by Jon F. Merz
"Thanks." She seemed happy enough. "You sure you don’t need anything else."
"You know anything about that guy who I was just talking to?"
She glanced at the bar and frowned. "Yeah, I know of him."
"He got a rep?"
"A bad one, but yeah."
"Why so?"
"He’s a lying bastard. One of the girls who used to work here went with him for a while."
"She say what he did for work?"
She shook her head. "Nah. Whatever it is, it’s not a nine-to-five gig. He’s in here almost from the time we open around noon. Stays usually until nine or ten."
"Every day?"
"Most. Sometimes he’s not here, though."
I nodded. "He got a lot of lady friends?"
She sighed. "Well, yeah, sure. He’s slick, you know? Got that manner about him that women like. Confident. Laid back. He’ll almost ignore you. Some women, that drives ‘em nuts."
"Not you, though."
"Not me. I like my men up front and honest."
"Seems like a fair request."
"I thought so, too. I haven’t had a decent date in six months."
I filed that away. She was cute enough. "You ever see that guy get into any scuffles or fights? Any inappropriate behavior at all?"
"No. He tips like shit, though. That’s inappropriate in my book. Oh, he’s tried to pick me up about a half dozen times."
"That bad, huh?"
She smiled. "Awful. I don’t want anything to do with him."
"You’ve been very helpful. Thanks a lot."
"My pleasure. Come back soon. We’ll talk some more."
"But not about him."
She smiled some more. "Right."
She moved off to another table and I made my way out of the bar, coasting down the cement ramp and braking out on the sidewalk. In the interim, Newbury Street had darkened; the numbers of people filling the sidewalks had thinned. I wheeled around and scanned the immediate area.
The Boston Architectural Center offered a convenient nook hidden in recessed shadows. I steered myself over and then reversed so I could get a look at the entrance to Joey’s.
I didn’t have long to wait.
After being propositioned twice by the roving personality test givers who represented the latest celebrity philosophical movement, Don Woolery gave a quick glance up and down the street before heading up toward the old Tower Records building on Massachusetts Avenue.
I gave him twenty seconds and slid out of the space, rolling down the street after him. One of these days, I’ll give in to my body’s demands for a motorized chair, but right now I keep the manual because it gives my arms and back a great workout. It’s better to be a bit brawny in the chair than look like some skinny chump who can be felled by a gust of wind.
Tailing people in a wheelchair is something similar to blind luck. You don’t have many chances. If they turn and spot you, it’s over. Wheelchairs are damned hard to conceal on the street.
Fortunately for me, tonight my new friend Don was in a real hurry and obviously wasn’t all that concerned about our earlier interaction because he didn’t look back once in the short hop up to Massachusetts Avenue.
He stopped on the corner by the Tower Records building entrance and stood scanning the traffic. I eased myself over to a lip in the wall by the ice cream parlor and waited.
Two minutes later a black limousine oozed up to the curb. Don hopped right in and I watched as the limousine slid back into the traffic slipstream and then turned right down Beacon Street toward Kenmore Square.
Even if there’d been a taxi able to carry my chair, I doubted I’d get much more accomplished tonight. I watched them go, too far away to get the license number of the limousine.
And still too far away to figure out any of this case.
Chapter Four
McCloskey the miracle worker turned up at my place the next morning as I was working on the speed bag down in my converted cellar. I’d just done six rounds of three minutes each on the bag interspersed with some jab practice on the heavy bag. Sweat was running off my body like a flash flood in a spring rain storm. I toweled off just as he buzzed the doorbell. I pushed the intercom.
"Yeah?"
"Police, Thunder. You’re under arrest for suspicion of voyeurism, womanizing and rampant sexual self-gratification."
"Guilty as charged. My right hand and I are downstairs. Come on down."
He showed up thirty seconds later and grimaced as he entered. "Shit, dude, turn a damned fan on, would you? It stinks like balls and ass in here."
I took a chug from the water bottle. "You come all this way just to harass me about my impeccable workout discipline?"
He nudged the heavy bag. "Still working the old Dempsey routines?"
"The Triple, yeah. Near as I can manage it, anyway. The hook to the head translates to the ribs, but yeah, same one."
He nodded. "I gotta get back down here sometime. Maybe we’ll do some sparring?"
"I’ll kick your ass."
He laughed. "I believe it. I haven’t seen the sunny side of exercise in about a year."
"And yet you still manage to maintain your womanly figure."
"Up yours."
I grinned. "You got something for me?"
He held up a manila envelope. "Ballistics, baby."
"You’re awesome." I held out my hand for the envelope but he kept it back.
"You sure you want to see this?"
I frowned. "What the hell does that mean? Of course I want to see it. Shit, I had you go to the trouble. Least I can do is take it off your hands."
"It’s just this might not be exactly what you were looking for when you asked me to do this for you."
"They find something?"
He shrugged. "Not that they know of, no. But to a couple of seasoned professionals like us-"
"You mean crusty old bastards."
"I might at that," He handed me the envelope. "Well, you tell me what you think."
"Something tells me whatever I think is what you think already."
