The System - A Detroit Story - (4 page)

"Vodka for me," said Sami. "Elena?"

Elena said "Just Coke, please."

"Nothing stronger?" said Jerzy.

"No," said Elena. "Coke is fine. Thank you."

Jerzy smiled widely at Sami, revealing his brown, tobacco stained teeth. "Very polite," he said. "I like that." He got up from the table and walked through the archway to the bar.

Elena turned to Sami. "I would like to go, please."

"No, no," said Sami, lighting a thin cigar. "It would be rude. We will leave shortly, but let us show Jerzy a little courtesy. Just one drink, and a little food." Sami leaned back in his chair and exhaled a burst of blue smoke. "Besides, I would like to rest for awhile. It's a long drive, and after all, I'm doing this for you." Elena heard a woman laughing hysterically over the music in the room by the bar.

"Alright," said Elena. "But one drink, please. I would still like to leave."

At the bar, Jerzy poured four shot glasses full of vodka and filled a small glass with ice and Coke. He pulled two pills from a small tin box he carried and dropped them into the Coke. He waited until they dissolved. He put the shots and the Coke on a small tray, put a serving towel over his forearm and returned to the table.

Jerzy smiled at Sami and Elena. "You should take a picture," he said. "It's very unusual I do this, like a waiter." He placed the Coke in front of Elena and two shot glasses in front of Sami and two where he was sitting. He put the tray in the middle of the table, sat down and raised a shot glass.

"To friends!" he said.

Elena half smiled and lifted her glass. Sami and Jerzy looked at each other and downed the shots. Elena sipped the Coke.

"Drink up, Elena," said Sami. "Are you sure you don't want anything stronger? To relax you?"

"No, this is fine," said Elena.

Jerzy laughed and raised the other glass. "How they say, down the hatch?" He drained the shot glass as did Sami. Elena took another sip of Coke and swallowed.

"Please excuse me," she said. "I need to use the toilet. Please, can you tell me where it is?"

"I'm so sorry," said Jerzy. "I am a bad host, I will show you. It is by the stairway."

Elena stood up and wobbled, feeling dizzy, like the blood was draining from her head. Her legs felt unstable and heavy. She steadied herself on her chair. The relentless pounding of the techno sounded distant and abstract.

"Are you alright, my dear?" said Sami.

Feeling a bit more steady, Elena, said "Yes, just very tired from the drive, I suppose." She walked with Jerzy to the stairway, then stood still and held her head in her hands. The room spun, and her knees buckled. Jerzy steadied her, then held her as Elena broke into a cold sweat. "Wha…?" she said then the room went black.

Jerzy held her limp body in his arms and carried her up the stairway. Light as a feather, he thought, but enough flesh in the right places. He kicked a half open door and laid her on an unkempt bed. Jerzy made sure she was secure underneath a quilt, walked out of the room and locked the door. He went down the stairs and sat at the table with Sami.

"She is as beautiful as you said. Very fresh," said Jerzy.

"I told you," said Sami. "When have I lied to you?"

"Let me count the times," said Jerzy.

Sami laughed. "I'll be on my way," he said. "Let's settle."

Jerzy sat back in his chair. "Five thousand is a lot of money." 

"But we agreed," said Sami.

Jerzy's face turned to stone. "Yes we agreed." He pulled an envelope stuffed with bills from his green sports jacket pocket. "Two thousand. American dollars. Times are difficult. It's a fair price."

Sami's face twisted and turned red. "For diseased dogs, maybe. We agreed to five thousand. Deutschmarks."

Jerzy smiled. "Diseased dogs," he said. "That's good. We save those for the NATO soldiers."

Sami snatched the envelope, opened it and started counting.

"It's all there," said Jerzy.

"Like I can trust you," said Sami, counting the bills.

"That is more than generous," said Jerzy.

Sami put the envelope back on the table. "Maybe we will forget the entire deal."

Jerzy leaned forward and looked directly into Sami's eyes. "Sami, my old friend. Do not try to do that."

"Friend?" said Sami. He shook his head and looked at the envelope.

Jerzy pointed to it. "Take the money and leave, before you say or do something foolish." Sami gazed at the stairway for a moment, then picked up the envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.

"This is the last of us," he said.

"That makes me sad," said Jerzy. "But business is business. This is the system."

