Johnny Wylde Page 9

  Nina nodded, reached into her pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, plucked out a fiver. “Then put this in your pocket.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Patty said.

  “You’re welcome.” She looked back at Kai. “So?”

  “You are police woman.”

  “What kind of police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sex crimes, Kai. I hunt men who hurt women.” She sprinkled salt on her hand, touched her tongue to it, did her shot, sucked her lime, sighed in satisfaction. “I hear you don’t like men who hurt women.”

  “No,” Kai said. “I don’t.”

  “Me neither. So you and me, we have some things in common, huh?”

  Kai considered this while he sipped his Dr. Pepper.

  “So maybe there was this guy,” Nina went on. “Pulled some shit here the other night. Got some of that wall to wall counseling I hear you’re good at.”

  “I don’t know anything about something like that.”

  “Now me,” Nina went on as though he hadn’t said anything. “Me, I think a guy that would hurt women deserves what he gets, somebody takes it into their head to throw a beating into him. Wasn’t that long ago, cops like me, we didn’t have to worry so much about this kind of shit. Girl’s dad, or brothers, or just the right thinking men would take care of business. Today’s world, that kind of shit, well, lawyers and the so-called justice system and civil liability,” she said the last as though it tasted rotten. “So called civil liability fucks things up. See, that kind of thing is best sorted out in the street. You know what I mean? So if a guy, say a guy named Kai, or something like that, in the course of doing his job, dishes out a little street justice to a shit head, me, personally, I don’t give a shit. I look the other way. The only thing is this, see? I might have an interest in finding this guy myself, if this was a Russian guy, big, long hair combed back, looked liked this…”

  She took out the photo of Vladimir Darko, spread it out on the table, held up one finger and waved it at Patty.

  “See,” she said. “This guy might be a real serious guy when it comes to hurting women. Now, he might be a pussy when he runs into somebody who knows how to throw a beating, somebody like a certain tough Chinese guy, but he might have been hell to pay on some women. So I’d want this guy…and I wouldn’t really give a shit how I got to him, or what happened to him along the way…you follow my meaning, Kai?”

  Kai stared off at the far wall, sipped his Dr. Pepper.

  “Yes,” he said. “That man was here.”

  “He come here before?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times and when?”

  “One time before I notice him, three days ago.”

  “He do anything?”

  “He follows one dancer with his eyes. Not good way. He is a very bad man, I think.”

  Nina took her drink from Patty. “Wait, hon.” She fished out another fiver, tucked it into Patty’s pocket. “Keep ‘em coming.”

  She went through her tequila ritual, blinked rapidly, then looked at Kai.

  “He is a very bad man, my friend. Very bad indeed. He talk to this dancer?”

  “No,” Kai said. “She doesn’t talk to anyone.”

  Nina laughed. “Must not make much money then.”

  “No. She make more money than all the other girls.”

  “No shit?” Nina said with interest. “How so?”

  “She is special.”

  “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Miss Lizzy.”

  “When does Miss Lizzy come on?”

  Kai looked up at the wall clock behind the main bar. “Two hours.”

  “Lucky me,” Nina said. “How’s the food in here?”

  “Buffet very good. Please, go ahead. On the house.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice. Stick around, let’s chat, Kai.”

  ***

  The buffet was good. Steamship round, ham, all freshly sliced by red cheeked twenty-somethings fresh out of catering school, potatoes, chicken, steamed vegetables -- lots of good hearty comfort food, and then a whole seafood cold box with shrimp and oysters, even whole crab and lobsters. A separate table was nothing but hors dourves -- high quality cheeses, Camembert, Brie, crackers, savory meats, salami and proscuitto.

  Nina hit it all.

  Big plate of ham and potatoes and vegetables to balance out the tequila and lime food group, then she hit the shrimp and demolished twenty of the big Gulf prawns with hot sauce, did a double platter of oysters, burped in contentment and set back at her table with an ice cold Harps Lager and some sliced salami to fill in the corners.

