by Mike Faricy
“Yes, I’d love to,” he said, pushing a wine glass ever so slightly in her direction.
She poured.
Aaron made a production of swirling, inhaling, swishing around in his mouth, eventually swallowing before deeming it acceptable.
“Delightfully fruity,” he said, as if he’d know.
She poured us both a glass, delivered menus, told us about the specials, one was a steak I immediately vetoed for reasons of cutlery safety.
“So what can you tell me about Braco Alekseeva?” I asked, sticking my nose in the wine and checking for arsenic.
“How’d you get that name?” Aaron asked, there was no humor in his voice, about as deadly serious as I’ve ever seen him.
“What do mean, how did I get that name?”
The night continued, mercifully uneventful. I relaxed a bit more as our conversation turned to other things besides Braco Alekseeva and Kerri Vucavitch. Or maybe it was the second bottle of wine Aaron ordered. Or the fact that Renee seemed reasonably stable for the moment. We ordered dessert, after-dinner drinks, a second round of after-dinner drinks. I paid the bill, feeling no pain, left a generous tip as a safety precaution, told Renee she was beautiful, wished her all the best. Aaron bought us a nightcap in the bar.
It was about three in the morning when I woke with that particular lower intestinal discomfort. A friend described it best when he said “your body tells you it’s about to do something awful. Your choice where, you’ve got ninety seconds to decide.” Fortunately the master bath adjoins my room.
Without going into specifics I was still there at six in the morning, only I’d added a metal bowl on my lap. I was losing it from both ends, hell of way to make your goal weight. I collapsed into an exhausted sleep sometime after nine, only to leap out of bed and run into the bathroom forty-five minutes later. Eventually I showered, slept on and off for three fitful hours, and was back in the bathroom. There was nothing left. I dozed off and on through the afternoon and early evening, snapped back into action by excruciating intestinal cramps. I sipped a bottle of spring water hoping it would stay down and phoned Aaron. Amazingly he answered and sounded happy.
“Hey, thanks for last night, man. I should bet against you more often.”
“You okay?”
“Oh, a little slow moving this morning but nothing that an order of hash browns, ground sausage, and fried eggs smothered with hollandaise sauce couldn’t handle.”
I felt my stomach lurch at the description.
“You?” he asked.
“God, don’t even ask,” I said then proceeded to give him the details.
“Really, I can’t believe it. You sure you didn’t just get some weird bug, maybe some twenty-four hour thing?”
“It’s that damn Renee, she’s couldn’t kill me with that knife. Now she’s poisoned me.”
“Well, I’m sure you were a jerk and most likely you deserve it, but I don’t think she poisoned you. I mean I’m not sick. Like I said I was a little hung over but nothing that an order of…”
“Don’t go there,” I groaned, struggling out of bed. The mere mention of Renee crossing my lips restarted my cramps, and I crawled back into the bathroom.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I groaned and hung up.
I phoned Heidi from the bathroom.
“I need you,” I pleaded once she answered.
“Now what?” she snapped back.
“Look, ditch the boy toy, please, I’m in real trouble here.”
“If you’re in jail again, you can just stay there because I’m not bailing you out this time. You can call…”
“Heidi, I’m not in jail. I’m in real trouble here.”
“What’s wrong?” she sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m sicker than a dog. I think I’ve been poisoned.”
“Oh God, more of your neurosis. What? Baby has a little tummy ache?”
“Tummy ache! I’ve been cramping for close to twenty-four hours. I’m dehydrating, I can’t keep anything down, let alone in.”
“You see a doctor?”
“I’m too sick to get there. I can’t get more than about ten feet away from porcelain.”
“No kidding? What have you had since you’ve been ill?”
“To drink? Just some bottled spring water, didn’t stay with me. I think I’ve probably got a fever. I’m exhausted.”
She gave a long sigh.
“Okay, I’ll be over. Let me stop and pick up some things that will probably help. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”
“Promise?” I sounded desperate, even to myself.
