Murder Aforethought

by Parker St John

  He hesitated.

  Maksim’s eyes, with their exotic Slavic tilt, narrowed suspiciously.

  Val glanced away and coughed. “Uh, I think you should stay with Emma.”

  “No,” Maksim said flatly.

  “You’ll stand out like a sore thumb at a place like that. They’ll talk easier if I’m alone.”

  Maksim looked unimpressed. “You’re already taking a huge risk. Going alone is just serving yourself up on a silver platter.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “Well, I’m not.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if Val’s idiocy was giving him a headache. “What do you think would happen to me and Emma if you got yourself killed? This is your world, not ours.”

  Val blew out an aggravated breath and dragged his hands through his hair. He caught Acosta examining his friend with a bemused expression.

  “Fine,” he bit out, gnashing his teeth. “I’ll take someone. But I’ve gotten you into enough trouble, and you can’t give me the backup I need. Give me your damn phone.”

  Maksim crooked a brow, but without another word, he reached into his pocket and produced a slim, no-nonsense Samsung.

  Val took a deep breath, his stomach a roiling knot of anxiety, and dialed a number he knew by heart.

  He’d rather lay down in front of a street sweeper than make this call. But he had no choice. The truth was, it was bordering on suicidal to walk blindly into a mafia enclave the day after being shot. He could use a second pair of eyes and a quick trigger reflex. He hated involving anyone else in this mess, but he and Reese had lived out of each other’s pockets for too many years for him to draw the line here.

  He leaned forward, thighs spread and elbows on his knees, staring sightlessly down at Acosta’s kitchen floor and counting the rings in his ear. Four, five…

  He tightened up, the way he always did when Reese didn’t answer the phone these days.

  A generic voicemail picked up. Val hung up and redialed.

  One, two, three, four…

  “Jesus Christ! What?” A Texan snarl rattled his ear drum.

  All Val’s anxiety gushed out on a sigh. “Don’t tell me you were still sleeping, old man.”

  There was an unintelligible mutter. It didn’t sound flattering. “I was in the fucking shower. That okay with you, Corporal?”

  Val would have been thrilled if he was in the shower. But the voice like rusty, chewed up nails and the fury radiating through the phone’s tiny speaker told Val he’d likely startled his friend out of a whiskey hangover.

  J.D. Reese had been one of the cleanest, tightest officers Val had ever served with. The man was a legend. Even when the rest of their unit got sloppy on leave, he’d never seen his captain so impaired that he couldn’t pass a field sobriety test.

  But that was before he’d been thrown away by the Corps he’d bled for. Val barely recognized the man who’d been on an uninterrupted bender for the six weeks he’d been in town.

  He added some forced levity to his words when he said, “One man to a shower, Cap. You can’t take Jim Beam in there with you.”

  “Jim, Jack, and Jose can gangbang me all day if I want, Rivetti. Why the hell do you keep calling me?”

  He remembered the way Reese had looked the day he’d picked Val off the firing range. He had a killer smile that could coax return smiles from anyone, even in the bleakest circumstances. He’d kept their unit together through some heavy shit. It hurt to hear him hurting. It hurt even more to see the deadness in his friend’s eyes every time he visited.

  “I keep calling for the same reason you relocated to my backyard. No one else is going to waste their time with a couple of assholes like us. So we better stick together.”

  Reese wasn’t from the Pacific Northwest. Even though he’d spent more than half his life stationed on bases all over the world, he still retained a slow Texas drawl. Val had always suspected it was intentional. It drove hyperactive officers nuts when they were all twisted up about petty nonsense and Reese answered with a molasses thick drawl, like he was doing nothing but ordering a glass of sweet tea.

  Being discharged was Reese’s worst nightmare. He had no home outside the Corps. His men were his family, and without them, he had nowhere else to go. So, he’d stuck around after helping Val bury Pop. Val was glad for it, even if it meant they were forced to bear witness to each other’s downward spirals.

  There was a soft rasp, like a lighter being struck. “I moved to Portland for Voodoo Donuts,” Reese said on a long exhale. “You’re the price I’ve got to pay.”

  Val grinned, but it was more a reflex than genuine sentiment.

  Maksim and Acosta both stood with their backs against the counter, their arms folded across their chests, watching him.

  He ducked his head self-consciously. “Seriously. Are you okay, Cap?”

  “I’m tight,” Reese answered immediately.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “I’m fine, Rivetti,” he sounded exasperated. “You figured out how to unfuck your own mess yet?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Christ, he didn’t want to do this. He’d give his left nut to have Reese at his side, but the man was pressurized contents. Val had no clue what he could take these days without going off like a grenade.

  A world where J.D. Reese wasn’t a Marine was just as shitty as a world where Val’s soft, sweet mother had felt her only option was choking to death on carbon monoxide. It felt as if he were living in an alternate reality.

  If he could rewind time and stay in the military, would any of this have happened? If he weren’t available to Russo, there would have been no reason to blackmail Pop. If he’d stayed in Recon, he would have been at Reese’s back when the op went wrong. He could have at least been a character witness at Reese’s trial.

  The way Val saw it, if he’d been stronger, he could have kept all his loved ones from a world of heartbreak.

