GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (9 page)

I was hoping she’d say that.

CHAPTER 12 - SYRNIKIS

I got up Friday morning just before dawn, kissed a sleeping Alice, and headed back to Staten Island. Traffic was minimal and I was home by 7:30 AM. I wanted to get an early start to Pulaski and figured I’d grab a bite on the road. I was packing for my trip when my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I saw Arman Rahm holding a white paper bag in one hand and a brown one in the other. Maks Kalugin stood behind him. A black Mercedes sedan was in my driveway.

“This would have been too easy,” Rahm said casually. “If I was so inclined, I could have shot you dead.”

“Not holding two bags.”

“Yes. Of course. I meant Maks could have shot you.”

“Much obliged,” I said as I waved them past me into the house. “Your point?”

“Be more cautious opening your door.” He put the bags on my kitchen table. “In fact, just be more cautious, period. I have it from a reliable source that you are to be killed.”

I closed the door and followed them into my kitchen. The smell of pastry was strong.

“First things first,” I said. “What’s in the bags?”

“Coffee and some syrnikis. Traditional Russian delicacy.”

Arman put the bags on the table and Maks opened them, first taking three large coffees in steaming containers out of the white one with the big clown on it. I put some plates, utensils and napkins on my small kitchen table and Kalugin started to distribute the pastries from the other bag. His movements were efficient, even dainty, considering that his hands were rough and scarred. Garroting will do that.

“My cook made them,” Rahm said. “They go very well with coffee.”

“No Russian coffee?”

“MacDonald’s. It’s the best.”

I picked up one of the pastries, which looked like a small, oblong-shaped pancake. It was crispy on the outside but was obviously filed with something.

“What’s inside? Borscht?”

“I don’t know why we bother,” Kalugin muttered.

“Just eat it,” Rahm said.

I took a bite and was rewarded with a soft creamy center. No one had to shoot me. I could feel my arteries hardening. But it was delicious, and I said so. Arman passed me a coffee.

“Alton, do you know that it doesn’t matter what size coffee you order at MacDonald’s, it still only costs a dollar? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone order a small or medium?”

I had often wondered about that myself.

“How sure are you?”

He looked at me.

“I just bought them. A dollar each. Same as the other sizes.”

“No. I mean how sure are you that someone wants to kill me?”

“Someone probably always wants to kill you,” Kalugin said with a mouthful of syrnikis, “but this is a paid job.”

“How reliable is your source?”

“I trust her implicitly,” Rahm said. 

“Her?”

“Veronica. You met the lady in my office.”

“The lioness.”

“Yes. I allow her a certain amount of freedom to pursue outside work, as long as it does not interfere with my interests. She was recently offered the contract on you and came to me for approval.” He smiled. “Which, of course, I did not give.”

“Thank you. Or was it a question of money?”

“You are being flip. It was a great deal of money.”

“More than you are worth,” Kalugin chimed in.

“Just eat your slinky.”

“It’s a syrniki,” Maks said.

“I’m curious, Arman. I thought Maks took care of all your problems. Why is the she working for you? Or all the slinkies finally slowing him down.”

“That $20,000 is looking better all the time,” Kalugin said.

“Maks has not lost a step,” Rahm said. “But it occurred to me that some assignments are better handled with a woman’s touch. Maks would agree that his powers of seduction are probably somewhat crude. And he’s not very good at pillow talk.”

“But I am good with pillows,” Kalugin interjected.

“Twenty grand,” I said. “I think I see a pattern here.”

“I thought you might,” Arman said, wiping some cream off his upper lip.

“Does Miss Personality know who wants me dead?”

“No. The request came through a middleman working for another middleman.”

“A lot of that going around. So, not much chance of finding out. Now, for the $20,000 question. Does she know who eventually got the contract?”

“She does not. But since they approached Veronica we can assume that it is someone else local. Apparently, speed is of the essence.”

There was a pastry left. I knew Rahm was a one-syrniki kind of guy. I looked at Kalugin.

“Want to split it?”

He nodded, and I did.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “I haven’t found out a damn thing. And neither has Levine.”

“Just the fact that you are asking questions about Panetta is apparently enough to put a target on your back,” Rahm said. “Which means his death was almost surely ordered locally, or at least by someone trying to protect a local interest. We were circumspect in making inquiries, as I am sure you and your fat detective friend were, but it was inevitable someone would get wind of the situation.”