  Life was good.

  She kicked back in her chair so that the Glock wouldn’t bang so much against the back of the chair, crossed her ankles in satisfaction and, as always, scanned the room to check out any opposition. Even the big biker boys knew who -- or what -- she was, and left her alone. A half way drunk stock broker type, egged on by his buddies on the after work let down their carefully coiffed hair circuit, came over to her table.

  “Do you work here?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you a dancer?”

  “No. I’m in charge of asshole patrol. Are you an asshole?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Move along then, sonny. Move along. I’m patrolling for assholes.”

  Nina laughed at the look on his face, finished her beer, signaled Patty.

  “Another Harps?” Patty said.

  “No, Patty. I think I better go back to the Cuervo. I need to clear out my head.”

  Patty laughed. “You call it, Sergeant.”

  When Patty brought her drink, Nina went through the ritual, did her shot, set the glass down. Squared her feet on the floor.

  It was almost time.

  It was something all her partners had always commented on. She always knew when it was going to kick off. Always. Never failed.

  Something wicked this way comes.

  Or words to that effect.

  She made the Asian who came through the door. Big, bigger than most Asians, but lean muscle big, not the sumo big like Kai. Probably almost six feet, flat faced. Korean? Maybe. Maybe a Hmong, there were a lot of them here in Lake City. One of the old timers told her that the reason there were so many Hmong resettled in Lake City was because the Lake had one of the highest concentration of retired CIA agents in the country, and a lot of them were Viet Nam era, and pulled strings to have their private armies resettled here in the sometimes frozen Midwest. Made sense to her -- that was the way of the world. You took care of your own, pulled strings, used your juice. That’s what it was for.

  But this guy had The Look.

  Killer.

  Civilians might not know it, but they sensed it, in the way sheep would get anxious when the wolves were prowling.

  And he was prowling.

  Kai saw him too. He looked over at her, caught her eye. She nodded.

  He’d take her back, and she’d take his.

  If it came to that.

  The Hmong man took a seat on the runway, where he could see the door. Took out a cell phone, tapped a text message out, studied the screen, closed the phone.

  Music changed, and the DJ said, “And now…the girl you’ve been waiting for…Miss Lizzy!”

  Christina Aguilera’s “Dirty” with that rapper Nina could never remember the name of. Spotlight.

  And even Nina had to admit that Miss Lizzy was something special.

  Tall, model tall, but with a body sculpted from an adolescent fantasy -- improbably large breasts on a curved rib cage, muscled like a ballet dancer or a gymnast, and she moved like a real dancer. Long red hair, skin paler than milk, and green eyes.

  Something about her face though…almost no expression, a serene, not quite there quality to her, not even looking at the audience, and Nina saw that the audience had swelled. This girl had a following.

  And Nina could see why.

  The Hmong man studied h
er the way a butcher might study meat, and that sight both chilled her and heated her with anger in the same instant. The man took out his cell phone, flipped it open, texted again, closed it.

  She saw Kai working his way towards the runway. The big Chinese doorman stopped beside the Hmong man, murmured something, pointed at the cell phone.

  Probably no cell phones allowed.

  The Hmong man made a big show of an apology, hands up, shrugging.

  There was a disturbance at the door.

  Nina saw one of the other doorman, the tattooed Hispanic, an OG if ever she saw one, stumble back, clutch at his belly. She was already on her feet, moving towards a pillar, get behind hard cover to suss it out…

  Vladimir Komorov stalked in, if you can say that a badly beaten man with a cane and a limp and a bloody bayonet in his left hand stalked. He came right across the room at Kai, ignoring the other security men working their way fast across the crowded floor. None of the civvies saw what was happening, but Nina had already found her pistol, plucked it from the CTAC, and held it down low against her thigh, half hidden herself behind the pillar.

