The Big Law pb-2

by Chuck Logan

  Rasputin walked to a waiting cab, spoke briefly to the driver and then got in the second cab in line. When he was sure everybody was on the same page, Broker climbed in the first cab and gave the address in Watsonville.

  The cabby smelled of patchouli, an unsuspecting ponytailed escapee from a time capsule. He was pleased with the long fare and chatted amiably about the weather. Rain, seventeen out of the last twenty-one days. “El Meno” he called it, played hell with his landscaping business.

  Broker fingered one of David Konic’s Havanas. Carefully, he clipped the cap with his cheap guillotine cutter, stuck it in his mouth and lit up.

  He rolled down the window and inhaled the mildewed, gasoline-scented freeway air. Pink clouds sweated over the coastal range, gamey as mold on a spoiled peach.

  73

  The house smelled like a runaway wood-burning set.

  Danny was drenched in sweat and clinging sawdust. His hands took the shock off the handle of the heavy floor sander and distributed the violent vibration up his arms into his chest and back. Grit filtered through his face mask and ground between his teeth. Bulbous ear protectors muted the grinding racket.

  He was nothing but happy.

  The money had arrived the day after he did. Two packages.

  Just sign here. For the interim, he’d removed a ceiling panel and tucked it into the narrow space between the rafters above the closet in the back storage bedroom.

  He’d returned without a hitch and never looked back.

  Three days now and not even a call from Joe Travis. He expected a call. That website nonsense might filter up the chain of command, and they’d have to decide. Danny’s position was that his appearance had altered so much that the threat of identification was minimal.

  The computer was packed away, under plastic sheeting in the back room to protect it from the dust. Not looking back meant not even checking the St. Paul paper website for news of Ida Rain’s death. His scary retreat from Broker’s house had chastened him. He wanted nothing to do with the

  “danger zone.” No communication. Telephone, computer. Nothing. like Tom James, Minnesota had ceased to exist.

  Keep it low profile. Day trips to Tahoe and Reno. Take the first one in about two weeks. And something else. This small born-again desire to find his way back to writing had come forward. Danny smiled fondly. But right now he had work to do.

  He tipped the sander and hauled it back to start another course of floorboards, paused to adjust the heavy cord over his shoulder, glanced at the TV going in the corner. Under a thick film of sawdust, CNN was “investigating the president.” New scandal, breaking news. Danny had been following it since this morning. Couldn’t hear with the sander going, but he loved the action. Old Bernie Shaw and Judy Woodruff with fever charts tracking the polls behind them. Wolf Blitzer out in front of the White House. Sniffing the presidential crotch.

  It was high fun. To see the slavering reporters from the outside, as it were. As a just plain Joe.

  Danny switched off the sander, untied the floppy white dust bag from the exhaust tube and walked through the dis-mantled kitchen, out the garage, and dumped the contents in his garbage can. Clouds hugged the Santa Cruz hills, the air was dank bubble bath. A moist tickle of drizzle streaked his dirty arms.

  Turning back to the house, he saw Terra, Ruby’s partner, drive past in a vintage Volkswagen minivan. Danny had to start the process of making amends. So he waved. Friendly.

  Terra had black, stringy romp-hair and this amazing flat face, like she’d grown up wearing a jar on her head. Wonder what her story was. Probably a six-inch prolapsed clitoris.

  He laughed aloud at his own joke, went back in and opened a Coors. As he stooped to the sander he listened to the press feed on gossip.

  His hands set to the work of loosening the steel drum with a T-wrench. He removed the worn sheet of sand-paper, bent a fresh sheet to the drum jaws. He was on the medium coarse. By this time tomorrow he’d be finished with the fine.

  Be ready to start on the sealer. That stuff put out a stink.

  And PCBs. Hydrocarbons killed brain cells. Spend the night in a motel. Charge it to Travis’s VISA. Business expense.

  He grimaced, glanced at the cloudy twilight through the screened porch. One day of sunshine would be nice. To help it dry. Air the place out.

  As he fitted the new sheet of paper to the drum, he was struck by the clean power of his hands. Physical labor was toning him up. He studied the network of prominent veins, the subtle play of tendon and muscle. Ennobled, almost, by the fine wood dust and sweat. By honest work.

