As usual, Adamczuk would start there shortly after midnight. He would deal the Pink Magic on the dance floor for about an hour or an hour-and-a-half, make a killing and load up the car, then finish up at Magenta sometime around three o'clock. After that, he would go home and sweep back in the morning with Polanski's money.
Sometime around eight-fifteen, Polanski glanced at his watch, again, then walked back over to the sofa and checked his phone. Again, there were no new notifications. No messages to confirm the job had been done. Worried and now thinking the worst, he dialled Arshavin's number.
His phone rang. But he didn't answer. The call just rang out.
Polanski frowned and tried again.
Same result.
Polanski frowned, again. He lowered the iPhone down from the side of his face and opened his contacts app, selected Salenko and tried calling him.
His phone rang out, too.
Polanski grimaced. He sucked a breath, then tried Zurawski.
Again, there was no answer.
Polanski looked at Josh whimpering in the corner and thought of Malenko. He dialled his number.
His phone also rang out.
Polanski lowered the phone, slowly, and looked at the screen, staring at the 'call not answered' message across it. A horrible sinking feeling crept around the pit of his stomach and he closed his eyes and sighed. He knew.
He looked down at Trudeaux and Adamczuk at the bar, then, hopefully, tried Arshavin once more, but again, his call wasn't answered. He pulled an anxious face and walked out of the skybox and made his way down to the bar.
Trudeaux knew something was wrong the minute he stepped through the door. "Something wrong, Boss?" he called.
Polanski glanced up at him, a bleak look on his face, as he walked across the empty dance floor. "We have a problem," he said, climbing up the stairs to the bar.
Adamczuk swirled his shot glass, but didn't look round.
"What is it?" Trudeaux asked.
"Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski," Polanski answered. "They're supposed to have killed that Joe Beck guy by now, but nobody has confirmed it's been done. And nobody's answering the fucking phone."
Trudeaux grimaced. He stopped cleaning.
Adamczuk necked the shot, then turned around on his chair to face Polanski. "Maybe they've just been caught up?"
Polanski shook his head. He knew fine well what had happened. "No. They've not just been caught up. I think the whole thing's gone south. I think he's killed them."
"What? All three of them?" Trudeaux asked.
Polanski nodded. "Plus Malenko and two of his officers."
Adamczuk pulled a face, incredulous. "He hasn't killed six men?"
Polanski shrugged. "Maybe not, but nobody is answering my calls. With no confirmation and no answers from anyone, we have to assume he has."
"Jesus Christ," Trudeaux said.
Adamczuk just shook his head and turned around and poured another vodka.
"And the meet has already been set for tonight," Polanski added.
"Exchange with the hairdresser?" Adamczuk asked and necked the shot. "I can handle that."
Polanski glared at him, his eyebrows lowered and his eyes narrowed. "There wont be any exchange. I was going to have Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski grab her."
Trudeaux said nothing. This level of involvement wasn't in his job description. He wanted to move away, but realized he couldn't. Not with Polanski in the frame of mind that he was.
"I'll do it, then," Adamczuk replied.
Polanski took a moment to think about Adamczuk's offer. He realized that if Joe Beck had managed to handle his men, he was probably out of the jail cell and on the loose. Adamczuk was big. Maybe, he could handle him. Then, he thought about the drug income they would have to forego if Adamczuk went to the meet rather than concentrated on dealing in the clubs. They would lose a half-hour's take, maybe more.
"No," he said to him. "It's not a one man job. Not with this guy on the loose, roaming around. We have to assume he'll be with her."
Adamczuk scrunched up his face and swung round on his seat. "Are you saying I'm not capable of handling it?"
Polanski shook his head. "No. I know that you are. It's because it's scheduled for midnight, while you're due to be dealing. I want you to focus on that and make sure we take another twenty thousand tonight."
"What about Kanchelskis and Kuznetsov?" Trudeaux asked. "Couldn't they handle it?"
