The System - A Detroit Story - (8 page)

He could live on the boat, in the smaller state room and leave the main quarters for the clients if they stayed out overnight. A great little galley, too. He'd be done with this life, the limo, Eddie's chop shop, and Detroit. Problem was, the guy who owned the TradeWind was getting ready to retire, six months maybe, and as Chris figured it, he needed at least another year to come up with the rest of the cash. He watched the Hatteras motor downriver with the current, passing in front of the RenCen toward the bend in the river under the Ambassador Bridge. He had to call the guy, tell him things were going good. Reassure him that he'd come up with the cash, soon.

Chris's pager lit up, displaying a code. A pickup in front of the Wintergarden. An airport run. He stamped out his cigarette and got in the limo. Chris straightened his tie and put on his cap, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

Chris pulled out of the lot onto Atwater and headed toward the RenCen. He passed by the near empty parking structure on Beaubien and slowed as he approached the Wintergarden doors. An attendant flagged him down. Next to him stood a large man in a royal blue tracksuit.

Vlad's head reared back when he recognized Chris. The attendant put Vlad's suitcase in the Town Car's trunk and held open the rear door. Vlad got in and sat back, amused, looking at Chris in the rearview mirror. Chris waited for a pedestrian to cross, then pulled onto Atwater.

"I did not know you were a taxi driver," said Vlad.

Chris kept his eyes on the road. "This is a limo. Not a taxi."

"So it is," said Vlad. "So, mister limo driver, why do you do this?"

Chris shrugged. "Day gig, part time. Gotta have some kind of job, for taxes. And cover."

Vlad considered this. "Maybe you could come work for me."

Chris looked at Vlad in the rear view mirror. "And do what?"

"I can think of many things," said Vlad. He looked out the window. "You know, your friend Eddie comes into my club. Quite often. He's told me a lot about you."

Chris frowned. Fuckin' Eddie. "And what did he say?" said Chris.

"How you came to him. How he likes you. How you work," said Vlad.

Chris nodded, wondering where this was leading, getting more pissed off at Eddie by the minute.

"He also says he never saw you with a girl," said Vlad.

"So?" 

"Don't you like girls?" 

"Sure I do."

"So why no women? No girlfriend?" 

"What's with the personal questions?" 

Vlad stared out the window. Chris pulled onto I-375 toward I-94 and the airport.

"Why don't I have a girlfriend?" said Chris. "Too much baggage. Don't have the time. There's certain things I want. End of story."

Vlad leaned forward. "And what is it you want?" 

Chris smiled. "That's my business."

Vlad leaned back. "You know, my father was a fisherman," he said. "Worked on a trawler. Baltic Sea. A healthy life. It would have been much better for him if he had owned his own boat, don't you think?"

Chris's face turned red. Eddie the asshole, can't keep his mouth shut.

"Florida is very nice," said Vlad, looking out the window at the big Goodyear tire on I-94.

Chris gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes. "Yes it is," he said. He drove smoothly through traffic, got off on Merriman road and cruised up to the International Terminal. He got out of the car and pulled Vlad's bag from the trunk. Vlad didn't wait for Chris to come around and open the door.

"What do I owe you?" asked Vlad.

Chris looked up at him. Man, this dude was big. "Seventy five," he said.

Vlad handed Chris two hundred dollar bills. "You come with Eddie to my club when I return. Meet some girls, maybe talk some business." Vlad waved off a porter and picked up his bag. He leaned down and said, "You could be in that boat sooner than you think." Not waiting for a response Vlad turned and walked toward the terminal doors.

Chapter 12

Washington and Peabody Case Tiger's Den

Ann Peabody sat at the small conference room table in the Bunker, waiting for Washington. She was swiping her tablet computer, examining a street level view of the Tiger's Den. Cement gray with a pink awning and an orange neon sign that said Tiger's Den over an orange and black tigress, ready to pounce. Washington walked in carrying a cup of coffee. Peabody looked up at him.

"You're late," she said.

Washington looked at her squarely in the eyes and said, "Look, I've been assigned to help you, and I'll do that." He leaned over the table. "But if you think I'm going to take any shit from you, you're sadly mistaken." Washington stood straight. "Now," he said. "Would you like to start over?"