“God yes, I promise I’ll be over, get back to bed if you’re not there already.”
Getting back to bed wasn’t an option at the moment, and I remained in the bathroom.
Chapter 37
I had drifted off to sleep for probably fifteen minutes. I heard Heidi call to me as she entered.
“In here,” I groaned from bed.
She took her sweet time. I could hear the rustle of paper grocery bags, the occasional kitchen-cabinet door closing. Eventually she appeared in the doorway.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked, beginning to sit up until the cramps kicked in again. Her hair was an Easter Egg pink.
“Oh, Harold thought it would be really radical,” she said, tossing her head, seemingly not too convinced.
“The boy toy?”
“Yeah, he’s a hairdresser, too.”
“He does your hair?”
“Oh, please don’t go there. I never want to see that disgusting little piglet ever again in my life.”
“Gee, who would ever imagine gnarly old Harold might come up with a bad idea?”
“Arghhh. On a happier note I’ve got some Imodium and a glass of Pedilite for you.”
“Pedilite?”
“It’s for babies, so they don’t get dehydrated, which you certainly are. A baby and getting dehydrated. God, you look like shit, pardon the pun.”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s right, stop right there. You don’t know. You called me for help so that’s what I’m doing. Take these and just shut up.” She thrust a glass and two small pills at me.
I swallowed the pills, then chased them down with a couple of swallows of something that tasted like bubble gum. Felt the cool liquid run all the way into my empty stomach, begin to splash up only to eventually settle. I must have had a cautionary look on my face.
“Staying down?” Heidi asked, ready to jump aside if necessary.
“Yeah, I think so. Look, I just wanted you to…”
“I know what you wanted, Dev. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could just sit around and waste my time rubbing your back and attending to your every need for about forty-eight hours? Then clean your bathroom on my way out the door? Forget it. Listen, under the circumstances I brought you a twelve-pack of extra gentle Charmin and a container of baby wipes with aloe. You got any white wine in your fridge?”
“I’m not ready for white wine,” I groaned.
“I wasn’t thinking of you.”
I pulled some sweats on and exited my bedroom for the first time in about thirty hours. It was just after seven in the morning. My pink-haired Nurse Ratchet was asleep on the living-room couch under a faux leopard skin throw, snoring softly. An empty bottle of my white wine had rolled halfway under the couch. The remnants of a devoured package of Oreo cookies rested on the coffee table next to a wine glass with barely a swallow left. From what I could ascertain she’d downloaded Sex in the City 2, 2010 from Netflix the night before. I decided not to wake her.
Just to play it safe I had another Imodium and a Pedilite over ice for breakfast, sipping as I looked out the window and thought about Braco Alekseeva.
Chapter 38
It was another twenty-four hours before I felt strong enough to venture outside. Even then I was subsisting on dried toast, Chamomile tea, and the dreaded Pedilite. I carried the Imodium in my pocket just in case.
> According to what I could find out, which wasn’t much, Braco Alekseeva resided in a penthouse suite on the thirty-sixth floor of St. Paul’s Twin Towers, a condo saddled with an unfortunate name choice made in 1999. Actually Alekseeva didn’t reside in a penthouse suite, he resided in the only penthouse suite. Making it virtually impossible to get anywhere near the thirty-sixth floor. Amazingly, there was a heliport up there, which might make it rather difficult to follow Mr. Alekseeva should he travel by that method. The Twin Towers made it downright impossible to closely watch who came and went since you’d have to watch the common lobby servicing both towers. In the interest of sanity I took up a position at the rear of the building, on Robert Street. Down half a block from where the entrance and exit to the underground parking garage was situated. It was a monitored entrance, with a twenty-four hour manned security desk, which eliminated any option of casually ducking in and wandering through underground parking looking for a blue BMW Z4 that smelled like Kerri’s perfume.
I sat in my car armed with thirty dollars worth of quarters to stuff the parking meter and a six pack of Pedilite, which I was beginning to acquire a taste for. On day three, with about a dollar seventy-five worth of quarters remaining, a blue BMW drove up the exit ramp from underground parking and headed north. I followed.
