Restless Waters (19 page)

The first thing I saw was a bureau, its drawers jerked open and their contents torn apart. Then I heard the most ghastly sound—a gurgling, as if someone were submerged and blowing bubbles underwater. Each one
pop, pop, popped
as they rose and hit the surface, exploding in the air like miniature bombs.

The strange noise came from somewhere on the other side of the disheveled king-sized bed in the middle of the room. I moved closer, my pulse beating wildly.

Lord, protect me from all things both lethal and demonic,
I quietly prayed.

The sound came from where Stas Yakimov lay sprawled
in a pool of blood, with his chest slashed open and his throat cut.

“Oh my God,” was all I could utter, too stunned to say anything else.

Yakimov looked as though he’d been sliced, diced, and carved alive. Then I realized that Stas was staring at me with glassy eyes, his lips moving as though he were trying to speak. I slipped the gun into the back of my pants and knelt down beside him.

A bout of light-headedness caught me in its grip me as the warmth of his blood oozed through my jeans. It was followed by a wave of nausea, so that I broke into a cold sweat.

Get a grip, Porter!
I reprimanded myself.

But the viscous fluid continued to leak through my clothes, where it stuck to my soul like adhesive. The sickly sweet scent filled the room, as well as my nose, making me feel woozy.

“You’ll be all right, Stas,” I lied, trying to convince both of us.

But that only seemed to agitate him even more. Redtinged globules rose in his throat, as if they were tiny cartoon captions, each of which bore some kind of message. All the while, he continued to frantically gurgle. The sound was that of a drowning man. He’d be lucky if he lasted another two minutes.

“Who did this to you?” I asked. “Is there any way you can let me know?”

He responded by latching on to my wrist with a strength that surprised me. The bubbles came faster and more furious as he continued to try to speak, his eyes drilling into mine, as if desperate to tell me something.

“Save your energy, Stas,” I pleaded, aware that it was a lost cause.

He refused to let go. Rather than attempt to speak, his eyes now rolled up to the ceiling. Then Yakimov squeezed my wrist, as if demanding I follow his gaze. I did so and saw that a mirror hung over the bed. We were framed within the looking glass as if playing out a death tableau. But something else had begun to appear in its reflection, as well.

It slithered across the mirrored surface, as if sliding onto a movie screen. I watched in stunned silence as a figure dressed in black now silently approached from behind. The man’s face was covered by a mask, revealing only a pair of cold, calculating eyes—ones that were fixed on me.

I quickly reached back to get my pistol, my fingers tightly wrapping around its butt. I started to pull it from my pants when something sharp slashed at my arm. The pain seared through my skin and stole my breath away, as though I’d been branded with a white-hot iron.

I jerked away, horrified, as the .38 flew from my grip and slid under the bed, in a perverse game of hide-and-seek. Then glancing back around I saw the man about to attack again. I could almost feel him smiling behind his mask.

I wasted no time, but again rolled out of the way as fast as I could. The black clad figure followed, dogged as the Grim Reaper, determined not to let me escape. Stumbling to my feet, I raced across the room. I almost made it to the door, when I tripped on something on the floor, and fell down hard on my hands and knees.

I turned to get up, only to see my archangel of death hovering over me. However, rather than a sickle, he held an unusual type of weapon in his hand—one that appeared to be oval and was attached to his wrist with a loop. In addition, some sort of studs were embedded all around the periphery.

He raised it high above his head, preparing to come down for the kill. I steadied myself, having little choice but to fight to the bitter end—though without a weapon of my own, the game was virtually over. I took a deep breath, not wanting to think about what would happen next.

I was just about to lash out with my legs, when a deep voice came booming from the living room and raced down the hallway.

“What in the hell’s going on in this damn place?”

A second intruder now succeeded in startling both of us. My assailant’s attention was drawn to the doorway, and I took advantage of the moment to try and kick him in the knees. But he was prepared for such a move, and quickly jumped out of the way.

“You got lucky this time,” he hissed, while running for the open bedroom window. “Wise up and take this as a warning to stay out of business that doesn’t concern you.”

