Loose Ends (8 page)

“
Da
.”

“Any word on the supplier?”

“Don’t put me on the spot,
solntse
. I don’t want you get hurt.” Sergei had called me
sunshine
in Russian as long as I can remember, since I was a child…back when my father was alive. The two men had been close.

“I’ll make it worth your while. I can play a few rounds.” The offer was pro forma.

“With you, Cal, there is no
few rounds
.” Sergei held out his hand, palm up. “Guns.”

With good grace I handed over my Glock and the holdout .38 from my ankle. Once he’d secured them below the bar – he had an arsenal down there most days – I turned to walk my beer through the pub area to a door in the back. The man-mountain named Rostislav moved aside, turning the knob and pushing the steel slab open. They knew me well here.

No
few rounds
indeed, I thought. I could walk away any time I wanted.
Snap
, like
that
.

As Sergei had said, two of the four poker tables were running, a 1-4 limit seven-card stud and the usual 2-5 no-limit Texas Hold’em. Each had a seat or two empty.

Being Monday night, these were small games with barely a few grand on the felt all told. This operation was off the books, technically illegal, but with the old regulated card rooms and new tribal casinos in California, it was hardly worth Vice’s time to bust it or others like it as long as they kept their noses otherwise clean. When I was on the force I’d driven at least half an hour out of the city to find a legal place to play, but now that I’d become a civilian doing that seemed damned inconvenient when a nice friendly table waited for me within blocks. Of course, I usually arrived during daylight and left the following morning.

My heart rate climbed and my mind seemed to expand as concentrations of positive stress hormones flooded my brain and nervous system. Even if the mind said no, the brain said
yes yes yes
. If they had this high in a pill I knew I’d pop it regularly. As they didn’t, I just had to admit that nothing beat pitting myself against a table full of decent players and winning.

Because I was
way
better than decent.

Some people think poker is gambling. That’s true only if you aren’t more skilled than most of the table. Sure, there’s luck involved, but just like market trading and venture capitalism, if you’re an expert and your opponents aren’t, the odds will eventually put money in your pocket. In fact, you can even swim with the sharks and come out ahead if you stay out of serious confrontations with them and everybody takes their bites of the fish.

Fish
are what we call the guaranteed losers on the felt, the ones without a deep understanding of the game, the ones who often don’t even realize how badly they are outclassed, the ones who
do
believe it’s all about luck. These are why people like me are here, night after night, waiting for their pounds of flesh.

For a wise working rounder, a steadfast player-of-the-odds or
grinder
, it’s about doing eight to twelve hours and coming out ahead, night after night, four to six nights a week. It might be fifty bucks a session or five hundred, occasionally more, but it pays the bills.

Me, I could never be a grinder. I’m a
player
. I lose more often, but I win more money. This is just my style. I don’t have the patience for the grind. If I play every night, I’ll start dropping too much, and then chasing my losses in a fog of judgment-sapping adrenaline poisoning.

I know. I used to do it.

I did it the night before the bomb.

Fortunately, it hadn’t affected me that day. Being a bit less fried and a little sharper wouldn’t have done a damn thing to change the outcome of the situation, I was sure.

Pretty sure.

The tables sang their siren songs to me as they always did, but this time I had the case to fend them off. Talia’s picture hung in my mind’s eye.

Looking around, I spotted a guy I’d played with now and then, a big redhead with his beard and long hair unkempt, a cheerful maniac at the table in a faux retro Zeppelin t-shirt and black roadie jeans. I’d seen him snorting before – maybe cocaine, maybe speed, so he seemed like my best bet for a further tipoff. I didn’t know his name, but in the manner of poker aficionados everywhere we exchanged cordial nods.

“Not playing tonight?” he asked.

“Not tonight.”

“You need a few bills I could front you.”

“Thanks, no. But maybe I can buy you a drink.”

The redhead looked at his cards and tossed them into the muck with a grimace. “I’m out,” he said to the dealer before collecting his chips and standing up.

After he cashed out I led him out of the back room, my barely touched beer in my hand. He ordered a double Jack and Coke from the bar. When Sergei had set it up, we slid into a dim booth across the room.