Polanski looked at him and nodded.
"They both big, strong and reliable. Not to be messed with," Trudeaux added.
Polanski nodded, again. "You're right," he said. "They'll take care of it." He raised his cell phone and walked off. Opened his contacts list and dialled Kanchelskis's number.
FORTY-TWO
Beck pulled onto Dexter Avenue and parked the Camaro up in a lay-by at the side of the road outside Chase Bank. The branch was closed up for the night, the inside in darkness, but the ATM on the outside wall was lit up. He stepped out of the car, leaving the engine idling and the heating running for Naomi, who was waiting inside.
Knowing he needed another five hundred bucks to make up the full four thousand dollars she needed, he approached the ATM to draw it from his checking account. He reached into his coat and took his wallet from his pants, drew his bank card from the slot and slipped it into the ATM's card slot as the frosty air bit at his face.
The ATM made a series of mechanical crunching noises, then a beeping sound and prompted him to put in his PIN.
He did, hunkering in close toward it to try and escape the cold wind that was whipping by.
The screen flashed blue with a spinning wheel icon and the word 'processing.' A couple more seconds flashed past, then an error message popped up on the screen. It said, 'We're sorry. Our network is down at present. No card transactions or ATM withdrawals can be processed at this time. Please bear with us while we work on it. We promise no customers will be left out of pocket or disadvantaged in any way. We appreciate your patience and thank you for your custom.'
The ATM, then, spat out his card and made the annoying constant bleeping sound they all make to prompt him to take it from the slot.
Shit, Beck thought and whipped his card from the slot. He tapped it on the light grey plastic facia of the ATM three times, exhaling white warm clouds of breath, stewing over whether or not it was a random error, and decided to try it again.
Same result.
He gritted his teeth and sucked a breath of icy air in past them, like a salesmen does when a customer starts negotiating on price, then whipped his card from the ATM slot for the second time. He quickly shoved it back into his wallet and stuffed his wallet back into his pants and returned to the car.
"We have a problem," he said to Naomi, after getting in to escape the cold.
"What?" she asked, a sudden sense of alarm in her voice.
"The ATM says the banking system is down. And it doesn't give a timeline for when it'll come back up."
Her eyes widened. "What?!"
He pulled an apologetic face and shook his head. "I can't withdraw any cash."
"Fuck," she said. She ran her hand through her hair. "What are we going to do? Fuck!"
He said nothing. He shook his head, again, and looked straight ahead, staring out the windshield at the snowy sidewalk and road, thinking about it.
There was a long moment of silence, the only sound being the whirring of the hot air that was blowing from the dashboard vents. The whiteout around them seemed to shiver as it twinkled with frost.
"They said four thousand bucks," Beck said.
"Yeah," Naomi said, bleakly, nodding her head. It bobbed back and forth.
"In twenty dollar bill denominations," he added.
"Yeah."
"That makes two hundred bills."
"Yeah."
"And they'll be expecting to see every single one of them," he said and grimaced. "I've got three-and-a-half grand on me, here. Changed to twenties, that's one hun
dred and seventy-five bills."
"Which isn't enough."
He nodded. "I know. Close. But not close enough. The envelope would be about seven-eighths of the thickness they'd be expecting it to be."
The thought of the men killing her son weighed heavy on her mind. She looked up and closed her eyes. "What are we going to do?"
Beck thought about it for another long moment. Then, smiled, a sudden spark in his eyes. He nodded twice, as if confirming something to himself as a viable option, and looked at her. "I've got an idea." He sounded excited.
She turned her head and looked at him, hopefully. "What?"
"They're expecting a big full envelope and that's what we're going to give them."
She pulled a curious-looking face, her eyebrows narrowing. "How?"
"We're going to fill it with play money."
"Play money?" she asked, incredulous. Her curiosity turned to anger and shock.
"Yes. Play money."
