like gentlemen," I told him softly, "or I can reopen that gash on your healing head. What's it gonna be?"

  Without comment, he walked toward the corner of the bar. I was right on his tail.

  We took two stools at the far end. He was about my size, but as I'd learned from our previous meeting, not nearly as tough as he should've been.

  Apprehension crept into his eyes. "What do you want, Doyle? Why you bothering me?"

  "Let's just say I don't appreciate being grabbed off the street. Especially not by the likes of you."

  "Yeah, well … you already made that point." His hand gestured toward the bandage on his head. "So now what do you want."

  "I want to know how Frankie Sullivan wound up down on Front Street the other night with his throat cut."

  "Hey! That wasn't me. I had no part of that."

  He pulled nervously from his beer, nearly draining it.

  "Oh, I know you didn't do it, Milton. You don't have what it takes for a job like that. But I just bet you have a good idea who the old man sent out to do it."

  "I don't know nothing about it."

  His eyes darted up and down the beer bottle, over to the pool table, and anywhere else he could think of so he wouldn't have to look at me.

  "Who was it, Milton? Was it your playmate Bradley?"

  "I told you I don't know nothing! Bradley works hand-in-glove with Mr Whitney. They don't tell me shit."

  He finished his beer and signaled for another. Moments later, it was there.

  "Well, why don't you get him to tell you?"

  "Hmph! Yeah, right."

  I kept my voice down in the polite zone. "Yes, Milton. Really. You can find out what happened. You and Bradley are tight, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, we're tight, Doyle. And that means I'm not snitchin' him to you." He started in on his fresh beer.

  "Milton, I just want to know who did it. After all, I'm not a cop. For all I know, Bradley didn't do it."

  "He didn't. So leave it alone!"

  "I thought you said you didn't know. That they never tell you anything. And now you say he didn't do it."

  He went for his beer again, but I grabbed it, slamming it down on the bar, hard.

  "Hey, fuck you, Doyle! That's all I know. Bradley didn't have —"

  I wrapped my hand around his index finger and bent it back, way back. He winced. I bent it back a little farther, raising his pain level.

  "Listen, asshole," I whispered. "I want to know who clipped Sullivan. If you don't want to tell me, this finger goes, right now. If you make a peep in here or draw any attention to us, I'll crack your fucking arm in two, I swear to God. Sullivan's dead and my money's gone, so I've got nothing to lose, Milton. You understand me?"

  He nodded while trying not to scream.

  I kept up the pressure.

  "Tell me!"

  His free hand went palm down, telling me he had enough. He tried to say "okay" but it wouldn't come out.

  I loosened my grip on his finger, but didn't let go entirely. He exhaled out all of the sharp pain, but the heavy soreness stayed with him.

  He finally caught his breath, speaking between gasps, "Bradley didn't do it. But he farmed it out to two guys from Lauderdale."

  That would figure. No direct connection to the old man.

  "Who were they?"

  "Hey, what's the dif —"

  I grabbed the finger again, bending it to the point of snapping. Milton's upper body wrenched in pain.

  But I had to hand it to him, he kept quiet.

  "Awright, awright!"

  I let go. He massaged his finger but it didn't do him much good.

  "Yuri. Yuri Vasiliev. That's the only name I know, but he's Bradley's contact up there."

  "Vasiliev? Is he Russian?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who is he?"

  "How the fuck should I know?" he replied.

  I went for the finger, but he pulled his hand back fast.

  "Hey!" he said. "That's all I know. You want the guy's life story, call his mother."

  I flagged down the bartender. "Give my friend here another cold one," I said. He brought the beer. I threw a five on the bar.

  I looked back at Milton.

  "You were a good boy today. You deserve a drink on me."

  I headed for the door, but he called after me. "Doyle!" I turned back to him. He was still rubbing his finger and his hand. "That … that girlfriend of yours..."

  I was back on him in an eyeblink, grabbing his shirt collar. "What did you say?"

  "I … well … I just …"

  "Give."

  I took his head between my big hands, ready to crush him to dust.

  "I just don't go along with hurting women, you know what I mean? So I'm telling you … Bradley … he's capped the deal with this Yuri guy. Your girlfriend's next."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. But you didn't get it from me, you understand? I'm just telling you 'cause I don't think it's right. Hurting women, I mean. Especially when they don't have it coming."

  I grabbed his shirt front, then shook him once. Hard.

  It was all I could do to control my fury. "Why does Whitney want to kill her? She doesn't know anything. She's no threat to him at all."

  He rubbed his wrist, then his forearm. I could tell the soreness was creeping up toward his elbow. I shook him so hard, he wheezed his answer.

  "Bradley tells me you pissed the old man off the other day. Icing the girl is his way of getting back at you."

  Before he finished his sentence, I was out the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  I raced back to Norma's.

  On the way, I realized what was going on. I got under Whitney's skin, all right, like no one else had probably done in a long time. He could see I wasn't afraid of Ortega, that I wasn't going to take any of this sitting down.

