by Mike Dennis
Calmly, I stepped up to the pay phone by the entrance. I slid a quarter into the slot and I had her on the line.
"Don Roy! Hey, how nice to hear from you."
She sounded like she meant it. In fact, I could hear the smile in her voice.
"Yeah, listen. Can you meet me at that restaurant? You know, the one from the other day?"
"Well, I guess so. When would you —"
"Right now. I'm standing at a pay phone out in front of the place as we speak."
"Well, let's see … it's about quarter past three. At four-thirty I have to be at —"
"Rita, please."
She realized it was serious.
"Okay. Give me twenty minutes."
I shambled over to the restaurant, taking an outdoor table like I did the other day. Glancing at the beach, I saw there were more people there today, and they were more active.
A guy and girl in their early twenties raced in and out of the water, splashing, tackling each other. The way they rolled around on the sand reminded me of an old black-and-white movie I'd seen, but I couldn't remember the name.
A little farther away, a few kids, around nine or ten years old, squealed in delight over some game they were playing involving a big inflatable ball.
All the while, the breeze, that beautiful soft breeze, kept washing over me from the shore under sunlit skies.
Rita said twenty minutes? She made it in fifteen.
I saw her approach my table in some kind of two-piece belly-baring thing. She had my full attention, all right, as she sashayed toward me.
This time she greeted me by leaning in with a one-armed hug, accompanied by a peck on the cheek. For full effect, she made sure to rub her breasts up against me while nuzzling my face.
Subtlety was never her strong suit. I could see how she corralled BK.
"How are you doing today?" she murmured. "It's so good to see you again."
Even this close, I caught only a slight trace of perfume, but the trace was enough. I had to admit, it was intoxicating.
I wasn't too sure how to respond. I patted her shoulder as she was hugging me.
I said, "Fine," or something like it. Anyway, we sat down. I cleared my throat.
The fact was, though, I was clearing my head. I hoped she didn't spot it.
She ordered an iced tea. I was ready to open, but she jumped in first.
"I was really surprised to hear from you so soon. Actually, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you at all." She said this through an alluring smile.
I think I might've blushed right there, but only for a second. I didn't recall ever doing it before, because, you know, beautiful women never spoke to me that way, so I wasn't really sure what a blush was supposed to feel like. But I know my face warmed up a degree or two for sure.
I broke a small smile without thinking about it, then turned my head downward and to the right. I heard her suppress a giggle.
Finally, I said, "Well … thanks for coming."
Shit, how lame was that!
I needed a little more head-clearing time. Reaching for my tea glass, I took a long, long swig.
She lit a cigarette and waited for me to continue.
Once I collected myself, I said, "I asked you to come here because I need to know something. To your knowledge, does the old man — or BK, for that matter — know anyone who might be Russian?"
"Russian? You mean, like … from Russia?"
"Well, yeah."
"I don't, uh … I don't think so."
She took a drag off her cigarette to help her recall.
"You sure?"
She sank into thought. "I can't think of … oh, wait. A couple of months ago — no, it was longer than that. Maybe around Christmas. This guy came to the house one night. He met with BK in the study. Later, BK introduced me to him. He was a foreigner, I remember. His name wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before, and he spoke with some kind of European accent."
"Was his name Vasiliev? Yuri Vasiliev?"
"No. That wasn't it. It was a real long name, it was like, uh, like …Chana — Charmo — oh, I can't even begin to say it. As I remember, it sounded like it might've been Russian, I guess. I can't say for sure. But he was definitely a foreigner. An older guy. Like around sixty."
"What did he and BK talk about?"
"I don't know. Like I said, they went into his study. They were in there about a half hour, then he left. I never saw him again."
She turned slightly in her chair to face the breeze from the water, which had picked up some. It rustled her hair a little. I liked it.
I said, "And BK never told you anything about him? Or about what they discussed?"
"No. He didn't. But, you know, now that you mention Russia, back a couple of years ago, while you were away, BK did set up a sister-city deal with some Russian city."
My eyebrows went up.
"He did?"
"Yeah. It was one of the first things he did as mayor. Now that I think about it, a couple of Russians showed up on the island not long after that, in connection with the whole thing."
"Did BK ever go over there?"
"No, he could never get away. But …" Her voice lowered several tones as she realized what she was about to say. "But the old man went in his place."
I practically saw the light bulb click on over her head.
"Do you know where he went? What he did over there? Anything at all!"
It was all I could do to stay calm.
"No, no I don't. What's all this Russia stuff about, anyway?"
She stubbed out the cigarette, then swallowed the last of her tea.
"I can't tell you right now, Rita. But listen, did BK or the old man have any dealings with Frankie Sullivan?"
"Not that I know of."
She looked around for the waitress. Once she found her, she signaled for a refill on the iced tea.
Then she said, "BK and I were in his bar a few times, and he and Sullivan seemed to know each other. I mean, beyond the local-businessman-knows-the-mayor kind of thing, you know? It seemed like they were more than casually acquainted, but I never knew anything about it."
"But BK never mentioned any deals with him? Or any connection between Sully and the old man?"