He slipped through the portal as I dashed to the bed and, reaching beneath it, managed to grab hold of my gun. At the same time, Vinnie Bertucci lumbered into the room brandishing an Uzi while taking in the scene.

“Quick! He escaped through there,” I yelled, and pointed to the open window.

Bertucci hurried toward it and, sticking his head outside, tried to search the grounds.

“I don’t see nothin’. The guy must already be gone,” he responded.

By the time Vinnie turned back around, my gun was pointed at him.

He stared at me as his face began to glower.

“What the hell kinda game are you playing, New Yawk?” he ominously questioned.

Funny he should ask. As far as I was concerned, his tim
ing seemed a bit too convenient. Besides, I no longer knew exactly who to trust, or what was going on.

“I’d like a few questions answered,” I told him.

Unbelievable. The guy didn’t flinch, but had the balls to respond by aiming his own gun at me.

“Okay now. You got a choice. You can either put that thing down, or we can play shootout at the OK corral. Only our gunfight’s gonna take place in some shit hole in Hawaii.”

I had to admit, the man had a way with words. I looked at Vinnie and knew that I couldn’t shoot him, but was unsure of what to do next.

“I don’t know what your problem is, Porter, but you’re treading on dangerous ground. Besides, you’re in no shape to take me on,” he warned.

He was right about that. I was suddenly aware that I wasn’t feeling too good. The realization opened the door for a flood of pain to kick in. I looked down and saw that my arm was bleeding. At the same time, I remembered Santou’s words of warning not to trust Vinnie.

“Don’t make me do something stupid that I’ll regret. You’re gonna have to trust me for now,” Bertucci advised, as if he could read my mind. “The way I see it, you’ve run out of options.”

I looked at him standing there. His massive frame was covered in a pink Hawaiian shirt with hula girls playing ukuleles, and I almost wanted to laugh. Then again, I was beginning to feel a little light-headed. I lowered my gun, knowing that Vinnie was right. If I tried to fight him, I’d lose.

“That’s better,” he responded, and padded toward me.

Vinnie removed the gun from my hand, and then grabbed one of Stas’s shirts off the floor. He couldn’t have been more gentle as he bound it around my wound.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, anyway?” he gruffly questioned.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I walked in here and found Stas. Then I was attacked,” I explained.

“Yeah. A thing like that happens, I guess you can get a little crazy,” Vinnie grudgingly conceded.

He then moved over to Yakimov.

“Holy crap. Whoever did this, sure as hell filleted the guy,” he said, almost in admiration.

“Is he still alive?” I questioned, no longer hearing the popping of bubbles.

“Hell, no. Would you wanna be in his condition?” Bertucci responded, with a small laugh.

I looked at the man and a shiver kicked through me. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

Vinnie looked at me closely and his eyes narrowed. “Now, why would you think I’d know something like that?”

“No reason,” I said, but my mind was going a mile a minute. Somehow I didn’t buy the fact that their only connection had been Viagra.

Vinnie walked over, and I involuntarily flinched. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

“That cut isn’t deep, but it sure looks nasty,” he said, loosening the shirt to examine my wound. “Come on. We gotta get you to a doctor, pronto. I know of someone where there’ll be no questions asked.”

“And why would I care if there were?” I countered.

Vinnie shrugged. “Maybe you don’t. In which case, I’ll drop you off at a hospital, if you want. You can phone the cops from there. Or you can stay here by yourself, call in the troops, and deal with them right now. The choice is yours.”

I knew that getting involved with the police would only
place me in even deeper trouble. According to my boss, I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. Should he find out, I’d never get to the bottom of what was really going on. Rather, it would be swiftly covered up, especially if Yakimov had been embroiled in the shark-fin trade.

Funny, how a single incident can lead to a critical decision in one’s life. I could either play this by the book, or try to hide the fact that I’d ever been here.

Vinnie had already removed his shoes and was using paper towels to wipe away his bloody footprints. He must have gone into the kitchen at some point, because he was disposing of them in a black plastic bag.

“Would you mind getting rid of mine also?” I requested.

Vinnie gazed at me and slowly began to smile.

