by David Levien
There was more poor news along with all this, Dwyer saw. Besides a pair of black Range Rovers outside in the driveway, and a Mercedes convertible in the open garage, there was a heavy-looking blacked-out Chevrolet Suburban that appeared modified with armor to his eye. There was also a moving truck being loaded with boxes and luggage. A team of darkie moving men was doing the hauling, and the security wasn’t even helping, which was another sign of their professionalism. So it seemed Kolodnik was soon to be on the move, and there wasn’t going to be much time for proper setup. There could be even more men inside, Dwyer realized, his mood blackening further. Four, six, eight, ten, or a hundred, it didn’t matter. Kolodnik was covered tighter than a pair of balls in shrunken wool shorts. This thing was a walkaway. The operation was rogered. Right up the arse.
Back in his car, sucking on a Coca-Cola and a hamburger from some barf-hole drive-through window, Dwyer considered where he was at, and it wasn’t a pretty place. He’d spent his life applying force for profit. He’d worked his plums off for three decades to create a skill set and a name, a name only whispered in certain circles, but one that was nonetheless the gold standard in the field. He’d built a business, starting at the end of the ’80s, when the Berlin Wall came down and six million other soldiers were downsized and looking to go private. In the face of this competition he’d dealt with all stripe of unsavory bastard, demanding to be paid up front, cash on the nail, and making his fortune. So a failure was one thing, and it was bad, but having things unwind and lead to arrests would be a disaster for his reputation and his business, and he hadn’t hit his walk-away number yet. To come this far, to get this close, only to have it come apart during stoppage time was unacceptable.
Another five hundred thousand pounds would get him there, to the amount that would ensure security for the rest of his days. Living in Wales, unbothered. Diving in the Maldives twice a year. Two, two and a half years’ work to get that last five hundred thousand quid, he projected. But it might as well be five hundred million he was looking for. The reason people hired private was to get their jobs done faster and better than doing it themselves and to transfer the risk of harm or arrest to someone else. So there was no room for error. Reputation was everything in his field. It was binary. Zero-sum. One either got it done every time, or one was to be avoided like botulism. Waddy Dwyer could either be the hero or the asshole. So here it was, decision time, and one last chance to get paid. Things had shifted from a finish to a cleanup. With the original objective now unreachable, that left Waddy Dwyer a single choice: containment. But first he was going to talk to that cunt Gantcher, because he goddamn sure wasn’t heading home without his money.
18
Behr was driving back toward the city when he remembered the favor he owed, and dialed the number Susan had given him. After two rings, a cigarette-roughed voice answered.
“Decker,” it said.
“Hey, this is Frank Behr. Your wife is friends with my girl,” Behr said, trying to keep the tone of the condemned man out of his voice. “I was supposed to call you to meet up.”
“Yeah, hey. And when you did, I was supposed to go,” Decker said without enthusiasm but also without pause.
“So when do you want to do it?”
“When do you?”
There was no sense in dragging it out, Behr figured. “You on shift tonight?”
“Nope.”
This didn’t surprise Behr, knowing what he did about Decker’s forced vacation.
“So how about in a little while?”
“All right. Where?”
Behr cast about for a place to meet and said the first one that popped into his head. “The Wild Beaver.”
“Wild Beaver …?” Decker couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice.
“I’m not far from it. Six o’clock?”
“All right then. Six o’clock.”
Behr still had time to make it back to the office for a few ceremonial hours, but missing the marketing meeting as he had could result in a reprimand he wasn’t much interested in. And there was another thing he was much more interested in at the moment-Bernie Cool.
