by Neil Plakcy
Farishta shook her head. “The amulet has too much power over him now. It will not let him let go.”
“Then someone else must make him give it up. We have to make sure that Laskin goes to prison. Then he’ll have to surrender the amulet, and you can get it back.”
“And how do you plan to do that? The police have already cleared Laskin for the murder because he has people to say he was not there when the people were killed.”
“We get him on a different crime.”
He picked up his phone and called Jimmy Stein. “How do you feel about lunch?” he asked. “I’ve got a proposition to make to you.”
“Your propositions usually involve trouble for me,” Jimmy said. “Better make it a damn good lunch. The Grill on the Alley at one o’clock.”
“Fortunately my client left me a substantial retainer before she died,” Biff said, although it would have been clearer to say that the money had come from Laskin’s safe deposit box. “Think you could encourage your pal from the ATF to join us?”
“Hector? I can try. What’s this about?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. See you at one.” When he hung up he looked at Farishta. “We have an hour before we have to leave. Are you feeling better, my sweet?”
“I cannot make myself into a nubile young girl like Petrov’s daughter,” she said, pushing back a black curl.
“That is not what interests me.” Biff leaned down and picked her up, and she clasped her arms around his neck.
21 – What You Wish For
Biff walked into the kitchen, where Farishta stood on tiptoe, pulling a shallow bowl down from a high shelf. She had returned to the same outfit as the morning, though now the Hermes scarf had been opened up to pull her hair back completely, and she had added a black and white lambskin handbag from Loewe, which rested on the counter beside her.
“I need to stop by my office on the way to lunch,” he said, as she held her right hand over the bowl, and water dripped into it from her fingertips.
Raki sat up on his hind legs on the floor. She bent down and placed the bowl next to him. He leaned over and lapped the water with his tiny pink tongue. “Whatever you need, my love,” she said.
They walked out to the Mini Cooper together, and Biff lowered the top. Farishta looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion spread as he pulled the car up in front of the shopping center. “I’ll just be a minute,” he said. “I need to grab the jump drive that has Natasha’s pictures on it.”
As he got out of the car, Sophia the receptionist came out of the chiropractor’s office. “Sophia, this is Farishta,” he said. “You’ve been wanting to meet her.” He introduced Sophia, then darted into his office.
When he returned, Sophia was gone, and Farishta was smiling. “You are still a devil, Bivas. That girl likes you.”
“I know. That’s why I introduced you.”
“I will not always be here,” Farishta said, as Biff started the car. “You may have other distractions.”
Biff rested his arm around Farishta’s shoulders and turned to look behind her as he backed up. “You’ll always be the only one for me,” he said.
She simply smiled again and nestled into the curve of his arm, and they drove like that to the mall. When they arrived, she said, “I am not hungry. I will shop until your meeting is finished.”
Biff parked in the garage, kissed Farishta goodbye, and then ran into Jimmy Stein and Hector Hernandez in front of the restaurant. “Good to see you again,” Hector said, shaking Biff’s hand. “This place is a big step up from La Guajira.”
“I think you’ll like it.”
A shapely young hostess showed them to their table. Biff had gotten such a workout from Farishta, though, that he barely noticed. They ordered steaks and salads, and once the server had left, Jimmy said, “So. Your proposition.”
“First, I have something to show you.” Biff pulled out his cell phone and accessed the pictures of Natasha Petrovna. “Recognize her?”
Jimmy recoiled from the first photo. “Jesus, Biff, that’s illegal.”
“Duh, Jimmy. Look at her face.”
Hector took the phone from Biff and zoomed in on the girl’s face. “She looks familiar.”
“How about Viktor Petrov’s daughter Natasha.”
Hector nodded, and Jimmy whistled. “He know about these?” Jimmy asked.
“I think that’s why he had Igor Laskin kill Sveta Pshkov and Kiril Ovetschkin.”
Jimmy looked up. “She took the picture?”