"You had better be fucking joking," she yelled. "Play money? That's a ridiculous idea. Do you want to get my son killed?"
Beck shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You're the one who's being ridiculous," she snapped back. Then, added, "Play money," disbelief in her voice, shaking her head. "For fuck sake."
"I think it'll work."
"Oh, How? Tell me how play money is possibly going to work. Minute they look in the envelope and see that..."
He shook his head.
"What are you shaking your head at?"
"You don't get it."
"Don't get what?"
"The entire dynamic," he answered.
She scrunched up her face. "What dynamic?"
"Of what's going on here."
She stared at him, questions burning in her eyes.
"Suppose I was able to draw that other five hundred and change it all over to twenties. Suppose we, then, stuffed a brown envelope with four thousand bucks of Uncle Sam's cold hard cash. Suppose you were to go out there with it and hand it over, what do you think happens?"
She shrugged.
"Minute they have it, you become a dead woman."
"What?"
"That's right. This isn't an exchange. Not after what they tried to do with me. It's an execution. They're probably planning it right now. Or, maybe, they've already worked it out. They'll probably bring your son out for you to see and ask for the money. Moment they have it, they'll kill you both where you stand. So, it doesn't actually matter if the money's real or not."
"Jesus Christ," she said and ran her hand back through her long blonde hair, again. "Are you saying that there's no way we're making it out of this alive?"
"No. That's not what I'm saying."
"Then, what are you saying?"
"What I'm saying is, this about power, not cash. Why go to all this effort for the sake of four thousand bucks? Why care about chump change when you're likely making tens of thousands a week from drugs? It doesn't make any sense, unless it's about exerting their authority. Upholding a reputation. The money's just a distraction. So, it doesn't matter whether it's real or not."
They fell to chilling silence while the reality dawned on her like the blazing morning sun. She knew he was right. But she didn't like it. Not one bit. She swallowed, hard.
"So, what are you proposing?"
"You give them what they're expecting to get," he answered. "An envelope full of money. Doesn't matter that it's not worth shit, because, before they even realize it, I give them what they're not expecting to get."
"Which is?"
"A bullet in the head."
She caught her breath, then frowned. "I don't know, Joe."
"There's nothing to know. Just the dynamics of the situation."
She sighed. "Then, what?"
"Well, then, we grab your son and be done with it."
"What do you mean be done with it?"
"We just take off."
"What? You can't just kill them and take off."
"Sure I can. I've done it plenty of times before. It's not like they can exactly go and tell anybody who did it."
Naomi pulled an uncomfortable face. "I don't like the idea of this one bit."
"Doesn't matter whether you like it. Just that it has to be done. There's no other choice."
She grimaced.
He nodded.
She pulled an uneasy face and glanced down at her watch. "Then, where do we find two hundred twenty dollar bills of play money at this time?"
He looked at her like it was a stupid question. "The same place you get all kinds of random shit like that. Dollar Tree."
FORTY-THREE
Kanchelskis answered Polanski's call after just one ring. "Boss?"
"Kanchelskis, there's something else I need you and Kuznetsov to do," Polanski said.
"Anything, Boss. Just say it, and we'll get it done."
"I need you both to go to Newark Street. At midnight. Tonight. There's a meeting with a woman behind the old Michigan Central Station. The woman whose son you grabbed up in Lansing. She's going to come with the four thousand dollars she owes from last night's protection collection."
"You want us to make the exchange?"
"No. We've told her it's an exchange. But there won't be an exchange. Only an abduction. The moment she hands over the money, I want you to grab her and bring her back to Amaranth. I'm going to make her watch her son take the beating of a lifetime, then I'm going to do the same to her."
"Yes, Boss," Kanchelskis said.
"And, Kanchelskis, I want you both to be armed."
Kanchelskis paused a beat to allow what Polanski had just said to sink in. "But Boss, you never support the use of firearms?"