“He wanted someone to find out,” Kalugin said.

“Of course,” Rahm said. “Kick the hornet’s nest and see what happens. A good plan, if a bit shortsighted.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I said, with a bit more confidence than I actually felt.

“I know you won’t listen, but might I suggest you lay low for a while, or at least take some precautions. Things are quiet in my world. I could lend Maks to you.”

“Thanks, but no. If he saves my life any more, I’ll have to marry him. Besides, as it happens I’m going out of town.”

“Where?”

“Upstate. Near Lake Ontario. Where Panetta came from.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it is will be more than I’ve found out here.”

“Don’t assume you won’t be followed there,” Kalugin said. “The people who want you dead may figure that’s your next move.”

“I may have a chance of spotting them better up there if they do follow me. Not as many people in the boondocks.”

Maks gave me one of his rare smiles.

“How good are you at spotting a rifle with a telescopic sight a mile away?”

He always knew the right thing to say.

I walked them out.

“I appreciate the heads up, Arman.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Rahm said. “Alice would kill me if I let someone shoot you.”

***

I drove to my office to pick up the files on Panetta that Abby had assembled. When I got there she looked at me and cocked her head toward my door.

“You have a visitor. She said she’d wait in your office.”

“Who is it?”

“Teresa Yorke.”

Abby smiled. I hadn’t told her anything about my dinner with the Yorkes but I sensed that she had picked up some vibrations. What is it about women?

I walked toward my office.

“Maybe you should leave the door ajar,” Abby said.

“Just keep the fire extinguisher handy,” I said.

I went into my office, shutting my door behind me.

“Mrs. Yorke, what a pleasant surprise.”

She was sitting in one of my client chairs, bouncing one shapely leg on the other. She had very good ankles. I walked up to her and extended my hand. She took it and held on a moment longer than necessary.

“Please, Alton, call me Terry.”

I sat behind my desk. She was wearing a green floral sun dress with a pleated, flared skirt and a thin black belt. I thought it was a bit too early in the season and she was a little old for the look, but I couldn’t argue with the result. She was stunning. I recalled her comment about her bra and it was soon evident that she again wasn’t wearing one. When she recrossed her legs I caught a glimpse of thigh that made me suspect that her bra wasn’t the only undergarment missing in action. I wondered if we weren’t headed toward a
Basic Instinct
moment. I cleared my throat.

“What can I do for you, Terry?”

“I’ve been meaning to call you ever since our dinner. I was very impressed with you. Such an interesting man. I knew you were a private investigator, of course, but then I did a little research. You really have had some interesting cases. I think you might be just the man for us.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not happy with the security for Nathaniel’s campaign. I would like you to come on board and supervise it. Make changes where you think they are needed.”

She recrossed her legs again. Maybe she was uncomfortable. I know I was.

“I didn’t notice any security at the ball park, Terry, other than the regular police that come out for any political event. And you came to the restaurant without security. Forgive me, but running for Borough President of Staten Island isn’t exactly a dangerous proposition. I’m not sure I could be of any help.”

“There have been threats.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Oh, phone calls. Emails. Some very nasty.”

She reached into her purse and passed a printout across to me. Yes, definitely braless. I looked at the printout. It contained some vicious comments, mostly about Nathaniel Yorke’s conservative politics and carpetbagger status. But none were worse than some of the email comments and letters to the editor printed in the local paper. They were similar to most of the comments made about any candidate by the yahoos who used the Internet to vent their spleens. 

“Anything specific? Threatening violence?”

“Not overtly. Otherwise we would have gone to the police. But I don’t want to make a big thing out of it and have Nathaniel look like a wimp. I thought if you hung around the campaign, unobtrusively, you might be able to thwart any real problems.”

She did the leg routine again. That verdict was also in. No panties.

“Terry,” I said, trying to keep the hoarseness out of my voice, “I can thwart with the best of them. But it seems that what you are experiencing is normal for any campaign. People just being stupid. You don’t need me. If you are really worried, hire a couple of security people. But I think it would be a waste of time and money.”

“It’s our time, and we have plenty of money.”

“What does Bowles think about the idea?”

“Claude? He works for us. He’ll do what I tell him.”

Especially if you cross your legs, I thought. I decided I wanted no part of the Yorke campaign.

“Terry, I’m afraid I have to pass. I’m leaving today on a case I’m working. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

She looked more interested than annoyed.

“It must be pretty important to turn me down. Not many men do.”