The car wove a circuitous route through downtown, eventually turning one hundred and eighty degrees before traveling west following the Mississippi river along Sheppard Road. The road is eight miles of four-lane and then just beyond a cloverleaf interchange Sheppard Road becomes the River Boulevard, a wooded city street riding along the edge of the river bluff. There are scenic overlooks all along the route where cars can pull into a tailored parking area and view the sights. The BMW pulled into one of these and Kerri climbed out of the car, leaned against the trunk smoking a cigarette with her arms crossed looking like she was waiting for someone. She held the cigarette between her thumb and middle finger, like a French movie star, or someone smoking dope, come to think of it.
I pulled into the parking lot, circled around, then stopped just opposite her, perpendicular to her BMW. I lowered the window, but kept the car in gear, not sure what was going to happen. I had my.45 resting on my lap, just to feel comfortable.
“God, it is about time,” she said, taking a final drag from her cigarette, then dropping it to the ground, crushing it with her toe and exhaling a cloud of smoke. She took a step or two toward my car and crossed her arms. Not in a sense of inflexibility as much as she seemed to be hugging herself, making things safe. She glanced quickly over the roof of my car checking up and down the road.
“So Dev, what is new, have you found out anything for me?” she asked, sort of shrugged her shoulders and smiled innocently. She was anything but.
What’s new? I thought. Aside from you not answering my phone calls? How about I’ve been shot, chased, arrested, poisoned, I’ve still got whisker burn on my inner thighs, my beverage of choice is now Pedilite and the last woman I spoke with for more than twenty minutes was run over by a red Lexus LX11. Which, I’m willing to bet, belongs to your boyfriend. And all of this is connected to you, in some way. Instead I said, “Oh you know, not much, same old same old,” trying to act coy.
“Have you learned anything of my sister, Nikki?”
“Your sister? Would she have been born in France, too?”
“What? That really is not the point is it, Dev? Have you learned where she is?”
“Not really Kerri. Other things keep popping up, you know.”
“We’re all busy, but when I hired you…”
“Like your boyfriend, old Braco, there. What can you tell me about him?”
“I don’t think Mr. Alekseeva is the point, Dev. I hired you to find Nikki, for me.”
“Your sister.”
“Yes.”
“Was she born in France?” I asked again.
“I don’t think that has anything to do with what I hired you to learn.”
“Look, Kerri, I’m walking. I’m off the case, I quit.”
“Quit. You mean you’re not going to find Nikki for me?”
“Not exactly what I said. I said I quit. I’m not working for you anymore. I am going to find Nikki. While I’m at it, I’m going to find out who ran over Da’nita Bell. Make sure someone gets held accountable for that. Then, I’m probably going to press my luck and introduce myself to your little fuck buddy Braco.”
“I wouldn’t advise you bothering Mr. Alekseeva,” she said, looking over the roof of my car, checking up and down the road again.
“I’ve never been one to heed advice, Kerri, even if it’s good.”
“Are you doing this because of the shooting? Did the bullet make you cuckoo or something?”
“Me, no, I’ve always been like this. We call it pig headed, you familiar with the term?”
“I’m familiar with pigs,” she scoffed.
“I’ll bet you are.”
“Look, Dev I’m sorry about the shooting, I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”
“Not entirely your fault, darling.”
“But it is, if I’d been more careful, I should have…”
“Look you can’t be watching over me all the time. How were you to know Nikki, or whoever, was going to attempt a drive-by at high noon on a busy commercial street?”
“Nikki?” she asked, looking at me strangely.
“Or whoever it was.”
“Dev, don’t you remember? My God, it was me!” she said.
“Hunh?”
“Don’t you remem… Dev, it was my gun, I saw her car and thought she was going to shoot me so I, well, that is… Well, you were in front of me and I pulled the pistol from my purse. I meant to shoot at her but it was so rushed it just went off, you know. I was so frightened, I didn’t think to aim, sort of…… maybe.”
