“You come back to work?”
Merlin put his eyes back on the screen. “No.”
“That’s not good.”
“Sorry.” Merlin wasn’t very sorry.
“You have to come back to work. Mr. Kontra is angry with you.”
“I’m pretty angry with Mr. Kontra.”
“He got shot, you know.”
“I didn’t shoot him,” Merlin said.
“We know,” the big Russian said. “But you refuse to work. We need you.”
“Uh-huh,” Merlin said, unconcerned.
“We pay you lots of money.”
“Not enough. I’m putting in sixty, seventy hours a week. I either need time for my own projects or more pay for the work I do. I told him that.”
The other one, the blond one with the black jacket, spoke. “You better come back to work.”
“Can’t. Have my own projects. Interesting stuff. It won’t pay immediately, but I need to work on them.”
“What can we say? What can we do?” The brown jacket sauntered over.
“Not a lot, Boris.”
“How come you call me ‘Boris’ all the time? My name is Anton.”
“Not a lot, Anton.”
“Too bad,” Anton said. “He needs you to work. Credit cards.”
“I must have given him ten thousand good numbers. Corporate accounts. If you keep charges below a hundred bucks apiece, they’ll never even know the numbers have been stolen. They might never find out. They’re all big companies.”
Anton shrugged. “Too many transactions. Too much bother.”
Merlin sighed. “You guys.” He shook his head.
“We need more numbers. More accounts.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
Anton turned to his partner. “Okay, Sergei.”
Sergei tipped the bookcase and half the books slid off and hit the floor.
Merlin regarded the mess casually. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He’s clumsy,” Anton said. “Don’t do that, Sergei. Let that go.”
Sergei let the bookcase crash to the floor.
“The downstairs neighbors are always complaining,” Merlin said.
He kept typing.
“You don’t want to piss off Mr. Kontra.”
“I thought he was already pissed off,” Merlin said.
“He is,” Anton told him. “Hey, you like Star Wars.” He was standing in front of a poster.
“Yeah. May the Force be with you, and kick the shit out of you.”
Anton laughed. “Hey, we kick the shit out of you.”
“I have other friends,” Merlin said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Militant friends. They wouldn’t take it kindly if you mess with me personally. They don’t like it when white guys mess with black guys. Want me to call them?”
“We don’t mess with you personally. Hey, Sergei, are we going to bother him personally?”
“Not personally,” Sergei said before he threw the Boze against the wall with a lot of force.
“Hey!” Merlin said. “That was one expensive piece of equipment.”
“We know.” Now Anton was looking at a table filled with candles. “What’s this?”
“I’m pagan.”
“What’s that?”
“An ancient Celtic religion.”
“Oh, you worship devil, uh?”
He and Sergei laughed.
“Get stuffed, guys.”
Sergei picked up the DVD player.
Merlin scowled. “Put that down, you fool.”
Anton asked, “You coming back to work?”
“No.”
The DVD didn’t break the HDTV screen, but the impact made the screen go dark.
“Shit,” Merlin said, jumping up. “Hey . . .”
“That’s what it is,” Anton said. “Now it’s big piece of shit, that TV. You need to get it fixed.”
Merlin crossed the room and picked up the DVD player. He shook it. It rattled. He looked for the TV remote, found it, and thumbed a button. The TV switched over to cable and showed CNN. He breathed.
“Next time we bust it,” Anton said.
Merlin sighed. “Okay.”
“Okay? You come back to work?”
“I’ll metaphorically come back to work.”
“Eh?” Sergei looked confused—not exactly out of the norm for him.
“I’ll log on.”
Anton smiled. “That’s good. Let’s go, Sergei.”
The two Russians left, neglecting to close the door.
Merlin threw the busted DVD into a corner and closed the door. He went back to his computer desk. They wouldn’t touch the computer. They knew that would put him out of touch and out of business.
He sat, dumped out of what he was doing, and called up another file. Fingering the mouse, he caused the file to print. His ink jet printer whined and rolled out a sheet.
He picked it up. The white paper bore a brightly colored mandala of unusual complexity and design. He studied it.
“Magic,” Merlin Jones said with a big grin.
They had put him in a private room. It was nice, and probably cost a mint per day. He could afford it. He wasn’t worried. His man Anton had put some men on to guard the room. Good thing the waiting room was right across the hall. They could sit there and watch.
Anton appeared in the doorway.
“I was just thinking of you,” Kontra said.
Anton walked in, hands in his pockets. “How are you today?”
“Pretty good. I must look like hell. I don’t know when they will let me shave.”
“You don’t look so bad. You maybe should grow a beard.”
“I’d look like Rasputin.”
Anton chuckled. “We talked to Merlin.”
“Oh? Did he see reason?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“He is a weird one.”
“Ah,” Kontra said, leaning his head back. He inhaled sharply, still feeling the aftereffects of the attack. “God damn this.”
“It’s rough,” Anton said.