  Did he have a gun? He wouldn’t come here for revenge with just a knife…

  Kai turned, his sixth sense kicking in, and his eyes widened as he saw the Russian coming at him. But as he turned, the Hmong man grabbed Kai’s wrist with both of his hands, tugging at him…

  …and you don’t have to completely stop a man to kill him, you only have to slow him down enough so that he can’t defend himself properly…

  …and that slowed Kai just enough, split his attention for just a moment as the Russian advanced, bayonet held high, but still too far to stab him…

  …Kai chopped with his free hand at the other man’s hands, turned to face square at the Russian closing, the knife extended like a fencer’s foil…

  …and then Nina saw the flash as the blade flew out of the grip (Spesntaz ballistic knife…spring loaded handle…) and the seven inch blade buried itself deep in Kai’s throat…

  …and the big man still kept coming forward, a moment of confusion on his face as Nina stepped out from behind the pillar, her Glock coming up, steady in her hand (thank God for tequila, it settles the nerves…) but then a waitress screamed and obstructed her sight picture…

  …and the Hmong stepped up, drew a pistol (Glock 23, baby Glock, Nina thought) and fired twice at point blank range into Kai’s head, the blood spatter dotting his face like pox, or freckles…

  Nina acquired him, pressed the trigger, rode the front sight up in her vision, reacquired, reset the trigger, pressed it -- one second or less, she was sure, her internal clock assured her.

  The first round creased his head, the second tore a hole in his cheek.

  He swung and fired wildly in her direction, the muzzle flash bright, but no sound, just the sense of pressure (it was always like this, she never heard the fight) but she couldn’t get a clear shot, waitresses running, men scrambling and pushing one another aside as they dove for the floor or for a fire exit, so she swung back at Darko, who was already retreating fast, the ballistic knife gone and a pistol in his left hand (left hand trigger finger splinted, so that was alongside the frame, the ring finger inside the trigger guard, firing…) muzzle flowering flame in her direction…

  …and frozen on the runway, pinned in the light like a beautiful statue, the dancer they called Miss Lizzy stared at Nina with no fear whatsoever on her face…

  …and the music rolled on, 50 Cent…I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love…

  …and in one of those weird little quiet moments that come in the middle of serious fights, a little fugue, Nina wondered what it would be like to sleep with that beautiful woman up on the stage…

  Silence.

  Then her hearing came back. Screams, ringing in her ears, the music…you’ll find me in the club…

  The shooters were gone.

  She flipped out her cell phone, called Dispatch, got back up and EMS rolling and a shoot team, made her way cautiously to the door, peeked out. Long gone. She stepped back, took a deep breath through her nose, out her mouth. Brought her heart rate down. Played it back in her head. All good. But the thing that stuck out in her memory was seeing Vladimir Darko as he backed to the door, his cane discarded (where…) pistol in his left hand, his injured right hand pointing…

  At the stage, at Miss Lizzy, who had watched him go, face blank and expressionless.

  And Darko mouthing the words, You’re mine.

  Nina reloaded her pistol, press checked it, holstered it. Dropped the partially expended magazine in her left hand jacket pocket, listened for the sirens. Looked at Miss Lizzy, who looked back at her.

  There was a story here.

  Chapter Twenty

  I don’t know where Deon found these guys. Or if they found him. There was a certain hierarchy in the fraternity of shooters. At the bottom were the “shooting enthusiasts” or fantasists, found hanging around ranges and gun shows dressed in too tight army surplus, beer bellies overlapping gun belts, the kind who liked to handle and talk about their guns; on the other end were the quiet hard eyed men in non-descript earth colors, who were polite and distant, and spent their range times behind their weapons, training, not just pulling the trigger to hear it go bang. In the middle were all those armed citizens that made America what it is -- from soccer moms to dentists to gas station attendants exercising their right to keep and bear arms, busy pulling the trigger with big grins on their faces, laughing and enjoying the all American pastime.

  These guys were from the far top end of the spectrum.