  Only problem was, he couldn't kill me as long as the frame for Sully's murder was holding. If I went down for it, that put him in the clear. So it figured that Norma had to go as my punishment for getting uppity with him.

  Running from the car to her apartment building, then up two flights of stairs, I pulled my .22 as I ran down the hallway toward her apartment. Everything looked okay, but I clung to the wall as I neared the door.

  I heard the radio playing inside. Country music, Norma's favorite. Slowly, I reached for the doorknob, turning it, pushing the door back an inch at a time. The music became clearer — a Merle Haggard weeper.

  When I got the door all the way open, I peered inside. I could only see into the living room. Nothing out of order.

  I edged my way in, both hands on my gun. From my left, a figure darted out of the kitchen, startling me.

  "Hi, honey."

  It was Norma.

  I let out a huge exhale. Replacing the gun into my waistband, I took her in my arms.

  "You scared the shit out of me, you know that?" I said.

  "Why? What's — the gun — why did you have your gun out?"

  I pulled myself together quickly.

  "Has anyone been here? Anyone at all?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Any phone calls? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  "No, nothing … well … there was a phone call a few minutes ago, but that wasn't —"

  "Who? Who was it?" I shook her
.

  "Stop it! You're —"

  I stopped.

  "Who was it?"

  Her eyes regained that innocence I remembered from so long ago. The look I carried around in my head during my years in the joint.

  "It was only the building manager."

  "What'd he want?"

  "He said there was an electrical problem or something — oh, I don't know, something about circuit breakers — and that he was sending two electricians up to take care of it. He wanted to make sure I'd be here to let them in."

  I grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door.

  "We're out of here."

  She resisted, slowing me down.

  "Don Roy! What's going on? What's this all about?"

  I kept moving, dragging her behind me until she finally caught up. We took the stairs down. I held her back as I scoped out the parking area. No movement anywhere, so we made a break for the car.

  Fortunately, her apartment complex was laid out in a pretty confusing manner. Poorly-marked buildings, out-of-the-way entrances, parking lots all over the place created a real hodge-podge. Anyone coming here for the first time would have a lot of trouble finding their way around.

  Once we got the car going, I told her, "We can't stay at your place. You can't stay there."

  "Why not? What's happening?"

  "There are men who are after y — after me. I can't tell you any more than that, but please believe me, we're not safe there. We've got to stay somewhere else for a while."

  As we headed down the exit road, I glimpsed the rear view mirror. A dark blue Land Rover circled one of the buildings, the driver invisible behind dark tinted windows.

  I took her straight to her mother's up on Big Coppitt Key.

  I know she was thinking I might've been afraid back there. I was afraid all right, but not of Vasiliev or his pals. I was afraid that I'd've shot them right there in her apartment the second they walked through the door.

  Gunfire, naturally, would bring the cops. Once I put weapons into the Russians' dead hands, it probably would've gone down as self-defense, but just having the gun in my possession was a violation of my parole. Ortega would've seen to it that I was sent back.

  I couldn't have that.

  NINETEEN

  I took it easy all the way through the ten-mile trip back to town from Big Coppitt. The calm breeze drifting in the open window settled me down to the point where I could check out my options.

  One, I could corner Bradley the way I'd done with Milton. Maybe do him in at the same time.

  But that wouldn't accomplish anything. Bradley was probably not as much of a pushover as Milton was. It could get real rough. What's more, I doubted that he could tell me anything I didn't already get from Milton.

  Besides, wasting him would permanently erase any link between Sully's killers and Whitney.

  Two, I could confront Whitney with what I knew, hoping to rattle him and push him into making a big mistake.

  But if he kept his cool, which was certainly possible, then he'd never stop until he got me.

  On the other hand, if I also took option number one, putting Bradley down first, the old man would lose his buffer to the Russians. Then he might not want to involve himself in such a direct way.

  Possible, but too many ways to go wrong.

  Three, I could tell Ryder what I knew, and let the FBI work it out, nailing Vasiliev and Whitney in the process.

  Out of the question. They might get Bradley, maybe even Vasiliev, but even if they both rolled over, which was far from certain, Whitney might well beat the rap. His money and connections around here ran deep. Very deep.

  Besides, never trust the government to do anything on your behalf, especially if you've got a lot at stake.

  Four, I had to remember one thing: I wanted my two hundred thousand.

  It had cost me three years of my life and I came all the way back here to get it. Plus, I had a feeling Sully died for it.

  ≈≈≈

  As soon as I got back to town, I went straight to the rooming house I stayed in when I first returned to the island. I damn sure couldn't go back to Norma's, so the room would have to do for the time being.

  Also, I needed to stash my piece again. I had things to do in broad daylight that didn't require a gun, so I couldn't risk being picked up with it.

  After I ditched the weapon, I went out again, this time on foot, over to Keys Tees.

