The Double (15 page)
“Will I see you again?” said Lois, just before he walked out the door.
King barked a laugh. “Count on it,” he said.
He drove his Monte Carlo up 257, back toward the Washington area, the high beams on and the windows down, country music on the radio, twenty thousand dollars cash in the trunk of the car. His nuts were empty and he felt good. Also, he was somewhat high with anticipation, thinking of what came next. There was another twelve thousand waiting for them tomorrow. That is, if Serge didn’t fuck things up. And maybe he’d get a look at the man who’d come into Charles Lumley’s shop. He halfway hoped this supposed car-buyer and Lumley’s visitor were one and the same. It had been a while since someone had showed him that kind of steel.
T
he strip mall had been built in Oxon Hill, near the Henson Creek Golf Course and Henson Creek Park. The developers had hoped that the golfers and park users would generate sufficient traffic to support a small low-rise shopping center, with a Kmart as an anchor. But the Kmart went belly-up, and the satellite establishments—a video store, a dollar store, a hair and nail salon, a cut-rate furniture house, and a Chinese/steak–and-cheese house—soon followed. The center was scheduled to be demolished, but in the meantime it stood intact, albeit with an empty parking lot where weeds sprouted out of its cracked asphalt and concrete.
Behind the buildings was a smaller lot designed for truck and tractor trailer deliveries, and at its edge, a narrow but dense forest. This was where the meet would take place.
After the traditional pre-job breakfast at the Tastee Diner in Silver Spring, where Lucas had his cream chipped beef on toast and Marquis flirted with the Ethiopian waitresses, Lucas and Marquis went to a nearby car rental spot. Lucas, who had a standing deal with the manager, chose a nondescript blue Ford Fusion with a V-6 package. Marquis went with a black Maxima that had more horses but also would not stand out in traffic. There in the lot Lucas handed Marquis a business-grade two-way Motorola radio and an earpiece with an in-line voice-activated mic.
“You remember how to use that?” said Lucas.
“I know the drill,” said Marquis, moving the black-framed glasses he wore for distance to the crown of his head so he could get a good look at the unit. “But I don’t like wearing this headset. I’m talking about all these cancer-causing radio waves shooting into my ear.”
“The waves go to the device.”
“Yeah, but how do those waves know to go
directly
to the device? I’m sayin, do they make a shortcut and go through my brain first to get there? Or do they enter through my
other
ear? Radio waves can’t think. They got no conscience.”
“You survived the war, and you’re worried about this?”
“Exactly. Life is precious, man. To go through all that and then come back and let technology kill me? Uh-uh. There’s too many women out here, waitin on Marquis Rollins to service them. I check out early, they’re gonna miss out.”
“Oh, so now you’re talking about yourself in the third person.”
“It’s just more dramatic like that. It makes my point.”
“Let’s go, LeBron. We got work to do.”
They took 295 and picked up the Indian Head Highway, keeping in contact via their radios as they made their way to the strip mall. On Livingston Road they passed a fire house and made other turnoffs and found the strip mall they had studied the day before. Lucas saw no cars in the front lot, but he kept driving south, down a hill, and Marquis followed. They parked and idled on the shoulder of the road, about a half mile past the mall. Lucas got out of his vehicle and walked to the Maxima as the driver’s side window slid down.
“There ain’t nothin around that mall but weeds and trees,” said Marquis. “Where can a handsome fellow like me be inconspicuous?”
“The meet time is in a half hour. You stay right here. I’m gonna go behind the mall and wait in my car. When he comes, I’ll key the mic and you’ll know it’s on. Drive up the road and park on the shoulder near the entrance to the parking lot. When he or they come out, you follow as best you can. I’ll be behind you. Stay in contact via your headset.”
“Sounds foolproof.”
“I know, it’s fucked. The dude chose a spot to his advantage. What can we do?”
“I
am
getting paid for this, right?”
“You mean, money? I bought you breakfast.”
“Monkey-lover.” Marquis was a churchgoing type who tried not to curse.
Lucas got back in his Ford. He drove up the road and around back of the strip mall, behind the loading docks of the former Kmart. To his left the land sloped up into a forest of oak, maple, and pine. He sat in the driver’s seat and listened to a mix he’d burned, guitar-driven Southern rock to keep his blood up. In the cup holder of the console rested the disposable cell that carried the number he’d given to Serge.
