Crow's Landing (19 page)

“Why would he do that?”

“No idea. But he did it.”

Dusty took a bite of the burger and chewed it, thinking. “So they showed up looking for me?”

Virgil shrugged and ate some fries. The inside of his mouth was cut and it made chewing difficult. It was too bad; the food was good and he had a feeling he was going to end up throwing it away.

“Did you tell them I'd been around to see you?” she asked.

“I don't recall mentioning it.”

“So they got rough,” she said. “Why didn't you just tell them?”

“I didn't like the way they were asking.”

Dusty sipped her root beer. “You're pretty fucking loyal to somebody you don't even know,” she said. “Shit, I might be ten times as bad as them.”

Virgil smiled. “That would make you pretty bad.”

She seemed to think about that as she wrapped up her garbage and stuffed it into the bag the food had arrived in. She wiped her mouth and put the napkin in the bag too. She sat quietly for a time, looking out the windshield, before finally speaking.

“He's not a phony cop,” she said. “He's a real cop, a dirty detective named Dick Hoffman. I got no idea who the other two are.”

“How do you know this?”

“Brownie told me. The same Brownie who dropped a dime on you.”

“He wouldn't tell me shit,” Virgil said.

“I found him to be very forthcoming,” Dusty said. “We bonded over a discussion of nineteenth-century Dutch post-impressionist painters.”

“I'm not even going to ask.”

“Well, it was Brownie who made the call. Hoffman grabbed the cylinder. And your boat. And the next day he retired from the force. Which
maybe
means he has no intention of turning the cylinder in.”

“Where's the maybe in it?” Virgil asked. “If he was on the level, then my boat would be in a compound somewhere and the police would have some knowledge of all this. It's not, and they don't. Which means that this Hoffman guy is as crooked as a dog's hind leg.”

“You're pretty smart for a farmer.”

“Then I'd hate to see stupid. Look at my face.”

Dusty sighed. “I don't know what the fuck is going on. The police could be involved still, looking for somebody to pin this on. The only one I trust is you, and that's because I think you know less than me. That, and you took a beating because you're too dumb to tell these guys what you know when you don't know anything.”

“I'm not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.”

“Both,” she decided.

She drained the last of her root beer, staring at the burger joint across the parking lot. A kid came out the back door, carrying a bulging green garbage bag, which he stuffed into an already overfull Dumpster. Glancing around, he lit a joint that he fished from his shirt pocket, took two long tokes on it, and went back inside.

Dusty turned to face Virgil. “All I want is for things to go back the way they were before you found that cylinder. You couldn't have just cut the fucking rope? I'd have bought you a new anchor.”

“Next time,” he said. He'd only managed to eat half the burger and so he wrapped it up to take home with him. He needed to go soon; he had chores to do. “Where were you when I called you?” he asked.

“At work.”

“Where is work?”

“Right now at a new subdivision over in Rensselaer,” she said. “I'm a carpenter. Framing mostly.”

Virgil nodded and tried one more french fry before giving up.

“What I can't figure is why Hoffman and his little posse are looking for me,” Dusty said. “It's like he's running scared.”

“Scared of who?”

“I don't know. Parson maybe.”

“I'll need a scorecard pretty soon,” Virgil said. “Who is Parson?”

“The guy who owns the cylinder.”

“Is he somebody to be scared of?”

“If you're Hoffman, he is.”

“What about you—you scared?”

“Nah,” she said. She started the truck and they pulled out of the lot and headed back toward the hospital. Virgil watched her as she drove but she never looked over at him.

“So what's your connection to Parson?” he asked.

“True confessions is over,” she said. “I just figured I should tell you what you're up against. I was you, I'd forget about the boat.”

“Well, I'm not going to forget about it,” Virgil said. “Tell you the truth, I'm beginning to take this personally.”

Now she did look at him, her eyes going from the cast on his arm to the arc of stitches in his scalp. “I could see how that might be.”

She pulled into the hospital lot and parked beside his truck. She waited a moment before putting it in park, something clearly on her mind. “I really need to find that cylinder.”

