Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery)

by Jack Getze

  Cold sweat oozed down his chest. He scrounged his blazer pocket for pills. He unwrapped the wadded tissue, picked his potion, tossing three tablets down his dry tongue, and swallowed. But they did nothing to stop him from plunging right back into his pool of thoughts, a grim mosaic of diffuse images: the cryptic instructions from CONTROL crumpled up and aflame over the logs of his furnace; a fresh cigarette burn on the armrest of his leather chair, the one by the windows, the one he’d sit in for hours before and after each kill; the flag-draped coffin being wheeled out of the back of a plane; the stone-faced doorman slouched over the front desk of his apartment bloc as he departed, weighed down by lead, gun metal and bewilderment. He knew the flickering from reality had long become resistant to the downers, no matter the dose, the frequency, or his sporadic delusions of a cure. He understood without believing.

  He gazed ahead at the sooty pavement of the bleak street that bordered an area of shoddy brick warehouses and dilapidated Soviet-era tool shops. Dark smoke spewed from a distant power plant, its funnels piercing the gray morning sky above the nearby rooftop of Clinic Number 14, a pricey medical facility strangely thrown into this unglamorous corner of Moscow.

  Another call came in. He shook his head, dispersing the haphazard mental footage that had clouded his vision. His palm greased the steering wheel as he checked his watch. He shook his head again and stared intently at the rattling phone. He didn’t expect any calls, and there was no caller ID, but this time he answered.

  “Sal.” The woman’s voice was as cold as this place in January.

  “Jesus,” he muttered and then lined up forceful words in her native Russian, his American accent nearly hidden. “I told you never to call this number.”

  “I have no choice. I left you many messages, and you haven’t replied. Not a sign. Nothing! What am I supposed to do?”

  “Isn’t that a sign?” he mumbled.

  He felt a rage accompany Irina’s exaggerated sigh.

  “I’m no fool,” she spat out. “You promised me...just last week. You swore you’d tell her. And I’m sure you didn’t.”

  Sal instantly replayed his own words that audaciously clumsy night when he’d pledged to her the world as their bodies frolicked in miasmic eroticism, the escape soothed by barbiturates and inebriation, with the one woman who could—and who did—take him to Shangri-La as often as his unrepentant soul meandered her way.

  He swallowed hard. “You’re right, I didn’t...”

  He anticipated her next rant. She’d warned him enough. And he cursed himself for having made the promise in the first place, not because it wasn’t what he wanted. God, no. He’d long craved to catapult his wife out of his life, and to set her on fire doing so. But he preferred to fuel his grotesque lies over surrendering any admission or giving up the charade. A divorce was the last thing he’d wanted to get dragged through. A man in his position couldn’t risk a scorned, vengeful wife. Lying was easier, then and now, no matter the price—easier because his wife was across the pond, a figure of distance, rather than a demanding, pestilent creature at his side, though now it all mattered less.

  “I’ve given you everything,” he said. “Look at your damn wrist. What do you think that cost me? And look in your living room. What’s there that I haven’t paid for?” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of Marlboro Reds, plucked a cigarette out and brought it to his dry, chapped lips. “And your mother... her car, her new teeth?” The scent of bourbon rose from his wrinkled shirt. “What more do you want?” He flicked the lighter, his hands shaking slightly, enough to alarm him.

  “Your devotion, your honesty.”

  Sal snorted. “Fidelity is for the dim and the dead.” He then siphoned a long drag of his tobacco. “And honesty, my dear, is something you’ve never known yourself.” He replayed one of the first things she’d told him some eight months earlier—that she twirled from a brass pole to raise money for her sister’s surgery and for no other reason, only to discover that for years she’d tramped the tables of nearly every gentleman’s club in Minsk. There is no honesty among whores, he thought.

  “You don’t need me,” Irina said, her words crawling to a mere whimper. “It’s clear. I...I give up.” The line went dead.