Red lit a cigarette. “What you want, girlfriend?”

“Ain’t your girlfriend, hair boy.”

“You don’t like it?” He ran both hands through his ginger locks and slipped a rubber band around the mass, forming a ponytail.

I shrugged. “Not to my taste, I guess.”

“Look, you asked me over here. You must be interested.”

“Not in hooking up. I just want some info.”

“What kind of info?” He took a swallow of his drink.

“What do I call you, anyway?”

 “Red works.”

“I’m Cal.”

Red licked his lips. “Nice to meet you, Cal. I got some high-quality blow back at my place. Pure. Uncut.”

I shook my head. “Listen, powder ain’t my thing, but you know where I can get some high-quality uppers? The real shit only, nothing street.”

“Maybe. Not tonight, though. Couple days for sure. How much?”

“Whatever five bills will get.”

“Yeah, I can hold that much. Pass them to you cheap.” He leered, probably figuring he’d take his profit out in trade.

I reached for my cell. “Give me your digits.”

Red recited a local number, which I punched in and saved. I sent him a quick text. “There. You got mine. Ping me when you have something.”

“Sure, girlfriend,” he said as he leered again.

“Not gonna happen.”

Red shrugged and smiled, clearly not put off. “Why not? We’re the same, you and me. We both live for the game. I can tell.” He reached across and took my hand in a strong grip.

Using a simple judo move, I disengaged my arm and shook it to let the sleeve of my blazer fall into place. “Touch me again and –”

“And what?” Red asked with that maniac’s grin.

“And I’ll have you barred from this club. The owner’s an old friend of mine.”

That threat stopped him more effectively than violence, as I knew it would. “Okay, okay,” he said, lifting his palms to me. “Sorry. Jus’ tryin’ to be friendly.”

I forced myself to match his leer. “I could be friendly too if you get me what I want.”

“I said I would.”

“I want more than that. I want you to introduce me to your connection. Cut out the middleman.”

“Cut me out, you mean. Why would I do that?”

“I don’t sleep with people I do business with, so if you got any interest in hooking up it has to be on my terms.”

“You’re playing me,” he said flatly.

“What do you have to lose?”

“I don’t have the time to get jerked around. I got women whenever I want.” He snapped his fingers.

“Junkies that will do anything for a fix, you mean. If that was all you wanted you wouldn’t be hitting on me now.”

Red grinned. “I like smart girls. You ever think about partnering up?”

I knew he was referring to poker, not sex. Two players working together could collude to swing the odds in their favor, though it was hard to do subtly enough to get away with it. “That’s not me. Anyway…the introduction?”

Polishing off his drink and looking into the distance as if thinking, he eventually said, “Okay. Why not? Let’s go.”

“Good.” I stood and slipped out of the booth, holding up a hand. “Give me a minute.”

Red nodded and watched as I walked across to Sergei.

“How’d you do,
solntse
?” he asked.

“I didn’t play.”

Sergei smiled. “Good.” He left his concern at that flat syllable, but I knew he cared. He always nagged me when he thought I played too much.

“What I need is that info. Give me a name.”

“Not good idea, Cal.”

I leaned in. “Listen, Sergei, you know I can take care of myself. There’s a ten-year-old girl out there duct-taped to a chair and I promised her mother I’d find her. The people involved with this shipment have her. You’re a father. How would you feel in her position? How would you feel if it was me?” I gripped the bar and dropped my voice to a whisper. “That name takes me one step closer. Please,
dyadya
Sergei
,
tell me.” Calling him
uncle
always sweetened him up.

Sergei’s black eyes, dark pits set within deep sockets surrounded by prune skin, stared into my own as if searching for a way to avoid answering. Finally, he spoke. “All right, Cal. I tell you. And I tell your mother if you don’t come home tonight. The name is Houdini.”

“Houdini? Is that a joke?”

“No joke, and you heard nothing from old Sergei.”

I patted him on the cheek. “Not so old. You still have a heart.”

“In box, locked in my safe.” He caught my hand, kissed it and winked. I’d always be a little girl to him. Maybe that was why I could usually get what I wanted.