"No."
She reached for another cigarette. As she shook it loose from the pack, it fell out onto the concrete floor. She left it there, but didn't go for another one.
"Look, Don Roy, what're you getting at here?"
"Like I said, I can't tell you right now, 'cause I got nothing solid."
Her voice slipped into come-on mode, and so did her flashing eyes.
"Oh, I'll bet you've got something solid for me."
Her smile said even more than that. So did her soft hand as she lightly wrapped it around my index finger.
I chuckled.
"As nice as it sounds, the last thing we need right now is to get carried away with that."
I knew she agreed. I mean, she was the mayor's wife, for Chrissake. She finally let go of my finger.
I said, "Is there any way of finding out what the old man did while he was in Russia? Or if he had anything going with Sullivan?"
"Well, he might have something in his files. I know he has a hidden file cabinet in his office. He keeps all his real important stuff in there."
"Hidden cabinet?" My eyes snapped upward from my iced tea. "Where is it?"
"There's a big leather sofa against one wall. Right next to it is a boxy end table with a lamp on it. The table's the cabinet. The files are inside it."
I remembered the sofa. A big, heavy leather thing. Part of a corner set, with a matching armchair. The table was between them, right in the corner, blocked from view on all sides. Only the lamp was visible, sticking up from it.
Pretty clever, keeping it right in plain sight.
"Do you know what's in it?"
"No, but I've seen him a couple of times move the chair out of the way and open it. From what I could tell, there were just file
s in there."
I looked around to make sure no one was paying attention.
"How does he open it?"
"It's got a lock on it and he uses a key. Like opening the front door to a house."
"Does BK have something like that, too?"
"Not really. We have a safe, but it's just for cash and jewelry … that kind of thing. The old man keeps stuff in there, too."
"He does?"
"Yeah. We live in his house in Old Town, the one he lived in for so many years before he moved out to Key Haven. Way back when, he had a safe built into the floor inside one of the closets. He's got one in Key Haven, too. He uses them both."
"Both?"
"Right. But he keeps all his important legal papers and shit in that file cabinet. Right in his office, where he can get to them when he needs them."
"Do you know what he's got in the closet safe in your house?"
"Uh-uh. That one has two compartments inside it. One for BK and me, and one for him. Each compartment has its own key and he's got his."
I ran that around the block.
Then I said, "Listen, do you know if he's going out of town anytime soon?"
"I know he's leaving on April sixteenth. Him and his bimbo girlfriend."
"April sixteenth? How is it you've got the date down?"
"He goes over to the Bahamas for a few days every year right after paying his income taxes. Probably to celebrate how much he saved by cheating."
I let out a big exhale as I sat back in my chair. After a moment, I stood up, throwing a five on the table.
"I've got to go now, but I owe you one."
She grabbed my arm. "Don Roy, does this mean we're going to get that old bastard?"
"No it doesn't. And don't get your hopes up. Remember, he's no small-time punk."
"Well … if that's the case, then …" She gave me that pouty smile again. "Then can't a girl get her hopes up about something?"
I smiled goodbye back at her.
On my way out, my smile turned into a chuckle.
TWENTY-ONE
OUTSIDE the restaurant, I went back to the pay phone. As soon as Rita left, I dropped a bunch of coins down the slot and dialed the Vegas number.
After a couple of rings, Doctor Chicago picked up.
"Doc. Don Roy Doyle."
"Don Roy, my man! What's happenin'? You out now?"
"Been out over a week now. I'm back in Key West doing my parole. Glad to see you're still in Vegas."
"Oh man, I'd have to be crazy to leave this place. Pickin's here are so-o-o easy. Motherfuckers just leave shit lyin' around, waitin' for me to come along and pick it up. Just like always."
"Amazing, isn't it?" I said. "How Vegas is really changing, but some things just stay the same."
It really was amazing. Hotels in Vegas, like everywhere else, were switching to those new card-type keys that slip into a slot. But Doc could get past them as though the doors to the rooms were wide open.
"Yeah, man. You right. So, what you got goin' down there?"
I turned around to face the big, blue ocean. Looking at its gentle waves sent a calm swell over me.
"Yeah, well, that's why I called you. I got a job I need done, and you're the man to do it."
"Shi-it! Lemme hear it. Whatchu got?"
"It's a house here in Key West. I'm interested in the contents of a particular file cabinet."
"What kind of cabinet?"
"Mickey Mouse. Disguised as an end table with a dead bolt lock. Opens with a regular key."
"Shit man, that sounds like somethin' you could handle yourself."
"The cabinet's nothing," I said, "but getting into the house might be difficult. Alarms, plus there's a maid living there."
"When we talkin' about?"
"Okay, today's the third. The owner'll be leaving town on the sixteenth. After that, you've got a three-day window of opportunity."
"The sixteenth? Lessee, that's … that's a week from Tuesday. Okay, man. The Doctor is in! I'll be there."
"Yeah, but Doc, look. I know what your fee is for these custom jobs, and I'm kind of strapped right now. I can —"
"Whoa! Don Roy, you my man! You put me on to some pretty serious scores back a few years ago with them phony books that you keep money in."