  Emma’s laughter burst from the living room, bright as silver bells.

  Val met Maksim’s gaze. Those blue eyes were steady as the sun, looking right back at him. Trusting him.

  He took a deep breath. “I could use some help, Cap.”

  Reese’s reply was stone cold and immediate. “You’ve got it. Tell me what you need.”

  “You still got that sweet SIG?”

  “Under my pillow like a psycho.”

  “Meet me with it at the Bare Essentials strip club in an hour. Low key entry. I just need you to keep tabs on the action and watch my back while I’m there.”

  “This about your dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you there.” Reese disconnected the call.

  Val handed the phone back to Maksim. “Thanks. My buddy will cover me.”

  “Good. We could use the backup.”

  “You aren’t coming,” he growled.

  Maksim’s smile was glacial. “Wrong answer.”

  13

  Maksim

  Maksim had to give Val credit, the man wasn’t quick to raise a white flag in an argument. But Maksim argued for a living. There was no way in hell he would stay behind while someone else took action on his behalf. The only way to be sure of the outcome was to effect the outcome himself.

  In the end, Val grumbled but agreed.

  Miguel loaned them the use of his sparkling Dodge Ram, with the admonition that he would break Maksim’s neck if anything happened to it.

  Val reminded him they were going to a strip club, not Tijuana, and promised to keep glitter and Walmart body spray off the interior.

  Miguel had also offered Maksim his spare 9mm, but Maksim declined. He had no idea how to work the damn thing and no time to learn. A gun would make him more of a liability than an asset.

  Bare Essentials was one of Portland’s seedier strip joints, located across MLK Boulevard in a shabby neighborhood full of pot dispensaries and hole-in-the-wall ethnic restaurants. The club itself was nondescript except for the lipstick lettering on t
he door proclaiming it a Gentleman’s Club.

  Val pulled the truck into the Shop Rite parking lot across the street and parked in a tucked away corner behind the dumpsters.

  “Ready?”

  “To enter the seedy underbelly of an Italian sex club?” Maksim flashed his trademark dazzling smile. “Absolutely.”

  The sidewalk reeked like years of faded beer and piss. Soggy, wilted flyers for bands and massage parlors clogged the gutter.

  Val gave their surroundings a discreet scan before yanking the door open and plunging them into the dark belly of the beast. It stank of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and cheaper alcohol.

  Maksim didn’t make it a habit of frequenting straight strip clubs, but even he could see the place was as rundown on the inside as the outside.

  A handful of men dressed in a mix of casual and business attire sat at tables in the back. Most of the scant afternoon crowd took up ripped vinyl armchairs near the stage, where two women gyrated in sequined bikini bottoms and nothing else.

  The dancers were older than one might expect in a venue peddling underage girls. One woman was gunning hard for middle-age and had a jagged c-section scar running across the flab of her lower stomach. The other dancer was younger, with bleached hair and a face that had been ravaged by so much meth that no cosmetics could hide it.

  “You’d think a club specializing in underage prostitutes would offer better talent,” he murmured.

  Val barely spared the stage a passing glance.

  “It’s a weekday. That’s just their second string.” He shrugged, then did a double take and squinted. “Check that. I’m surprised they even made the team.”

  “Familiar with the inner workings of strip clubs, hm?”

  “I spent six years in the Marines. What do you think?”

  They wound their way through the tables toward the bar in the back, where a skinny bartender in a black silk shirt was slicing limes with an expression of utter boredom.

  “Hey, Mauricio, long time.” Val leaned his forearms on the bar.

  “If by ‘long’ you mean two weeks, then yeah.” He had a stereotypical Chicago accent.

  That wasn’t much of a surprise. Maksim had spent the first part of the night researching on his new phone while Val and Emma slept fitfully in their respective beds. The mafia was still going strong on the gold coast, and disenfranchised associates often found their way west to become big fish in a smaller pond.

  “I thought Marty told ya not to come back here no more?”

  “I figured Marty might have had a change of heart.” Val smirked. “You know, what with all the excitement.”

  “Word gets around fast.”

  “How’s everyone taking it?”

  “How the hell do you think?” Mauricio viciously slit a lime down the middle. “That dumbass cousin inherits the business, and Marty’s too busy doing blow and screwing the girls to care about things like payroll. We’re gonna be out of business in six months, just wait and see.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  “Yeah, you sound really torn up.” Mauricio pointed the knife tip at Maksim. “Who’s your pal?”

  “This is my buddy, Mike.” Val dealt Maksim a bracing clap across the back. “His girlfriend just dumped him, so I figured I’d try to cheer him up. Maybe I can figure out what Pop was up to while he’s getting laid. Two birds, one stone.”

  “You already know what your dad was up to.” Mauricio’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Losing money and fucking girls. What more is there to know?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah.” Mauricio rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we’ve only got one girl working in back right now and she’s... occupied. If your buddy wants a turn he’s got to wait.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Maksim said, and smoothly placed a twenty on the bar. “How about a couple IPAs?”

  As Mauricio pulled them two drafts, they turned to face the open room.

  “Where’s that friend of yours?” Maksim asked in a low voice.