  A glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror hit hard. His eyes were swollen, red and glassy, a raggedness worse than he’d ever put himself through. A killer in repose shouldn’t look like a corpse, he thought, the remnants of the pride he’d once carried with his gun withering each second he met his reflection in glass and in spirit. But he knew it wasn’t fatigue alone. His demise, as the doctor had said, would surface in many forms: pain, disorientation, weakness, gauntness. That’s what being terminal meant, no matter his effort to block this reality from his mind.

  He counted the hours he’d been awake: thirty, thirty-two, maybe, nearly the same number of years he’d been scouring the planet for someone else’s filth, without question, without remorse.

  The cell phone vibrated again.

  He’d always despised Irina’s feistiness, her condemnations, her relentless, futile search for concreteness, for certainty well beyond what he was capable of delivering. But it was not like him to back down. He’d allow her to be right, but she could never win. He reached for the phone and let it pulsate in his palm for a moment, his hesitation nearly accidental, until he flipped the cover and answered, his mind prepped to resume the duel.

  “What?”

  “Dad, it’s me.”

  His jaw dropped. “How the hell...?”

  “Please, hear me out. I need help.”

  Sal had heard those words before, and it stirred him up with disgust to witness another plea, and especially now when all that mattered was one important trophy—Yuri Chermayeff—about to roam the halls of Clinic Number 14 bearing the future resting place of his 9 mm hollow point bullets. He thought of hanging up.

  “Dad?”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  “Please, they arrested me.”

  Sal’s heart sank. His son had failed him once more. “This isn’t the time.”

  “I’m at the Sheriff’s. I can’t get ahold of Mom.”

  “Stop!” Sal fought his instinct to want to hear more. It seemed easier to hang up. He clenched his fist.

  “They’re saying I stole a ’Lex.”

  “A what?”

  Paul sighed. “A Rolex. At the mall.”

  “What do you mean they’re saying? You stole it, I’m sure, right? Didn’t you?” Sal slammed his fist on the door and kicked the brake pedal. He kicked it again. But the shock suddenly felt oddly artificial, morphing quickly into the same wrath he’d felt so often before. His voice hardened. “Why? Why the hell are you destroying yourself, your future? It’s wrong. You steal, you cheat, you lie...I didn’t raise you this way.” But Sal knew it wasn’t so clear. He was like so many neglectful fathers playing the blame game. He hadn’t been there much for Paul, not for many birthdays, even fewer Christmases. So many lost opportunities.

  “Help me; I’m begging you.”

  “No.”

  Sal’s heart raced as he suddenly remembered the countless unfriendly stares: the neighbors, the principal, the school bus drivers, the old woman at the convenience store, the whole pack of them armed with some tale of his son’s mischief, and he’d appeased them all as a father must. There was no more innocence left in Paul’s youth, not a thread of it for Sal to cling to. And it made him angrier to recall the past. But it also tore him apart to speak to Paul so harshly. A disarmed, disjointed part of him wanted to leap through the phone lines and embrace his son. It had been months since they’d been face-to-face, back in tranquil Pensacola, but even then they’d simmered over another disconnect. “Find your own way out of this mess,” Sal added. “You’re paving a horrible path for your life.”

  “Don’t preach to me, Dad. I know all about you now, what you do, what you’re hiding. I’ve known for longer than you think.”

  That’s i
mpossible. He’d prided himself on his shroud, the elusiveness worthy of acclaim and infamy in the darkest corridors of power. His son was no smarter than any of the governments and syndicates he’d deceived. Sal didn’t answer. He didn’t believe.

  “I also know about your woman,” Paul uttered in a shaky voice.

  Sal cringed. “I’m warning you.” He rubbed his bristly cheeks.

  “How d’you think I got this number, huh?”

  He abruptly suspected a conspiracy. Was Irina capable of unleashing such malice? Or was his son toying with Sal’s failings? Nothing made sense. “Shut up!”