“Yeah. Rough.”
“I wanted to tell you, the cops are here.”
“Again?”
“I told the woman you didn’t want—”
“Woman?”
“Woman cop from homicide.”
“Homicide.”
“Yeah, they sent her. I told her you were still feeling like hell.”
“She went away?”
“No, she’s talking to the doctor, but she’s insisting on seeing you.”
“Let her come in. I don’t know why they bother.”
“They probably know it was Italians.”
“Shut up,” Kontra snapped.
“Sorry.”
“Maybe you want to tell them they want a piece of the moving business. Anything to do with trucks, they want their cut. You ought to tell her our whole business. Where is she?”
Looking sheepish, Anton peeked out the door. “Still talking.”
“All right, send her in.”
“I’ll go tell her.”
“Besides,” Kontra said to himself, “it wasn’t Italians.”
The woman was surprisingly good-looking. Tall, thin, flowing hair, outstanding face. Big bosom. Dressed like beggar, though. He didn’t like that. But he liked her.
“Mr. Kontra.” Nice voice, too.
“Come in.”
“I’m Detective Sara Pezzini, NYPD Homicide Division.”
“Why Homicide? Do I look dead?”
“Well, you see . . .”
“Wait until I shave. I look a lot better.” He immediately felt himself warming up to her. She looked magnificent. He took an instant shine.
“What kind of name is Kontra? Russian?”
“My mother was Russian. My father Romanian.”
“So you’re Romanian.”
“I am an American.”
The woman acknowledged the point with a s
mile. “Do you know who shot you, Mr. Kontra?”
“Somebody shot me?” He was all innocence.
She winced. “Wow, you are really going to make me work, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. What was question again?”
“You took two .32 caliber slugs in the chest. Do you know who put them there?”
“A man.”
“A man. Could you describe him?”
Kontra shrugged. “Medium height, about . . . oh, maybe thirty.”
“Hair?”
“He had hair.” Kontra’s mouth twisted wryly. “Dark.”
“Dark, like black, or brown?”
“There was no light in the hall.”
“Really? I went up there. Lots of light, even at night.”
“Okay, so there was light. I didn’t get good look at him.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A coat. Light.”
“Okay, medium, about thirty, dark brown hair. Wearing a light coat. That’s not a lot of help, Mr. Kontra. Could you describe his face?”
“No.”
“You can’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t. No memory. Bad memory.”
“You’re making it hard for us, Mr. Kontra.”
“Can’t help.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Businessman.”
“What business?”
“Moving van and real estate.”
“I see. Mr. Kontra, we think it was a mob hit.”
He did his best to look shocked. “What?”
“Mob hit. An assassination attempt. You were lucky. They’ll probably try again.”
Kontra flipped over a hand. “This is new to me.”
“Okay,” the detective said with finality. “We just wanted to check it out. I suppose it’s useless to ask if you recognized him.”
“Never saw him.”
“He was probably from out of town, anyway.”
No, he wasn’t, Kontra thought. He didn’t rate that.
She took a stroll around the room. “We pretty much know your run-ins with the established crime families. The Sicilian crime families. You’ve had dealings with them in the past. And you’ve come into conflict.”
“You know so much,” Kontra said.
“Thanks. I don’t know a lot of the specifics. It’s not my line of work, organized crime. But I do know that you are a prominent member of what’s called the Organizatsiya. The Russian version of the Cosa Nostra, call it what you will. You’re a crime boss. Not a big time one, but one who’s been up-and-coming for a long time. I read a file on you.”
“They have a file on me?”
“A pretty big one. They think you’ve branched out into computer crime.”
“I don’t own a computer.”
“But you are a crime boss. You still have ties to Eastern Europe.”
“I have lots of relatives back there.”
“And business associates. In Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary, Romania, Germany, and, of course, Russia.”
“You really read this file?”
“I got a pretty good briefing this morning from the Organized Crime Task Force. These are nice flowers, by the way.”
“Are you married?” he asked. This woman intrigued him.
“No. Are you?”
“Yes. Her name is Sophia. Tell me something.”
She spun around. “Yes?”
“Why do you dress like a boy?”
She looked down. “This is boy stuff?”
“Or a bum’s. You should wear a dress.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And spike heels? I have to move when I work.”
“Women today.” He shook his head.
“Let’s stick to the subject.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Mr. Kontra, I know you’re curious as to why I’m here, and I’m going to tell you.”
Kontra shrugged amiably. “Okay.”
“We were interested in a description of the hit man to see if it matched the few we have on file. We want to know if he was local or imported. And you’ve pretty much led us up a blind alley. I’m here simply because Homicide has to ask questions in a case like this.”
“You have duty,” Kontra said.
“Precisely.”
“I can’t blame you. Will you have dinner with me some night?”
She looked at him curiously.
He returned the stare; presently, he said, “Eh?”