  Saw his hands clamped on Ida Rain’s face. Shook his head.

  Every time the memory leaped up, he revised it, stripping the thrill away. Cleaned it up. Like the sander stripped off the old paint and carpet glue on the floor. There had been no perverse joy, no sexual quickening. If anything he had experienced a melancholy dredging feeling. Hard goddamn work. Necessity.

  “I take no pleasure in this,” he mused aloud.

  On the television someone said, “Twenty-four hours into the White House scandal and the president’s approval rating has only dipped two points…”

  Danny pulled the mask up around his nose and mouth, adjusted the ear protectors, and flipped on the machine. The torque curled sinuously up the handles and corded his arms.

  Hooked deep into his chest. Had to be good for the abdom-inals-

  The sander shut off. Danny jerked, shucked the ear protectors. Heard a weary voice say, “Hi, asshole.”

  74

  Not from the TV. Behind him. Danny turned and saw-impossibly-Phil Broker standing with the power cord plug in his hand. Standing in a relaxed stance and wearing jeans, tennis shoes, and a Levi’s jacket. The brown hat with the brim pulled down over one eye gave him an Indiana Jones swashbuckling quality and emphasized his black eyebrows and his shadowed, tired eyes.

  Numb, not tracking, Danny blurted, “How the hell?”

  Broker feigned surprise. “You remember me?”

  “How-” Danny stopped.

  Broker smiled. “It’s not important how I found you.”

  Danny’s mind reeled with the power of secrets. Dumb North Woods hick. I was just a few feet from blowing your brains out. Three days ago. Now-like an Atlas rocket blasting off in his living room!

  What was he doing here?

  Danny’s eyes darted. There was a problem with the color on the TV screen. Bernie Shaw’s face bloomed in livid fuch-sia. He cleared his throat, tried to stabilize his voice and said,

  “Talking to somebody from the ‘danger zone’ puts me in violation. I have to call Joe Travis, he’s my inspector. You can deal with him.”

  He peeled off the mask and started for the phone. Broker blocked him. “Sorry.”

  “Hey, what is this?”

  “You tell me?” said Broker. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his hip pocket and handed it to Danny. It was shopworn, creased, the futile subpoena Jeff had issued back at the start, for Tom James to appear before a Cook County grand jury.

  Danny handed the paper back. “There is no Tom James.”

  Broker nodded. “Right. Fuck a piece of paper.” He tore the paper up and tossed it aside.

  Okay, thought Danny. Deep breaths. Be cool. You know he’s on to the money. The E-mail between Ida and Bruce discussed it. Ida discussed it. He had a theory. But no case, otherwise he would have shown up with local cops. These were all things Danny wasn’t supposed to know. What the hell was he doing here? What if he knew about Ida? He had to know…

  “What are you doing here?” Danny demanded.

  “Somebody I used to work for sent me,” said Broker.

  “Who?”

  “Keith Angland.”

  This time, Danny bolted for the door. Broker cut him off with an easy step and gave him a deft, deceptively violent shove with both hands. Broker hardly moved. Danny bounced off the wall, hard, and wound up in the corner.

  Trapped.

  “You�
��re holding me against my will. That’s against the law,” he protested.

  Broker said, “This all began with a call, a tip. Who called you at the newspaper?”

  Danny fidgeted. “The FBI checked the phone records. The call came from Caren Angland. She had some kind of gizmo that disguised her voice.”

  “Half right, the call came from Caren Angland’s house.

  But at the exact time the call was placed, she was in her psychiatrist’s office on Summit Avenue in St. Paul.”

  “What the hell?” Danny’s curiosity briefly overcame fear.

  “Keith made that call. He figured you’d be useful, you’d already met Caren, so you could do the story about how he’d come apart, beat her up. Like when he bad-mouthed the chief. It’s called building a legend. He’d been meticulously putting it together ever since he attended the FBI Academy. There wasn’t supposed to be a videotape.”

  “What are you talking about.”

  “The Suitcase,” said Broker.

