Danger-Close: A Jake Thunder Adventure (The Jake Thunder Adventures Book 1)

by Jon F. Merz

  He glanced down as with the same kind of feigned patience sharks reserve for pilot fish who scavenge morsels from them and cocked one eyebrow.

  "Yes?"

  Since he was standing in front of the door, I gestured to it. "Hi. Any chance you can get the door for me?"

  "You’re going in?" His English was heavily accented and sounded almost as if he’d been schooled at one point in England.

  "Yes. I’d like to see Mr. Darmov if possible."

  That got a reaction. Both eyebrows jumped a foot off his forehead and he looked me up and down again, mostly down. "Mr. Darmov? You?"

  "Yes. Could you get the door?"

  I could see the wheels grinding around in his head as he considered his options. He could either keep me out of the club and risk insulting Darmov, which wouldn’t fall into the wise career-advancement category. Or he could let me in and hope to hell I didn’t do anything to make Darmov question who had let me in.

  He opted to get the door for me and even said "Welcome" as I passed through. I chucked him a quick "spaseebuh", which is about the extent of my Russian, and glided into the nightclub.

  Technopop bounced off the walls as red lasers caromed across the room, highlighting shadowy corners before plunging them back into total darkness again. Pockets of people who smelled like they rolled around on magazine cologne samples for their smell du jour inhabited velvet couches and high-backed armchairs. A long bar ran down one side of the room and seemed to be at least six people deep.

  The place was thriving with more Russians than I’d ever seen in one place at the same time. As usual, I wasn’t in there longer than two minutes before people began eyeing me like some sort of leper.

  I eased myself over to another huge security dude and asked for Darmov. He mirrored the expression of his outside brethren and then spoke into his sport coat lapel. After a second he leaned down so I could smell the remains of what must have been a spicy Mexican dinner on his breath.

  "Who are you?"

  "Jake Thunder."

  "Tunder?"

  "Yeah, Thunder."

  He stood back up and spoke again for a second, then listened. He eyed me the entire time, heard something, frowned, and leaned back down. "Mr. Darmov, he is not expecting you."

  "Yeah. I know. Tell him it’s about Don Woolery."

  Again he went through the motions. Finally, after three minutes of more listening, he grunted and pointed toward a single door I hadn’t noticed down toward the back of the club.

  "Go there."

  I said thanks and wheeled myself over to the door. As I approached, it opened and another huge security type barred my path. Jeez, how many of these guys were there?

  He looked me over and then proceeded to frisk me. He then ran a Garrett weapons detector wand over the entire frame of my chair. Carefully. He patted me down my midline front and back. He checked my shoes, especially the soles. Whoever had trained these guys, they’d done a damned good job.

  Satisfied, he stood behind me and pushed me into the room beyond.

  Judging from the way the music suddenly seemed to fade off into the distance, it had been carefully sound-proofed but done in such a way that you wouldn’t be able to see the baffling panels. The room had the feel of a boat captain’s quarters done in teak and mahogany wood paneling with wraparound couches under the portholes. A desk sat to the rear of the room and behind the desk sat Darmov.

  He was younger looking than McCloskey’s information led me to believe. For someone who’d seen action in Afghanistan, he didn’t look more than forty. His hair was close-cropped in a sort of commando-look that bridges a high and tight Marine Corps look and the trim no-nonsense look of an Army man. He had piercing blue eyes, which he now used to look me over while a thin smile played across his face. He gestured toward the front of his desk.

  "I’d ask you to sit down, but it seems you’ve beaten me to the punch already."

  "I know, it’s damned rude of me." I smiled back. "Thanks for seeing me."

  "Well, when you mentioned our dearly departed friend Don Woolery, I thought for sure a conversation would at least be somewhat…stimulating."

  Considering that McCloskey hadn’t released Woolery’s name to the press in connection with the killing, Darmov had just confirmed that he’d had him killed at the least. Possibly, he’d pulled the trigger himself.