I smiled noncommittally and stood. So did she. I walked her to the door. She suddenly turned and stood close to me. I could smell her perfume and feel the heat radiating from her body. She reached up suddenly and pulled me down for a kiss. Her tongue snaked into my mouth and her breasts pressed into my chest. I could feel her erect nipples through her thin sun dress. She ground her pelvis into mine, felt what she wanted to feel and broke the kiss.

“I thought so,” she said. “You are attracted to me.”

I pulled her arms away, gently.

“That’s because I’m not dead. You are quite a woman, Terry. But I’m spoken for. And last time I looked, so are you.”

She took it well. She smoothed her dress and wiped lipstick from my face with her thumb.

“You don’t know what you are missing.”

I opened the door and she walked briskly away. Abby looked at me and then reached down and picked something up. I laughed. It was a small red cylinder.

“You need a bigger fire extinguisher,” I said.

CHAPTER 13 - PULASKI

I broke up the six-hour drive to Pulaski, through some of the most-beautiful country in the United States, with a stop for lunch in a town a few miles off I-81 south of Syracuse. I had hoped to find a charming local restaurant, maybe one with Norman Rockwell posters on the wall and a wood-paneled bar. Instead, I found strip mall after strip mall with the usual run of sub, donut, and bagel shops interspersed with fast-food restaurants: Perkins, Applebee’s, Wendy’s, White Castle, Burger King, Chili’s, Carabba’s, Longhorn’s, Outback, MacDonald’s, Quiznos and Taco Bell. I have to admit I was sorely tempted by the White Castle. I finally settled on Luigi’s, a small Italian restaurant across the street from LaCivita’s, a Bada-Bing wannabee strip club with a full parking lot. How did I decide? I went into the strip club and, ignoring the gravity-defying boobs of the pole dancers, asked one of the roaming bouncers, who could have been a clone of Tony at the Deep Gulag, how the chow was at Luigi’s.

“Best Italian food in 20 miles,” he said. “Only place the bosses will eat. Try the eggplant.”

That was a good enough recommendation for me. Luigi’s wouldn’t have lasted long serving mediocre Italian food to the bent-noses who ran LaCivita’s.

I skipped the eggplant in favor of the best veal piccata I’ve ever eaten. There was actually a Luigi, who sat down with me during my second glass of the excellent house white wine. I wasn’t like his run-of-the-mill customers from across the street and he enjoyed chatting with me, especially after I told him he knocked the piccata out of the park. He even sent me out a homemade cannoli, on the house, to go with my espresso. Who needs Norman Rockwell and a wood-paneled bar?

***

Pulaski, population 2,365 according to the sign on US Route 11 leading into it, is on the eastern shore of Lake Ontario. After passing the usual assortment of furniture stores, car washes, liquor stores, delis, motels, car dealers and trailer parks, I spotted a sign in front of a small two-story Colonial that said “Chamber of Commerce.” I pulled into a small parking lot next to the Chamber.

You can find out everything you need to know about a town on the Internet, but I still like to pick up some local color locally. A stand just inside the front door was loaded with brochures. There was a woman behind a reception desk, where more material was piled. I smiled at her and began looking at the brochures. Many of them had photos of large fish and animals with antlers. But when I twirled the stand I found one pamphlet that started off with a brief history of the town:

“Pulaski was incorporated on April 26, 1832, taking its current name from General Casimir Pulaski, a hero of the Revolutionary War. Prior to that, the city was known by various names, including Fishville and Salmon River. During most of its 181-year history, Pulaski was the site of hundreds of factories, thanks to its proximity to both the Salmon River and Lake Ontario, which greatly facilitated the movement of goods, particular wood and iron products. But the days when Pulaski was an industrial hub are long gone. Only a few large companies now call it home, including the Fulton Companies, Heathway, and Schoeller Technical Paper. Today, commerce in Pulaski revolves heavily around fishing and tourism. The Salmon River is named for the salmon that return to the river during the salmon run each fall, and is a major draw for sport fishing, as is nearby Lake Ontario. The fishing season’s highlight is the famous Salmon River Festival, held each year at the end of the season at the farmers' market. Summer tourism is also augmented because of the many parks and resorts in the area catering to thousands of campers. Pulaski’s extensive snowmobile trail system is connected to other trail systems throughout central and northern New York. Given the heavy amounts of lake-effect snow, there has been a large increase in winter tourism.”