“I was just trying to remember if I’ve ever been hit on from a hospital bed. I don’t think so. I was never a nurse or hospital aid. No, I think this is a first.”
“Do you like Rachmaninoff?”
“Why?”
“There is concert coming up, New York Philharmonic. There is new young soloist playing. I like him. I saw his first performance in St. Petersburg when I went back after Soviet Union fall. I want to go. You go with me?”
“Should I sit next to your wife or on your other side?”
He grinned slyly. “Whichever you wish.”
“No thanks, Mr. Kontra. Nice of you to ask.”
“He is playing the Second Concerto. My favorite.”
“I actually prefer the Third.”
“Oh, you know Rachmaninoff?”
“I have a few CDs.”
“Then you should go.”
She paused, seemed to consider the offer. “I might. When is it?”
“Oh, next Thursday night. I think”
“Ten to one the Philharmonic has a web page. I’ll look it up.”
“You like classical, then?”
“A little. Actually, my true love is alternative rock.”
Kontra made a face.
“I used to be an advance person for a rock band. Before I went to the police academy. We toured Europe. It was fun. Anyway, I’ll check the symphony web page.”
“You do that.” Kontra was amazed she showed any interest at all. He had naturally expected a cold refusal. This little sop she had thrown him was a surprisingly positive sign.
“You Russian guys are normally quiet about your business,” she was saying. “But recently, there’s been some bloodletting. Do you know how many unsolved gang-style homicides we have in our files?”
“Lots, I guess.”
“Lots. And lots of cases have Russian names.”
“Then you should go to the concert with me.”
“Maybe I will. But you’ve been shot. Do you really think you’ll be well enough in a week?”
“In a week I’ll be doing gymnastics.”
“You must be strong.”
“You won’t be able to tell me from Nadia Comaneci.”
She grinned at him. “Let’s hope I can.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Kontra woke up with a start, half expecting to see the policewoman again. My God, what had he done, asking her out? Was he crazy?
Yes, probably.
He kept falling asleep, jumping awake. He didn’t have a clear idea of how long he’d been in this place. A week? Only three days? Time had become meaningless.
Crazy, asking her to go out with him. He must be mad. But she was powerfully beautiful.
Something loomed off to his left, just out of sight. A tall shape in the corner of his eye.
He jumped.
It was his grandmother.
“Baba,” he said.
“How are you feeling?” Baba asked. “You look bad.”
“I got shot, you crazy old woman.”
“They tried to kill you.”
“I think we can assume. Why are you hovering around like that, like some ghost in an old house? Come over here in front of me, please.”
The old woman moved into view. She was tall and gaunt and had hair the color of fright—stark white, with hints of waxy yellow. Yet her face was still handsome, in a spooky, wrinkled way. She dressed in traditional garb, or as close to it as twenty-first century America would allow. Whatever she wore, it was drab, colorless,
and had a tattered look, even when it wasn’t tattered. And that babushka. Kontra hated babushkas. Always had. It made women look old before their time.
“They tried to kill you,” she said.
“I think we’ve established that. Who do you think it was?”
“Should I know your business?”
“Do you think it was the Italians?”
“No.”
He looked into her piercing blue eyes. She had no education, but she had a mind like a lighthouse. Like a beam that swept around and illuminated things far away. She was like that. “No? They don’t want me out of the way?”
“They are not what they used to be. They would like to make trouble for you, but they have other problems. It was someone you know.”
“That I figured. You mean in my crowd?”
“It was a rival.”
“Ah. That is not a revelation from scripture. Who? That is the question.”
“I will find out. I will tell you.”
“Good. Bury a potato in the backyard at the full moon. Dance naked.”
She glowered. “All the time you laugh at me.”
“Your spells work. I’m not laughing. They shot me. For the second time, the bullets didn’t find my heart. Or anything. They cut them out, and I’m fine.”
“Of course. You will be protected. You laugh at me, but I’m sworn to protect you. Your mother made me promise before she died, before the German bombs fell.”
“Yes, yes.” He had heard the story too many times. Suddenly his eyes shut. This sleepiness was getting out of hand.
“That woman.”
He opened his eyes again. “What?”
“That woman,” Baba said. “She is beautiful, do you think?”
“What woman? Oh. Yes.”
“I know of her. She is a devil.”
“What? Are you insane?”
“She is a demon-lover. She sleeps with incubus.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
“Did you see the bracelet?”
“What bracelet?”
“The one she wore. It is so powerful it made my teeth hurt. She is demon herself.”
“She is a policewoman.”
“Perhaps. I knew of her before I saw her. She is a tool of the spirits. They use her.”
“I thought she was a powerful demon,” he said pointedly.
“She is, but she is also a tool of more powerful spirits. From hell.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You laugh again.”
“I’m not laughing. Do you see me laughing?” Kontra shook his head. “Such an insane old bat.”
“You were always disrespectful. You will believe anything but me. You believed the communists since you were a child.”
Witchblade: Talons Page 5