by Mike Knowles
CHAPTER TEN
It was eight at night when Igor jogged out to his banana BMW and screeched away from the house. I followed behind, catching up at the lights. Igor was on his phone again, and from the nodding and shaking of his head, I could see that it was an animated conversation.
He parked on a side street and walked into the Steel City Lounge by 8:15. I gave him room and waited until 9:00 to go inside. The street clothes I had changed into made me just another guy looking to blow off steam after work. When I took my seat, I saw that it would be different tonight. The VIP lounge was roped off, but there were no girls upstairs. Two men stood on guard behind the velvet rope, smoking and scanning the crowd. Every twenty minutes, a man appeared from behind them, said a few words, nodded, then retreated back where he came from. There was a room upstairs, and something important was happening inside. Forty-five minutes later, Igor appeared on the balcony towing a large duffel bag. The bag was much bigger than any that had come in during the last few days. Judging by the way Igor rubbed his shoulder when he set it down, it was heavy.
I didn’t get up until Igor started lugging the bag down the stairs. I threw down a ten to cover the drink and walked outside. I ran to the Volvo, drove fast around front, and found a spot on the street in front of the strip club where I could watch for Igor. I loaded the syringe while I sat waiting in the car. If he had more than one bodyguard come along with the money, I wouldn’t be able to use the ketamine. What I had planned would only work if Igor had no alibi. I had seen grifters do part of it time and time again. The set-up played on human nature and the social instincts grilled into Canadians since birth. The rest would play out on its own.
I swore under my breath when Igor came out flanked by the two men who stood watch upstairs in the VIP lounge. Igor held the bag himself, over his shoulder, and marched under the bulk of the cash in the duffel. I started the car, leaving the lights off, and checked the mirrors. Two guards was bad — it meant there would have to be a change in plans.
I crept up the street behind the three men and let them turn down Mary Street towards the parking lot and Igor’s car. The Volvo nosed around the corner, and I saw Igor shoving the bag into the passenger seat of his car. The BMW was cramped when it was just Igor and Tatiana; there was no way the money would ride shotgun while the two men rode in back. Igor slid in after the money and started the car. The bodyguards stayed on the street, and one of them slapped the roof twice. They each took two steps back from the car to give it room to back up. I stopped thinking about how to deal with the bodyguards and quickly accelerated past the men in the street. Igor was taking the money alone to Sergei. It made sense given what I knew about Igor. He tried to prove to the world that he was a man twenty-four seven. That kind of guy would bring the money alone because he would want everyone to see what a success he was. Having bodyguards come too might spread out the accolades. No matter how stupid carrying that much cash alone was, his ego wouldn’t let him be rational.
I used two side roads to get on Barton Street ahead of Igor and waited in the jail parking lot to see which way he would go. Thirty seconds went by before Igor pulled around the corner towards me. I put the parking brake on, got out, and began crossing the street. The needle was out in my fist along the side of my leg; my thumb was on the plunger. The yellow BMW tore up the street, and I picked up the pace. It might have been the lack of sleep that made walking into the path of Igor’s car so easy; it might just as easily have been the adrenaline high from being on the grind again instead of just rebounding. My face pulled into a familiar grin as I stumbled in front of the car and bent my knees, ready to dive if Igor didn’t slow down. Igor saw me in the path of the headlights and hit the brakes. I jumped in the air and let the rapidly slowing car catch me with its hood. My body rolled up to the windshield and raced back down to the pavement.
The door opened, and Igor was out. “What the fuck? Are you crazy? How did you not see me? If you dented the car, I’m going to kill you.”
Igor played into the second typical response. When grifters faked being hit, they hoped for the usual Canadian response: a mortified, polite, apologetic driver. Even if it wasn’t their fault, most Canadians will think it was and offer to help the victim — even though the real victim is them. Nine times out of ten, drivers will cut cheques to get away without involving the cops. The money keeps them safe from the law and their conscience. But the other type of driver was Igor’s type. They could care less about other people. They only cared about themselves and their cars. I didn’t care which response I got out of Igor; it wasn’t a grift, I didn’t want money — I wanted him.