“And a lot more like it. And then Ovetschkin sold them off to someone in Russia for distribution to pedophiles everywhere.”
Jimmy sat back. “I’m losing my appetite.”
“Buck up, Jimmy. We’re going to nail these bastards. That’s where my proposition comes in.”
The server brought over their salads. “You have a way to break Laskin’s alibi for the murders?” Jimmy asked, when he had gone.
Biff shook his head. “I want to go after him through a different angle. Hector, what’s been going on at Customs, after that guy Fiorentino had his heart attack?”
“Haven’t heard of any new shipments of guns coming in.”
“Can you get me a job there? With access that might be appealing to Laskin and Petrov?”
“What have you got in mind?” Hector asked.
“I’ve already met Laskin through the Bolshoi Gym, but he doesn’t know my name or where I work. Suppose I let it slip that I work at Customs, and I offer to pick up his deal with Fiorentino. Then when Laskin tells me the next shipment of guns is coming in, and asks me to massage the paperwork, I tip you guys off, you pull in him and Petrov. You get to take down their operation, I get some payback for them killing my client, even if she was less than legit.”
“It’s against our policy to involve outsiders in official investigations,” he said.
“You have any other way to get at Laskin and Petrov?” Biff asked.
Hector said, “No. But we’ll find something. Eventually.”
Biff turned to Jimmy. “Talk to him, Jimmy. I want to nail these bastards. They killed my client. Yeah, I know she was a sleaze. But she was still my client. And these guys need to be off the street. I believe in the rule of law. I want to do this the right way.”
He and Jimmy had worked together long enough that Jimmy got the implication. If the legal way didn’t work, Biff would find another way to take down Laskin and Petrov.
Jimmy sighed and turned to Hector. “See, Biff here has talents,” Jimmy said. “I can’t explain them, and he probably can’t either, in ways that you and I could understand. But he’s what I’d call a talented amateur. He can get into places and do things we can’t, and he knows enough not to screw up official investigations.”
“Talented amateur, Jimmy?” Biff asked. “I’ve got a PI’s license.”
“You know what I mean, Biff.”
They both looked at Hector. “I want to take down these guys as much as you do,” Hector said. “But if we break the law…”
“Nobody’s asking you to break any laws,” Biff said. “Just put me in place at Customs, so I can tip you off when the next shipment of guns comes in. That’s all. There’s no real difference between that and recruiting somebody who already works there to provide you with information, is there?”
Biff watched Hector’s eyes as the server appeared with their steaks. He could see the debate raging in the ATF agent’s head. “I won’t interfere in the takedown or anything else,” Biff said. “I’m not some kind of vigilante. Jimmy will tell you that.”
“He’s a good guy, Hector. He keeps his word.”
The server lingered by the table. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” he asked.
“We’re fine,” Hector said.
The savory aroma of the meat filled Biff’s nostrils and made his mouth water. Butter melted in the center of the baked potato and began to drip out the side.
“Let me make some calls,
” Hector said.
“And just like that, my appetite’s back,” Jimmy said. He lifted his fork and knife, and Biff followed suit.
Jimmy shifted the conversation as they ate, to sports teams, highway construction, and weather-induced traffic delays, always fruitful topics in South Florida. Biff paid the tab with cash from Laskin’s safe, sending up a brief prayer to the Zoroastrian gods that the bills would not come back as counterfeit.
The server returned his change with a smile, and Biff left him a big tip. When they walked outside, Farishta was lounging by the stone fountain. Shopping seemed to have rejuvenated her—or maybe it was the sex. She was wearing a completely new outfit: a tight-fitting blue and gold sweater that emphasized her curves, and a very short gold skirt. Her long, slim legs ended in very high-heeled Christian Louboutins, with their characteristic red soles.
“Va-va-va voom,” Hector said, as she stood up.
“Watch it bud,” Jimmy said. “That’s Biff’s squeeze and you don’t want to get on his wrong side.”