  Joe (just Joe) was blond in a California surfer kind of way, fast forward aged to his middle 40s, quiet, and the only clue he let slip was a discreet little lapel pin in the shape of something that looked suspiciously like a Budweiser crest, or the trident of the Navy SEALs.

  Marcus was easy going, quick to smile, with eyes that said little or a lot, depending on his mood. He didn’t say anything about his past, but he handled his pistols in a way that led me to believe he did a lot more than fondle them.

  “So what’s the plan?” Marcus said.

  They looked at Deon. Deon looked at me.

  “Your thoughts, oke?”

  I shrugged. “Not very complicated, I don’t think. We can sit here and wait for them to come to us, or we can go to them.”

  “Have you thought about talking to them?” Joe said. “Brace them, say hey, I heard you thought I had something to do with this, wasn’t me? Or if that doesn’t work, strike a deal with them? Pay them off?”

  “Never work, oke,” Deon said. “Only blood is going to clear the slate with these people. That’s the way they do business.”

  “What about pinning it off on somebody else?” Marcus said.

  “That might work,” I said. “They’ve got some sketchy customers…they didn’t like the bangers. What do you think about that?”

  “Thin,” Deon said. “Comes back to why they didn’t take more…but a smash and grab is just in line with what they’d think the bangers would do, which was our thinking in the beginning.”

  “Or you could just give the SAWs back…say you recovered them,” I said.

  “That’s not an option,” Joe said. “Sorry.”

  “Then bring them with,” I said. “We may need the firepower.”

  Joe smiled enigmatically at Marcus.

  “Take out the Komarovs, there’s a lot of product they’re sitting on,” Marcus said.

  “They don’t believe in just in time delivery,” Deon said. “They like to have plenty of product on hand.”

  “Be nice if the bangers could do this for us,” I observed. “Get them and the Komarovs to punch it out…we lay low and shoot who ever is left.”

  “I was thinking that,” Marcus said. “And when all the dust is settled, pick up the product…”

  “…and the competition is gone, and the coast is clear…” I said.

  “And everybody gets paid,” Deon sai
d.

  “Works for me,” I said.

  “So then, oke…” Deon said. “What’s the plan? You’re the planner…”

  The three shooters looked at me.

  “Well,” I said. “We could…”

  ***

  I heard about the shoot out at The Trojan Horse from Thieu when Deon and I walked in a few hours later.

  “I think you call Lizzy,” Thieu said.

  “Did she call?” I said, pulling out my cell phone.

  “No,” Thieu said. “She will not call you. You must call her. I know this about her.”

  I didn’t like the feeling that rose in me when Thieu told me about what went down. It brought back a lot of bad memories. There were two movies that I loved and watched over and over again -- not for the shooting, though it was all good -- but for the way the writer and the director (the same in both capacities and both movies) captured some essential truths about ragged edgers, those of us who live on the outskirts of what the citizens like to think of as the real world. Thief and Heat, both by Michael Mann. What I remembered as a recurring theme between both of those movies was the theme of what was necessary in an outlaw: you had to be able to walk away from everything if you had to.

  I’d lived my life that way since I’d come back from Afghanistan.

  But something rose in me that felt like fear: fear of loss, fear for her. It made me realize I wasn’t ready to walk away from Lizzy. And that gave anyone who chose to reach for it a handle on me.

  I didn’t like that.

  Unacceptable.

  While I punched out her number on my cell, I found myself running a violent fantasy of what I would do to anyone who hurt her.

  “Jimmy?” she said.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her voice sounded as it always did: serene, distracted, soft.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “At home.”

  “I’ll come pick you up.”

  “If you’re free now, I can come to your apartment, Jimmy.”

  “Are you all right to drive?”

  She laughed, softly. “Yes. I’m all right to drive.”

  There was a silence between us. The only thing the whisper of her breath in my ear; the thought of her breasts rising, and falling.