  "Yeah, well, let’s talk about Don."

  He smiled the way a parent humors a child. "Let’s do."

  "If you check me out, which I’m sure you will-"

  "Unless I decide to just kill you." He kept the smile in place.

  "Right. Anyway, you’ll find that I’m a private investigator."

  "Really? How fascinating. Do you mind me asking how you’re able to undertake such activities while in your wheelchair?"

  "It’s not always easy. But I manage."

  "Indeed. And if you run into…trouble?"

  "Like I said, I manage."

  "But no gun?"

  I shrugged. "It would have given you the wrong message coming in here armed. Besides, your boys would have taken it away from me."

  He nodded and gestured for me to continue. I heard the door shut behind us and saw the same security dude who'd frisked me earlier come into the room.

  I looked back at Darmov. "I was hired to investigate the death of a Melinda Patterson. Does that name ring a bell?"

  "Should it?"

  "I don’t know. She was a friend of Don Woolery’s."

  Darmov frowned. "Mmm, yes, well, I have to admit, I didn’t really keep Don in my inner circle. So acquaintances and associates of his never really mattered much to me."

  "Well, it’s not important. What is important was that Don’s name came up in connection with her murder."

  "Did it really? How interesting."

  "Yeah. When I went to visit Don and ask him some questions, he wasn’t very cooperative…at first."

  "Yes, knowing Don, I can see how that might happen. He wasn’t one of those people who understand about the right way and the wrong way to do things. After all, everything is business, right?"

  "Exactly. I had to lean on him in order to get any information."

  Darmov leaned forward in his chair. "You…leaned on him?"

  "Yeah."

  He smiled again. "Do you mind me asking how exactly you were able to do that considering your condition?"

  "Not at all." I gestured to the security goon behind me. "Do you mind if I use him?"

  The expression on Darmov’s face was priceless. Truly, he must have thought he was going to have a great time watching this. Better than midget wrestling at Madison Square Garden, he was going to get a real thrill out of seeing one of his boys trounce a cripple in a chair.

  "Not at all." He gestured to the goon who immediately came around in front of me rubbing his knuckles together and cracking them so the sinovial fluid popped inside.

  Darmov apparently felt introductions were in order. "This is Viktor. He was a heavyweight Sambo champion back in Russia. Do you know of Sambo, Mr. Thunder?"

  "Combination of Judo and Russian wrestling if I’m not mistaken." I eyed Viktor. He was impressive looking. Judging by the cut of his suit, he worked out quite a bit on the weights.

  "Correct." Darmov leaned back. "Please. Show me."

  I missed the cue Darmov gave Viktor, but it didn’t matter because I saw Viktor’s shoulder girdle shift suddenly as he rocketed a punch in at my face. I leaned out of the way, letting Viktor commit his energy and the punch sail by my face. As it did, I reached up checking his punching arm against a possible backswing with my left while I grabbed the vital point under his triceps with my right hand and squeezed it. Hard. Yanking down toward me, he yelped and caved, falling into my knees, which were conveniently positioned to coincide with his chin coming down. I heard a dull thwack and Viktor’s head snapped back before he rolled over and passed out.

  I watched him slide off of the wheelchair and crumble to the floor.


  I turned.

  Darmov’s jaw dropped.

  "Something like that," I said. "Although Woolery wasn’t stupid enough to throw a punch at me."

  "Most impressive," said Darmov. "What martial art did you study?"

  "Couple of forms. I’m part American Indian so we have our own unique form of fighting. Over the years I’ve added some stuff to my repertoire."

  "Apparently," said Darmov. "Was Don convinced?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And he became…cooperative?"

  "Very." I rolled myself away from Viktor and back toward Darmov. Behind me, Viktor started to grunt and come to, gradually getting to his feet and wandering into the background of our conversation again, rubbing his jaw.

  Darmov smiled. "So, what did Don tell you."

  "He told me exactly what he did for you. He mentioned what your line of business entailed and how it all tied together with Melinda Patterson."