  Val propped an elbow on the bar and casually hung his head to examine the scuffed floor. “Five o’clock,” he muttered.

  All Maksim saw in that direction was the older dancer jiggling her tits in the face of a man who looked like he’d just crawled in off the streets.

  The man sat with his legs spread, one boot braced on the chair in front of him. His jeans were worn and shredded over bulging thighs, and his faded t-shirt looked as if it had been scooped up from the floor of his motel room. His hair was short but shaggy, like he was a couple months overdue for a trim.

  Maksim watched as the man reached one long arm out and tucked a folded bill into the hip strap of the stripper’s bikini. He smiled lazily as she dragged her fingernails down his jaw. It was only when she turned to a businessman waving a couple dollar bills like a fan that the man’s attention slid to the side of the room.

  Maksim followed his gaze. “Who’s that by the hallway?”

  Val took his sweet time angling his body so he could catch a glimpse on a casual pass.

  Hunched over a corner table, and leaning close in conversation, sat two men. One was older, with thin white hair and thinner shoulders beneath a suit of average quality. The other man was young and muscular, with sharp features and dark hair slicked back with too much product. He was doing most of the talking, but in between flaps of his mouth, his black eyes canted in their direction.

  “Vito Cancio,” Val murmured. “Russo’s bodyguard.”

  “What about gramps?”

  “I can’t remember his name, but he’s one of Russo’s capos.”

  “Interesting meeting of the minds,” he drawled.

  “I used to go to school with Vito.” Val grabbed the beer Mauricio handed him. “Let’s just say his conversational skills don’t go much farther than Blazers scores.”

  They worked on their drinks quietly for a moment, shifting their attention from the crowd, to the stage, to Mauricio coming out of the storage room with a box hefted on one shoulder.

  When the bartender began refilling the well bottles, Val stretched and asked casually, “Hey, I heard an old pal of Pop’s has started hanging around here. A guy named Brent Miller. Tall, mid-thirties maybe, could use some hours at the gym. You seen him?”

  Mauricio didn’t seem inclined to answer as he wiped down the drink station, but after a long beat, he couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Your dad couldn’t stand that guy. No one can.”

  “Yeah?” The gleam in Val’s eye was impossible to miss, but the bartender hadn’t bothered looking up from his work. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.” He scoffed and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, aiming it at the narrow hall that led to the back of the building. “He’s taking his turn with our girl right now.”

  A thrill coursed through Maksim’s body. He wondered if Andrea Nilsson had any suspicions about how her new partner spent his time.

  They had definitely found their leak. If they could just get him alone for a few minutes, they could discover who he was reporting to and who had put the hit out on them.

  He exchanged glances with Val, but the Marine just shook his head ever so slightly in negation.

  Maxim settled back with his beer and pretended to watch the game on the television above the bar.

  Val appeared to do the same, but Maksim immediately cued to the stiff and ready way he held his body. His eyes casually scanned the crowd, flicking from various points of contact, never resting, but never obvious about it.

  Maksim wondered what it was like to live so keyed up all the time. Was the constant influx of information a strain? Was it a challenge to remain so controlled when weighing the possibility that danger could rightfully come from any direction? Was that merely appropriate situational awareness, or a result of the obvious PTSD Val suffered?

  Eventually, the accountant stood, tugged at the hem of his jacket, and headed down the dark, narrow hall that presumably led to the
restrooms and back office.

  “That’s our cue,” Val said, and crossed the room.

  Maksim followed him to the table where Vito was now staring at the television with significantly more interest than Maksim and Val had feigned. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as he noticed Val.

  He didn’t look much like a bodyguard, with a long, thin face and even longer, thinner arms. Perhaps some muscle was hidden beneath the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit. He reminded Maksim of a gaunt Ray Liotta from Goodfellas.

  “Rivetti.” He sounded surprised.

  “Vito,” Val returned cheerfully, pulling out a chair and taking a seat without asking. Maksim did the same. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Yeah, well.” Vito shrugged, “I guess the boss hasn’t had much for you to do lately.”

  Maksim didn’t like the light in his eyes as they darted in the direction his companion had disappeared. It was the same shifty gleam he encountered in most of his guilty clients, from executives all the way down to violent offenders.

  Not that he was particularly surprised by that, considering the man was part of a criminal organization. More than anything, it highlighted the difference he’d sensed from the very beginning between Val and men like Vito.

  “I’m not complaining,” Val said mildly. “Shame about what happened to Esposito, isn’t it?”

  Vito laughed. It had a reedy, nasal quality that was off-putting. “Not to anyone who knew him,” he sneered. “And even a couple of folks who didn’t. Hell, it could have been you who hacked him up.”

  “It wasn’t.” Val steadily returned his gaze.

  “Says you.”

  Maksim cracked his neck but wasn’t able to ease the frustration building at the base of his spine. Val might know this world, but he was an amateur when it came to interrogating someone.

  He couldn’t bite his tongue hard enough to stop himself from interrupting with, “Does your employer know how many people felt that way about Esposito?”

  Vito’s eyes landed on him, hard and dark as lava rocks. “Who the fuck are you?”