Peabody looked up at Washington and smiled.

"You're still late. Come around and take a look," she said, swiping at the tablet. She brought up a report with Vlad's picture in the upper right corner. "Looks like our guy's flown to Athens," said Peabody, conjuring an image of a boarding pass. "My guess is that he'll pick up a flight to Tirana. Cheap. Costs about eighty eight euros," she said.

Washington looked down at the tablet while Peabody swiped back to the Tiger's Den.

"Let's go for a ride," she said.

*  *

Washington drove north on Woodward toward Eight Mile, the dividing line between Detroit and the suburbs.

"You know there's a wall here, divides Detroit from the suburbs," said Washington. "Along Eight Mile. Black folk try and move in, every white person would sell and head farther away. All directions, but especially north. White folks finally had enough and put up a wall." He looked at Peabody. "It's a half mile long, intersection at Wyoming. Our own little Berlin wall, right here in Detroit." Washington looked at the road. "Insurance companies wouldn't cover houses in mixed neighborhoods."

"I didn't know that," said Peabody.

"So how did you wind up in Detroit?" said Washington.

Peabody shrugged. "They move us around a lot," she said. "Standard rotation."

Washington stopped at a red light just north of I-94. He stopped with enough distance between them and the car ahead so he could see the bottom of the rear tires. That way if he had to make a quick run for it there was plenty of room to maneuver. He'd been jacked once, and once was enough. Shot and killed the unarmed dude and got suspended for eight weeks pending the outcome of the investigation. Earned the rep as being trigger happy, and it cost him and the city. Now stopping short was SOP, Standard Operating Procedure.

"I've been working on this case for awhile," said Peabody.

"How long have you been DEA?" asked Washington.

"Seven years," said Peabody. "Went to law school. Worked on Wall Street for awhile. Hated it, but it paid off my student loan."

"Law school," said Washington. "Where at?"

"Cornell," said Peabody. "Ithaca, New York. Hometown."

Washington nodded. Cornell. The light turned green and Washington moved forward.

"What about you?" 

"Long story," said Washington. "Went to Wayne State, right here in Detroit. Political science, pre-law. Wanted to go to law school."

"What happened?" said Peabody.

Washington shrugged. "Got married, had a kid. Had a buddy who joined the DPD." He looked at Peabody. "Just followed him in and never looked back. We became partners after a couple years."

Washington changed lanes. Peabody looked out the window at the large, once stately houses with large lots and ancient trees. "These must have been beautiful once," she said.

"They were back in the day, I imagine," said Washington. "Detroit in the early twentieth century was the manufacturing equivalent of Silicon Valley. Innovation everywhere. Henry Ford, five dollars a day, all that."

Washington braked for a stray dog crossing the street. "People came from all over the country to work," he said. "The world, for that matter. My father came up from Alabama."

Peabody looked at a windowless, burned out home. "And the rest is history?"

"Who knows?" said Washington. "Maybe this city is a victim of itself. The world changed, and we turned a blind eye to it," he said. "People started buying Japanese cars, 'cause they were better. We didn't wake up until it was too late."

They passed the adult bookstores on the corner of Six Mile and Woodward, where the road expanded from two lanes to six.

"A lot of hard working people here, though," said Washington. "My old man worked at the Rouge Plant. Thirty six years. Could have gone thirty and out, but stayed on another six to put us through school," he said. He looked at Peabody. "Never wanted us to work there. Anywhere but on the line."

Peabody nodded.

Washington cleared his throat. "One thing bothers me, I gottta say," he said.

"What's that?" said Peabody.

"I don't like it when you people let things walk," said Washington. "Especially guns."

Peabody looked at him, surprised at the rapid change of subject. "You people?" she said.

"You know what I mean," said Washington.

"That's ATF," she said. "Occasionally DEA. Same with informants. SOP, just like you." Peabody glanced at the road. "Let a little fish go, maybe lead to a bigger one. Let ten guns go, maybe capture a hundred." Peabody's voice trailed off.

Washington shook his head. "I'll go for the bust," he said. "A bird in hand…"

"If it's anything to you," said Peabody. "Someone close to me was killed by a gun that walked. A border patrol agent. Picked off just like that. In Mexico. Juarez, across from El Paso."

