The Bad Beat bn-4

by Tod Goldberg

  Fiona reached into her purse and took out a pen and a small pad that she usually used to write down ideas for different explosives that came to mind when she was out shopping or driving in traffic. She flipped to the middle of the notebook. “What’s your name?” Fiona asked.

  “Am I under arrest for something?”

  “I don’t know,” Fiona said. “Have you done something wrong?”

  “I asked you who you were first,” Sylvia Plath said.

  “This isn’t two kids in a sandbox, young lady,” Fiona said, and then she realized that the voice she was channeling was actually Sam’s and that got her very frightened. How had it happened that a man she used to hate was now her go-to dumb American voice? Well, thank God for small linguistic favors. “Those rules of decorum don’t apply, unless you steal my shovel.”

  Sylvia Plath glared at Fiona. Odd, Fiona thought. Why isn’t this woman frightened? Her defiance told Fiona that either Sylvia Plath had been prepared for this moment or she wasn’t taking Fiona seriously. Maybe it was the pumps Fiona had chosen to wear. They didn’t exactly scream government worker, but even going undercover required a strict adherence to fashion trends. Plus, Fiona knew she could whip off her shoe and stab someone with its heel in one swift move. She’d done it once before to… who was it? She’d beaten up so many people in the last few years, it all tended to blur.

  A group of women walked into the shop then and Sylvia Plath greeted them warmly, her glare dissipating immediately. Must be regulars. And truth be known, Fiona rather liked the tea selection here and, under different circumstances, could see herself popping in every now and then. Getting a decent cup of tea anywhere in Miami was impossible. She could live without the constant strain of female singer-songwriters complaining over twangy guitars about how their man did them wrong, but, well, if she were one of these ladies with babies having afternoon tea, perhaps she’d feel differently.

  “If you could wait just one moment,” Sylvia Plath said. Or, really, she rather hissed her words. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time,” Fiona said. Fiona circled the shop and began really looking at the items for sale, picking them up and examining them, and each time she came away with another tidbit of information. A set of bone-white teacups from India. An electric teakettle from Dubai. An assortment of herbal teas from Pakistan. Nothing, it seemed, was from America. It helps to have plenty of shipments from countries like Pakistan to ease fears that you’re bringing in, say, guns or drugs. Bring in ten boats every year filled with herbal teas and people might just begin to think you’re nonthreatening and not examine your load too closely.

  Sylvia Plath returned to the shop holding a teakettle in one hand and a tray of plates in the other. Fiona thought that it must have been quite a cumbersome task carrying all of that while also fostering the burden of guilt for… well, whatever. She’d probably done something, right?

  “Pardon me,” Sylvia said, “I just need to set this down and then we can talk.”

  “No problem,” Fiona said.

  And then Sylvia Plath smacked Fiona upside the back of her head with the teakettle; Fiona’s only thought before she slipped into blackness was that she was pretty sure the girl didn’t actually read poetry.

  When Fiona came to-it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes, since the same singer-songwriter woman was still going on about rainbows and her man over the speaker system-she was sitting on a folding chair somewhere in the back of the house. It looked to Fiona like a break room perhaps-a small table, three chairs, the wall decorated with papers detailing side work and the employee schedule for the next week.

  Fiona wasn’t tied up and there was a glass of water and a Ziploc bag filled with ice on the table in front of her. Fi took the bag and placed it against the back of her head, which throbbed with her pulse. She reached back, touched her scalp, felt the raspberry that was bulging through her hair and also a good-sized cut that slowly leaked blood, and determined that someone today was going to get some payback. It was just that simple.

  Her neck was also sore and her right ankle looked a bit swollen. You get hit in the back of the head with a teakettle, it’s expected you’ll be feeling a touch out of it. Mostly, Fiona was angry that she’d been knocked out by a woman wearing a peasant dress and horn-rimmed glasses. Element of surprise, that’s all.

  She stood up and tried the door but found it, un-surprisingly, locked. She could pick it in an instant, but then she’d likely walk into the path of men with guns… Speaking of guns… Fi’s purse was nowhere to be found, which wasn’t good.