He shrugged and watched as I slid the report out. "Don’t forget: Guilfoil’s on Friday."
"Yeah." But I was already reading the report. And McCloskey was right. I didn’t like what I found in the pages. I looked up at him after a minute.
"Shit."
He nodded. "Told ya."
According to the report, the boys at the State Police lab had concluded the gun used in the Melinda Patterson murder had been a Tokarev 9mm. It was a rare piece. Especially in an age of SIG Sauers, Glocks, and Smith & Wessons.
But McCloskey and I knew the Tokarev was the favored weapon of the Russian Mafiya. Specifically, the Georgian gangs liked them. Maybe it was their inherent nationalism, or maybe it was because they knew it made them stand out. Maybe it was a warning. Neither McCloskey or I had ever been close enough to them to ask.
Funny how times change.
I sat there feeling the sweat roll off until it wandered down past my waist where I didn’t feel much of anything anymore. Not since the accident.
McCloskey interrupted my wandering mind. "How you gonna play this one, Thunder?"
"Damned carefully."
"Now just because it’s a Tokarev doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the Russians."
"Who you trying to convince – me or yourself?"
He sighed. "Yeah. I know. It was a long shot."
"No one else we know would use a Tokarev unless it’s some damned collector."
He nodded. "You know the Feds are still trying to infiltrate those gangs in New York and Chicago, right?"
"I read that, yeah. They have any luck?"
"Couple of their guys turned up very dead for their trouble."
"Yeah."
"Think this might be out of your league?"
I looked up frowning and he held up his hands. "Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it, Jake. Calm down."
"What’s your point?"
McCloskey lowe
red his hands. "The Russians don’t fuck around. I got guys on the force told me they wouldn’t have anything to do with them. Some of them think they’re ten times worse than the Vietnamese gangs up in Lowell. You go sticking your nose in their business, you could wind up very dead as well."
"Goes along with the job, Frank. You know that."
"Yeah, but you’ve got the option of dropping the case. I don’t have that luxury."
"You telling me you’re gonna start looking at this case a little more closely?"
"I’m not saying shit. All I am saying is that you need to be careful. Believe it or not, some of us have actually grown a little fond of having your sarcastic butt hanging around town. Be a shame to see anything happen to you."
"I’m touched. But you know as well as I do that I’ve got to run it down."
"Yeah." He grinned. "That sister’s a helluva looker."
"Damsel in distress, my friend. Someone’s gotta help ‘em. Only a few of us knights in shining armor left."
"Shining armor?"
"Might be a little dented."
"And tarnished."
"That too."
He nodded. "I figured it’d be useless to try to convince you otherwise. You got any other leads so far?"
"Yeah. I spoke to Don Woolery last night."
"Slimy prick, ain’t he?"
"Not the most hospitable dude, no."
"Tell you anything?"
"Not much. Melinda Patterson and he were apparently in bed together a few times a month. Quickies, nothing serious near as I can tell. But he didn’t seem to have much remorse for someone he used to bang. Said she never had much money, though."
"Her sister never slipped her any? That’s odd."
"Yeah. I wanted to ask her about that. Woolery insisted she had a drinking problem."
"Drugs?"
"Probably nothing beyond an occasional joint."
"What else?"
"He left in a bit of a hurry last night after I talked to him."
"Maybe you shook him up."
"Maybe. I got the impression he was on his way to a business meeting, though."
"What time was that?"
"Around eight."
"You know many people who have business meetings at eight in the evening?"
"I don’t know too many people who hang around a bar all day long and then get into black limousines bound for Kenmore Square, no."
"You get a tag number?"
"Nah, too far away." I patted the chair. "This thing isn’t the best vehicle for surveillance work."
"You’re kidding, right? How many times have I told you to get this thing motorized. Hell, you could slip in and out of traffic faster than a car if you got the right engine."
"Yeah, but then I’d need an airbag and a CD player on it, too. That gets expensive."
McCloskey grinned appreciatively and then sighed. "So, what now?"
"Well, I can go poke around in known Russian Mafiya hangouts, making myself a royal pain in the tuckus."
"What’s the other option?"
"I can go work Don Woolery over again."
"You think he’s holding out?"
"I’m sure of it."
McCloskey chewed his lip. "I’d go with option two for right now. Seems safer than pissing off the local hoods."
"Yeah. Unless Don Juan gets jumpy and tells them I’m coming. Then it could be just as dangerous either way."
"I doubt he’d do that. After all, he’s only seen you once. What’s he got to worry about?"
"Good point. You got anything else on him?"
"No. But I can do some digging."
"Yeah. Maybe bank accounts, work records, that kind of thing. Let’s see what he’s really up to and who he’s working for."
"When are you going over?"
"Tonight, I think. I’ll go in when he’s sleepy. Might make him a little less irritable."
"Less prone to getting violent, too."
"S’okay if he gets violent." I smiled. "I haven’t had a good workout in a while."
"Don’t go too rough on him. We might need him to testify."
"If the Mafiya’s involved in this, I’d say Don Woolery has about as much chance of making it to the courthouse alive as I have of bedding down with Miss America."
"There’s a bet no bookie would take."