Sami stood, turned and walked toward the entrance. Jerzy followed, glancing at the bouncer.

"Are you sure you would not like to stay awhile?" said Jerzy. "Give me a chance to earn back the money I gave you?" Jerzy motioned to two girls standing near the bar. Sami said nothing, walked past the bouncer, got in the Mercedes and drove away into the night.

Chapter 5

Bait Car Blues

After tossing the Crown Vic keys and cell phone into the Detroit River, Chris took Jefferson back to Woodward, turned right, maneuvered the Harley through the traffic circle around Campus Martius and cruised past the plain white work van parked near the Fox Theatre.

Investigator Freeman Washington sat in the van's shotgun seat, Big Bill Purdy in the driver's and Walter Robbins in the rear. Robbins manned the radio, kill box and laptop.

"Ping it once more," said Washington, looking across the street at a burgundy Chevy Avalanche. Robbins positioned the cursor to an icon on the laptop display and clicked the mouse. The small vehicle icon turned yellow momentarily, then turned green.

"Good to go," said Robbins.

Washington watched the Avalanche. Great bait car, parts in demand, especially around Southwest border towns, being a vehicle of choice for some of the bigger Mexican drug gangs. Sometimes they let vehicles walk, just like guns, ATF style. Mark the parts and see where they show up, occaisionally leading to a bigger bust. But that was ATF and not the Detroit Police Department, Auto Theft Unit. Washington didn't like to see anything walk.

"Man I'm hungry," said Purdy.

"You're always hungry," said Washington.

"Old lady's on this diet kick. No more chili fries. No more conies. No more Lafayette. Now, it's mostly turkey, chicken and lettuce. I hate that shit," said Purdy.

"So?" said Robbins. "Stop by American. You won't be lying if she asks if you went to Lafayette."

"She'll know," said Purdy. "She's got spies everywhere," he said, looking at Washington.

Washington looked at his watch. 1:30am. If nothing happened in another four hours, the bait car would be moved and his shift would be done. The hours and the shifts were getting tough. He was beginning to feel weary, feel his age. Twenty two years, winding up working midnights. That's the way it worked here. Something happens years ago and you're labeled for life. Just like that. Like a regular actor doing porn- only has to do it one time and the career is shot. Once the brass thinks you're trigger happy, that's it. Lawyers loved it. Get shot by a cop who's quick to pull the trigger and it's a big time payday.

The stakeouts were long and mostly boring, like fishing, but with the same allure. Sometimes a fish would hit the bait, sometimes not. Just had to be in the right water at the right time, and this was the right water. The right time was just a matter of luck. Washington thought about the Muskie starting to hit, moving down from Lake St. Claire, through the Detroit River to Lake Erie. The water was cooling off and the fish were cold, hungry, big and firm, going after smaller bait fish. He looked forward to going fishing after his shift. Grab his tackle box, pole, face the cold and head down to the RiverWalk.

A short dude in a black hoodie turned the corner and stopped in front of the Avalanche. He looked around and jacked open the door. The car alarm sounded. Didn't matter. There wasn't a soul that paid any attention to those.

Washington straightened in his seat.

"Fish on," he said. "Call one-ten."

Robbins got on the radio. "One-ten. Five-o-three. Repeat, five-o-three, over."

No reply.

The Avalanche took off going west on Montcalm toward Woodward Avenue.

"Fish is running," said Washington. "Move."

Purdy slammed the van into drive and jammed down the accelerator. Robbins flew out of his seat and Washington felt the gees push him back. Robbins scrambled and toggled the button on the radio. "One-ten. Five-o-three. Repeat, five-o-three. You copy?"

Dead air. "Nobody there," said Robbins.

"Shit," said Washington. "Kill it."

The Avalanche shot through the red light, zoomed across Woodward past Comerica Park and headed toward Brush Street. Robbins, back in his seat, flipped a red toggle switch on a small electrical box mounted on the surface of a bench with the Velcroed laptop. This sent a signal to a receiver hidden in the Avalanche. The signal shut off the flow of gasoline to the fuel big engine's fuel injectors. The vehicle slowed, no matter how hard the Fish pumped the accelerator. The Avalanche rolled to a complete stop at the corner of Montcalm and Brush.