  Avi was hustling a customer into some expensive T-shirt add-ons when I walked in. The guy was resisting for all it was worth, but after a few minutes of Avi's perfect-pitch pressure, he caved and handed over his plastic.

  Avi bagged the merch, the sucker left, then we were alone.

  "Donny, my boy!" He wasn't smiling. "So sorry to hear about your good friend Sullivan. I been in his bar. He was good businessman."

  "Yeah, well, not that good, apparently."

  "I hear they think you do it, but I know different. You and he good friends."

  Is there anything that ever happens in this town without everyone knowing about it?

  "Listen, Avi. What do you know about a guy named Yuri Vasiliev?"

  His dark eyes were still, but the lids flickered ever so slightly. I wouldn't've caught it if I wasn't looking right into them.

  "Who?" He tried hard to stay cool.

  "Yuri Vasiliev. Come on, you heard me."

  "Nothing," he replied. "I don't know the name."

  "Avi, don't bullshit me now. Who is he?"

  "I don't know —"

  I took one step toward him, menace all over my face.

  "Donny, wait." He held up a hand between us. "You don't know this guy. You don't want to know him."

  "Let me pick my own friends, Avi. Now, who is he?"

  Reflexively, he looked around. It was just the two of us. He gripped my forearm, pulling me to the back of the store.

  Once we were in the far corner, he hunched his shoulders a little. His eyes were anxious and he spoke in hushed tones, as if he were about to reveal nuclear secrets.

  "Where you get his name from, Donny?"

  "An invitation list to the White House."

  "I'm in trouble if they know I tell you anything." His voice was hollow with fear.

  "They'll never know. Now tell me."

  He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. After dabbing at his forehead a couple of times, he used it on his palms. They needed it.

  "He's bad guy. Very bad. He is number one enforcer for the Russians in Fort Lauderdale. Sent down two years ago from Brighton Beach."

  Brighton Beach, up in Brooklyn. I knew about it. Center of operations for the Russian mob in the United States and a direct line to the old country. This guy Vasiliev was obviously a heavyweight.

  "What's his connection down here?"

  I already knew it was Whitney, of course, but I wanted to see if Avi could tell me anything about it.

  "I don't know of any."

  "Well, he must have one because he's here in town right now."

  Avi's eyes widened. He checked the front of the store again to make sure no one was listening.

  After another dab or two at his forehead, he said, "Yuri Vasiliev is here? In Key West?"

  The fear wouldn't leave his face.

  "I don't know if he's still here, but he was out driving around the Ocean Walk apartments forty-five minutes ago. Now, what's up with this guy, Avi? Why're you pissing your pants?"

  "Donny, you must try to understand. I never see him before. I only hear about him. All bad things. He deals in death. If he is in town, someone is going to die. And if he knew I was talking about him like this, I would be that someone."

  "Don't worry. I told you, no one's gonna know. Now, there's one more thing. Do you know of any connection between Vasiliev and Wilson Whitney?"

  "Whitney? Who used to be mayor?"

  Avi couldn't hide his astonishment that the two might be linked.

  "Yeah, him."

  "No, none. Does he know
Vasiliev?"

  "I'm pretty sure. Or at least one of his goons knows him."

  "You must believe me, Donny. I know nothing of Whitney. I pay him bribe once, it was back around eighty-five, eighty-six, during his last years as mayor. Just to get police to stop undercover work in my store. I see him ten minutes, no more. Nothing since."

  His voice got softer and softer till I could barely hear him. It was as though he thought there were hidden microphones all over the store.

  Hell, maybe there were. Who knows how these people operate?

  I went along with it, whispering, "So, what you're saying is this Vasiliev's a real badass."

  "What I am saying is, if he is in town, it must be important. Very important. He is their best and he reports only to the top guys. If you are involved in this, Donny, you must be very, very careful."

  He clutched my wrist for effect.

  I gently removed his hand.

  "Thanks for the warning, Avi."

  I left the store.

  TWENTY

  I don't carry a wallet.

  Well, that's not exactly true.

  I carry one whenever I'm holding fake ID, which is most of the time. This way, when I use a phony credit card, the mark sees me pull it out of a wallet, just like any other citizen would do. But wallet or no wallet, I always carry my money around in a clip, in my front pants pocket.

  So right now, until Yale Lando has my ID ready, I have no wallet.

  This means I carry everything else around in my pockets. Normally, I don't mind until I have to find something other than keys or money, which I can identify by feel. For everything else, I have to empty my pockets, which is a royal pain in the ass.

  So that's exactly what I did. Right outside Avi's, I fished through all that shit until I found the phone number Rita gave me the other day.

  Fortunately, I kept it with me instead of leaving it at Norma's. It wouldn't be wise to go back there just yet.

  I walked to the Atlantic end of Duval Street, back to the outdoor restaurant where I'd seen Rita a couple of days before. A languid breeze rolled in from the ocean. Tourists loitered on the beach.