Deadly Lullaby (15 page)

“Yes.”

“Anything about them I need to clarify?”

“No.”

“Any reservations about them at all?”

“No.”

He straightens his tie, adjusts his collar. Too antsy to stay seated, obviously stressed, troubled, he stands. He turns to gaze out the window a few beats, his back to me, his hands clasped behind him. He finally turns sideways, wipes his mouth. “Crucci, only two people in this department know the reason why I stayed here in LA instead of moving home to western Kentucky. That reason is
my
father. He's what people back there called a ‘rounder,' maybe one not quite as accomplished as your daddy”—he backhands the air—“but that's just a matter of degree.” A smile, a nod. “The old man really got around, really made his mark. Not what ‘decent' folks would call a good mark, but it was long and deep, and he did hard time in Eddyville State Penitentiary as a result.” He pauses as if considering whether to say more, shakes his head. “Maybe I'll fill in the blanks for you someday, but those details don't add much to the point I want to make.”

He swivels his chair so he can sit again, sits hard and leans back. “My point is I know how tough it is to traipse in the dark shadow of your father. You know better than anybody that the department took you on faith that you were the polar opposite of Babe. What you don't know and probably haven't even imagined is the number of people who've kept a close eye on you.” He paused. “Often a surreptitious eye.” Another pause to let that sink in. “You made detective, so obviously a lot of those people liked the way you rolled. Some people think you rolled too hard”—a shrug—“and sometimes you did.” A smile. “Sometimes you still do. But, overall, those that matter, including me, don't particularly admire squeaky-clean cops. We know that rolling too hard and blowing off regs are what it takes to get the job done sometimes. When it comes right down to it, there's not a swinging brass dick I've talked to, even those among your detractors, who'd be afraid to walk down the most hellish alley in LA with you.” He nods as if to emphasize his sincerity, leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes smiling. “Crucci, I know a lot more about your activities of late than I'm revealing. The fact I'm going to let you walk out of here with your badge and service weapon ought to speak volumes about how I feel about you.”

There's no reason for me to say a word now.

He smiles as if he appreciates my silence, even admires it. “You've built up too much capital with higher-ups in this department to let petty shenanigans with Sacci spoil better opportunities. Got it?”

“I do.”

“Do I have to mention that you get no more chances with me?”

“Not now, no.”

He leans back in his chair and studies me some more, stroking his chin. “Okay, Crucci, the ass-reaming is now officially over….Now, about the Khemra case. I watched you bust Oliver's chops from the monitoring room down the hall, and in my opinion you did a good job on him. Tell me, do you think he killed that girl?”

“I think it's too early in the investigation to say one way or another.”

He likes this. “Right answer. There may be a helluva lot more to this than meets the eye.”

“I agree.”

“I still haven't found you a partner. If you need help with administrative issues or backup at an interview, call me. Don't get yourself in a jam.”

“I won't.”

“Good, we are finally on the same page, Detective I Leonardo Dominic Crucci. Go forth and sin no more.” He forms his hand into a pistol and squeezes off an imaginary round at my head. Having cued my departure, he returns his focus to the open file before him like a man who doesn't have a debt in the world.

I park on the second level in the northeast corner of the parking garage on South Hope, the one between Eleventh and Twelfth, exit with briefcase in hand and take the stairs up two levels. Just outside the stairway door, in the northeast corner, is the Econoline van backed into a parking slip next to Joe's dark-blue Lincoln Town Car. The van has “Edie's Housecleaning” splashed on the side panel above a cartoonish depiction of the face of a smiling housecleaner, a cover-girl Latina with a red bandana knotted on her forehead.

Two men I know only as Andrei and Bulgin follow my every move from their positions in the cab of the van. It would be unusual for two white men of similar age to be more different. Bulgin, the driver, has mountain ridges for shoulders, grappling hooks for hands, a head as round and bald as a boulder, and predatory eyes that would make a T. rex run for cover. Andrei, Tarasov's nephew, could be Jesus Christ himself with his slight build, gentle, brown eyes and shoulder-length light-brown hair, neatly parted down the middle. Bulgin's face is as clean-shaven as a drill instructor's, while Andrei's beard is almost as thick as his accent: “Viktor and Sacci wait for you, big dude,” he says, “in back,” turning his eyes toward the side door.