  It was unlikely that someone would come in and shoot her in the face considering she was still in the tearoom, so she sat back down, took a sip of water, pressed the ice pack to her head and waited patiently for whatever was to come.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and a man of about fifty walked in, followed by Sylvia Plath. The man sat down across from Fiona while Sylvia set out two cups, a plate of cookies and two small metal kettles along with an assortment of teas.

  “Thank you, Gina,” the man said.

  “Shall I stay?” she asked.

  “No, if there is a problem, I think I can take care of it,” he said.

  “Very well,” she said. She looked at Fiona and shook her head slightly. “I’m sorry I had to hit you. You left me no choice.”

  Gina. Her name was Gina! She didn’t look like a Gina to Fiona. She looked more like someone who, at some point later in life, would have her throat in Fiona’s hands. That thought made Fiona very happy, so much so that when the girl left Fiona and the man alone, Fiona actually felt rather giddy.

  “You smile,” the man said. “This is a fun day?” His accent was off-the-boat thick, but everything else about him looked Western. He wore a white dress shirt opened at the collar, a tan sport coat, expensive jeans, black leather loafers, a Rolex.

  “I’m having a lovely day,” Fiona said. “No reason not to smile.”

  “Do you know me?” the man asked.

  “Yuri Drubich, I presume,” she said.

  “You are correct,” he said. “We have some business together?”

  “Not yet,” Fiona said.

  Yuri picked through the teas, found one he liked and then dropped it into his kettle to steep. “Please,” he said, “I bring in very fine tea.”

  Fiona found a bag of Adam’s Peak White Tea in the box, which was really quite a find, placed the tea in her cup and poured the hot water over it. It wasn’t the best way to make a cup of expensive tea, but it was a decent enough weapon in a pinch.

  “Your employee hit me,” Fiona said. “Is that how you treat all of your customers?”

  “Only those who come in asking about me,” Yuri said. “Do you know how many people know that I own this shop?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me? That way we can get to drinking our tea in peace.”

  Yuri reached across the table for a cookie and then handed the plate to Fiona. It held an assortment of butter cookies, some covered in chocolate, others in fruit compote, others plain. Fiona opted for the chocolate and then watched while Yuri thoughtfully nibbled on his cookie. He didn’t seem terribly happy or terribly upset at the moment. It was a studied ambivalence.

  “Yes, well,” Yuri said, “let me say this-they are all either dead or FBI. Which are you?”

  “I’m from Ireland,” Fiona said, “so I can’t be FBI. And here I sit, drinking tea, so I must be alive.”

  “Before, you spoke with an American accent. Yes?”

  “That was before.”

  “And who were you then?”

  “I don’t quite know,” Fiona said. “Being hit in the head has left a blank space. Do you hit all FBI agents in the back of the head?”

  “If you’d been FBI,” he said, “you’d not be sitting here with me. Plus your car, that Hyundai? No FBI drives Japanese.”

  “Maybe it’s my car from home. I really can’t remember now. Amnesia from being struck
.”

  “Hmm, yes, that can happen. But you do remember that whoever you were, you carried a Sig Sauer, yes?”

  “I do remember that, yes.”

  “And you carry no identification?”

  “I like to keep it simple,” Fiona said. “Just a gun and a hairbrush. Maybe a touch of lipstick and some powder, but otherwise I’m a very simple girl, Yuri.” She didn’t just say his name. She purred it. Fiona found that men of all stripes responded to hearing their names purred. It opened up some atavistic response that turned them into fourteen-year-olds.

  “I’m sorry,” Yuri said. “You must think I am an idiot. I find you, how do you say, alluring, but I don’t like my women bloody. And I don’t like them spying on me.” He paused. Fiona presumed he wanted to let that sink in, which it did, and then he said, “How is your tea?”

  “Lovely,” Fiona said. Because it was.

  “You have a choice now,” he said. “You tell me who you are and why you’re here and we finish our tea pleasantly or I bring Gina back in to remove your fingernails.”

