"Yes," Polanski replied and took a sip of champagne and waved them in. "Come say hello to our guest, first."
The three men looked at Josh Hefter sitting tied up and strapped to the chair with duct tape, whimpering in the corner.
"Meet little Josh Hefter," Polanski said to them. "The boy from the photograph. Why don't you go over and introduce yourselves?"
Wicked grins took hold of the three men's faces. They looked at each other, evil in their eyes, and nodded, then made their way over. Arshavin first, then Salenko, then Zurawski. His face now looking blacker and sorer than ever.
Arshavin slapped Josh on the back of the head, hard.
It hurt. His head bounced forward. He whined and cried.
"Look. He's crying like a little bitch," Salenko laughed.
"Yeah," Zurawski added. "Wait 'til we get his mother." He leaned forward and grabbed Josh by his jaw, hard, and looked him in the eye. "Hear that?" he hissed, practically spitting on him as he spoke.
Josh closed his eyes and shook head, terribly afraid.
The three men laughed.
Polanski watched on, beaming like a psychopath. He took another sip of champagne, then called them off. "That's enough," he said. "I didn't bring you up here to torment him."
The three men looked his way and stepped away from Josh.
"Malenko has been able to identify the security guard from last night."
The three men's faces lit up.
"And track him down."
They grinned with expectation, ahead of what Polanski was going to say next.
Just then, Polanski's iPhone pinged with another message. He put down his flute of champagne on the black and pink marble table and pulled the phone from his suit jacket pocket. Glanced at the screen and grinned. "And throw him into a jail cell at Rockwood Police Station."
The men's eyes bulged from their heads. The veins in their necks twitched and they seethed with aggressive anticipation.
Zurawski couldn't contain himself any longer. "Do you want us to go down there and get him?"
Polanski looked at him and thought about it. He shook his head. "No. Not yet," he said and paused, thoughtfully. He lifted the photograph of Josh Hefter from the inside pocket of his suit and unfolded it. "There's something else I want you all to handle before that."
"What?" Zurawski asked.
"First, I want you to find me a pen."
Zurawski nodded. He looked at Salenko, who looked at Arshavin.
He drew a ballpoint pen from his pocket and stepped forward and handed it to Polanski.
Polanski took the pen and sat down on the sofa. Turned the photograph over and laid it down on the table, then used the pen to scribble a note on the back. He wrote slowly, and steadily, like he was choosing his words carefully and making sure what he was saying was clear.
He scanned what he had written and looked over at Josh Hefter and smiled. Lifted the photograph and handed it to Arshavin along with the pen.
Arshavin slipped the pen into his pocket and read what Polanski had written. He pulled a curious face and looked at him.
Polanski beamed. He looked back at him, then at Salenko. And, then, at Zurawski. "I want you three to go find somebody. Anybody. Pick somebody at random, even. Grab them. Then, pick a house. Any house. I want you to take whoever you’ve grabbed inside and make an example out of them. Just like it says on the back of that photograph. Break their ankles and wrists and leave them unable to move, in the same state like ever other asshole who's ever been brave enough not to pay when we come collecting."
Arshavin and Salenko nodded their understanding. Zurawski was expressionless. He kept poker still, eagerly awaiting what he hoped would follow.
It did.
"And, when you're done," Polanski continued. "I want you to send me a message, letting me know it's handled and the address you left them at. Then, I want you to go down to Rockwood Police Station and kill that son of a bitch Joe Beck."
Zurawski's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Yes," he hissed, eyes bulging with glee and adding about fifteen s's onto the end of the word.
"I want you to beat him senseless and cut his throat, slowly, and I want to know the very moment when he's been killed," Polanski added, venom in his voice.
The three men nodded their understanding. "Yes, Boss," Arshavin said and led Salenko and Zurawski out the door.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Sometime around six o'clock, around an hour and a half after sending his three henchmen to set up a scene that would send a chilling message, Vladimir Polanski was sitting on the black leather sofa inside the Amaranth skybox holding a flute of golden bubbly champagne. He was sipping it slowly, looking at Josh Hefter quivering in fear strapped to the chair in the corner of the room, when his cell phone pinged with an incoming message.