  Sal closed his eyes and rested his head on the glass, the coolness crawling across his scalp as he heard faint sounds of a bicycle, pedals cranking, training wheels wobbling, the chain rattling. The metallic noises blended into reality accompanied by sounds of giggling—a child. His own. “You can do it,” Sal had exclaimed proudly, pushing Paul’s back as he ran alongside. “Go for it, go, you’re almost there.” Laughter reigned. It echoed enchantingly until Sal opened his weary eyes.

  “I need bail money,” said his son, now sounding on the verge of tears. “And a better lawyer than that slacker you used last year.”

  Sal’s hands began to tremble, his teeth grinding. He threw the cigarette out the window. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you? You’ve always wanted to be the opposite of Joel. The bad versus the good. The rebel in the shadows of my little prince. And you know why he was a prince? Because he didn’t screw up his life like you’ve done ever since you could walk. But why now, why continue your streak of uselessness? He’s dead. Joel’s DEAD! Taken away for God and country, just as I’d feared when I fought so hard to stop him from going off to war. You don’t have to compete with him anymore. You win. You’re the winning loser. Why can’t—” He was abruptly overcome by his vile cocktail of wrath and shame, choking his diatribe into a feeble gasp, all the while wanting to hold his son ever tighter in his fold, ever closer to the vague notions of forgiveness that Sal briefly contemplated.

  “This is the last call they’re letting me make.”

  “I can’t help you now.”

  “Please!”

  “No!” Sal slapped the phone shut on his thigh and slumped back into this seat. He wasn’t going to cry. Damn it. He fought not to. “I love you, you fool,” he whispered alone, now feeling awful that he’d again let his anger go unchecked. And now he also worried over Paul’s words—that he somehow knew his father’s trade. This was the last thing Sal ever wanted his son to know, as it was unfathomable, unforgivable. Early on Sal had not been the father he ought to have been, and now, as a seasoned spy and occasional deliverer of death, there’d be no explanation good enough, and no hope at all, for repairing the broken past. I am a failure, Sal admitted, his fist still clenched.

  He closed his eyes and let himself get dragged into a remembrance minefield, reeling in from the past the very moment he crossed that line, when he’d given up on his younger son. He’d never forget. There was no overt act, but rather an omission, an absence, a message so scarring it now gripped him with such strength that he began to breathe erratically. Paul had purposely chosen to miss Joel’s funeral, his own brother, his own flesh and blood of twenty-four years. He’d disappeared for days, not out of sorrow, but rather to flaunt his spite on those closest to him, using a weapon even Sal couldn’t counter: apathy.

  3

  “This is nuts,” Jonathan told himself, holding the glass door halfway open. The door pane was warmed by the morning sun that every day this time of year made the sidewalks sizzle and turned parked cars into kettles.

  He eyed the shadow under the mauve-colored awnings of Mrs. Lorraine’s flower shop across the wide one-way street. No one there. The shaded, recessed entranceway of Jason’s Pizza also appeared unoccupied. There were few places anyone could hide along this block, unless Mariya had crouched inside or behind a parked car. There was no sign of her, but he couldn’t shake the tension running through him. He couldn’t imagine her wanting to make contact after all the years, but she had. And the absence of any good reason made him only think of the obvious. She was a killer. A woman with no soul to speak of, and a decade’s passing would do little to change her, he told himself.

  Ten years, he thought further, meeting his reflection in the glass. He chuckled. The man Mariya had met so long ago had indeed aged. He looked tired. He’d put on a few pounds. The expensive clothes were no more. The old days of legal stardom were long gone. He scratched his bristly jaw. Even if his curiosity could outweigh the apprehension running through his blood this very moment, he wouldn’t want her to see him, not like this, even if she had some farfetched justification. The hell he’d gone through in Russia, and the utter emotional and physical destruction of it all—the charred remains of his home, Linda’s horrific injuries, the subsequent divorce, the colossal debt, his firm’s collapse. Unspeakable agony. Nothing had gone right, and for so long. Whatever pride he had left made him want to hide.