“Wait a minute. You mean it was you that shot me?”
She nodded and batted her eyes like that might make it okay.
“And you shot me, when you were pulling me in front of you. The pistol just sort of went off, and my head just happened to be in the way.”
“Yes, exactly,” she seemed to be relieved now that I got it.
“Well, of course, now it all makes sense,” I joked.
“Okay, so now you will come back to work for me and find Nikki, no?”
“Exactly right, no. No, I won’t, Kerri. I got a loose idea of what you and Braco are into here and no, I’m not going to work for you. You can tell old Braco I’m going to be on his ass, and yours too, although I’m sure in your case it’s just part of an average day.”
“We always used to meet right here, to talk. Nikki and I, just the two of us. We called this our private place.”
She casually slipped her right hand into her jacket pocket, the jacket leaning just a bit to the right.
“Oh, please don’t, it would make everything so easy,” I said picking up the.45 from my lap, laying the barrel on the door, and pointing it in her direction. She took a step backwards.
“Dev, I’m beginning to think you really are crazy. I was only going to reach for a cigarette,” she said, then ran both hands through her hair.
“Just keep your hands where I can see them. Kerri, tell Mr. Alekseeva, Braco, that I’m beginning to take all of this very personally.”
“Typical American. This is real life, Dev. It isn’t some movie where you say your silly lines. You think we didn’t see you sitting out there in the street waiting day after day, for what? We could have taken you anytime we wanted, with no problem. At the end of the day you are just a fool, Dev, a fool.”
“Probably. But I may be watching, and from now on you’ll never be sure, will you, Kerri?” I bluffed.
“I think you better go, Dev.” She looked over the roof of my car. “Unless you want that meeting with Mr. Alekseeva now.”
I turned and saw a large red vehicle entering the parking lot. The odds were pretty good it was the same Lexus LX11 that hit Da’nita Bell.
The right front bumper was scraped and dented.
Four very large, neckless heads were silhouetted through the tinted front windshield. I waited until they’d cleared the entrance, then quickly exited over the curb and across the park lawn, rolled into the street and accelerated. When she brushed her hair back it must have been some sort of a sign. They’d either tailed us all the way here or they’d been waiting all along, either way it was a setup.
I watched them in my rearview mirror. Everyone suddenly flew out of the car and ducked behind the LX11. One of them actually tripped and just lay there. What a bunch of idiots. Kerri must have fallen for my ‘may be watching’ line and those dumb heads thought I meant it. Now, who was the fool? I didn’t race but I didn’t hang around either. I drove away as fast as prudently possible.
Chapter 39
The next day I was still pondering Kerri’s confession that she was the one who shot me. Wondering at the same time how I get myself into these things? The phone interrupted.
“How you feeling?” Aaron asked when I answered. No hello, no introduction, just the question.
“Thanks for asking, I’m back to about ninety percent, but I’m able to be out and about.”
“Ninety percent, I guess that’s a lot better than the half-assed way you usually conducted yourself before you got sick.”
“You mean poisoned.”
“You weren’t driving around on the River Boulevard yesterday afternoon, were you?” he asked, ignoring my poisoned comment.
“Possibly. I was all over town, running errands after being confined to the bathroom for the last three days. Why? What’s up?” attempting to sound nonchalant.
“Oh nothing much. Just wondering is all. You know a guy named, well actually we don’t know what his name is, that is his real name. The driver’s license said Andrew Quinn.”
“No, I don’t think I know anyone by that name. What am I missing here?”
“I’m not sure. Hard to figure why a guy named Andrew Quinn might have Russian naval tattoos. I suppose he could be a wanna-be Russian sailor or maybe he vacationed once on the Black Sea or something and fell in love with the place. Of course the more we’re digging into him the less we seem to know. No apparent next of kin. The address we have for him is a Holiday station, so that would seem to be bogus. No record of this guy anywhere, yet he has a Minnesota license.”