She had only a single shopping bag with her, but Biff was sure she had bought a lot more—including everything she was wearing. Probably still spending her cut of the oil tanker ransom.
She stepped surely across the pavement, leaning up to kiss Biff on the lips, and his whole body tingled.
Jimmy said, “Don’t I get a kiss, too? After all we’ve been through, Farishta?”
Uh-oh, Biff thought. He watched as Farishta leaned in close to Jimmy, her lips pursed. He was sure she’d bite his nose off—or something similar. Instead she kissed him, for quite a while, and when she backed away, Jimmy staggered.
“Be careful what you wish for, Jimmy,” Biff said. “You know those warnings on the Viagra packages? You might end up like that. Four hours is an awful long time.”
Jimmy looked like he hadn’t been kissed like that in a very long time, if ever. Hector purposefully stuck his hand out and said, “Hector Hernandez. ATF.”
“Farishta,” she said, turning her head just a bit and smiling. She took his hand and Biff smirked. He knew very well that she could transmit that same sexual energy through a touch as well as a kiss.
Hector swallowed hard as he pulled his hand back. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
“We’ve got some work to do,” Biff said. “Hector, call me when you’ve got my credentials set up. Jimmy, we’ll be in touch.”
He put his arm around Farishta’s waist and the two of them turned away, but not before Biff got a last glance at Jimmy’s and Hector’s dazed faces.
“You’re wicked,” he said to Farishta as they walked through the parking lot.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Are you jealous, my Bivas?”
“Insanely. But I know that holding onto you is like cupping water in my hands.”
Biff put the top down and they drove through the glorious sunny day, back to Biff’s townhouse. The living room was littered with small and large shopping bags from nearly every expensive store at Aventura Mall, which Farishta must have magicked back.
Raki sat on the floor, next to a bag from the Godiva Chocolate store that lay open next to him. He had gnawed through the ribbon on a gold ballotin full of nut-filled chocolates and popped the lid. His cheeks were full, and he was holding a half-eaten piece in his paws.
“Can squirrels eat chocolate?” Biff asked.
“What can it do to him?” Farishta asked, shrugging. “He has already died once.” She leaned down and picked up the box and the bag. “But this is not for you, Raki! Bad squirrel.”
She pointed her finger at him, and it was as if he’d been plugged into an electric socket. His fluffy tail stood straight up, his mouth fell open, and he dropped the piece of chocolate he was holding. Then she released her finger, and the squirrel toppled over. “You won’t do that again,” she said to him.
Biff reached down and picked up the little rodent. His heart was still beating, so Biff laid him down on a cushion to recuperate.
Farishta began opening shopping bags and pulling items out. With a flick of her hand, she had him completely redressed—in an Armani Exchange black T-shirt with leather chevrons on the short sleeves, a pair of skin-tight boot cut jeans from 7 For All Mankind, and soft leather loafers from Cole Haan.
She looked at him and nodded approvingly. “I am leaving for a while. I want to know how my amulet ended up in that cave with the Div-e Sepid. Maybe that will give me a key to get the amulet back.”
Biff nodded. “Good idea. I’ll keep an eye on Laskin. If he does get arrested, how will I let you know?”
She reached into a tiny pocket of her skirt and produced a business card. “I have email,” she said. “And you can reach me at Farishta.com.”
“No phone number?”
“Cell phone plans are too restrictive. When I need to speak, I call.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Farishta.”
“One must keep up with the times.” She stepped up close to him. “One more kiss before I go?”
He leaned down and kissed her, closing his eyes and surrendering to the sensation. His body buzzed and he felt himself caught in a tornado of desire. When he sagged back to the sofa and opened his eyes, Farishta was gone, as were all the shopping bags. All that remained was Raki, dozing on his cushion.
22 – Bill Adams
After a long nap, Biff woke late on Friday afternoon and ordered delivery from Baba Go-Nosh, the Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner from the shopping center. A half hour later, Abdi, the smiling Iranian ex-pat driver, who had been a doctor in Iraq but couldn’t pass the English language exams in the US, delivered his platter.