“To sell?”

“No,” she said adamantly. “I'd toss it off the Dunn Bridge. In a heartbeat.” She exhaled before glancing over. “You wouldn't have a piece, would you?”

“A handgun?”

“Yeah,” she said casually. Too casually, Virgil thought. “Might come in handy with Hoffman and his boys looking for me. I could score one in my old neighborhood, but it's kind of tricky.”

Virgil shook his head.

She waved the notion aside. “Just a thought.”

“Right,” he said. “But you're not scared?”

She smiled at him. “You gonna finish those fries?”

After leaving the station, Hoffman drove over to the poolroom. Soup was already there, sitting on the overstuffed couch in the Russian's office, drinking coffee. Yuri was wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before. Hoffman could see flecks of blood on the white shirt, blood from the hick they had kicked around the kitchen of the farmhouse the night before. Why couldn't the man change his shirt? When Hoffman walked into the office, the Russian took his cowboy hat from the chair and put it on. He was ready to go.

They drove north on 787 out of the city, then swung around to an industrial complex, wedged between the railyards and the thruway. Yuri provided the directions. On a side street the Russian pointed to a Quonset hut with a hand-painted sign above the front door, which read
D
&
R Collision.
Hoffman parked in a fenced-off compound beside the building, the yard scattered with wrecked vehicles, some missing front ends, bumpers, windshields. Hoffman opened the trunk and he and the Russian grabbed the duffel bag containing the heavy cylinder and lugged it over to the side door of the building with Soup trailing after them.

Inside the building a man of about thirty-five was kneeling down beside a van, MIG-welding a new quarter panel into place. Off to the side a young guy, no more than a teenager, was water-sanding the hood on a Pontiac Sunfire. They
waited for the welder to flip his shield up to examine his work. Only then did he notice them.

“Yuri,” he said. “When you get here?”

“Dante, my friend. Is good to see you.”

The man named Dante stood up, looking for a brief moment past Yuri to Hoffman and Soup. He didn't appear to expect or particularly want an introduction, and either way, Yuri didn't provide one. That was fine with Hoffman. Dante looked at the cylinder in the open duffel, on the concrete floor at Yuri's feet.

“I have little job for you,” Yuri said.

“Yeah?”

“Have steel cylinder here full of goodies. I need for you to cut open.”

Dante walked over and knelt down for a look. He didn't ask after the nature of the goodies. Hoffman figured that he probably had a pretty good idea what was inside, or didn't want to know, one or the other.

“Stainless,” he said. “But I can cut it. I'll just cut a square out of the side. You know, to protect the goodies.”

“Good,” Yuri said.

“I'll get at it this afternoon.”

Hoffman shot Yuri a look, and the Russian removed his cowboy hat and pushed his thick hair back. “Is good, but I have slight problem. Is somewhere I have to be. I was thinking maybe I would give you two hundred dollars to cut open cylinder. However, if you could expedite the job, I could double that.”

Dante stood up and shrugged. “Sure.”

Yuri smiled and put his hat back on. He clapped Dante on the back. “How long does it take, this job?”

“I'll have to change my tanks,” Dante said. “I don't know, twenty minutes.”

“Good. My friend and I here, we have other business in the area. We will come back in thirty minutes. Mr. Soup, you will stay here and keep Dante company?”

“Like I got a choice,” Soup said.

“Is promotion for you, Mr. Soup. I am putting you in charge.”

“Right,” Soup said unhappily.

“We will be back,” Yuri said.

Walking back to the car, the Russian gave Hoffman a sideward glance. “You will pay the four hundred, Mr. Hoffman.”

“I don't have it.”

“Well, we have thirty minutes,” Yuri said as they got into the car. “We can find ATM, or whatever you need.”

Hoffman started the engine. “I can't get my hands on it. Not right away.” He paused. “My money's tied up.”

Yuri was quiet for maybe thirty seconds, then nodded his head slowly. “I think I see now how it is with you, Mr. Hoffman. I think I see now why cop suddenly decides to get into this business.”

“You don't know fuck-all about me.”