  "Really." He steepled his fingers. "You should know that Don had a tendency to elaborate and exaggerate a bit too much."

  "That why you killed him?"

  This time the smile vanished. "No. I killed him because he was stealing from me."

  "Money or babies?"

  "Money. To the tune of almost a million dollars."

  "How’d he do that?"

  "He established an upfront charge for putting the buyers in touch with me. I only found out about it last week."

  "So you put an end to that pretty quick."

  "Of course. It only made good business sense."

  "But you lost your American facilitator, so to speak."

  "Facilitator." He smiled again. "I like that."

  "Use it with my compliments."

  Darmov nodded. "So, what is it exactly then that you want with me? Should I assume that you’re out for justice for the Patterson girl?"

  "You’re not denying it anymore, I see."

  He shrugged. "You said Don became cooperative. I’m assuming you found out more than you needed to know about my involvement. Why deny it any longer?" He leaned forward. "You know, over the years, I’ve found that honesty and being direct will get you a lot further along than many people would ever expect."

  "I’m glad to hear you say that."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yeah. Because I’ve got a proposition for you."

  "I hope it’s not some silly attempt to get me to turn myself into the police and become an honest citizen."

  "I wouldn’t insult you by even suggesting it."

  "Good. I’m enjoying our conversation. It would be shame for me to have to kill you."

  "That would be shame, yes."

  "So?"

  I glanced around the office. Darmov had a couple of French Impressionist paintings on the walls. I didn't know the artists. I didn't care. I like my picture of Rodney Dangerfield better. "Hire me in Woolery’s place?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. I’ll take his place."

  "That’s almost as insane as turning myself in. Why on earth would I hire you?"

  "Because you need someone now that Woolery’s dead."

  "Maybe I already have a replacement."

  "I don’t think you do."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I know that the Russian Mafiya isn’t all that well-established here in Boston. And the time between Woolery’s death and now hasn’t been long enough for you to find a replacement."

  Darmov leaned back in his chair. "What kind of qualifications do you have?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  "Not at all. It is a job like any other. I’d be a fool to hire an incompetent replacement."

  "No offense, Mr. Darmov, but Don Woolery wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the lamp."

  Darmov turned to Viktor. "Did I tell you about these wonderful American colloquialisms? They’re fantastic." He turned back to me. "True Don was not what you would call smart Ð "

  "I'd be hard-pressed to call him sentient."

  "- but Don did have some extensive contacts within the local hospitals and adoption agencies, however. All you’ve proven to me so far is that you can handle yourself in a combat situation."

  "I have other skills."

  "I’m sure. But I’m a bit confused as to why you would even want the job. After all, you’re a private investigator, so you said."

  "I didn’t lie."

  "I’m not saying you did. I’m just trying to reason out why you’d want the job."

  "Let’s say the market for a private dick in a wheelchair isn’t the greatest."

  "You need money?"

  "More always helps."

  "True."

  "Did Woolery make a lot working for you?"

  "Officially or on the take?"

  "Officially. I wouldn’t take money from you."

  "Smart."

  "See? I’ve got wisdom, too."

  "Don made quite a lot of money doing what he did for me. Unfortunately, he also drank most of it away. I assume you saw his apartment."

  "We had a talk there."

  "Inside?"

  "On the steps."

  "Then you know what a dive it was."

  "Depends on where you’re coming from. I know plenty of folks would think that place was a palace in the sky."

  "From my perspective," said Darmov. "It was a shanty."

  I said, "Okay."

  "But to answer your question, he did make quite a bit of money."

  "Be a nice complement to anything I make doing PI work."

  Darmov frowned. "I don’t know, Mr. Thunder. Your proposition is intriguing, to be sure. But how do I know you’re not simply a plant sent here by your police or FBI?"

  "You don’t. But I’m telling you I’m not."

  "And I suppose your word is your honor, that type of thing."

  "It used to be good enough in the service."