Michael “The Hook” Fecarotta stands guard outside the sliding door. He eyes me through his wraparound Bollés and says, “About time you got here,” and, backhanded, raps twice on the door.

I step to within a foot of his face and look down at him. “Big talk for a chauffeur.”

This does not faze him. “One day I'll take you for a ride, Crucci, one day when you least expect it.”

Before I can respond, the side door slides open and I am blown back by the rush of pungent smoke and Viktor Tarasov's high-wattage smile. Stooping over, he says, “Big Man!” his Slavic eyes, bright green with a touch of Asiatic in their orbits, dancing with delight. Those piercing eyes, cleft chin, and well-coiffed dishwater-blonde hair all say “leading man” to most people, but the intricate workings of his mind always make me think “producer.”

“Come,
come,
” he says, grunting as he grabs the shoulder of my sport coat to haul me inside. He guides me to my left and playfully shoves me into one of the two captain's chairs that face the driver's compartment, the one closest to the door.

I tilt my right ear to the Russian rock 'n' roll blaring from a speaker. “Raw,” I say to Viktor. “Very raw. Who is that singing?”

He is delighted by my question, simply delighted, his eyes going wide and his smile lighting up as if posing for a magazine cover. “Ahh, is Zoopark, Mike Naumenko singing ‘Blues de Moscou.' ” He pats his breast. “Very popular when I am a young man.”

“How you doin', Babe?” Joe says from the captain's chair across from me on the other side of the van, frowning, preoccupied with his thoughts and whatever he is drinking from a blue stainless-steel tumbler. A cigarette smoldering in his right hand, Joe looks even older than usual today, hunched over and swaddled in a light-blue sport coat, his white silk shirt open at the collar.

In one motion Tarasov slides the door shut and plops back into the chair directly across from mine. He reaches down into the built-in cooler to his right side, grabs a can of Miller High Life from the ice and underhands it to me.

I catch it, flinching, just before it pops me in the nose.

The amusement that breezes across Joe's face disappears just as quickly. “Any problems at the Venetian?”

“Darkie was tedious,” I say, “but otherwise, no, no problems.” Fitting the unopened beer in the armrest's cup holder, I look up to address both men. “But Jimmy told us something you two should know about.”

Tarasov cocks his left eyebrow.

Joe shakes his head and purses his lips, sighs, always the weary executive, and wiggles the fingers of his cigarette hand at me in an
Okay, give it to me
gesture.

“He said Mosko told him you guys were planning to heist a Cambodian stash house.”

“Yeah, Mosko said he told Jimmy that,” Joe says, bored, “during the chat me and Michael had with him this morning. When did Jimmy say we're supposed to do this?”

“This week. Tomorrow, I think he said.”

Viktor, as close to panic as I have ever seen him, says, “Did he know the location of the supposed target?”

“He said a plumbing company on Fifty-Third, near the Pueblo Del Rio projects.”

Viktor turns to Joe, his brow furrowed. “We talk about this on phone yesterday, eh?”

Joe sips his drink, nodding, and says, “When I was in my car, yeah, before Nico had it swept for bugs.” He shakes his head, pats Tarasov's knee. “Don't worry, Mosko didn't tell nobody else. We can go on with the job unless—”

“You sure, my friend?” Viktor says.

Joe waves him off. “Mosko would've told us, believe me. He was beggin' for a bullet before the Hook was even half finished with him. I didn't grant his request 'til long after he'd told me about dishin' to Jimmy. Hell, we didn't finish him off 'til he ratted on his brother for helpin' bug my car”—a blank look at Viktor—“and his brother's been dead over ten years now.”

Tarasov chuckles.

Joe says, “If he'd told anybody other than Jimmy, we'd know.”

Tarasov looks relieved.

