Every Day Above Ground

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “Until Saturday,” she said, her low voice nearly a whisper. “After that, I’ll make other arrangements.”

  Arrangements that wouldn’t require O’Hasson’s continued health. But might include eliminating loose ends like me. The woman could threaten as well as seduce.

  Beautiful, but cold.

  Nineteen

  “You told the woman your name?” Hollis said.

  We were sitting in the aft cabin of his boat, waiting for Corcoran to return from taking his wounded BMW into the body shop. Sitting, not relaxing. Since the stakeout to confront the hunters—huntress, maybe, I should call the woman in charge—none of us had felt restful.

  “No choice,” I said. “I had to tell her I knew about the safe, and the gold. If I didn’t give her my name up front, she might have tortured it out of O’Hasson.”

  “And he’s kept your involvement a secret so far, hasn’t he? Tough little bugger.”

  O’Hasson was. Tough enough to last another few days, I hoped.

  “You’re risking a hell of a lot,” Hollis said. “Four million or no. Mick O’Hasson’s life or no.”

  “If I could see a different play, I’d make it.”

  Hollis frowned. We watched the Sound beyond the breakwater, where the growing wind was shoving and slicing the waves into chop. Gray clouds moved with purpose over the far horizon. We were in for another rain, unless the gale pushed the threatening front right on past us.

  “Hell with it,” Hollis said finally. “The deal’s made. We’ll see it through, if you can find this fellow she’s so obsessed with.”

  “Obsessed is the right word. The woman didn’t mention the Slatterys, and neither did I. She didn’t look much like a drug lord, either, but I’m guessing that April Slattery and Fekkete double-crossed her on some deal. This vendetta against Fekkete is personal to her.”

  “Just to her.”

  “Her men might be fed up,” I agreed. All except Boule. He seemed ready to follow his mistress to the gates of Hades.

  “Well, I’ve checked what I can on Fekkete. He’s a phantom. No criminal record or even a credit history. It’s a fake name, no question about it. Fekkete may be the whip hand at the gym, but on paper the place is owned by a club fighter named Bernardo. He’s probably the fellow you call Bomba.”

  I nodded. “If Fekkete were easy to find, the woman wouldn’t need me. They don’t know about his connection to Sledge City. That’s my edge.” Roddy had drunkenly declared that he expected Fekkete back in Seattle. I’d have to try to pick up his trail at the gym tonight.

  Hollis got up and went into the cabin without saying more. His usual buoyant mood was tamped down by doubts he wasn’t voicing. Either because he couldn’t offer me any alternative plans, or because he thought I didn’t share his uncertainty. He was wrong about that.

  I called Calvin Lorenzo, then remembered that he preferred video. Hollis was right. To hell with it. If a murderous drug dealer knew my name, it wouldn’t matter if an old reporter saw my face. I switched the call to video. Three rings and Lorenzo’s shopworn face appeared on the screen, the background a blur as he sat down.

  “Got your phone fixed, huh?” he said.

  “Seems to be.”

  “I figured your ears were burning. I was gonna call you later about Gar Slattery.”

  “His release date?”

  “It’ll be next week. Maybe early, maybe late, depending on the paperwork. But the gears of correctional bureaucracy are already turning.”

  Next week. And the woman had given me three days to deliver Fekkete. Were the two related? Did she already know Gar was getting out?

  “If he’s coming to Seattle, you won’t have long to wait,” Lorenzo said, as if reading my thoughts.

  I smiled. Maybe my first honest smile of the day. “How’d you know I was in Seattle?”

  “Come on. Give me some credit.”

  “Don’t suppose we can count on Gar honoring the terms of his parole and staying in California.”

  “I wouldn’t suppose that either. So why’d you call?”

  I held up the picture of Tamas Fekkete. “You know this guy?”

  “Put it closer.” He squinted at the camera, his crow’s-feet reaching out to touch thin hair on either temple.

  “Maybe forty-five years old,” I said. “I got a name for him, but it’s fake.”