While Igor checked the car over, I clawed at his pants and pulled myself to my knees. I wasn’t hurt, but Igor didn’t know that. He turned towards me and got even more irate. “Get the fuck off me!” Igor tried to shove me back, but I surged off my knees, coming up under his right arm. My left hand came around his back and took a fistful of his hair while my right hand slammed the syringe into the side of his neck. I forced Igor against the hood as I pushed the plunger down with my thumb and sent half the bottle of ketamine into the Russian’s neck. I expected Maggie to recommend the smallest dose possible in an effort to ease her conscience, so I doubled her prescription, figuring half the vial would be enough to do the job but probably not enough to kill him.
When my thumb wouldn’t go any further into the syringe, I let go of the needle and wrapped my arm around Igor, pinning his left arm to his body. Igor thrashed and bucked, but the hood of the car held him upright, and my body, pressed against his, gave him no room to move. He was strong at first, but he began to weaken after a few seconds. Within ten seconds, he was drooping in my arms. I dragged him to the passenger side, shoved him in the car, on top of the duffel, and got in behind him. I drove the car off the street into the jail parking lot, watching distant onlookers stare at the car from the rear-view mirror until the wheels hit the jail parking lot. Contact with the jail sent many of the people on their way, as though what had happened had made some sort of sense. A few other stragglers still stared at the parking lot and fished in their pockets for phones. I turned the BMW off and put the keys in Igor’s pocket. I got out of the car and reached in for a handful of Igor’s hair and shirt. My hands pulled him into the driver’s seat and buckled him in. Then I pulled the bag across his lap and onto the pavement. Igor’s chest was rising and falling, and his pulse was still easy to find. He whimpered in the chemical daze while I pulled the syringe from his neck and closed the door. The drugs, working their way deeper into Igor’s system, turned his muscles to jelly and sent the Russian forward until his head hit the steering wheel.
The duffel was heavy as I carried it to the Volvo. I put it in the passenger seat, disengaged the parking brake, and drove out of the lot, using the second exit, towards the motel. The whole grab took under three minutes. I figured some of the witnesses might call the cops, but there would be nothing left for them but a drunk sleeping it off in his car.
On the way to the motel, I powered up the cell phone and dialled Detective Sergeant Morrison’s cell number. “Morrison?”
He picked up on the second ring.
“You find anything on that name I gave you?”
“Igor? There’s a few Igors, but I know the one you asked about. Seems to be in charge of drug revenue. He’s not dumb though, I can’t find a house in his name or any employment records. All I could find out was that he was a fill-in for some mope that got shot in a Russian bar, and since then he’s been holding his own.”
“Who told you this?”
“Couple a cops. And a few CI’s.”
“Who’s the cop?”
“Fuck you.”
“Miller?” I asked. No response came. “How about the CI’s? Are they in the mix or just people with ears?”
“They’re in the mix enough to be at that funeral you crashed. We ain’t finished, you know.”
I ignored him. “Did you play up that kidnapping angle that we talked a
bout?”
Morrison sighed. “Yeah.”
“So the cops think whoever took me killed the nurse too?”
“Until I can prove different. And I can prove different whenever I want. You know that, right?”
I pressed on. “Why did they take me?”
“We figure you saw too much. So did the nurse. See? What I say goes.”
“Who’s running the investigation?”
“I am.”
“So we’re almost done.”
“I told you we ain’t finished, not by a fucking long shot, mate.”
I ignored him again. “How fast can you get in touch with your CI’s?”
“Why?” Morrison dropped the base and anger from his voice. He sensed the promise of a bust.
“Spread the word that Igor took some money that didn’t belong to him.”
“What money? How much? Where’d it come from?” The questions came hard and fast.
“Just put the word out tonight. You have four hours to do it.”
“Why four hours? If you know something about Igor, tell me.”