It was sitting on the cushion beside him.
He glanced down and lifted it and looked at its screen. The message was from Arshavin. It said, 'Scene set, Boss. Address is 7000 Tuxedo Street, northwest of the city. We're now on our way to Rockwood to handle the asshole from the salon."
He beamed with sinister delight and took a sip of the champagne. It tasted sublime. He placed the flute down on the coffee table in front of him and opened the camera app on his cell phone and pointed the camera toward Josh in the corner of the room. He smiled, wickedly, seeing him on the screen, and snapped his photograph, then opened his messages app and scrolled to the message thread with Malenko. Opened the thread and scrolled backward to the one where Malenko had given him Naomi Hefter's cell number.
He tapped the number and a menu popped up. It offered him the choice of making a call, sending a message, copying it as text, or saving it as a new contact or to an existing contact. He chose the option to send a message.
A blank message opened up with Naomi’s cell number up top as the recipient.
Polanski, then, hit the camera icon and opened his photo gallery. He selected the photograph he had just taken of Josh and the one of him in the trunk of the Altima, sent to him by Kanchelskis earlier, and hit the send icon.
After the photographs were confirmed as sent, he hit the call icon and dialled Naomi’s cell.
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was around seven o’clock and Beck was sitting on the concrete floor of the Rockwood jail cell, his legs stretched out and his back against the wall. It was a position he had come to know well from his time in the Nebraska State Penitentiary. Oftentimes, the concrete floor offered more comfort and stability than the hard, coily and broken sprung mattresses found in prison and the cell at the Rockwood Police Station was no different. Joe Beck had come to appreciate that fact, originally by finding out the hard way, but now he could tell with a mere glance. To most people, lounging on the floor would be incomprehensible. It wasn't to him. He figured it was about as relaxing as it got, given the circumstances.
It was also position he liked to assume to think. Behind walking aimlessly outside and feeling a light outdoor breeze blow over his skin or sitting on a bench at the gym, staring at the weight rack, looking a million miles beyond the plates themselves, of course. Sitting, back to the wall, staring into space helped him clear his mind and focus his thoughts, process and make sense of situations. Something had done a lot of during his twelve months in jail.
And that's exactly what he was doing sitting on the concrete floor, staring at the concrete wall inside the ten-foot by fifteen-foot holding cell at Rockwood Police Station. He knew that the fix was in. And he also knew, if he was going make it out of there alive, he was going to be in for one of the fights of his life.
There was no doubt in his mind about who was behind this. None at all. It was Vladimir Polanski, for damn sure. He had somehow gotten wind that he was looking for him and he had taken preventative measures. Those three cops had been sent to find him, to grab him, to hold him for his henchmen to come and take care of.
He knew it was only a matter time. Seconds. Minutes. Hours, maybe, before Polanski's men pulled
into the parking lot and walked in through the station house door. He figured they would ask the shady cops where they were holding him. And he figured one of the spineless cowards would tell them. The guy would point his way and say something like, "In there," then turn a blind eye to whatever went down. Why? Because, they were obviously all in it together, deep in the bowels of Polanski's pockets.
Beck shook his head. Thinking about the prospect of it all, he clenched his right hand into a hard asteroid-like fist and seethed, squeezing his fist shut tight, as hard as he could, his hand shaking and his knuckles roaring underneath his whitened skin. Then, he took a breath and relaxed and made concrete choice. Whoever he sends, however many of them there are, it doesn't matter. I'm walking out of here tonight. It's just a matter of time, he thought and glanced at his watch.
Across the hall, in the last cell on the left of the corridor, a guy was sitting on the bed. He was calm and relaxed-looking, but his energy was unmistakably sleazy. He was looking out the steel barred door, his eyes watching Beck's cell, like they had been for the past few hours, the entire time Beck was in there.