  “Ah, yeah,” Lorenzo said. “He lost his hair. If I hadn’t been making withdrawals from my memory bank lately about the Slatterys and that whole mob, I wouldn’t have placed him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Szabo or Szano or something like that. Hungarian national, I think. He was lined up as a key witness in a RICO case, about the time I was retiring. The Times covered the case. Karl Ekby’s trial.”

  Ekby. The heavy hitter that Gar Slattery had mentioned to O’Hasson, when Slattery was spinning his tales of hoarded gold.

  “Karl Ekby was in business with the Slatterys?” I said over the sound of Lorenzo typing.

  “It would have been the other way round. Ekby was big-time. The Slatterys were tough, but if they shipped dope for Karl, there’s no question who was in charge.”

  “And the witness, Szabo? Where did he fit?”

  “He was mid-level. Importing the junk for Ekby, most likely. Everything old becomes new again, given enough time. ’Cept people. Heart disease got to Ekby before the jury could.”

  “So the witness never testified.”

  “Nope. They probably deported him, but since you’re showing me a picture of the jackass, he obviously found his way back to the land of opportunity.”

  So Szabo had become Fekkete, running the same kind of operation in Seattle. Alongside April Slattery, who had also given herself a new name for the old game.

  Then another idea came to me. Like the sun catching a solitary and invisible strand of a spider’s web, revealing it to the world.

  “Who would have inherited from Ekby?” I said.

  “His drug biz? Or his money?”

  “Both.”

  “Nature abhors a power vacuum. I expect the Mexican gangs tore each other apart over the territory. They’ve got most everything now that the Armenians don’t.” Lorenzo made a humming sound. “Ekby’s personal dough, I’m not sure about. He was rich as Croesus. If the Feds couldn’t seize his assets, they probably went to family like usual.”

  “Ekby’s family include a daughter, or a niece? Mid-thirties now, brown over blue, body like Scarlett Johansson’s taller sister?”

  Lorenzo’s chin rose. “You are full o’ surprises, aren’t you? Hang on.” The next minute was filled with a torrent of typing.

  “My turn for show and tell,” he said.

  The phone beeped and I opened up his message to find a link. It took me to a watermarked Getty Images photograph on their website. The photo was captioned Ingrid Ekby, daughter of Karl Ekby, enters Superior Court of Los Angeles on the day of her father’s indictment by federal prosecutors. It showed the twenty-something woman in full stride, with long chestnut hair and wearing a white silk blouse and gray skirt tailored to tastefully show off a curved figure. Even at her younger age, her sunglasses couldn’t hide her haughty brand of beauty.

  “Thought I remembered old Karl’s family showing up at court,” Lorenzo said. “I’m still on the subscriber list to a few of the photo services. The freelancers made damn sure to take a lot of pictures of Ingrid. I woulda said she was built like Brigitte Bardot, but that’s my generation.”

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “For a week or two you saw photos of Lady Ingrid from every local outlet. I figured she would try to make something out of her minor celebrity, hit reality shows or some shit, but after Karl died she stayed out of the spotlight.”

  She had other goals. Personal enough that she might be willing to give up four million in found gold just for a chance to realize them.

  “So you saw Ingrid? In Seattle?” Lorenzo said.

  “Yeah. And that’s all I
can tell you. You promised me a week.”

  “I promised you a week before I started looking into April Slattery. Which is nearly up.”

  “So start the same clock on Ingrid. One week from today.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “The full story from me. One or two names excluded,” I said.

  “You can’t take the Fifth unless you’re actually in court, wiseass.” Lorenzo sighed. “Fine. A week. Then I want everything, or I’ll call in every favor I’ve got, just to scratch this itch.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Keep me in the loop.” He hung up.

  It had occurred to me, if not Lorenzo, that I would have to be alive at the end of the week to tell him anything.

  I had a name for the huntress now, and a motive. Ingrid Ekby was after the man who’d aimed to testify against her dear daddy. And she was apparently willing to kill April Slattery just to get to him. The woman carried one monster of a grudge, considering Karl’s case never made it to trial.

  Ingrid’s intent confirmed what I already suspected. I’d made a deal for O’Hasson’s life that would require, almost certainly, leading another man to his death. Fekkete was a drug dealer and probably worse. He’d sent men to kidnap Cyndra, and he might try for her again given the chance. He would have likely killed O’Hasson, once the little burglar had retrieved the gold from the safe.

