Johnny Wylde Read online

  Thieu poured a double shot into a tumbler, set it beside the lime and salt. “On the house, first drink. Your first time here.”

  Nina nodded, lifted the glass. “Thanks.”

  She did her ritual with the salt, downed the double shot, tasted the lime. The gold burn settled into her flat stomach, hung there. Yeah.

  “Once again, Thieu. Your family, they make good pho?”

  “You like pho?”

  “Best noodle soup there is.”

  “I get for you. Get the special, beef and meat balls. Large or small bowl?”

  “Large bowl. With spring rolls.”

  Thieu nodded, set up the double shot again. “You want tab?”

  Nina looked around. Dark, gloomy, low lifes everywhere. Grease on the tables and the hint of violence past and future.

  “Yeah, I’ll need a tab. This is my kind of place.”

  ***

  Three hours later and Nina was riding the wave of the Gold Rush. The pho was perfect. She’d developed a taste for the Vietnamese noodle soup with its complex flavors when she lived in Minneapolis, when she was with…

  She didn’t think about him anymore.

  But she still liked noodle soup, and the soft spring rolls, wrapped with mint and basil and cilantro around pork, dipped in peanut sauce.

  That went better with beer, so she did five or six of those before she went back to the Gold.

  She was into sipping her shots now, that comfortable glaze settling over her. She watched her back in the mirror behind the bar, looked from side to side to keep track of who was filtering in. Bar did good business for a week night -- crowd of regulars, a real sorry mix: students looking for the cheap, suburbanites looking for the street, and then the street crews, each and everyone who made her for who she was and gave her a wide berth, except for a couple of cocky ones who came by and said -- respectfully, mind you -- “Good evening, Sergeant Capushek, how you doing tonight?”

  Thieu clocked that, as she clocked everything, and whispered an aside to Little Dick who came straggling in and braced himself at the end of the bar, where it turned into an L right where the service arm came up. Little Dick watched Nina slam her drinks and thought, hell, here’s my newest regular.

  And while he was thinking that, Nina was thinking: This is a real player’s bar.

  She’d heard that. Moby Dick’s was a tough nut for the undercovers to crack. Street Crime was in and out of here, Narcotics too, and Vice of course. She’d never been in here, but then she was a Lake City newbie and, until now, a Moby Dick’s virgin. This was one of those places where the so-called underworld did a lot of business. Not necessarily hand to hand buys; Nina saw the guy at the end of the bar clocking her and everything else.

  Real bidness.

  The bouncer came in around eight o’clock, hung out, chatted with the bartender, ignored Nina, which didn’t fool her for one minute. He was some kind of player. Average height, just under six feet, in shape without making a big deal of it.

  The eyes gave him away.

  He was too careful about not letting anyone know he was clocking them; he had that grey man thing down. Funny for a bouncer, and that kind of funny she clocked.

  He was packing, too.

  The law prohibited civilians from carrying in a bar -- cops could do whatever they wanted to, that was the law written or unwritten -- but a business owner could authorize an employee to carry armed in a security function even if booze was being served, as long as the armed employee didn’t drink. She didn’t see him drink, but then, wasn’t her problem any way.

  He packed like a pro.

  Some kind of lo pro holster, in the waistband probably, appendix carry right hand, stylish shirt out and untucked as was the style, over faded jeans and low cut hikers. Appendix carry was the new locale of choice for gunfighters -- the standard FBI carry, back of the hip on strong side was fine for cops who had to tote all kinds of shit on their belts concealed -- pepper spray, expandable batons, handcuffs -- the whole fucking use of force spectrum. But civvies and UCs didn’t have to worry about that shit, and appendix carry was handy if you were sitting down in a car or in a bar, fast to the hand for a draw.

  Nina laughed.

  She was some kind of fucking expert, that was for sure.

  She lifted her glass to her reflection.

  Here’s to the only blooded woman cop in the whole fucking Lake City Police Department.

  Here’s to the only cop in the whole fucking Lake City Police Department who’d killed four men.

  Here’s to the only cop in this fucking town who don’t give a fuck about anything except killing -- oops, excuse me -- catching bad guys.

  The bouncer moved in on her.

  “Can I get in on that toast?” he said.

  Up close he looked good. Or maybe that was the tequila talking. Brown eyes, lined, nice crows nest. No facial hair, that was good. Level gaze, friendly, at least professionally. Watchful.

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  “I get that a lot,” he said. “Why do you think that is? Is it my cologne?”

  “You don’t wear cologne.”

  “Maybe I should? Would that help?”

  Nina grinned. “No. I think you’re beyond help. Now fuck off and let me finish my drink in peace with all my friends here.”

  “What friends?’

  “The voices in my head.”

  He grinned now, nodded.

  “I have that very same problem. Is there a support group for that?”

  “Sex Without Partners. Meets every Wednesday down at the Y. We get together and hold hands and sing Kumbaya. Stand up and testify about the joys of solo sex.”