“So, where do I find this Houdini?”

Sergei backed away to begin wiping the spotless bar again, eyes downcast. “Ask your other uncles. I tell you nothing more.”

I sighed with frustration, but I couldn’t blame him. Fingering a powerful drug lord could get him killed. “Thanks anyway. Listen, you know this guy?” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder at Red.

“Da. He’s not right for you.”

“I’m not looking to sleep with him, just get some information. How careful should I be?”

Sergei shrugged. “No more than usual. He’s not violent and I know where he lives.”

“Good enough.”

“You want muscle?”

“No, thanks. Your guys are too big and conspicuous. But do me a favor. Ask your people about anyone holding a child.”

“No problem,
solntse
.”

“Guns,” I said, holding out my hands. He reached under the bar without looking, bringing them up and carefully placing them on the polished surface.

I secured them in their holsters. “See you, Sergei.”

“
Das vedanya,
Cal.”

Chapter 6

Obviously Red was still hoping to get into my pants or he wouldn’t be doing me the favor of introducing me to his connection. Yet, this was how things worked in the shadowy world of drug dealing. Everything was personal, based on gut instinct, shaky trust and often on hope. People chasing their next high took big risks for small payoffs, which was why the real businessmen didn’t use their own product.

We walked a couple blocks through streets littered with the husks of the people of the night. I kept my hand on my weapon, but Red’s presence and the lateness of the hour seemed to ward off any trouble. Mutters and profanity followed us from time to time, payback for disturbing the denizens’ fitful sleep. Once, a poorly aimed wine bottle broke at our heels. Red roared like a bull ape and a dark figure slunk back behind his chosen dumpster.

I was relieved to follow my guide through a creaky fence gate into a tiny backyard full of junk and up a set of rickety fire escape steps. Red rapped lightly on a dimly lit window.

The curtain, a dirty hanging sheet, jerked aside and a suspicious face stared at us for a moment before unlocking the frame and lifting it. “Hey, Red,” the teenager attached to the face said. He reeked of the needle and the damage done, with emaciated arms and sunken cheeks more fitting fifty than fifteen.

“Sup, Roach,” Red replied. “The man in?”

“Think so.”

“Let us through.”

“Kay.” Roach stepped out of the way as we climbed in the window.

Red led me quickly to the front door of this apartment past a smelly rat’s nest of indescribable detritus, broken furniture and paraphernalia. When we stepped into the hallway it closed behind us with the audible clunks of multiple deadbolts.

“It’s easier and safer to come through there than the front door,” Red said in my ear by way of explanation as we walked slowly through the surprisingly clean hallway. “All twenty-four units are controlled by the guy I’m taking you to. Everyone works for him one way or another – dealing, transport, muscle, recruiting, Now that we’re inside, they’ll assume we belong. Most of them know me anyway.”

“Do you work for him?”

“No, but we’re cool.”

That could mean anything from not hating each other to bosom buddies so I merely nodded, playing along. If Red and I kept our heads on straight this could work out, though I had to admit I was flying by the seat of my pants here. With no leverage and the thinnest of leads, I was hoping to pick something up that would point me in the right direction.

“This guy have a name?” I wasn’t expecting Houdini, but you never knew.

“His street handle is Luger. I never asked for anything else and neither should you. Oh, and he’s Brotherhood.”

“Aryan Brotherhood? Great.” I gestured at my face. “I’m not exactly lily white. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Naw, don’t worry. He don’t like blacks and Jews but he’s pretty cool with Asians.”

“Oh, a liberal. What about beaners? I’m a quarter Mexican.”

“It doesn’t show, so don’t tell him. Relax, be cool and it’ll work out. He’s a businessman, not a thug.”

In my experience the two weren’t mutually exclusive, but I held my tongue. Red gestured up the main stairs and we climbed to the third and highest floor. He led me to a door at one end of the hall, nicely painted but obviously heavy steel.

Before he could knock, a grilled look-through snapped open. “Who’s your friend?” the voice from the other side said.

“A player I know from Sergei’s. She’s cool.”