Lucas waited. There wasn’t anything else to do.
Louis Smalls, driving his police-package white Crown Vic, and Serge Bacalov, in the passenger seat, came up out of the south and headed for the strip mall. A half mile from the deserted mall, they both noticed a black Nissan Maxima parked on the side of the road.
“Slow down a little, Louis,” said Bacalov. “Just a little bit, eh.”
Smalls, wearing a bleached-out, holey red T-shirt, eased his foot off the accelerator so that Serge could get a quick look at the driver.
“Go,” said Bacalov, and Smalls hit the gas.
“What’s the problem?”
“Why he is parked there? There are no houses, no businesses. His flashers are not on, so he’s not in trouble.”
“Maybe he pulled over to text or make a call.”
“Or maybe this Rick Bell has a partner.”
“You get a good look at him?”
“He is
moulinyan,
” said Bacalov, with a shrug.
Smalls made no comment. Bacalov had been born in Argentina, raised in Italy, seasoned in Russia, and eventually had washed up on American shores. On any given day, Bacalov might have called the Nissan’s driver a
chornee, mayate,
nigger, or
moolie.
There was no reason for him to slur blacks, or anyone else, but he felt it in keeping with his self-image, which he’d obtained from the Golan-Globus films he’d seen as a child. Bacalov had cast himself as the villain in a Chuck Norris movie.
Bacalov looked in the side-view mirror at the black Nissan, staying far back but approaching up the hill. “See? He is following.”
“Maybe he’s just getting on his way.”
“I don’t think so.”
They pulled into the front lot of the strip mall and drove around back. There they saw a newish Ford sedan parked by the loading docks of the old Kmart. A man with short black hair, wearing a white T-shirt, was behind its wheel.
“Park near him,” said Bacalov. “Angle your car so that he cannot drive around us. Leave it run.”
Smalls did as instructed. He angled the Crown Victoria about twenty-five yards from the Fusion, palmed the transmission arm up into Park, and let the engine idle. Bacalov picked up a Glock 17 that rested on the floorboards at his feet and holstered it under the tail of his shirt, at the small of his back. He got out of the passenger-side door and closed it behind him. Smiling, he walked toward the man seated in the Ford.
Lucas, upon seeing the Crown Vic come around the corner and drive in his direction, keyed the mic of the two-way that he was holding beneath the windshield line.
“It’s on,” he said.
“Copy that,” said Marquis.
Lucas put the radio in the glove box and shut it. He looked at the two men in the car. The driver was young and bearded, and had some sort of receiving device looped around his ear. He looked like a damaged folksinger. The one in the passenger seat was older yet somehow seemed more childish and primitive. That would be Serge.
Lucas lifted a cheap daypack he’d bought at a dollar store off the backseat and took it with him as he exited the car. He slung the pack over his shoulder. The man walking toward him was shorter than him by an inch or so, but stocky and strong. His mouth was chimplike, and he sported a unibrow and curly dark hair. Whether he was trying to hide his origin or not, his look said “not American.” He was wearing a button-down shirt, tails out, which might have meant nothing. It could also mean that he was carrying a gun.
He’s smiling, thought Lucas. I’ll just go ahead and smile, too.
The man stopped twenty feet shy of him. Lucas stopped as well.
“Rick Bell?” said the man.
“Grant Summers?”
“Yes.”
Lucas said, “Where’s my car?”
Marquis felt he had been burned by the men in the Crown Victoria. Further, there were two men in the car, and he didn’t care for the odds. Luke wouldn’t like that he’d disobeyed his instructions, but in his mind Marquis had little choice. He followed their car, staying back so that he could see them turn in to the strip small. He could only hope that he was far enough away that they wouldn’t spot him. He drove up to the front lot of the mall and parked the Nissan on the right side of the former shops. He was out of sight from the back lot but close enough to pull around quickly and jump in, in the event that the meet flew apart. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d pulled his boy out of trouble.
“You have problem?” said Bacalov.
“I don’t see a green Mini Cooper S,” said Lucas.
“Show me the cash first. Then I take you to your car.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” said Lucas pleasantly.
“You want the Mini? I need to see the cash.”