  “I don’t know anything about any suitcase. I want to call Joe Travis, he’s my inspector,” Danny insisted in a queasy voice. He blinked rapidly, each blink making his head jerk.

  Broker’s every word-blink, jerk.

  “You were being used, dummy. In a deep solo undercover operation to penetrate the Russian Mafia. You still are.”

  Danny stared, not getting any of this. Slowly, he got to his feet.

  Broker went on. “They left Lorn Garrison out of the loop.

  To give it a real feel down at the grass roots. Keith made two mistakes. He tried to push Caren out of his life. And he underestimated you.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Danny, back against the corner, going from foot to foot like he had to pee real bad.

  “What happened at the Kettle?” asked Broker patiently.

  Danny suddenly realized he was in the stronger position.

  All Broker had, behind his bluff, was questions. Danny raised his right hand to his mouth, twisted his thumb and forefinger as if locking a key in his lips, and then he threw the imaginary key away. Kid’s game. I got a secret.

  Broker shook his head. “You dumb shit. The way it is now, not even the truth can save you. They’re not going to believe anything you say. Keith’s not going to let you get 426 / CHUCK LOGAN

  away with it. You see, you’re still useful. Because you took their money. So tell me, what happened?” Broker stepped closer. Danny shied away from the steady North Woods eyes. “Was it like what happened to Ida Rain? Somebody you had to shut up?” asked Broker.

  “Ida?” Danny whispered. Broker knew. For some reason, he relived kicking the cat to death. But it was his dreams.

  “She isn’t dead, Tom.” Broker smiled that weary smile again. “Unlike you, she’s going to survive.”

  Car doors, opening and shutting outside. Danny, vacant in the eyes, dry-mouthed, tried to rally. Hard to see. His vision popped. Flashbulbs going off in his head. “That’s Joe, try this crazy rap out on him,” he prayed.

  “Don’t think so,” said Broker. “They followed me to the airport in Minneapolis. And they were waiting for my flight when it landed in San Francisco. They followed my cab here.”

  “Who?”

  “Pros. With enough resources to put someone on the ground in San Francisco to meet my plane on a few hours’

  notice. Could be the FBI. They know I’m looking for you,”

  said Broker.

  They heard rubber soles scurry across the deck in back, coming in through the front door.

  75

  Broker watched James smile his deluded smile and fantasize rescue. Watched the shudder of relief go through him when the two men rushed in from the porch. They wore running suits and sneakers. One of them had short cropped hair and a military stoicism to his sunken cheeks. The other was Rasputin.

  They carried pistols. Slender automatics with silencers.

  Which James may or may not have known would be very unusual sidearms for FBI agents to carry. But that was aca-demic, because James challenged them: “FBI?”

  The gunmen shrugged at each other. With the droll expression of a homicidal clown, Rasputin slapped James in the face, unleashed a tirade: “Slyshay vasya, ya pyshy tebya, govnyuk. Na korm moyem sobakam!”

  “What? Huh?” James blinked, confused, too off balance to track small crucial details, like the blue tattoos they had on the tops of their hands. Rasputin’s five-pointed star. The thin military-looking one wore a snake.

  The Snake placed the silencer tube of his pistol firmly against Broker’s forehead and forced him two steps backward. “Stop,” said a voice behind him. The same precise English he’d heard on the phone yesterday. “Put your hands behind you, Broker.”

  Broker did. Carefully, pinned in place by the pistol barrel.

  A tearing sound. Then his wrists were efficiently wrapped with duct tape. Once his hands were bound, the Snake lowered his weapon and frisked him. Found a billfold, badge, picture ID.

  “Turn around,” said Konic.

  Broker turned and saw a lean man with short iron gray hair and a fading golf tan. Everything about him was quiet, expensively understated; his build, the statement of his casual clothes-rain jacket, sports shirt, khakis, loafers. The Snake handed Konic Broker’s ID. Konic inspected the items like a meticulous clerk who adds and subtracts lives.

  “Broker, are these guys FBI?” Surging fear distorted James’s voice.

  Konic uttered a remark in Russian. The Snake heaved a phlegmy laugh and cracked James across the teeth with his pistol barrel. James sagged to his knees.