"Yes. Not unless it's exceptional circumstances. And these are exceptional circumstances."
"What do you mean?"
"The security guard from the salon, Malenko's boys scooped him up and held him in jail down in Rockwood. I sent Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski down there to cut his throat. They were supposed to confirm when it had been done. But I've not heard from any of them since. There's been no messages and no calls and none of them are answering their cell phones. I don't know what's happened, but I think, somehow, he must have got the drop on them."
Kanchelskis was silent for a moment. "The security guy, is he still in the jail?"
"I don't think so. Malenko isn't answering, either. We have to assume he's killed them all. And that he's out. We can't afford to take liberties. Not with this one. Which means we have to resort to applying all necessary force."
"Yes, Boss," Kanchelskis said.
"You've got a couple of hours to prepare. I want you to speak to the Serbian who got the AK-47 for Mladenovic. Try and get two more. One for you, one for Kuznetsov. It'll cost you, maybe, two thousand. Give or take a couple hundred. You got that sort of cash on you?"
Kanchelskis muttered something in Russian to Kuznetsov, who was with him, then returned to the call.
"Yes. Between us, we got about that."
"Good. Use it. I'll cover the cost when you get back, plus thirty percent."
"Yes, Boss."
"Pick up a some assault rifles and get acquainted with them. Be prepared to use them. If that guy shows up at the meet, I want you to gun him down."
"Are we to maim him and bring him in?"
"No. I want him dead. You see him, kill him on the spot."
"Consider it done, Boss," Kanchelskis said, again.
"Keep me updated. Let me know when you're there. And when it's done. I want you to text me and let me know."
"Copy that, Boss," Kanchelskis said and ended the call.
FORTY-FOUR
Beck turned the Camaro off the Davidson Freeway and into the empty white snowy parking lot of Dollar Tree. He told Naomi to wait in the car, said that he would be in and out, then got out and made his way through the cold to the store.
Stepping in through the glass door, a blast of warm air blew down across his face from a heater overhe
ad and a tired-looking cashier wearing a shamrock green polo shirt and standing at the checkout glanced up from the register and greeted him with a smile that really said she was exhausted and wanted to go home. "Welcome to Dollar Tree!" she called.
Beck nodded his acknowledgement and headed straight for the toys, books & crafts aisle at the front right side of the store. He ignored the gaudy green, cream and black '$1 EA' signs and glanced beyond the cheap, flimsy paint brushes and practically see-through artist easels that nobody ever buys, and scanned the shelves. He looked top-down, left to right. His gaze swept the aisle like a watchman's flashlight. He found what he was looking for about half-way down, beside some $1 yellow rubber ducks and a pile of red whoopee cushions.
Play money. Packets of it in various denominations. Ones, fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. And a few mixed bags. He ignored all but the twenties.
The packs were small, maybe eight inches wide by six inches high. Each had twenty fake bills inside. They were stacked two by two, ten deep. There was a white sticker on the front that said, 'Value Play Money. 20 x $20 bills. As real as you'll find. Printed on cloth, each bill is 2.61 inches wide by 6.14 inches long and 0.0043 inches thick.'
Recalling he had read about the dimensions of U.S. currency somewhere, he realized they were an exact match for the size the package claimed the fakes were, 2.61 by 6.14 by 0.0043, and figured these were as good as he would get. He grabbed ten packets, making sure he was getting two hundred bills, practically clearing the rack.
Four thousand dollars worth of the fake money safely in hand, he looped around to the office supplies section and grabbed a pack of brown manilla envelopes. Then, took it all to the checkout and paid the eleven dollars plus sixty-six cents Michigan sales tax, handing over a ten and two ones.
The cashier dumped it all into a thin white plastic Dollar Tree bag and handed it to him along with his thirty-four cents change. Then, thanked him for his custom.
He nodded and exited the store and went straight back to the car. He was quick and efficient, all in all, in and out in about two minutes.
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