“Well, well. I guess you made your decision, then. You wouldn’t happen to have another pair of pants with you, by any chance?” he questioned.

I looked at my bloody jeans.

“Yeah. In my Ford,” I replied.

I’d gotten used to carrying around a change of clothing, never knowing when I might need it.

“And what about shoes and a shirt?” he inquired, as if going through a mental check list.

“Uh-huh. Those too,” I replied.

“Okay then. Let me finish up here and we’ll get ’em on our way out.”

I took off my shoes, grabbed some paper towels, and began to try and help.

“Slow down there, New Yawk. I don’t need you bleeding all over this nice, new clean floor. Why don’t you just watch and wait,” he suggested.

I hated standing around feeling helpless. But he was right. I didn’t want my arm to start bleeding any worse.

Vinnie did such a bang-up job, he could have been in the cleaning business.

“Okay, the coast is clear,” he said, having quickly peeked outside before we left the house.

I walked barefoot to the Ford and grabbed my satchel of clothing.

“Do you think you can drive a little ways?” Vinnie asked. “We can’t leave either of our vehicles here. There’s a store close by. We’ll ditch your Explorer there for a while.”

“No problem,” I said, though I was feeling a bit faint.

“Oh yeah. And change your pants and shoes before you get in the car. You can throw them in here,” he instructed, handing me a black plastic bag.

I headed into the backyard once more, and did as I’d been told. The dogs watched me strip like a bunch of four-legged voyeurs. Had I known there’d be an audience, I might have been tempted to wear nicer panties. Then I followed Vinnie down the street to a local mom-and-pop grocery store.

“Wait in the Lincoln. I’ll take care of this,” Vinnie said, and disappeared inside the shop.

I opened the Lincoln Continental’s passenger door. A plastic drop cloth had been carefully laid over the seat. Vinnie must have had it tucked away in the trunk of his car. I didn’t even want to contemplate the reason he was carrying it around with him.

“Okay, your Ford will be fine here,” he said, slipping in beside me. “Now let’s go take care of that cut. Here’s the address. Just get me there.”

The information was written on a piece of flowery notepaper. I pulled out a local map, which guided us into the down-and-dirty outskirts of Honolulu. We ended up at a dilapidated house just off an H1 Freeway ramp. It was indistinguishable from the other dwellings on the block, all of which had a bunch of roosters and hens clucking in their front yards.

“You stay here while I check this guy out,” Vinnie directed.

Bertucci would have made one hell of a micro-manager.

I watched as he knocked on the front door. A man answered, listened to Vinnie speak, and then nodded. Little Italy turned and waved for me to come in.

I got out of the car and walked through the yard, making my way past a cluster of chickens that pecked at my shoes. Then I was whisked inside and led into a back room. Funny, but it didn’t look anything like a doctor’s office. The mint green walls were peeling, the room held two metal chairs, an examining table, and a desk with a bunch of crap on it.

A man dressed in an Aloha shirt, polyester pants, and flip-flops approached. He was small, bald, and had a head that was shaped like a cue ball. All it needed was a number printed on the side. He removed my makeshift bandage and began to cluck as though he were one of the chickens.

“Is it bad?” I asked, not liking the sound of that at all. “And I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

I figured knowing that he was a real doctor might help to make me feel better.

“Doc will do,” he replied, not bothering with further formalities.

Ooh, yeah. That was a lot more reassuring.

“I can tell you this much. You’re a very fortunate girl,” Doc confided. “I’ve never seen a cut quite like it. There could have been real damage had it gone any deeper. Whoever did this used a very unusual knife. I’d love to know what it was. Anyway, I’ll get my equipment and be right with you.”

I waited until he’d left the room.

“Are you sure this guy knows what he’s doing?” I asked Vinnie.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. He’s a real pro,” Little Italy insisted.

But I had the feeling that he was trying to sound convincing.

Doc No-name came back with a medical bag that contained lots of goodies. I winced as he began to clean my wound.

“You wanna hold my hand?” Vinnie offered. “I don’t mind if you squeeze it.”

I took him up on his offer as Doc No-name threaded a needle. I clutched his paw tightly as the good doctor began to stitch up my arm.