  It was not pretty. War never is. James looked like a broken piece of meat forked into the tiger house. But Broker felt remarkably calm. All his life he’d listened to his body, and now, his body told him he was not in danger. His experience told him he was in the company of professionals.

  Konic gave directions in Russian. The gunmen tripped the now hysterical James and shoved him down onto his freshly sanded floor. Beige sawdust blotted his dirty cheek, his sweaty T-shirt.

  Konic took Broker by the arm and led him to the kitchen table. He motioned for Broker to sit. Then he said, “How’s David?”

  “David is fine.”

  “You know each other?” James screamed.

  Konic said, “Excuse me.” He walked to James and said,

  “Mr. James, Keith Angland sends his regards. He apologizes for being such a bad shot.”

  “Hey. Just a minute,” protested James. “You have this all wrong. Broker, tell them. Angland’s a cop. He set this THE BIG LAW/429

  all up, but his wife meddled and it got all twisted.”

  Konic smiled. “Some cop. He kills his own wife to protect his comrades.”

  “No. No.” James tried to struggle to his feet. “He didn’t kill her. Don’t you get it? I did it. I did it. For the money and I knew he was after her. See. It was perfect. So I pushed her and he saw me. Hey. Listen…”

  Konic smiled. “Of course, you’d say anything right now.

  But a better choice would be the Our Father.”

  Broker shut his eyes. So he’d been right, but he took no pleasure in it-not now, being a witness at this ironic execu-tion that was indirectly sanctioned by the U.S. Justice Department.

  “Where’s the money, Mr. James?” asked Konic.

  James whined. “It’s mine.”

  “Where?” Konic could load a single syllable full of menace.

  The gunmen positioned James on his knees. A European legacy of feudalism, Broker supposed. The victim must be seen as subject to authority. Even complicit in his destruction.

  Broker resented and admired Keith Angland. A problem he’d always had with powerful men on missions, who crafted their plans out of human flesh.

  Konic snapped orders. The gunmen tore off James’s tennis shoes and yanked off his dirty jeans. They manhandled him into the corner. He pressed his back into the crack of the wall, squirmed. His jockey shorts were damp with sawdust, gray sweat. His white l
egs trembled. His eyes sought Broker’s, pleading.

  Konic speculated in a patient didactic voice. “I used to be an advocate of sleep deprivation. Drugs are useful. But in Afghanistan, the mujahideen pried our tanks open with their rifle barrels and killed us with rocks. I learned that techniques are secondary, if the will is present. So. We use what is at hand.”

  Curtly, he spoke to his helpers. They immediately went to the belt sander and began to loosen the drum.

  James pleaded with Broker. He was sitting in a puddle of urine now. “Do something. You’re a police officer.”

  Footnotes, thought Broker. History.

  James started to scream. The Snake immediately began to kick him into the corner, raging, vicious.

  Konic walked to the TV and turned the volume up to the maximum to drown James’s screams. Irritably, he hectored Rasputin, who struggled with the unfamiliar machine, folding a sheet of the heavy coarse sandpaper into the drum. “Oy Blyad!” Rasputin swore. Sucked a knuckle. Skinned himself on the sandpaper.

  They hunkered down side by side. James screamed, drowning out Bernie Shaw’s TV voice. Rasputin’s and the Snake’s practical conversation as they tried to master the unfamiliar mechanism. Drum sanders were tricky, keeping the tension on the sheet of sandpaper while you tightened the drum.

  Finally, they had it crimped in place. Rasputin, his eyes merry with experiment, rolled the heavy sander toward James. Blubbering, James drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them.

  Then Rasputin made the mistake of hitting the switch before he had a firm grip on the sturdy cross-T handle. The slack dust catcher on the exhaust inflated with the shock of an air bag. The machine roared and charged. It was an old model Clark, with an eight-inch drum and as thick as a squat fender off a stainless steel tank. They’d put the coarsest paper on. Looked to Broker like number sixteen-black rock grits.

  The runaway sander hit James’s right ankle and ran over his foot cranking around five thousand revolutions per minute. His scream was lost in the snarl of the drum. A fine spray of blood, shredded skin and tissue spattered the wall.