  None of that made the idea sit well with me. A lesser evil was still an evil.

  And evil or not, I’d see it through.

  I had to get Fekkete and the gold in the same place. Ingrid Ekby wanted Fekkete. Fekkete wanted his gold back from Ingrid. Each one was bait for the other.

  All I needed was a few minutes of Fekkete’s time, alone. To convince him that I was the only man in the world who could make O’Hasson and his gold magically reappear.

  I was sure I could do that. I had an ace in the hole.

  I had Cyndra.

  Twenty

  Sledge City attracted a surprisingly large crowd from nearby SODO—south of downtown—businesses after working hours. The serious fighters orbited the ring and the heavy bags lining the far wall, while the main workout area was given over to regular citizens, male and female. I blended in with the citizens.

  No sign of Fekkete, but the rest of the gym’s inner circle was present and accounted for. Dickson Hinch held court from the ring. He was a sight. He shadow-boxed as he talked, gliding fluidly from side to side, flicking out his hands. His torso was as pale and hairless as a snake’s belly. When his shoulder and lat muscles flexed against his lean frame, they added to the image, spreading like the hood of a cobra.

  I couldn’t hear most of what the fighters were saying over the constant noise in the gym—the staccato thuds of gloves, metronome clicks of jump ropes—but it was clear that the topic was Hinch’s last opponent. Memorializing his victory like it was the Battle of Carthage.

  The doors of the back wall were open to allow a slight breeze to come through, pushing the heat around. It didn’t help. I was taking it easy, paying more attention to the Sledge City goons than my own workout. A round of jumping rope. A round of ab work. Still, the sweat dripped off my nose and chin. Two women broke away from the punching bags and began removing their gloves, as a shredded trainer called that the conditioning class would be starting on the mats today.

  A double-end bag close to the fighters opened up. I walked over and began tapping it with jabs, making the bag swing on its bungee cords as I listened.

  “—fuckin’ pussy gave up after that,” Hinch was saying. “Got nothin’.”

  Bomba sat on the ring’s edge, while the guy with the topknot hairdo I’d seen on my first visit armored up, strapping on padded chest and headgear.

  “We waiting on Orville?” said Hinch.

  “Hell no. You ready, Wex?” Bomba said to Topknot.

  Wex nodded and stepped up onto the canvas, putting in his mouthpiece as he climbed through the ropes. He seemed less eager than usual. The fact that he outweighed Hinch by thirty pounds and had a reach advantage must not have offered much comfort. Hinch bounced on his toes.

  “Dickson. Don’ fuck him up,” Bomba said. “He’s got to fight at the quarry.”

  Hinch nodded impatiently, eyes already fixed on the kid.

  Bomba said go. Hinch launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, all killer, no filler. Wex covered up but still took two clean shots to the head and a lot of glancing blows. Every time he dared to throw out a hand, Hinch countered it and battered him. I was quickly seeing why the light heavyweight was ranked eighth and looking to go higher. The kid tried a kick. Hinch grabbed his leg and took him to the ground with a bang that made everyone who wasn’t already watching the bout turn and look.

  “Time,” said Bomba. It wasn’t; barely ninety seconds had elapsed, but Wex wasn’t going to last the round. Bomba was bright enough to call a halt before Hinch punched the kid’s head through the canvas.

  Hinch sprang up and swatted the turnbuckle—a high-five to himself.

  I finished out the round jabbing the bag while Wex picked himself up. Roddy came in off the street. His bruises from Bomba’s fists had turned the shade of dying violets. He saw me and nodded a curt acknowledgment. He remembered meeting me last night, if not much else. I was a little surprised to see him. After the beating and the booze and the traz I’d slipped him, he must have woken late and with a headache that could floor an elk.

  Orville tapped me on the shoulder with one of the punching mitts covering his hands. “You made it.” When he smiled, his cauliflower ears poked out another half-inch.

  “Gotta sweat somewhere.”

  “Well, I still got these on,” he said. “Let’s throw a little.”