To me, Joe says, “What about Jimmy? He admit to telling anybody?”

“No,” I say, “and he would have. He was scared shitless after Darkie stabbed him in the face with a steak knife and threatened to pluck his eyes out.”

Tarasov makes a face.

Joe says, “Yeah, Jimmy always was a big pussy, couldn't take pain.” To Tarasov, he says, “Darkie's out of the picture, too. So nobody knows about our plan except me and you. I say it's still a go.”

Tarasov nods, then smiles as if thinking of a joke. He reaches over to nudge Joe with his elbow. “What about Big Man here? He knows.” A wink. “Listen, maybe we whack him now, eh?”

“Yeah, maybe we should,” Joe says, not smiling half as much as Viktor is.

Not 100 percent certain Joe is kidding, I roll my eyes before saying, “Jimmy told us something else you might want to know about. He said you got the information about the big delivery at the stash house from a Cambodian whore.”

Viktor gives Joe a hard look. “We talk also about her on phone yesterday.”

Joe purses his lips and shakes his head, seemingly disgusted. “She stood me up last night. I don't want to talk about her no more.” He drinks from his tumbler.

I say, “A
whore
stood you up?”

Tarasov says, “What if she tell, um,
others
what she tell you about stash house delivery?”

Joe says, “She won't. And if she does, who cares? She doesn't have the slightest idea who I am. The worst that happens is the shipment gets cancelled.” He takes a drink before saying to me, “Jimmy say anything else we should know about?”

“There was something else, yeah,” I say. “He said you two were planning to rig a race at Hollywood Park this week.”

Joe shrugs. “That fell through this morning.”

“Ahh, man,” Tarasov says. “Say it ain't so, Joe.”

Joe shakes his head. “It's true, Viktor. The fuckin' trainer went in the goddamn hospital last night, heart attack or something.”

Tarasov shrugs an
Oh, well.
“So, Big Man,” he says, slapping my knee, “you need more work? We have a Macky pimp who does not wish to employ my women.” His eyes go wide. “Can you believe? Good, strong Ukrainian girls I offer him, and all for very reasonable percentage.” A wink. “You convince him to change mind, eh?”

“Viktor, we have a more important job for him than that. We need him on this stash-house thing tomorrow night.”

Viktor nods. “Yes, yes. We do not have enough men for that.”

“Sorry, guys, today was my last job for a long time.” This is not a true statement; I have one more job, one that Joe and Viktor know nothing about. “Once again, respectfully, I am passing on your offers. I've been busier than I wanted to be and do not need the business. Things are working for me just fine.”

Coming out of his funk, Joe harrumphs, shifts his buns around in his seat, and leans forward, ready to take another shot at me, when Tarasov intervenes: “Ah, Big Man, you doing good now, eh?”

Eyeing Joe briefly first, I say to Tarasov, “Well, I guess I need to refine that statement a little, Viktor: I
should
be doing good. See, certain people have
promised
to pay me the kind of money that would put me in a nice place financially, yes. And I have performed the services said people contracted with me to perform. But, so far…” I hold up empty hands.

“Way to go, Viktor,” Joe says, exhaling a nimbus cloud of smoke his way.

Tarasov winces and rubs his lower jaw as if stricken by a sudden toothache.

After a few seconds of these humps moving with all the dispatch of quadriplegics, I say to them, “Did I not make the purpose of this meeting clear?”

“You did,” Joe says, sighing, reaching down and reluctantly unsnapping his briefcase.

Tarasov simultaneously parts the blue velour curtains behind him and snaps his fingers. “Andrei.”

Andrei passes a thick manila envelope to Tarasov, keeping it below windshield level so no one outside can see the item he is passing. Tarasov closes the curtain and tosses the envelope in my lap. Joe follows suit by tossing his envelope on top of it.

Ahh, two pleasing little thumps in my lap; the warm tingles coursing through my loins are not unlike those that run through me when a naked stripper gives me a lap dance.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” I say, and lean forward to deposit the envelopes in my new eel-skin briefcase.