  But the longer he stared at the street, the more he knew hiding was pointless. Suddenly, he spotted a woman walking with a man on the sidewalk. But judging from the cameras they carried and the way they dressed, they were harmless tourists. He sighed again, feeling relieved, and then scanned both directions once more.

  Jonathan knew Mariya. She was no fool. She was as resourceful as she was devious. Jonathan recalled her disguised appearance in New Orleans nine years ago: a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a wicked grin, as she stood behind the wheel of a rental car about to track her prey—a rogue official, a murderer himself. Two days later, the papers announced the man’s mysterious death. There was no mystery for Jonathan, but he’d said nothing and let it go. Justice had somehow messily prevailed, and punishment had been duly dispensed, albeit by a woman with no respect or patience for judicial processes, or for rules in general. If indeed Mariya was back in town now, she’d know how to find Jonathan better than he’d know how to evade her. After all, he’d seen firsthand her skills, perfected over decades in the name of the Soviet and then Russian intelligence apparatchik. A master spy. And a killer, he reminded himself. A woman with no qualms about terminating her enemies in cold blood. Could she still be like that now? She was in her late forties or early fifties back then. Nearly ten years had passed. Perhaps she’d mellowed out. He further entertained the thought. Retired. Wrote her memoir. Maybe she’d gotten married and spent her days growing vegetables and flowers at a remote dacha. He thought about this some more.

  No, not her.

  His mind was again captive with scenes he couldn’t erase. A cold, wet Moscow alleyway where he’d laid face-down, half-conscious for God knows how long until he’d finally mustered the strength to get up. A bullet ricocheting off the walls of a dark tunnel and piercing his shoulder. Running with all his strength through a snowy forest to escape armed men with dogs. Mariya shooting a man’s head off at near point blank range and then, seconds later, lighting a cigarette, as if she’d just finished having sex. Mariya. The Mariya. A sparkplug like that simply can’t retire.

  His eyes scanned the street. There were no good options. Chasing her down at her hotel felt rash. Going home would be foolish. He thought of driving to Mandeville, across Lake Pontchartrain, to lay low for a while at one of his favorite restaurants. For a second he even thought of heading back upstairs. I’m not scared, he told himself. I’m not.

  The sidewalks were empty. He left his building, weaved past the few parked cars and crossed the street toward the alley on the other side. He heard only his own footsteps on the rough pavement and the distant whispered sounds of traffic on Magazine Street. He kept a steady pace into the alley. His old, green Camry came into sight some forty yards away. Just as he reached for his keys, an accompanying sound came from behind him. Heels. At a woman’s pace. He fought his urge to turn and quickened his walk, gripped the car key tightly, straight out, ready to unlock the door.

  The stranger’s pace hastened.

&n
bsp; Jonathan suddenly heard his name. Softly the first time. Louder the second. The woman’s voice—stern and with a subtle accent—was unmistakable. The crazy, death-smitten Russian spy had crawled out of the bowels of hell and found him. He stopped and held his breath. Running the remaining yards to his car would be senseless. Besides, he wasn’t about to show her an ounce of fear.

  Her pace slowed.

  “What do you want, Mariya?” He didn’t turn, quickly trying to picture her, factoring in what ten years would do to her pale Slavic features.

  “I need your help.” She sounded only five yards behind him.

  Jonathan slowly turned.

  Mariya hadn’t changed much—still petite, fit, with a slightly muscular figure. There was no disguise this time. Her hair was longer, but the same hazelnut brown. The same deep dark eyes that shamelessly withheld countless secrets. The same woman he should now run from with Godspeed.

  She stood there, poker-faced, wearing linen trousers and a blouse too thick for New Orleans in August—though it exposed her deep cleavage in plain view. No surprise. She’d always been at the borderline of high fashion and gaudiness, he remembered. But that was to be expected if you were the devil. All that was missing was the smell of sulfur.

  She cracked a smile, then brought her small, black leather purse up to her chest and hugged it as one would a teddy bear.