  "What did you do in the Army?"

  "Air Force actually. I worked in special operations."

  "Really. How interesting. I see we have a lot in common."

  "Some. But we’re different too."

  He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean."

  I pointed at my legs. "Well, for starters, you can walk."

  Darmov chuckled. "I like your sense of humor, Mr. Thunder." He reached across his desk and pushed an intercom button and spoke one word. Instantly, the door behind us opened and a tuxedo-clad waiter entered with a silver tray, a bottle and two glasses. He placed them reverently on the desk and poured a clear liquid into the two frosty glasses. He offered one to Darmov and the other to me.

  Darmov smiled. "The only way to properly drink vodka is to serve it iced, both the glasses and the liquor itself." He held up his glass and I held up mine.

  We watched each other and then tilted the glasses to our lips. I sucked it down quickly, feeling the burn on the back of my throat. I brought my head back level as Darmov did the same.

  I smiled. "Spaseebuh."

  He inclined his head. "Pazahlistuh."

  The waiter withdrew leaving us again in the room with Viktor. Darmov looked at me for a long time not saying anything. I sat still under his gaze, giving it right back to him.

  Finally after a minute of intense concentration, he smiled one last time. "All right, Mr. Thunder. I’ll tell you what: give me a few days to check you out. Let me find out for myself what kind of man you are. If I think you are up to the challenge, I’ll let you know. If I don’t, Viktor here will pay you a visit."

  I looked at Viktor who smiled thinly at me. He looked like he would enjoy plugging two rounds into my gray matter. I looked back at Darmov.

  "Sounds good."

  He stood up and reached across to shake my hand. "I do hope this isn’t the only time we’ll drink together."

  I clasped his hand firmly. "It won’t be." I wheeled around and started for the door. "See you soon."

  Chapter Twelve

  My answering machine looked like it was going to meltdown by the time I got home. Ten messag
es, evenly split between McCloskey and Vanessa Patterson clogged my machine at intervals of about twenty minutes.

  I called Vanessa first, if only because she looked a helluva lot better in a dress than McCloskey did.

  "I was worried about you," she said by way of hello.

  "No need to be."

  "Did everything go well?"

  "As well as can be expected given that I walked into the den of some pretty serious gangster types and emerged unscathed."

  "Did they hire you?"

  "He’s going to check me out first. Then we’ll see."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He’ll research my background. See if I was being honest with him. If he feels I check out, then I’ll be hired. Otherwise, he’ll probably try to have me whacked."

  "Whacked as in dead?"

  "Very dead."

  "I see."

  I looked at the clock on my microwave that I’d finally gotten around to setting when I’d gotten tired of seeing it perpetually flash 3AM. It was just after eleven. I was starved.

  "Did you have dinner yet?"

  "Of course. It’s after eleven."

  "Yeah, well I haven’t and I’m famished. Why don’t you drive on down and pick me up and we’ll go have a late meal?"

  "Where? There’s nothing open at this hour. After all, Boston’s not New York City."

  "True, but there are a few place still open in Chinatown. I know one or two that do a nice bit of beef chow foon."

  "What is beef chow foon?"

  "You’ve never eaten chow foon?"

  "Not that I’m aware of."

  "Vanessa, sweetheart, I think you’d better get over here fast. I’ve got a lot to teach you and the night’s getting on."

  She actually laughed into the phone. "All right, I’ll tell my husband I’m going out."

  "He won’t mind?"

  "He may not even notice," she said. "I’ll see you in about twenty minutes."

  I hung up the phone and changed my outfit as fast as I could, selecting a light cotton shirt and slacks that made me look pretty stylish. As I was attempting to lace up my shoes, the phone rang again.

  "Thanks for calling me back you bastard."

  "Hi Frank."

  "Don’t ‘hi Frank’ me, Jake. Where the hell have you been. You had me worried like a father on prom night."

  "You cause a lot of worry to your prom date’s parents, Frank?"