“That wasn’t the deal.”
“So deal is off,” said Bacalov.
“Then I guess you should leave,” said Lucas.
“No. I don’t think I’ll leave yet.”
Momentarily, Lucas and Bacalov said nothing. There was the sound of the Crown Vic idling and the shrill call of a flock of starlings that had lifted off the roof of the old Kmart. Lucas watched the black birds pass overhead and followed their path as they glided into the forest. As he peered into the trees, he saw a flash of light. Just as quickly it faded. He recognized this as sunlight flaring off a camera lens or binoculars. Or the lens of a scope.
“You brought backup,” said Lucas.
Bacalov briefly looked over his shoulder in the direction of Smalls. “He is just a friend who drives the car.”
“I don’t mean him,” said Lucas, and he began to walk forward. “I’m talking about the one in the woods.”
“Stop,” said Bacalov, but Lucas walked on.
Bacalov pulled the Glock from behind his back, flipped off its safety, and racked its slide. Lucas stopped walking.
“
Now
we have problem,” said Bacalov.
Lucas stood at ease, his arms at his sides.
Up in the woods, Billy King looked through a pair of 10x50 binoculars at Serge and the man who had come to meet him. Beside King lay a Bushmaster M4 with a sixteen-inch barrel and a Nikon scope, resting on a blanket at the base of an oak. He had brought the rifle along for insurance, but there was little likelihood that he would use it. He was more than one hundred yards away, and though it was well within range for this weapon, he was not a superior marksman. He wasn’t about to shoot someone and bring in the law over a small botched deal. Also, the man who’d baited Serge had begun to interest him.
Obviously he was not who he claimed to be. He wasn’t a young husband looking to make his wife happy with the purchase of a car. Short black hair, strong build…the man in the art shop, as Lumley had described him. Then there was his clothing: white T-shirt, blue work pants, lug-soled boots. He was working. Plus, his loose-limbed posture and athletic gait said “I don’t give a fuck.” And it said “private heat.” Even now, after Serge had pulled his Glock, his face gone angry and heated, the man remained calm. King thinking, I’d like to meet this one myself.
He picked up the two-way radio that was on the blanket, keyed it, and got Smalls on his headset.
“Louis,” said King. “Tell Serge to abort. It’s over.”
“Copy,” said Smalls. “But we’ve got another problem. I think we got tailed into the lot. Could be this dude has a partner.”
“Disable him,” said King.
“Right.”
King folded the stock of the Bushmaster and placed the rifle and the rest of his gear in a zippered nylon bag. He walked through the woods in the opposite direction of the mall to a clearing, and found the street where he’d parked his Monte Carlo. He stowed the bag in the trunk and drove off. He wasn’t worried about Smalls. The kid was good, and he’d figure out his exit. As for Serge, the fuckup was on his own.
“Now what?” said Lucas.
“Is cash in the bag?” Bacalov, pointing the gun at Lucas, nodded at the backpack slung over his shoulder.
“I brought the paper,” said Lucas.
“Give it to me.”
“Okay.”
Lucas raised one hand and with the other removed the backpack. He tossed it by its strap to the asphalt at Bacalov’s feet. Still holding the gun on Lucas, Bacalov squatted and used his free hand to unzip the pack. He found the late edition of the
Washington Post
folded neatly inside. Bacalov stood and angrily kicked the backpack across the lot.
“I read it already,” said Lucas. “You can keep it.”
“Cock
suck
er.”
“You can’t do better than that?”
“Sosi hui,”
said Bacalov, repeating a variation of the vulgarity in one of his mother tongues. A vein had appeared on his forehead.
“What is that? Slovakian? Russian?
What?
”
“Let’s go,” said Smalls, calling out the open window of the Vic. “It’s time.”
It was over now. Defused. Lucas knew he should let Serge and his driver leave, give Marquis a chance to tail them and complete the task. But the boy in him couldn’t let it go.
“You shouldn’t impersonate a marine,” said Lucas.
“What did you say?”
“Your e-mail claimed you were in the Fourth Combat Engineer Battalion.
Shit.
Those guys built and repaired bunkers and bridges under heavy enemy assault. They cleared land mines without fire support. You couldn’t have a dream about wearing their uniform. A guy like you wouldn’t even make it through boot.”