"Well, you paid me for each one of those. I mean, I —"
"No, no, no. I owe you one, man. Just get me a plane ticket and this one'll be on the house."
"Hey man, you serious? That'd really mean a lot to me."
"Serious as a fuckin' heart attack, man! Shit, all you want's some files in a regular house? Say no more! They're yours!"
"Thank you, brother. I'll send you the plane ticket. Same PO box?"
"The very same. See you in Key West, man."
I reached in my pocket for another quarter. Ryder's number looked back at me from the scrap of paper he gave me.
This was a first for me. Calling the FBI.
Out of instinct, I hesitated, but dialed the number anyway.
His voice was relaxed, much more than mine.
"Ryder, this is Doyle."
"What's up?"
"Whitney Senior went to Russia a couple of years back. Can you find out where he went over there and what he did?"
"Hmm … passport and travel records. That's State Department stuff."
I felt the government stonewall going up.
I said, "Who gives a shit? Can you find out or can't you?"
"Why would he go to Russia?"
"BK arranged a sister-city deal with some town over there, and the old man went as the official rep of Key West."
He paused. Finally, he said, "I'll see what I can do."
"Wait a minute. There's a couple of other things. First, I need what you've got on a guy named Yuri Vasiliev. He's Russian muscle."
"I know him. We've got a jacket on him. What else?"
"Sully told me he gave some money to one of those outfits that invest your money for you … what do you call it?"
"Investment counselor."
"Yeah, that's it. He said he invested, uh, some of the profits from his club with these people. You know, where the money goes into office buildings and whatnot. I think that might have something to do with all this. Can you find out anything about it?"
"Doyle, that's SEC shit. The FBI doesn't have jur —"
"Wait a minute. What'd you call it?"
"SEC. The Securities and Exchange Commission. They're a very independent agency and they don't give out information to just anyone."
"Yeah, but you're not just anyone, right? You're FBI."
He groaned. "You don't understand. I can't go through official channels here. This is all off the record, what we're doing. I can't just call up the SEC and demand —"
"Listen, you were the one who dragged me to that fucking falling-down bakery, telling me how you could help."
"All right, now you listen. I want Whitney, just like you do. It's just not going to be easy, is all. I know a couple of people over at State, and maybe I can get a favor out of one of them. The SEC thing, well … I don't know."
"Well, do what you gotta do. Just remember, my life is on the line here!"
"Okay." He let out a sigh. "But it might take me a week or so."
"Shit, you can't get it any sooner?"
"Hey, I'm not a magician! Now, the Vasiliev material, that's FBI. I can get it today. This other shit'll take time."
I muttered a curse before giving him the number of the rooming house. "Make it quick."
TWENTY-TWO
OVER the next week, I kept a low profile, or at least as low as it gets in this town. Which means I walked back and forth from my rooming house to Mambo's every day, using side streets.
Ortega managed to spot me on the street a couple of times and patted me down for no good reason, just like he'd seen real cops do on TV. He always made sure to tell me that they were working around the clock to build a case against me. Then he added how much he was going to enjoy leading
me away in handcuffs.
As big of an asshole as he was, I didn't think he was in Whitney's pocket. He really took all that cop shit seriously and didn't strike me as the kind who could be easily bought.
It was Wednesday, April tenth — all this cop talk, I sound like Joe Friday myself. Actually, I mentioned the date because a week had gone by with nothing from Ryder.
He was looking more and more like a dead end.
Anyway, I was in Mambo's early that evening enjoying a little ropa vieja with yellow rice and black beans. Mambo insisted on feeding me, saying I hadn't been eating right since I got back home. And he was right.
He had the best yellow rice in town, I mean the very best. In Key West, with authentic Cuban restaurants all over the place, that's saying a lot. The kernels were always, always separate, bursting with flavor.
I drank the last of my beer right at the end of the meal.
The place was dead, according to the empty pool table and only one other occupied booth. A couple of guys sat at the bar with their backs to me, watching the baseball game. Mambo finished with some bolita business, then came out of the back room. On his way to my booth, he caught the waiter's eye.
"¡Eduardo! ¡Dos cervezas!"
Eduardo brought the beers and we sank into heavy conversation. I told him everything that happened since my return, all about Whitney, BK, Norma, and the Russians. The only part I left out was the FBI shakedown.
Not that Mambo would worry about the FBI, since he was strictly local, but I just didn't think he needed to know about it.
Besides, how would it look? Me, a career street guy, cozying up to the goddamn federals. I could hardly believe it myself.
Mambo absorbed the whole story. He leaned back in the booth and took another hit from his beer. Then he pulled a Cohiba from his pocket, examining it for a moment.
The cigar apparently consumed his thoughts for a few seconds. He toyed with it, rolling it around between his palms and twirling it between his fingers like a magician. He decided against lighting it for the time being, so he left it on the table, still in its wrapper.
"My brother," he said in Spanish, "I have to tell you that I have heard through my family that Wilson Whitney is very upset with you. You must be careful. El tiene mucho poder."