Behr stopped at the library on Meridian and used his laptop and their Wi-Fi to do a background on Kolodnik. What he found was a pretty picture. As a matter of fact, it was a Rembrandt. Bernie grew up in Gary, ran track in high school, attended the University of Chicago, did two years at a large commercial real estate outfit, and then went on to Harvard B School. He married his college sweetheart, came back with his MBA, and began buying and refurbishing apartment buildings. By age twenty-eight he was breaking ground on his own developments. His operation had grown and grown since then. Industrial space, office parks, and towers throughout the Midwest. There were reams of information about Kolodnik’s company and the deals it had struck and the construction projects he had put up. He’d had kids along the way, and there were civic distinctions and philanthropy. There were sub-three-hour marathon times, wins as a quarter horse owner, Boone and Crockett whitetails, and a club championship in golf out at Crooked Stick, where Bernie had even served as president a few years back.
Kolodnik was a Lion, and a Kiwanis and Rotary member, and the head of the state real estate association the governor had commissioned several years prior that advised on the statewide affordable housing panel.
Is that where he met the governor? Behr wondered.
It could have been, though it could have also been on countless other occasions at myriad venues and events. Indiana wasn’t the largest pond in the world, and the big fish got to know each other pretty quickly. The most recent wave of press had to do with the Senate appointment, of course, and the one before that had spanned the previous three years and dealt with a venture that was something of a departure for him business-wise.
Kolodnik had partnered with a few other players on a large job: the Indy Flats horse racing track and casino-what was known around the region as a racino. It was a major development about twenty miles southeast of the city. There was a brand-new track and infield with a top-of-the-line grandstand connected to several hundred thousand square feet of casino floor packed with slot machines, video poker, and blackjack tables, along with restaurants, nightclubs, and even a few shops. Ground had been broken and a large, high-end resort hotel was under way; and a concert venue was planned. The project had been heralded as the financial salvation of the central Indiana economy. Everyone involved was expecting a windfall, and as such there had been a deal struck where the racino was supposed to pay the state a 250-million-dollar license fee, in the form of a roughly 75-million-dollar annual tax, to operate over the course of the next few years. From the tenor of the articles when the place had opened two years ago, this should have been a drop in the bucket. In fact, there were plenty of attendant op-ed pieces bemoaning the sweetheart deal and how the state was getting ripped off. But a year after opening, the economic crisis washed over the country and the world, and it didn’t spare the Indiana gambling business. Apparently money had been lost by the consortium-lots of money, as in tens of millions-and now the venture was pushing the state for a rebate and renegotiation of the license fee. “Otherwise,” Lowell Gantcher, the president of the company, said in the article, “the racino faces bankruptcy, and the area will suffer the attendant loss of hundreds of jobs.” Behr wrote the name down in his notebook.
Predictably, there was another wave of op-ed pieces claiming the corporation had willingly entered into the licensing deal with the state, and now they had to live up to it.
Behr noticed that mention of Kolodnik in the articles had dwindled and ceased as the project moved from the development to the opening phase, and he wasn’t sure how deeply Kolodnik was invested in the future of the racino, but from what he’d seen, and from the paucity of comments from him, Bernie Cool sure wasn’t sweating it too much. Behr wondered what it was like, winning or losing tens of millions in the horse racing game. He’d sure as hell never played that much on the ponies.
19
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br /> Where in the bloody hell was Banco Alfaro?
That was Waddy Dwyer’s question at the moment. The mobile number he had for his shooter was dead, as it had been for the past three days. There was no outgoing voice mail, no recording, nothing.
And why in the fuck did they call him “Banco,” which was short for “money in the bank,” when his real name was Juan, and he was such a bloody piece of shit?
That was probably a better question, Dwyer thought, but it wasn’t going to help him much now. He needed to find Banco, to hear how he’d bollixed the operation, and if he and the backup shooter-and driver he was sure to have used-had been further compromised. There was an account number in the Caymans, where Dwyer had wired the first half of the money, but good fucking luck reverse engineering that into anything useful. Dwyer did have an address on a small apartment where Banco had been staying during prep. Of course the tie-dyed bloke wasn’t going to just be sitting there, waiting for him or anyone else who might come knocking after the botched op. He would’ve gone into his hidey-hole for certain. But the address, 157 Keller Street, was all Dwyer had, which was why he was currently sitting outside the cheaply built, low-slung, tobacco brown apartment house.