Smiling now, Tarasov says, “Ahh, Big Man,
now
you doing good?”

“Viktor,” I say, snapping the flap shut, “to understand exactly how good I am doing, consider that the last money I received from any source came from the California Prison Industry Authority—about two weeks ago, more or less.”

“Ahh, yes,” Tarasov says. “I remember, too, those big paydays when we work in prison warehouse together. Hah, make us
flush,
eh, guy?”

Joe does not like to be reminded of the time I spent in prison on his behalf, so his obsession with money must get the best of him when he says, “Uh, how much
did
they pay you guys?”

Tarasov says, “Best way to describe is to calculate the many hours we have to work warehouse to make same amount of money what we just give Big Man.” He looks up into the space above Joe's head for an instant, says, “Over three hundred and seexty-three thousand hours—
hours,
understand?
Hours.
”

Viktor and I laugh.

Joe just shakes his head. “So you guys got paid what, then, sixty, seventy cents an hour?”

“A great guesstimate,” I say. “It was fifty-five cents an hour they paid us.”

“Hey,” Joe says to me, finally something resembling levity in his voice, “who was it that said crime don't pay?”

I smile. “Me and Sam talked about that story this morning.”

Joe turns to Viktor. “You heard the story about how Babe got his nickname?”

He nods, smiles. “Balboa, yes, yes. Big Man and me have much time to tell stories in prison.”

“I bet,” Joe says, shaking his head, “workin' in a warehouse together. I tell ya, I'd love to have a video of you two smoothies working in that fucking place. What kind of warehouse was it?”

“A mattress and furniture warehouse,” I say. “The Q had a mattress factory and a furniture factory. I drove a forklift.”

“So what did you do, Babe, load the shit into trucks?”

“Sometimes I did, yeah. Other times I hauled materials off trucks and stacked it on big shelves. But I always used a forklift, never my hands.”

“Skilled laborer, huh?”

“Much skill, yes,” Tarasov says to him. “My friend Joe, Big Man have so much skill with forklift, he once used fork to skin head of nigger like a avocado.”

Joe lowers his head, massages his right temple with the tips of two fingers.

“Viktor,” I say, “you've told Joe the Liberty Bell Brown story, right?”

“He's tried,” Joe says, tired, “but I don't think I can stop him today. Your presence winds this guy up tighter than a cheap watch.”

Tarasov ignores Joe's comment, earnest as a priest as he speaks to him in a soft voice. “You know why they call nigger Liberty Bell?”

Joe says, “ 'Cause he was from Philadelphia?”

“That, too, yes,” Viktor says, “but there is two other reason. One is Liberty Bell's schlong-dong.” Tarasov puts his forearm between his legs, his elbow fitted into his crotch, and repeatedly bangs his fist against the inside of his knees, going, “Bong bong bong bong.”

Joe winces, goes, “Oh, Jee-sus Chr—”

“But there was yet another reason everybody called the guy Liberty Bell,” I say to Joe. “Guess what it was.”

Joe pinches his chin between his thumb and forefinger, scrunches his eyebrows.

Tarasov pokes his temple with his finger. “His head
cracked,
dude, cracked. Liberty Bell
cracked
in head.”

Joe looks up and sighs. “Fuckin' prison stories…All right, Viktor, spit it out. What made Babe fuck up old Liberty Bell? He try to make Babe his bitch?”

“No, no, he try to make
me
his bitch. Um, in a way, but what he
say
he want more than my boodie is my money. Money for he and the gangbanging
bros
he had, the Black Go-rillas.”

“Not go-rilla,” I say to Joe. “Gue-rilla, as in guerilla warfare. They called themselves the Black Guerilla Family.”

“I know who they—”

Tarasov interrupts Joe by scratching his underarm, grunting, “Oo-oo-oo, they all go-rillas to me, Big Man….Listen, Joe, I am new fish, okay? Been at Q, oh, maybe one month. See, the Go-rillas think I am rich pretty boy, yes? Think I am weak because no Russian gangs in Q at the time to keep my back.”