  I found a set of training gloves on the communal rack and we moved out to the open area of the floor. Orville started slow, holding up the mitts for one-two and one-two-three combinations. He stuck out a paw and I slipped it and came back with a hook, and he nodded, picking up the pace, adding uppercuts and pressing me to move and escape. It felt good. I’d let regular exercise slide while building the house. We ignored the electronic clang that ended the round. Orville was strong and surprisingly quick, his pro reflexes not completely gone. He met each blow with equal force, testing. I put mustard on the punches until the mitts boomed like cannon fire.

  “Nice,” he said when he finally stepped back, stretching the word out to two syllables. “You got speed. Beat me to the mark a few times there.”

  A string of curses from Hinch interrupted. Loud enough for me to hear over my labored breathing.

  “Hey,” called Orville. “We got actual humans here.”

  Hinch and Bomba scowled but bent their heads back to the argument they had been having with Roddy.

  I wiped sweat off my face with my shirt and nodded toward the fighters. “Roddy in trouble again?”

  “Who knows. He’s been telling anybody who’ll listen that he’s ready for more responsibility. Lie down with dogs, ya know?”

  But before I could ask, Roddy came sidling over from the ring.

  “Hey,” he said to me. “Jack.”

  “Zack.”

  “You’re looking for work, yeah? I remember that much.”

  I shrugged. “If I can’t get construction, I’ll take what comes.”

  “You want to fight? We need a sub.”

  On a chair against the wall, Wex had an icepack taped to his shoulder and another pressed to his neck. His topknot had come unraveled during his minute in the ring and the strands hung down the side of his face like wilted vines.

  “You want me to spar Hinch?” I said.

  Roddy laughed. “Fuck, no. We got matches coming up tomorrow night. Our heavyweight dropped out.”

  Orville cleared his throat and spat into a plastic trash can. “You ought to clear new guys with Mr. F. You know that.”

  “I will, I will. Fekkete will be there, he can see Zack for himself.”

  And vice versa. I’d finally get a gl
impse of the man himself.

  “These ain’t the kind of fights with a ref, I’m guessing,” I said.

  “Naw,” said Orville. Scar tissue gave weight to his eyelids, made it tough to read his thoughts.

  “That a problem?” Roddy said.

  “What’s it pay?” I asked.

  “Five hunnerd. More if you win.”

  “How much more?”

  “A grand. Total.”

  I pretended to think about it. “Lemme talk to the boss. Fekkete.”

  Roddy scowled. “Why?”

  “’Cause I want to be sure I’m gonna get paid.”

  “Fuck you, Jack or Zack or whatever. You don’t trust me?”

  “Don’t know you.” I shrugged, taking off my training gloves.

  “Wait, wait. Look, you come on board, I’ll get you the grand on top if you win. That’s fifteen.”

  “Your boss shows me the cash first,” I said.

  “Now you’re talkin’. Okay, I’ll get you the deets.” Roddy hopped back to the ring.

  Orville had been diligently ignoring us, watching the women in the conditioning class. “You know who I’ll be fighting?” I said.

  “I stay out of the business end.”

  “But you think it’s a bad idea.”

  “Depends on how much you need money. Listen,” he said, “you’re a tough-looking guy. That’s kinda the point. They want somebody who looks the part, who can attract a few bets.”

  “And lose.”

  “That’s also kinda the point. Whoever the other heavyweight is, you can be sure Mr. Fekkete expects him to break you.”

  “Can I trust the guy to pay me? What’s his story?” I said.

  “Make sure you get your five hundred bucks up front.”

  I nodded and Orville lumbered off toward the equipment room. An old bear returning to the comfort of his cave.

  As I packed up my gear, Roddy handed me a slip of paper with Carzell Quarry—Hwy 2—8:00 written in crude letters.

  “Tomorrow night, yeah?” he said. I nodded and he slapped me on the shoulder. Best buds, now that I was ready to jump into the lion’s den.

  I had no intention of fighting. If I was a last-minute sub in a money bout, they might as well have tattooed sucker on my forehead. But all I needed was two minutes with Fekkete. Prove to him that I could make his gold reappear, and he’d suddenly have bigger dreams than some underground blood sport.