He’d been squatting on the place for four hours and had yet to see a tenant come or go. He had his eye on the lower left-hand unit, marked MGR. on the building placard. Dwyer had knocked, gotten no answer, and had resigned himself to waiting it out. But here came a little man, walking with a shambling gait, a couple of grocery sacks banging against his knees. His skin was nut brown, including his mostly bald pate, and he wore a plaid utility shirt, twill trousers, and battered work shoes. He made his way to the manager’s unit and barely had his key in the door before Dwyer was on him.
“Hey there, buddy,” Dwyer said, adopting what the Americans called a Southern drawl. If he had to raise a ruckus to get what he needed, Dwyer preferred the cops to think they were looking for an American rather than a Welshman, and he found the Southern drawl the easiest jump for his tongue to make.
“Yes?” The manager turned.
“What’s your name, bud?”
“I am Elihu,” the man said with a Spanish accent.
“How you doing, Eli-yute? I’m looking for a good buddy of mine who was staying here for a while.”
“Yes, sir, who?”
“Aw heck, he’s hiding out from his ex-wife most of the time. His name’s Juan, but he might’ve been going by something else.”
“Yes, there is no Juan here. I’m sorry. He is hispanico?”
“Yep. Salvadoran fella,” Dwyer said.
“Oh …”
“He would’ve probably just moved out. He has sort of spotted skin …” Dwyer didn’t know what the condition was called, but Banco had some white discoloration on the skin on the side of his face.
“Yes, there was a guy, Jose Campos. He was here for six months only. Nice guy, very strong. Black hair, maybe this tall.” Elihu held his hand up at head level. “He left last week.”
“Hell, Eli-yute, that sounds like him. He happen to mention where he was moving?” Dwyer asked. There was nothing but a pause out of the manager. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell his ex-wife,” he continued, adding the winks and eyebrow bumps the Southern fellows seemed so fond of.
“He did not say. He used to eat all the time at La Pasion. He loved comida criolla. He would bring me back platanos. Maybe they know.” Elihu smiled blandly and finished opening his door.
Dwyer contemplated pushing him inside, closing the door, and hurting the man until he was good and sure he’d told everything he knew. Instead, Dwyer put a bland smile on his face, too.
“Thanks, bud,” Dwyer said. He’d save that hurting for somebody else.
20
The Wild Beaver-with its ubiquitous smell of warm beer and the low ocean roar of happy hour-was nighttime dark, thanks to its lack of windows, when Behr walked in. He wondered exactly what the hell he was doing here and what had possessed him to choose the spot over the quietude of his usual haunt, Donahue’s. His eyes cut around the bar for Decker, who wasn’t easy to miss.
Sitting alone at a two-top table, back against the wall, was a man with a military haircut, worn desert-issue combat boots resting on the opposite chair, and a pissed-off look in his eye. His jeans were well ventilated, thanks to holes at the knees; and a tight black T-shirt stretched over his frame, which was that of a small linebacker. Small for the NFL, that is. Beefy biceps, marked with some high-quality ink, hung from traps built of humping a heavy ruck and rifle over exceedingly long distances. As Behr walked up to the table he saw that Decker wore earbuds connected to a battered iPod that was encircled by corroded duct tape still crusted with what looked like desert sand.
“Hey,” Decker said, too loud, thanks to the headphones, which he pulled out as he stood and offered a hand. Behr shook what felt like a sandpaper mitt wrapped around a rock, and they both sat.
“What’re you listening to?” Behr asked.
“Pantera, Coheed and Cambria, Charred Walls of the Damned.”
“I don’t know what you just said.”
“Just a metal playlist.” Decker offered the headphones. Behr put a bud to his ear and heard guitar-driven music, guttural singing, and driving drums. “Can’t take this shit.” Decker gestured into the air at the music playing in the bar. If pressed, Behr would’ve guessed it was Prince.