"Man," said Washington. "I'm sorry to hear that."

They cruised past Seven Mile Road and turned right onto Eight Mile, driving past the abandoned State Fair Grounds. Washington drove for a mile or so then slowed.

"There it is," said Peabody, looking at the neon sign with the painted tiger below. "Have you ever been inside?"

"In there?" said Washington. He pulled onto a side street and stopped in view of the club. "No. I'm not Vice and I'm not a strip club kind of guy."

"You are now," said Peabody.

They sat and watched the club, scanning the parking lot, dumpster and alley in the rear.

"We need to get inside," said Peabody. "Look around. A lot of places have amateur night."

Washington looked at her.

"Surprised?" said Peabody. She looked at the club. "I can handle myself on one of those poles."

They watched the club for another fifteen minutes. Four cars in the parking lot, one large Dodge van with a handicapped plate. Washington started the car and as they pulled onto Eight Mile Peabody saw a diminutive, graying man in a wheelchair roll out the front door, held open by a bouncer.

Chapter 13

Concrete Mushrooms

The money, hidden in a crate full of spark plugs, left the Port of Detroit and arrived in Toulon, France eight days later. From there the box was driven to Milan and uncrated at a social club. The money was placed in two canvass duffel bags and driven down the coast to Bari. The bags were handed off to two men who boarded a daily ferry that went across the Adriatic to Durres, Albania. The money was on shore and hidden as Vlad looked down at Athens from a first class window seat.

He cleared customs and boarded a flight from Athens to Tirana. After less than an hour the small jet touched down at Rinas International. He walked out of the customs booth looking as fresh as when he left Detroit, twelve hours earlier.

Vlad slung his leather travel bag over his shoulder and spotted a thin, dark man near a coffee stand, smoking a cigarette. They made eye contact. The man butted out his cigarette, turned and started walking toward the terminal exit. Vlad slowed and followed, leaving a gap of at least twenty feet between them.

They boarded a bus that headed north, passed through the empty traffic circle and were dropped off in an open air parking lot. The bus lumbered away and Vlad and the man hugged and kissed each other on the cheek.

"Gregor, my old friend," said Vlad. "Good to see you."

"The pleasure is mine." 

They walked to a small sedan. Vlad was amused.

"I am to fit in this?" 

"Don't worry," said Gregor. "This is just temporary."

Vlad tossed his bag in the back seat and got in the car, squeezing himself into the passenger's seat. Gregor pulled out of the parking lot and drove south, eventually coming to SH2. They passed Polis University and turned onto Rruga 29. After several miles they took an exit and drove west to a garage. Gregor opened the rusty door then pulled inside. They got into Gregor's Land Rover and drove to the fringe of Tirana, stopping at the safehouse.

Vlad and Gregor walked upstairs to a large open space furnished with a workbench, desk, table, camera equipment, two computer workstations and a two color laserjet printers along with assorted boxed of high grade paper and cardboard. Three automatic weapons, ammunition and two 45 caliber pistols were neatly laid out on the workbench. Gregor handed a pistol to Vlad.

In the corner were ten bricks of neatly packed heroin. Thirty four kilograms, each brick containing 3.4 kilos, or a little under seven and a half pounds. Vlad looked at the bricks and smiled.

"Never say Gregor does not deliver," said Gregor.

Vlad nodded.

"Our new route," said Gregor. "It is nearly perfect. Protected. Good political support." Gregor looked at Vlad. "I just need to take care of someone first."

"Can I help?" said Vlad.

Gregor shook his head. "Unnecessary. I will deal with him as soon as we are through. Wants too much and knows too much." Gregor smiled. "Who knows," he said. "I might even send you a picture."

Vlad nodded and looked at the computers and printers. "I may need some passports and papers."

"How many?" said Gregor.

"One, possibly two," said Vlad. "U.S. Female."

Gregor nodded. "How soon?"

"Two, maybe three days," said Vlad. He looked at Gregor. "Is that possible?"

Gregor put his hand to his chin. "That's not much time, but enough. Should not be a problem. Bring them here and I see what I can do."