Washington pulled his service revolver as the van approached the stalled Avalanche. The Fish jumped from the cabin and ran. Fast. Purdy squealed the van to a stop.

"C'mon," said Washington. He opened the door and yelled, "Halt. Police!"

Almost ballet-like the Fish pulled a semiautomatic pistol from his pocket and fired toward Washington and the van. Sounded like popcorn. One bullet whizzed by Washington's head and shattered the window on the open van door. The other shots went ping ping ping into the door body. Washington hit the ground, took aim and fired a round, just missing the Fish's head.

The Fish ran sideways and fired another wild burst of gunfire then sprinted around the corner down Brush. Washington ran, but stopped when he saw the young, agile Fish race across Brush along the front of Ford Field.

Purdy caught up to Washington, put his hands on his knees and head down, winded. "I'm too flippin' fat for this," he said, trying to catch his breath. Washington gazed down Brush, the Fish now long gone. Where was the goddamn blue and white?

Chapter 6

The Bunker

The Bunker, as the DPD precinct station was called, sat between the massive green glass towers of the Renaissance Center and Hart Plaza, a surreal space with a circular metal sculpture like a portal to another dimension and an overhead fountain and floor that resembled an industrial washbasin. Slung low, made of rough concrete and dark glass with angled walls, the Bunker faced the Detroit River like a pillbox on the beaches of Normandy.

Washington sat in the small debriefing area. Inspector Andre Davenport walked in with a blond, neatly dressed woman. A Fed, thought Washington. He could spot them a galaxy away. So now what, some Fed telling him what to do? Every Fed he encountered in his twenty two years on the job carried this air of superiority and arrogance. Every single one.

"All right," said Davenport. "I've read your report." Davenport gestured to the woman. "This is agent Ann Peabody. DEA."  Peabody nodded.

Washington nodded then acted like she wasn't there.

"Where was our backup?" asked Washington.

"The log says one-ten along with two other units was dispatched to a triple homicide. On Fernhill, off of Woodward. Near Seven Mile. Place was boarded up. Found a girl chained to a toilet. Fourteen years old, been missing two weeks. Shot dead, along with two men. Looks like both wanted her for themselves, one shot the girl out of spite, then they shot each other."

"We should have been notified," said Washington.

"Dispatch should have contacted you. I can't argue with that, but it is what it is," said Davenport. "These things happen."

Over the years Washington learned the art of letting things go. Got good at identifying battles that couldn't be won. This was one of them. Washington looked at Peabody. "DEA and auto? I don't get it," he said.

"Agent Peabody can use our help," said Davenport.

"Hello Investigator Washington," she said, holding out her hand. Washington reluctantly shook it. "I'm Ann Peabody, Special Agent, DEA. I'm in Detroit for a reason," she said.

Washington nodded. The woman was compact, thin but muscular. Her handshake was strong and cool to the touch.

"I'll get right to the point," said Peabody. We believe a new heroin distribution route may be established here in Detroit, but we have no direct evidence," she said. "We believe there's an Albanian connection. We're looking at one individual in particular."

She opened the case to a tablet computer, turned it on and within a couple of swipes a photograph appeared on the bright screen. A photograph of Vlad Dragovic.

"This is a person of interest," said Peabody. His name is Vlad Dragovic. They call him 'The Dragon'. We believe he's well connected in Albania and perhaps Turkey. He's a legal resident here in Detroit. Along with heroin, we believe he's involved in auto theft, human trafficking, kidnapping, prostitution, illegal gambling, to name a few."

Peabody studied Washington's face. "We know he owns a few legitimate businesses, several laundromats, interest in some restaurants, real estate," she said. "Pretty mundane stuff. He also owns a strip club on Eight Mile Road, called the Tiger's Den. We would take him down there but he's operating within the law and we can't get anyone inside."

Washington looked at the photo of Vlad. Big guy. Muscular, lean, especially for his age. Definitely take some firepower to put this dude down.

"We haven't had any luck infiltrating Albanian gangs," said Peabody. "Used to be the Italians ran things, drugs, gambling, prostitution, along with the Russians. Not so much anymore."

Peabody twirled a silver pen. "The Albanians are incredibly tough," she said. "Ruthless. Pure old country, not like the Italians or Greeks who've been here a few generations. Everything is done with a handshake. Called the Besa," said Peabody. "They live and die by the Besa."