  “You think she’d be able to do that?” Thinking, Yeah, please send her in. I’d like another shot at her.

  “She’d have someone hold you down, so, yes,” he said. “I’ve seen her do it before. She is very meticulous. Never moves too quickly.”

  “And if I tell you who I am and you don’t like it, then what?”

  “Then we just kill you,” he said. “No torture. You look like you have good, healthy organs. Fetch a good price on the market. Your hair, too.”

  He reached across the table as if to touch her hair, but Fiona grabbed his wrist and bent it backward. Hard. Not hard enough to break it, but that was just a matter of degree. When he tried to grab at her other hand, she grabbed that one, too. “You don’t want to touch me,” she said. No purring. Just a simple declarative sentence.

  “You think you can hurt me?”

  “I can break your wrists to start with,” she said.

  “Compound fractures tend to cause shock. If I sever an artery, well, that will be messy. But you wouldn’t really feel it.”

  “You wouldn’t get out of the building alive,” he said.

  “And neither would you,” she said. She applied a bit more pressure and Yuri began to sweat, feeling the pain.

  “We are at an impasse,” he said, his voice strained now.

  “Then let me explain my position,” Fiona said. She had to think fast, since the truth was that she had not expected to be in this position. Michael would understand. “Yesterday, you blew up a building we use as a front for our corporation, InterMacron. You are familiar with it?”

  “There is no such thing,” he said. “It is a scam. Some dumb boy. I want my money and he will bring it to me.”

  “Really?” she said. “Some dumb boy? Then what am I, a figment of your imagination?”

  Yuri was in obvious pain, but Fiona noticed that his expression had changed slightly. Clearly, she was not some dumb boy. “I am listening,” he said.

  “We use several people to ferret out serious investors.” Fiona thought for a moment about her situation and decided to go forward with what she figured were both knowns and unknowns, just to see how Yuri might respond. “The Graysons are one level. Our associate Big Lumpy is another,” she said. He knew well enough who the players were in Miami, certainly, and that hearing Big Lumpy’s name didn’t cause him to giggle at its stupidity was a sign itself. “What we are doing with the wind technology and bandwidth, it is not, strictly speaking, legal yet.”

  Yuri’s expression changed again. Now he seemed actually invested. Well, invested and in terrible pain. “Go on,” he said.

  “The technology, we have acquired it before the government,” she said. “They call it a national security threat. So if you invest in it, if you agree to sell it for us outside our borders, we must know it will not fall into hands that might have problems with the United States.”

  “That is everyone,” Yuri said. “And what do you care? You are Irish?”

  “I love America,” Fiona said. “Much better weather here.”

  “Where is my money? Where did that go?”

  “The boy’s father,” she said, searching now, opting for truth over more fantasy. “He’s a gambler. He ran off with the money. So the boy and his father, they are under our, you could say, watch now.”

  “And Big Lumpy?”

  “He helps with our investments,” Fiona said.

  “Your organization,” Yuri said, “what is your role?”

  “I break wrists,” Fiona said, “and solve problems. Hitting people with teakettles is amateur.”

  Yuri liked that answer. Fiona actually felt his arms relax a bit. It was smart for him to do that, since she was certain the circulation to his hands was pretty well staunched by now and being tense only exacerbated the situation.

  “We have parties who have already expressed a financial interest in your company’s product,” Yuri said. “Your boy has caused me much stress with his lies. And I now am facing outside pressure to provide a product.”

  Michael had correctly assumed Yuri’s problem. That was too bad. Fiona was hoping it was a new twist that she could impress him with. “My partners will need to know who you are selling to,” Fiona said. “Russians, we don’t mind. Your government is probably working on this, too. But we are capitalists like you, Yuri, and we believe in a free market, within reason.”

  “A friend of mine from Dubai has made an inquiry,” he said.

  “Does he live there or is he hiding there?”

  “I don’t ask,” he said. Fiona applied some pressure. “He lives normally in Chad. Much wind there.”