  Laughing now. Good laugh, hearty. Heads turning to check him out. Maybe he didn’t laugh much.

  “I got to make that meeting. Ever get lucky down there?”

  “No. They kick you out for that shit.”

  “They give out medallions?”

  Nina laughing now, an even rarer sound, though he wouldn’t know that. “So what would I get I toss that medallion in the punch bowl? That, by the way, is seriously fucked up.”

  “I hesitate to offer an opinion on that. I wouldn’t want to get shot.”

  She set her glass down and gave him the light mad dog. “You got something to say?”

  He kept the smile, kept it light. “What’s your name?”

  “Sergeant Capushek.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not working now, and I don’t think you are too. You got a not working name, or you one of those on the job all day all night types?”

  She dropped the mad dog, curious now. “Nina. You?”

  “Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy….”

  He wagged his finger, something she would normally snap if anybody else had done it. “Just Jimmy for now, Nina. Cool?”

  She nodded, slowly. “Cool.”

  “Drink?”

  “Always.”

  She drank the Gold, he had a Negro Modelo.

  Silence between them, companionable. She liked that. Most guys talked too fucking much.

  “You ever draw that thing in here?” she said.

  He didn’t play like he didn’t know.

  “No need. I just charm them, and if that don’t work, I gut them with my rapier like intellect.”

  Nina laughed. “You do talk some shit. Does it ever work?”

  “No. But I keep trying.”

  “A shrink told me once that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

  “You are a fount of knowledge.”

  “Fount?”

  “Fount.”

  “Some vocabulary for a bouncer.”

  “I read a lot.”

  She nodded. Looked at the clock. “Time for me to go to work.”

  “Split shift?”

  “Sex crimes. People don’t usually start getting laid till after dark, say nineish. You find that?”

  “I start at nine cause it ge
ts busy then. And yeah, you’re right. That’s when the moves get going, but rush hour for bottom knocking is around closing time here.”

  “Yeah,” she said. Suddenly serious. “You know a club called The Trojan Horse?”

  “There a problem there?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I got friends that work there.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Good place?”

  “They’re straight up. Good club, run well. Some of the girls might do some things on the side, but they don’t bring it in there. Quid pro quo?”

  “I’m not into the licensing shit and I don’t care what a bunch of strippers or hookers do on the side. I’m looking for a guy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bad guy. Russian guy.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Like this.” Nina took out the picture she kept crammed in her cargo pants pocket, smoothed it out on the bar top. Jimmy leaned close in to her, close enough for her to smell the clean smell of him, just a hint of body odor and soap, feel the warmth of his skin radiating just under the rayon shirt he wore. She watched how his eyes narrowed, how he clocked the guy, scanned the face.

  “What do you want him for?”

  “Rapist. War criminal, guy ran a rape camp in Bosnia.”

  She noticed how he stiffened when she said Bosnia. “You in the service?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Bosnia?”

  “No.”

  He was lying.

  She backed it off a little. “You a bouncer in the service, too?”

  Something slammed down in him. “I got to go to work, too. Nice talking with you, Nina. Come around more often.”

  “I’ll do that. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  That got him laughing. “I think that might leave me plenty of lee way.”

  “Got that shit right.”

  He went to the door, perched himself there on a spindle stool, faded into the background.

  He had a skill set.

  She stared into the mirror.

  Just like hers.

  Interlude

  There’s a funny dance when real shooters and operators meet. It’s bad form to ask straight up, “What did you do?” or “How many people have you killed?”

  You elicit.

  Make a joke, an insider comment. See what they say. Call them on the subtle details that only an operator or a shooter would know. Fine points of carry. Body position in public. Test them.

  That’s how you find out the truth underneath the truth that they want you to see.

  That’s the secret of deception, you know. Layer upon layer, mix up the lies with the truths and the half-truths, get them so they don’t know what is true and what is not.

  Or at least, maybe that’s what you think is going on.

  That’s the fun of the dance.

  And it’s good training, too.

  You want to be polite and friendly to everyone you meet.

  But have a plan to kill them just in case.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Who would do this?” Sergey said.

  He stood in the litter-strewn street and watched a crew of workmen repair the torn out window frame.

  “Block it up completely,” Irina snapped at the crew foreman. “We need no window here.”

  Vladimir Darko clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet.

  “Someone who knows your business,” he said. “They know where the warehouse is. They know exactly what they are coming for. They don't take anything except for the SAWs and some ammunition. They were fast and sure. They knew what they were doing. They were not the blacks. The gang men, they are not good shots. There were only two, and the one with the rifle was very good. So the question I have for you would be this: Who knows your business, is very good with weapons, maybe military, and would have either a specific purpose or buyer for the SAWs?”

  Sergey studied his security man. “Those are good questions, Vladimir.”

  “Yes,” Irina said. “Those are good questions. And how do we get those answers?”

  “All our customers know our business,” Sergey said. “We have never had this happen before. No one dared to.”