“Morrison, do one other thing.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Let slip to Miller that Igor is on the outs and you heard Sergei Vidal is after him personally.”
Morrison’s anger flared. “You keep trying to put everything on Miller like I’m supposed to believe you over him. He’s been with me every step of the way. He’s saved my life more than once, and his kids call me uncle. I told you before, Miller is a good cop.”
“Then you got nothing to worry about. Just let it slip casually later on tonight. If you do this, you’ll get your fish.”
“When? Who’s the fucking fish?”
I hung up the phone and drove the rest of the way to the motel. Morrison trusted the fat cop. It was more than just the brotherhood of blue banding together against a crook like me, they had history on and off the job. He had blinders on about the idea of Miller double dipping. I just hoped that Morrison’s need for a big bust would push him past his myopia enough to leak what I told him to say to Miller. He broke a lot of rules, and put himself on the line, to get me to work with him, so I figured he’d use Miller too if there was no other way. Morrison was greedy, and he’d find a way to rationalize telling Miller what I said to get what he wanted. If he really felt Miller was clean, he would decide there would be no harm in telling him anything because it would go nowhere. But if Morrison did have any doubts about his partner, what I said would push them to the surface. Using Miller kept Morrison off balance and out of focus. I needed to keep pushing him so he stayed off his game.
Back at the motel, I pulled the duffel into the room. The bag was big enough to take up most of the space in front of the tiny bed. I closed the blinds and unzipped the bag. Inside were packets of cash, all denominations separated by bill and bound with paper bands. Igor had been on his way to a big drop. One thing was for sure, the money would be missed.
There was nothing else in the bag with the money. I checked the pockets and the liner to be sure. I had been burned by a hidden GPS in a bag before, and it wouldn’t happen again. Satisfied there was no GPS, I put all of the cash back in the bag and zipped it up. This money was going to be chum in the water. This much couldn’t go missing without repercussions, and Igor would be on the hook for it alone because he left with it in his tiny yellow sports car. There was no way he could pay it back either — it was too much cash for Igor just to take out of a bank account and replace. The missing money would do two things: it would put Igor at odds with his boss, and it would force him to do something stupid. Igor was an emotional wreck; I figured a failure of this magnitude would push him over the edge. He would have to do something crazy to stay alive, and I was going to be there when he went for it. I needed something big to shake Morrison off me, and Igor would get it for me. I had to use whatever scheme Igor came up with to take him out of the game, because eventually he would pass off blame on me for the money being gone. If Sergei Vidal believed him, it would be a short jump for the synapses in his brain to connect me to the robbery years ago that reignited war between the Russians and the Italians. Then I would be up against the whole Russian mob instead of just one sick head case.
The radio alarm clock bolted to the bedside table told me I had just over three hours until Igor’s vitamin K–induced sleep should start to wear off. I put the money in the trunk and drove to the closest drug store. Inside, I bought caffeine pills and Red Bull. I stood in the parking lot chewing the pills and washing them down with swigs of the cola. I had been on too many stakeouts for too many days, and the shitty food and shittier bed were catching up with me. I had to wrap this up soon, or I would slip up.
When my hands began to open and close on their own, I got behind the wheel and rode the caffeine buzz all the way to the Barton Street Jail.
On my first pass, I saw the yellow BMW parked where I left it. It was 11:35 p.m., and traffic on the street was minimal. I slipped into a space across the street and watched the car — nothing moved for six hours. The extra large dose of ketamine did its job better than I expected. Just before six in the morning, the door opened, and Igor fell into the street. He threw up and then pulled himself up off the ground using a tire and the hood for help. When he was vertical, he massaged the side of his neck in between dry heaves. After one particularly nasty bout of vomiting, his head snapped towards the car, and he stumbled to the open door. He looked inside, through the driver seat, to the passenger side, then into the cramped back seats, and finally into the trunk. From inside the Volvo I heard the scream that followed. Igor pulled out his cell phone and thumbed it frantically. He never moved his lips. Instead, he put the phone to his ear and just listened. After thirty seconds, he collapsed against the side of the car as though the phone had just dealt him a nasty physical blow. Someone on the other end of that phone was looking for Igor; worse, they were looking for the money.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I sat up straighter and got ready to see how the Russian would play this. Igor closed the phone and stumbled behind the wheel. He could go one of two ways: back home, or towards whoever it was he was going to see before I robbed him. The yellow BMW trickled out of the parking lot towards Igor’s house.