“I know enough. I also know that I will pay to Dante the four hundred, and you will pay me back. If cylinder is as advertised, is not a problem. If not, then this money you have, this money that is tied up, you will find way to untie it. Pronto.”

Hoffman jerked the car into gear and they drove out onto the street. “Where we going?” he asked.

Yuri pointed to a McDonald's a few blocks away, the arches rising above the houses. “Go there first. I need to buy Big Mac breakfast. Then we come back and find place to park, to
watch building. I trust Dante, but you can never trust a man completely. Temptation is powerful thing. Do you agree?”

“Whatever.”

“You sound like surly teenager,” Yuri said, smiling. “You are mad because I make comment about the untying of your money.” He watched Hoffman, waiting for a reply, but Hoffman wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “Like I said, we come back and park,” Yuri said after a moment. “Close but not too close, you understand?”

Yuri got his breakfast and they drove back and parked along the street a couple hundred yards away from D&R Collision, at a spot where they could watch both doors of the building. Hoffman sipped his McDonald's coffee and listened as Yuri downed the eggs and pancakes and sausage and hash browns like a man who hadn't eaten in a week. When the carnage was complete, he tossed the wrappers in the backseat and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then pulled out an antique pocket watch to check the time.

“Eighteen minutes,” he said. “And no boom-boom. So far, is so good.”

Hoffman watched as the Russian began to wind the watch, turning the stem without looking at it, like a character in an old movie. The man was a walking cliché. Hoffman was looking forward to being clear of him, his stupid jokes, and his superior attitude. A couple more hours and that would be it. He turned his attention to the Quonset hut. He wished he could see inside.

“He better be fucking doing it right now,” he said. “I don't want to walk in there in the middle of things.”

“Is good boy, Dante,” Yuri said. “I knew his father. We did business together in Europe when I was a young man.” Yuri thought for a moment. “Of course I am still a young man.
Especially compared to you. I am forty-one years. How many are you—sixty maybe?”

“Fuck off,” Hoffman said.

“You are younger?”

“I'm fifty-two,” Hoffman snapped.

Yuri laughed. “You must have had rough life.”

Hoffman heard the rumble of a diesel engine and looked in the rearview to see a garbage truck come motoring around the corner a block behind them. There were no residences on the street and most of the businesses, like the body shop, had Dumpsters, so there wasn't much to pick up, just a few bags here and there. Hoffman was in a no-parking zone but they could go around him. He still had his badge if he needed to show it.

“Maybe it's time we discussed money,” he said to Yuri.

“And why would I discuss price when I have yet to see what it is I am buying?” Yuri asked. “If I say to you, Mr. Hoffman, would you like to buy a car? You would not say, Why yes, Yuri, I give you ten thousand dollars for this car. No, you would say, What kind of car, what year, how many kilometers does it have? You follow?”

“Miles.”

“What?”

“Miles, not kilometers,” Hoffman said. “You're in America now. You should speak American.”

“Okay, wave the flag if you wish. Hooray for red, white, and blue. My point is—first I see what you are selling, then I
taste
what you are selling. And then maybe we talk price. Who knows—maybe I walk away.”

“You won't walk away.” Hoffman took a cigarette from the pack on the dash. As he was lighting it, there was a sudden—

BOOM!

The noise reverberated through the car and caused Hoffman to break the cigarette in half. Panicked, he looked anxiously at D&R Collision, then heard Yuri laughing, and the sound of the diesel engine accelerating again. Hoffman realized that the garbage truck had backfired.

“What is wrong, copper?” Yuri said, trying to catch his breath. “Did you poop in your pants?”

“Sonofabitch,” Hoffman said. He glared at the departing truck. “Fucking asshole.”

“Maybe you should arrest him,” Yuri said. “For making backfire. Hurry before he is too many
kilometers
away.”

“Fuck you,” Hoffman said. His pulse was racing. He took another cigarette from the pack and lit it. He inhaled deeply, glancing again at the body shop across the street. “What the fuck are we going to do if that place suddenly blows sky-high?”