The guy was all there physically, but not mentally. It was like his mind was narrow and his vision, tunnelled. There was an deviousness in his serpentine, green eyes, and he was looking at Beck's feet and legs through the bars the way he used to look at his victims, imagining him defenseless and submissive, succumbing to his will. Finally, he said something.
"You've been pretty quiet in there."
Beck said nothing. His mind was focused on dealing with Vladimir Polanski's goons and getting out of there to find Darius Adamczuk and help Naomi. He realized he never actually did get the chance to listen to her message. He wondered what she had said. He wondered where she was. He wondered if she had kept her cell phone off. He hoped she had. He wondered if she was safe.
"You got a name, slick?" the guy asked Beck, this time speaking louder than last.
Again, Beck said nothing.
"I'm Marty," the guy said and walked to front of the cell. He leaned on the steel horizontal beam in the door and dangled his hands through the gaps between the bars. "What they got you in for?"
"A death sentence," Beck said to him, eventually, breaking his long silence, his eyes still focused straight ahead, staring at the wall.
"Oh yeah? What for?" Marty asked him.
"Assault."
"Assault? It must have been some assault!"
Beck said nothing. There was no point in making further conversation. He wasn't there to make friends, and he knew he wasn't going to be there for much longer, one way or another.
Marty sucked a long, deep breath and nodded, slowly. "OK. If you won't talk, I will. I'm here for messing with women. Well, girls, actually." A sudden creepy fire lit up in his eyes. He inhaled a loud and deep satisfied breath. "I got a thing for those ones, you know? So young, so innocent, so perfect."
What he said had grabbed Beck's interest. The words ploughed into his mind. He stood up from the ground and walked to the jail cell door and looked across the hall to see what sort of a sick fuck he was being held in next to.
He saw Marty leaning on the barred door. He was thin as a rake. All skin and bone. And he was short. Maybe only five-seven. He was wearing a tired-looking charcoal grey t-shirt and a matching pair of sweatpants. There were no shoes on his feet. He was pale-skinned with long greasy black hair, two days hair growth on his face and neck, and the serpent-like eyes of a car salesman.
Marty grinned, sickly. His teeth were slightly discolored. And slightly squinted.
Beck didn't smile back. He pulled a disgusted face and moved to say something, but the door at the end of the corridor that led to the front of the police station swung open and a man stepped through before he began speak. Beck heard his shoes on the concrete, followed by his voice. It was Chief Malenko. And it was showtime.
"He's in the last cell on the right," he said. "Just pull the door. They're weighted. They all open from the outside without the need for a key. We'll be back through there in case you boys need us. Just holler. Or come let us know when you're done."
Beck, then, heard the footsteps of three men. Boots crunching on the concrete floor as they slowly made their way down the corridor toward him. He knew what was coming. He stepped back in his cell and loosened the stiffness from his muscles. He stretched neck left and right, stretched his legs, then cracked his knuckles. Took a deep breath and exhaled. And did it again. Another breath later, he was ready.
One by one, the three men appeared from the left. They were tall and broad shouldered, white-skinned and tattooed, European-looking, and familiar. Beck was right. It was the three men from the salon, who had come collecting on behalf of Vladimir Polanski.
The one he had decked was in a hellish state. His nose seemed so blue, it looked numb, and the circles around his eyes were black as the night sky. The skin around them looked yellow and tender, almost like it would seep pus or ooze some other sticky fluid on the touch. He had a scowl on his face and murder burning in his eyes. He gave the impression of a man with an ultimate score to settle. He looked at Beck and grinned, malevolently, then slipped a knife from his pocket.
The other two did the same.
Beck was back-to-the-wall in a fairly small and confined space that was hardly big enough to swing a cat, faced with the very real prospect of going up against three big angry European brutes wielding knives with nothing but his own two fists. Most men in that situation would have crumbled. They would have broken down in tears and pleaded.