He laid out the baba ganoush, beef kebabs, pita bread, and watermelon salad on the kitchen table, and fed bits to Raki as he ate. Then he went back to bed. A few days with Farishta was enough to tire any man out.
Saturday morning, though, he woke up early and kicked Operation Laskin into gear. He needed to establish himself as a regular at the Bolshoi Gym, become Laskin’s friend, then convince Laskin to let him take over Fiorentino’s role at Customs. It would take some time, but Biff could manage it.
He opened the safe in the back of his closet and scanned through the various sets of ID he had. He decided on a driver’s license and credit card in the name of Bill Adams. Because his own name – or the one he had adopted for this time and place—was so distinctive, he didn’t think it was a good idea to let Igor Laskin know it.
Bill Adams was generic enough that it would be hard to track him—though he did have a Facebook page under that name and a LinkedIn account that called him a self-employed security consultant. And Bill was close enough to Biff that he’d have little problem answering to that name.
He dressed in his workout gear and Raki followed him out to the Mini Cooper. At the Bolshoi Gym, Raki jumped out of the car and scampered up a pine tree, the fronds bouncing as he hopped from one to the next.
Biff asked the clerk at the front desk how to sign up for a membership, and a minute later a perky young blonde in a pair of sea-green shorts and matching tank top came out of the back office. “Hi, I’m Melanie. You’re interested in joining us?”
“I am.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “You’re in great shape. Come on back to the office so I can take your measurements and get you set up.”
He tried to short-circuit her long questionnaire about his diet and workout goals, but she wouldn’t let him. She made him stand up so she could measure his biceps, chest and waist. Then he had to take his shoes off and stand on a scale that not only weighed him but calculated his body fat.
“Wow, nine percent,” she said. “That’s terrific. You must take good care of yourself.”
“I try.” She led him through a long talk about fees, contract and so on. When she was finished, they sat back down at the desk, where she handed him a card with a magnetic strip on the back. “You swipe this every time you come in,” she said.
“You’re keeping track of my workouts?�
��
“Only if you want us to,” she said. “If you sign up with a personal trainer, then he’ll have access to your records.”
That was easy, Biff thought. When she went into the back office to get his new membership packet, he took a quick look at her computer and discovered that Igor Laskin worked out regularly in the mornings, usually from eight to nine. Saturday and Sunday, however, he came in later. If Biff got moving, he might run into Laskin now.
By the time Melanie came back Biff was sitting once again across from her desk. He got his card from her, and then walked through the locker room and into the weight room. He didn’t even have to look around; he could pick out Laskin’s scent immediately. He was lifting weights at the half cage.
Biff lingered around the Russian as if he was waiting for the machine, and as Laskin struggled through his last reps, Biff asked him, “Need a spot?”
Laskin grunted and nodded, and Biff stood by to make sure that Laskin could safely finish his set. “Thanks,” Laskin said, when he was finished. “I am out of practice. Maybe I take on more than I can handle.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Biff said. “I’m Bill.”
“Igor. You want machine?”
“Yeah. Will you spot me?”
“I must return the favor,” Igor said, smiling.
Biff used his towel to wipe down the bench. Laskin had been lifting two-twenty; Biff added twenty pounds to each side of the bar, wiped his hands on his shorts, and lay down on the bench.
When he finished and stood up, Laskin nodded approvingly. “You are strong man, Bill.”
“I work out,” he said. “Just joined this gym this morning. Good place?”
“Yeah, good,” Laskin said. “Lots of different equipment. Always in good shape.”
They moved on to a pair of side by side leg squat machines. Neither spoke much as they worked, but in between sets, as they recharged with water, and as they walked back to the locker room, they talked in bits and pieces.
“You are going to come often?” Laskin asked at the door to the locker room, pulling off his sweat-soaked T-shirt.