The woman came out from behind her desk and asked me if I’d like a cup of coffee.

“We have a new Keurig,” she said proudly. “Makes one cup at a time. Regular, decaf and Hazelnut. Cocoa and tea, too.”

She was wearing a name tag that said “Kay.” I politely declined.

“Then how about a map of the area?”

I’m one of those people who can never turn down a map. My cars are always full of them. Open a glove compartment and it would look like an airbag deployed. You might be knocked into the rear seat.

“That would be great.”

It turned out to be a map put out by the Pulaski Chamber, with plenty of advertising from its members. I looked at the small print. The map was published by the Atlantic Publishing Company of Philadelphia. I was surprised and mentioned that to Kay.

“Atlantic Publishing produces most of the Chamber maps in the Northeast,” she said. “Hayden Wilbur, the owner, visits all the Chambers personally. Hundreds of them. Quite the salesman. We used to pay people to print our maps. We were getting robbed. Now, he pays
us
a cut of the proceeds he gets from all the advertisers. Win, win.”

It was a damn fine map. I thanked her and was about to leave when I had a thought. 

“Have you lived in Pulaski long?”

“Oh, dear, yes. I was born here.”

“Would you know anyone in the Panetta family? Particularly John Panetta?”

She gave me a curious look.

“Why, yes. Just about everyone in town knows who Gunner was.”

“Gunner?”

“Sure. That’s what everyone used to call him, after he got back from Vietnam. He’s a local hero. Won the Medal of Honor. What’s your interest in him?”

I took out my card, the one that says I’m a consultant to the N.Y.P.D. People can be prickly in upstate New York. I figured I’d better act semi-official.

“Does this have anything to do with his murder?”

“So, you know about that.”

“Of course. We were all outraged. What the hell is the matter with you people in New York City? A man like that not even safe in his own home.”

I could have pointed out that New York had one of the lowest big-city homicide rates in the nation, and that, in comparison, murder rates on Staten Island made the other four boroughs look like Beirut. But what would be the point?

“I came up here to talk to his cousin, Victoria Gustafson. Do you know her?”

“Sure. To speak to. See her at church and at the farmer’s market. Vicki keeps to herself. Doesn’t live in town. Her house is out near the Selkirk Lighthouse, a few miles to the west of the village at the mouth of the Salmon River. Everyone around here knows about the Gustafson place. It’s come up at the city council a couple of times. People complaining about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kind of an eyesore, some people say. Not appropriate for the tourist trade. I don’t think it’s all Vicki’s fault. More like her no-account husband’s. Or ex-husband, I should say. You’ll see what I mean when you get there. Luckily, it’s not the easiest place to find and you can’t see it from the road, so I don’t understand what the busybodies are so worked up about. I mean, is something an eyesore if nobody really sees it? Like does a tree falling in the woods make a sound?”

I was afraid Kay was about to launch into an existential debate, but she merely shrugged and said, “I could give you directions, if you like.”

The address was already plugged into my GPS system, but Gladys, that’s the name I’ve assigned to the voice on my GPS, has occasionally steered me wrong in rural areas. And when someone who has lived in an area all her life and works for a Chamber of Commerce says a place is hard to find, it probably is.

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Give me back that map.”

I did and Kay started tracing the route.

“You should visit the lighthouse while you’re out there. Selkirk is only one of four lighthouses in the United States that has a birdcage lantern, you know.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” I said. “I may be staying a couple of days. Can you recommend a motel?”

“Well, the lighthouse actually has a few rooms. Place is supposed to be haunted, so people are intrigued. Not that you look like someone who gets scared. But no matter, I’m sure they’re all booked.”

Kay looked around like the place was bugged, and then lowered her voice.

“I’m not supposed to recommend one Chamber member over another.” She tapped the map. “There’s a couple of them advertised on this. But for my money the nicest of the bunch is on the road just before the cutoff to the Gustafson house. And Fred and Angie could use the business. Don’t get me wrong, place is spotless and has a nice view of the river. I keep telling them to change the name. I think it turns people off.”

She circled one of the advertisements and handed the map back to me. I looked at what she’d circled: the Salmon Villa Motel.

“Sounds like an intestinal disease,” she said. “Might as well have called it Montezuma’s Revenge, for goodness sake. Thank God, they don’t have a restaurant.”

I thanked her and left. When I got to the parking lot a police car was just pulling out. It hadn’t been there when I arrived.