But not Joe Beck. He wasn't like most men. He wouldn't have had it any other way. He was a man who knew the extent of his own ability. He was confident, not afraid. He waved them in. "Bring it."
Zurawski, the one with the pulverized and sore-looking face, looked at Beck and flicked his eyes down at the razor sharp tip of his knife. Then, looked back up at Beck and grinned once more before reaching out and opening the cell door.
It squeaked open.
His eyes locked on Beck's, he mouthed something derogatory in Polish, raised the knife further and stepped in toward him.
He was the first fatality.
Before his two feet were even in the door, Beck snapped forward and dropped him in the doorway. His fist balled and white and shaking with pressure, he quickly swung his right arm back and forth with everything he had and smashed his left temple with a superhuman-like right hook.
The effect was brutal, like fencing with a chainsaw. Zurawski's head snapped to his right and he caved sideward on impact and flopped to the floor. The knife fell from his hand and clattered on the concrete with a sobering clank.
The other two men seemed startled, seeing him go down so viciously. They pause a beat, their eyes widening. They hadn't anticipated Beck to put up as much of a fight. But as Zurawski hit the floor, their fight or flight response kicked in and they darted in.
Salenko first. Then, Arshavin.
Beck kicked Salenko in the balls.
He let out a loud, painful grunt and folded forward to the ground, dropping his knife from his grip. Like Zurawski's, it clanked against concrete and wobbled to a still.
Two down, one dead and the other immobilized, only Arshavin was left. He moved toward Beck and swung his knife, a vicious snarling look on his face.
Beck saw it and dived back. The tip of the blade caught the stubble of his chin. It made a scruff-like sound as it scraped past and cut the tip off of a few of his facial hairs.
Realizing he had missed him, Arshavin steadied himself and swung his knife back, again, this time setting it up to drive it into Beck's gut.
But Beck reacted quicker. He swung his left arm back, downward, then thrust it forward and upward, catching Arshavin's nose with a ferocious uppercut.
His face crumpled under Beck's fist. It burst his nose and sent his head whipping backward. The back of his skull smashed against the hard grey concrete wall, killing him, instantly, and he dropped to the ground like a ton of bricks, still c
lutching the knife tight in his hand.
Two of the three permanently handled, Beck turned his attention to Salenko, the guy he had killed in the balls. He was rolling around on the jail cell floor, squirming in pain and wailing like a baby. Beck reached down and grabbed a hold of his head, cupping his right hand under his chin and pressing his left palm over the top of his scalp, and whipped his head to the right with an abrupt twist. His neck snapped to the sound of a loud crack and he fell, boneless, to the concrete floor.
The three men handled, Beck slumped back against the concrete wall, breathing heavily, hurting and sweating. It had all happened in the space of about a minute, a minute that had been a physical and mental job of work. His hands were throbbing from the force of the punches, small bones possibly having broken, and he felt completely exhausted. He caught his breath and gathered his thoughts and looked down at the three men and made sure they weren't moving. Then, he noticed his open cell door.
He stepped out to the corridor and moved to walk toward the steel fire door at the end that led through to the front of the station house, but he saw the door's handle angle downward like somebody was standing on the other side, about to come through it. He quickly ducked into the last jail cell on the left, leaving the door about a hair's width ajar. Not noticeable from the other side, but open enough to make sure it didn't click shut, stopped from doing so by the toe of his boot.
He stood with his side against the wall and listened as the three dirty cops made their way down the corridor toward his cell. They were speculating as to what state Polanski's men would have him in.
"I reckon they've beat him to death,"
"No, I figure they would've stabbed him. Did you not notice the outline of the knife hiding in Arshavin's pocket? I figure they've gone and stuck him like a pig. Two in the stomach. One through his chest."
"They could've. But I'm going for his neck. I'll say they've gone and cut his throat."
"Ah, fuck. I hope not. That'll leave a right fucking mess."
Easy Money Page 26