  “Yes,” Irina said. “But now that it has happened, it will happen again. We must show that we will not tolerate this. This requires blood.”

  The men nodded.

  Blood was called for.

  And that was Vladimir’s skill set.

  “Who are your competitors?” Vladimir said. “This would be a rival. They could have taken more, but they did not. But this shows you as weak. So others will try you. Chip away at your business. Bring more violence to your door. No one would go through this much effort to steal two machine guns from a warehouse full of them.”

  Sergey nodded in agreement.

  “There are not many. Only two I can think of that have military training. One man is a supply sergeant in the National Guard. Actually, he has provided me with product before. He has a sideline, though, and does well, even with some of my own established customer base.”

  “The other?”

  “A South African. Military. He has a local security company, sells legally on the side. Makes a good business from both, but has another business, off the books, like ours. Wide range of customers, some of them ours.”

  “I need to look at everyone, not just those with military training. I’ll look at these first, but it’s possible that someone else hired the talent necessary. These two -- you’ve had problems with them before?”

  “No,” Irina said. “They are good business men, both of them. This is not the sort of cowboy play they would try.”

  “The South African…” Sergey said. “He has a reputation.”

  “Yes?” Vladimir said.

  “He likes to shoot…and he spends much time traveling, working as a mercenary. Also, in South Africa, I’ve been told he’s killed many people in gunfights. Security work.”

  Vladimir stared off into the distance. “He’s good?”

  “I don’t know,” Sergey said. “He has his reputation. His gun store, there is an indoor range there. He shoots there often, I’m told. I have never been to his store. Too many police frequent it.”

  “Ah,” Vladimir said. “Perhaps I will go.”

  “Perhaps I will go,” Irina said. “You have only a false green card, and no local identification. They will want to see your driver’s license to rent a gun or shoot.”

  “We could go together,” Vladimir said. “Like a date.”

  “You turn my stomach,” Irina said.

  Sergey shrugged. “You are security, Vladi. Make up your mind.”

  Vladimir turned away from the mocking smile Irina stretched across her flawless face. His mind filled with the images of what he would like to do to her.

  “Where does this South African live? Where else can I find him besides his store?”

  “There is a bar,” Sergey said. “Moby Dick’s. Not a good place to ask too many questions. But a good place to do business.”

  “Moby Dick’s,” Vladimir said. “That is near the gentlemen’s club The Trojan Horse?”

  “Yes,” Irina said. “Have you been shopping?”

  “Yes,” Vladi said. “I have been shopping.”

  Interlude

  I like to read. Anything, really, but especially mysteries, thrillers, suspense novels. PI books, too. It always amuses me how much these writers try to make of the whole investigation thing.

  Investigation is just asking questions.

  The thing that cuts out the losers from the pros is the quality of the questions they ask and how they ask them.

  Somebody much smarter than me once said, “The quality of your life is shaped by the decisions you make.”

  I always thought that the quality of any investigation is shaped by the questions you ask. Military special operators have to ask questions, different ones from, say, cops or private investigators, or a couple of
criminals figuring out who just ripped them off so they can hunt them down and bring doom down on their heads.

  Any good hunter knows that there’s certain essential elements of information -- as we called it in the intel biz, or the military -- that you need to have in order to find your game.

  To play the game.

  Hunting humans is a game, one of the best there is.

  Try it some time. Don’t sit at home.

  Come out and play.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Who’s the lady cop, oke?” Deon said. “Pretty one with the beat up face, like?”

  “She’s interesting, isn’t she?” I said. “No bullshit in her.”

  “She can drink a bit, eh?”

  “No shit.”

  “Want another?”

  “Sure.”

  Deon waved one skeletal hand at Thieu, pointed at me, then himself. He leaned back in the chair he’d dragged next to my stool beside the door.

  “Not a waver in her. Walked right out like she was on the parade ground,” he said.

  I nodded. I liked and didn’t like what I saw in Sergeant Nina Capushek. Tough, tough, tough…no doubt. Wounded, too, deep inside, something she kept at bay with the booze. She must spend all her time not drinking working out to stay in shape with that much alcohol floating in her veins.

  She saw right through me when it came to the talk about Bosnia.

  That bothered me.

  “She sees things,” I said.

  Deon gave me a look. “Don’t like that, do you, oke? Me either. Might want to give that one a swerve.”

  “Swerve?” I laughed. “Is that like a jump?”

  Deon stood, slid his chair back against the wall. “Oke, when you’re through for the night, come over to my office there and I’m going to tell you about your death wish. You and these women you see…”

  “Right,” I said, testy. “I’m probably due for South African counseling right about now.”

  Deon laughed. “South African counseling means the woman beats you about the head and shoulders, oke. We’re very direct that way. Later, my friend.”

  Deon ambled off, bones barely held together by taut flesh and sinew, shambling inside his baggy tactical clothing in a way that hid the grace he moved when under fire.

  Under fire.