"You saying I don’t have a chance with Miss America?"
"Nope. You did."
I grinned at him but I don’t think either of us really felt all that happy at the coming storm.
Chapter Five
I spent the afternoon getting acupuncture on my legs from Doctor Poon, a transplanted Thai who had a knack for reviving most of my aching limbs. So far though, he hadn’t been able to bring back feeling in my legs. I wasn’t about to give up hope just yet. Despite what western doctors said, despite their sentence proclaiming I’d never walk again.
Despite it all.
I’m a big believer in mind over matter. So severed nerve endings, damaged spinal discs be damned. If I was going to walk again, the most important step I need to take first was to convince myself mentally it could be done. Dr. Poon was an integral step in that department. His healing needles had done a lot for me already. He’d built my confidence by restoring flexibility in my shoulders and back already.
I used the time I was lying on my stomach on his well-padded table to try to do some thinking. My mind drifted instinctively to the accident that robbed me of my right to walk. My mind always went there first.
Somalia 1992, I was one of two Air Force special operations commandos attached to a Delta Force mission in Mogadishu. If you ever wanted to know what life must have been like in the Wild West, Mogadishu was a good place to get a fair idea. Everyone had guns. Hell, most folks had a rocket launcher or two lying around. And there were enough dead bodies littering the streets, stinking up the air that you couldn't walk ten feet without tripping over one of them.
On that hot, sun-baked day when the dust seemed to scamper and clog every nook of every pore on your body, two Blackhawk helicopters were on their way in, filled with Delta operators, ready to nab one of the local warlords. I was already on the ground, in hiding, with my partner.
Our job was tough. We'd had to sneak and peek our way into the location during the dark of night, confirming that the warlord was, in fact, where our intelligence guys said he was.
We confirmed it by getting up close and personal with his bedroom. We could have waxed his ass then and there, but apparently, the leaders in Washington didn't think that was very civilized. We withdrew close-by and called in the rest of the snatch team to our position.
We saw the Blackhawks emerge over the rooftops of buildings a few hundred feet from my position. My partner called in a final clearance to commence the run in when all hell broke loose.
Twin plumes of smoke erupted from a doorway on my left and streaked toward the choppers. In an instant, the rotor had been blown off one of the choppers and caused it to plummet to the ground, breaking up on impact.
While the second chopper raked the doorway with gunfire from its door gunner, we scrambled out to try to help the survivors I could see trying to fight their way out of the burning wreckage.
Bullets kicked up dirt all around us. Resistance was incredibly fierce. I could hear the screams of the men burning alive inside the fiery wreck. I reached the back of the bird just as the first bullet nailed me in the lower back.
Somehow, I didn’t let it stop me from ripping off the back of the twisted metal and helping three commandos get out. I took another bullet in the next five seconds. This time it knocked me good. I fell unconscious amid the flames, the bullets, the screams, and the slow-motion nightmare that would plague me for the rest of my life.
By the time I came to, we’d been evac’d out of the fire zone and back to our lines. Doctors worked on me for six hours before sewing me up and pronouncing sentence.
They dug enough metal out of me that day, they said, to build a small
bowling trophy. I wasn’t amused. I was even less amused when I came back to consciousness and found my lower extremities didn’t work any longer.
They bumped up my medical discharge to a full honorable one in light of what I did. They gave me a few medals for courage and honor under fire, that kind of thing.
To be honest, they meant shit to me.
I’d give ‘em all up to walk again.
And stubborn as I was, I wasn’t about to let army doctors convince me that walking again was an impossibility.
Impossible and I haven’t been on speaking terms for a long time.
Dr. Poon sank another needle along one of my meridians and hummed a tune quietly to himself as some new age music drifted about in the background. Incense tickled my nose from a burner he concealed elsewhere in the Spartan room.
"You feel?"
"No."
He kept humming. "You will."
That’s what I liked about Dr. Poon. He didn’t like the word impossible either.
I took another deep breath as my mind ticked over and on to the case at hand. Vanessa Patterson flashed through my mind briefly and a few erotic scenarios as well, but I managed to clear them out and concentrate on Melinda Patterson, Don Woolery, and their possible connection to the Russian Mafiya.
Melinda Patterson might have wanted to sever all contact with her family but would she go so far as to get herself wrapped up in something like a gang? Or drugs for that matter? It didn’t make much sense given her upbringing. Still, people turned from good to bad all the time.
Don Woolery didn’t seem very upset about her death. Maybe it’s just me but a good lay seems more deserving than just the quick write-off he'd given Melinda. Hell, he’d even insisted she’d been pretty good in the sack.
So who was into Don? The same people that got to Melinda? Had Don sold Melinda out to protect his position? Or had they both gotten in over their heads and Don had given up Melinda to save his own skin?
Too many questions.
And I still wasn’t convinced about the Russian Mafiya.
True, they’d been making inroads across America ever since the supposed fall of Communism in the former Soviet Union. I knew for a fact that the gangs that were operating in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles had close ties to the Russian Intelligence Service. They kept each other informed of what America was working on, despite everyone claiming that the Cold War was over.