I let the BMW stay six car lengths ahead of me and watched as it swerved in and out of lanes. Igor usually cut in and out of traffic with razor-sharp precision, but the BMW was not making those expert merges anymore. The car was making lane changes that started too far back and involved Igor riding the medians between two lanes for too long before he finally tugged the wheel enough to get into the next lane. The drugs were still heavily in his system, and they had screwed with Igor’s perception and reaction time; they didn’t affect his lead foot. Igor ran two red lights and made it home a full minute before I caught up. I left the car behind the ice cream shack and circled around the back of the house to the kitchen window.
I kept low until I was underneath the sill. I stole glances inside, but I couldn’t see Igor anywhere. I scanned the yard for any neighbours who would be able to see me from their breakfast table, but the trees covered me. I let my head slowly creep up towards the window so I could take a longer look inside when a window two stories above me shattered. Pieces of glass fell, along with flowers and water from what used to be a full vase, onto the lawn. I hustled to the side of the house and around to the front door while Igor’s screams poured out of the now jaggedly open window.
I climbed onto the side of the porch, accessible from the corner of the house, and walked towards the front door, head low, as though I belonged there. The unlocked doorknob noiselessly turned under my palm, and as soon as my body cleared the door, I had the Colt out. The big pistol followed my eyes through the first floor — finding nothing. All the while, I could hear Igor yelling upstairs. I took a spot beside the staircase, impossible to see from upstairs, and listened.
“On the take? On the take! Why would I be on the take? Who is saying such thi
ngs?”
There was a pause while Igor heard a response in his ear.
“How is it all over the streets?”
Another pause.
“Well, how does some fuck at that shitty bar know anything?”
Pause.
“Where else? At the Strip Club! Holy shit!” Igor’s curse was breathless as though the words left his mouth with every bit of air in his lungs. “We have to stop this before it gets to Sergei.”
Pause.
“What did he ask you?” Igor was starting to squeal. “Well, what did you tell him?”
Pause.
“What do you mean you said you didn’t know where I was?”
Pause.
“I don’t care if it was Pietro who was asking. You work for me, no one else! If anyone asks about me, you say I had business to handle, but it is finished tonight. You hear that? Tonight. Everything is back to normal tonight. Put that out to everyone and shut up whoever is doing the talking.”
There was a long pause.
“What do you mean there was a cop looking for me too? What cop? Was he a fat pig of a man?”
Pause.
“So who was he? Does anyone know him?”
Pause.
“Who talked to him?”
Pause.
“Did Pietro see the cop?”
There was one last silence before I heard Igor scream “Fuck” so loud that I knew it meant the call was over.
Christ, Morrison was a mover. I had leaked a single first name two days ago, and he was already catching up to me. I saw that his playing loose with the rules in the hospital was, in his mind, a safe bet because he was a born hunter of men, able to turn a name into an address almost overnight. He never had a doubt in his mind that he wouldn’t be able to track me down the same way he found Igor. But I wasn’t like Igor. He was a mid-level collector with an organization holding him up and watching his back. I was a different breed, a grinder. I survived for decades without a safety net to keep me from falling to my death. I was bred to survive in the dark, and there was no cop who would round me up in a day. But if Morrison proved any more capable than I thought him to be, he would find himself being chased with a worse sentence than jail time not far behind. Morrison wasn’t just my problem anymore. Igor had to share the load, but the Russian also had to deal with Pietro. He was one of Sergei Vidal’s bodyguards that I saw stored in the memory of the cop’s camera. His presence meant a noose was forming around Igor’s neck.