  Chad. The most corrupt country on the planet. At least Yuri was well connected.

  “I will need to speak to my partners,” Fiona said. “But the cost will be far more than what you’ve paid. That was you being conned. You will need to add several zeros to your checks.”

  “We make deal,” he said, seemingly unaffected by the change in cost. “We make another deal.”

  Fiona had known this was coming. “You want the boy or the man?”

  “Both,” Yuri said. “I answer to people, too.”

  “Fair enough,” Fiona said. She let go of his right wrist-it seemed prudent since that hand was turning an odd shade of purple-but kept a firm grasp on his left. “I’m happy to go now, so please call to your friend Gina and let her know I’ll be leaving.”

  Yuri called out in Russian and the door was unlocked and opened by Gina. He said something to her in Russian that might have meant “she’s free to go” or it might have meant “feed her to the dogs,” so Fiona said, “In English, so I know that I don’t have to kill anyone.”

  “I told her to get your purse and let you go,” Yuri said. “You don’t mind, I’ll hold your gun for now. You have others, yes?”

  “Yes,” Fiona said, though she did like the Sig. But she understood. An armed person might act inappropriately after being hit in the head with a teakettle and threatened with torture.

  Gina left and came back a few seconds later with Fiona’s purse and set it on the table. “I hope you don’t mind,” Gina said, “but I borrowed your lipstick. I liked the shade and didn’t think you’d be needing it.” Gina smacked her lips together. “My apologies.”

  “No problem,” Fiona said. “I’ll see myself out.” She bolted up from her seat and cleanly snapped Yuri’s left wrist before Gina could even react. Not a compound fracture, but he’d need a cast. She dropped his arm, grabbed both teakettles and smacked Gina on either side of her head, aiming for the ears but content to make contact anywhere. If she hit her ears, Gina would be dizzy for a month.

  Judging by the way Gina fell into a heap on the floor, and judging from the blood seeping from her ears, Fiona was pretty confident she’d found her target.

  Yuri was curled on the ground and moaning in Russian. His hand was pointed in the wrong direction, which seemed to cause him some consternatio
n, so Fiona picked up the bag of ice she’d been using and dropped it beside him on the floor.

  “The ice will help the swelling,” Fiona said. “But you should really get yourself to the hospital. And drink more milk, too. Your bones are very brittle. I’ll see myself out, but expect to get a call from us tomorrow concerning our agreement.”

  Yuri groaned something unintelligible. Pain. So many people handled it poorly.

  “If we still have a deal,” Fiona said, “moan three times with your eyes open.”

  Yuri moaned three times and managed to keep his eyes open the whole time.

  “No need to shake on it, then,” Fiona said.

  8

  Every spy knows that tactical success one day may mean tactical failure the next. Assuming your enemy hasn’t learned as much from his losses as you have from your victories would be a fatal mistake.

  Likewise, brawn may beat brains once, but eventually an intellectually superior enemy will prevail, which is why we needed to be both strong and smart when dealing with Big Lumpy and Yuri Drubich if we wanted to keep Henry Grayson alive, wherever he might be. And then there was the issue of keeping Sugar alive, too, a proposition I hadn’t counted on.

  The first key was to find Henry, which is why that afternoon, after Fiona told me of her wrist-breakingear-clubbing high tea, I had her pick up Brent so that he could meet Sam and me at his father’s house. We needed some idea, some path, to where Henry might be hiding. I had a good idea that he was nearby, maybe even tracking his son, as I simply could not believe, even with the two million dollars in life insurance money, that he would let Brent do battle with his demons. Never mind that Henry hadn’t bothered to pay Brent’s tuition.

  The Grayson family home was in Miami Shores Village, an outcropping of suburbia bordered by Biscayne Boulevard and I-95 that nevertheless managed to look like small-town America. Less than fifteen thousand people called Miami Shores home and it seemed as though there was a church, a park and a cafe for each of them. The village was only twenty minutes from both downtown Miami and Fort Lauderdale, but seemed much closer to Pleasantville.