“Yeah, I don’t really come here,” Behr said.
“Whatever. Two-for-one happy hour works for me.” Decker raised a pint glass of dark swill. The smell of licorice wafted to Behr across the small table.
“What are you drinking?”
“Deerslayer,” he said, taking a big gulp and waving at a waitress.
“And that is?” Behr wondered.
“Jagermeister, Wild Turkey, and Coke, chilled and strained. Technically it’s a black deerslayer. They usually make ’em with Sprite.”
A chubby strawberry blonde with a bright smile and a pink T-shirt that was two sizes too small arrived at Behr’s shoulder. “Hiya, what can I get you?” she said.
“Holly, get us another round of these,” Decker said, then turned toward Behr. “Unless you have a regular drink.”
“Sure, I’ll try that,” Behr said, and Holly went off toward the bar.
“Holly?” Behr said.
“What can I say, I’m a friendly guy.” Decker shrugged, and nudged a pint glass, the second of his two-for-one, toward Behr.
“Thanks.” Behr took a slug. “I’ve had better tasting gasoline,” he said through the fumes.
“We drank these when we came off detail,” Decker said, finishing the last few ounces in his glass. “When the object was to get as fucked up as possible as quickly as possible. It became a habit. You don’t notice the taste after a while.”
Behr appraised what sat across from him. Decker sported several-days-off stubble and though he couldn’t have been much past twenty-six, there was an aged quality about him. But it was what was in Decker’s eyes that spooked him, and Behr wasn’t someone who spooked: nothing. There was just a depthless black that conveyed great familiarity with pain, violence, and death.
“So the girls are friends,” Behr said, leaning back.
“Yep. Gina loves Susan like hell.” Decker nodded.
“Seemed like they were having a good time when I saw ’em together,” Behr said. “How long you been back?”
“Less than a year.”
“Army?”
“Marines. Third Recon,” Decker said. Behr recognized it as an elite unit.
“Regular infantry?”
“Scout sniper.” Decker tapped on the rim of his empty glass for a moment before Holly arrived with the next round.
“Reload,” she said in a singsong voice.
“Thank you, darling,” Decker said as she left, and took a big swig of his drink.
“And now the IPD,” Behr said.
“Only the dinosaurs still call it that.”
“Guilty,” Behr said and raised his glass.
“Brass hates that shit. Department-wide mandate to call it IMPD only. You were on the job for a while, I hear,” Decker said.
“I was, and that was a long while ago.”
“What happened?” Decker asked.
“Didn’t work out,” Behr said.
“I can see how that could happen.” Decker drank again. For a moment Behr felt they were near the topic he’d been sent to discuss, but Decker moved them away quickly with a question. “And now?”
“Working at a place called Caro,” Behr said.
“Oh ho”-Decker nodded-“explains the suit. Thought maybe you’d gone to law school or something. That’s a plushy kind of high-dollar job, isn’t it?”
“It can be. I’ve only been there for a little while,” Behr said. “So were you an officer? Ever consider making a full career of it?”
“Gunnery sergeant,” Decker said, waving it away. “It’s all in the DD-two fourteen.”
They sat there for a moment, sipping. “Had enough of the Marines, then?”
“It was fun while it lasted,” Decker said, then continued with effort, “but you get to a point when your contract’s up, and you realize it’s in or out for life.”
Behr caught Decker rubbing a small tattoo on the inner surface of his drinking arm. It was a skull with a rictus grin against a bloodred background. The words celer, silens, mortalis forming a triangle around the graphic. Behr wasn’t a Latin scholar but he knew the phrase: swift, silent, deadly.
“So you left?” Behr pressed on. After all, he was here for a purpose.
Decker sighed, shifted in his seat. “Like I said, it’s all in my DD-two fourteen, I’ll send it over if you feel like doing some light reading.”