Crow's Landing (20 page)

“I cannot speak for you but it is the highway for me,” the Russian said. He began to sing. “Happy trails to you. Until we meet again …”

Hoffman sat smoking the cigarette while Yuri sang. Apparently he knew the words to the entire song. He sang them all, and when he was finished he continued to hum the tune. He was driving Hoffman crazy. Finally the Russian pulled the pocket watch out again.

“Is time.”

Hoffman started the car and they drove into the compound once more. As they were walking toward the building, the side door burst open and Soup came flying out at a run. Hoffman had to grab him by the arm and throw him to the ground.

“You motherfucker!” Soup screamed.

“Settle down,” Hoffman said.

“Fuck you!” Soup shouted. “That fucking thing is booby-trapped and you knew it!”

“Relax,” Hoffman said. He looked toward the building, wondering how much time had passed. Parson had said sixty seconds. “It didn't blow.”

“You didn't know,” Soup said, squirming to get free of Hoffman. “Get your fucking hand off me. You didn't know. Me and the dude in there coulda been blown to pieces. You a evil motherfucker, Hoffman.”

Hoffman lifted Soup roughly to his feet. “Nothing happened, right? Just relax, you little shit.”

“My life you fucking with, Hoffman.”

“Enough of this,” Yuri said and started for the door of the building.

“Come on,” Hoffman growled, dragging Soup by his shirt.

They walked inside. The cylinder was on a steel table and a neat rectangle, maybe a foot long, had been cut out of the side of it. Several plastic packages, tightly packed and secured with duct tape, were on the table beside the cylinder. Still inside, nestled among more packages, was a mass of gray putty from which a tangle of wires ran. Beside the putty was a standard keypad used for alarm systems. Dante was standing beside the table. He did not look happy.

Hoffman hesitated when he saw the putty and the keypad but Yuri reached in, pulled the putty out of the cylinder, and lifted it to his nose for a sniff. Smiled.

“Is Plasticine,” he said. “Like children use to play. Plasticine! Hey, copper, someone is having fun with you. Is joke.”

“What's going on here?” Dante said, his voice flat.

“Is nothing,” Yuri said, tossing the putty on the table. “Someone is having a joke on my friend here and I was playing along. Is just Plasticine and keypad.”

“You thought it was going to blow?” Dante asked.

“Of course not, Dante,” the Russian said. “I would not put you in position of danger.”

“Fucking bullshit, man,” Soup said. He was hanging back, eyeing the cylinder like it was still about to detonate.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Hoffman told him. “You people do nothing but whine.”

Dante let it go, but his eyes were guarded. Hoffman was pretty sure that he wouldn't be doing any favors for the Russian in the near future, if ever. Yuri pulled a black trucker's wallet from his pocket and counted out the four hundred and handed it to Dante, who put it in his coveralls without a word and walked away, clearly pissed off. Yuri and Hoffman packed the dope into the duffel bag and the three of them headed for the side door, leaving the cylinder behind. Yuri told Dante that he could sell it for scrap but Dante never replied.

Outside, they put the bag in the trunk and got into the car.

“Pool hall, copper,” Yuri said, like a wealthy man instructing his chauffeur. He smiled at Soup in the back seat. “Now we are getting close to nitty-gritty, Mr. Soup.”

Soup remained quiet. He was still fuming, twitching in the backseat. Hoffman wondered how bad he was jonesing; they had been together for the better part of two days, and if he had been getting high over that time, he was awfully good at hiding it. Well, his reward was coming soon. Maybe Yuri would give him an ounce, or even two. Of course, if the shit was as pure as it was reputed to be, Soup would probably kill himself with it. But that wasn't Hoffman's problem. He just didn't want to stiff the little bastard; if he did that, there was always the chance Soup would shoot his mouth off to a cop. Half the cops in the city knew him by name. He wouldn't have any trouble getting one of them to listen, and with
Hoffman's luck, it would be a cop who didn't much care for him. So Hoffman needed to keep Soup happy until he could get out of town. After that, Soup could tell anybody anything he wanted.

They drove to the alley behind the pool hall and Hoffman parked again beside the big pickup truck, the one he assumed was Yuri's. Who else in the city would have a pair of horns on the hood of their vehicle? For somebody in the drug trade, he wasn't exactly inconspicuous. They got out and Hoffman opened the trunk and as he did he heard police sirens, approaching fast.

“What the hell?” Yuri said, staring at Hoffman.

“It's nothing,” Hoffman said. But he was wondering. It seemed a little too coincidental.

Yuri took a few steps toward the street. The sirens grew louder; the cruisers were apparently heading toward them, coming down South Pearl to Third Avenue, which ran out front of the pool hall. Yuri looked down the side street toward South Pearl, listening, then he turned back on Hoffman.

“Nothing?” he asked. “Is cops and coming this way. What is this?”

“Got fuck-all to do with us,” Hoffman assured him.

Yuri was not convinced. He pointed a large forefinger at Hoffman. “You will wait here.”

He disappeared into the rear of the building. Hoffman turned to Soup, who had been edging along the alley, seconds away from flight. The sirens were now almost on top of them.

“Get back here,” Hoffman told him. “It's nothing, I tell you.” He took a cigarette from his pack and lit up. “You want a smoke, Soup?”

“You want a smoke, Soup?” Soup mimicked. “Fuck you,
Hoffman. One minute I'm a whiny nigger and the next I'm your homey. Fuck you, man. I rue the day I met you, motherfucker.”

“Take it easy,” Hoffman said, but he was distracted, his mind beginning to work, even though he tried to fight it. How could anybody know? Dante at the body shop was pissed, but Hoffman doubted he would make a call on Yuri. Besides, how would he know where they were heading? Hoffman took a long look at Soup, who had moments ago been on the verge of running. Soup, who they had left alone for half an hour while the cutting was done.

“You didn't make a phone call, Soup?”

“What? Who the fuck would I call?”

Hoffman thought about it. “I don't know,” he admitted. “But if you did, you're one dead crackhead.”

“I didn't make no call.”

Hoffman decided to walk out to South Pearl and have a look. As he did, he saw two cruisers come down the street, slowing down as they passed to turn onto Third Avenue. Hoffman stood on the sidewalk and watched as they stopped after making the turn; he could still see the rear fenders of both cars, and he heard the doors open and close. They were practically right in front of the pool hall. Hoffman turned and walked back to the car. Soup was leaning against the rear fender, his head down, his expression dark and devoid of hope at this point.

Hoffman paced the alley, smoking. What if the police were raiding the pool hall for some other reason? The place was obviously a front for something. Numbers, drugs, guns; the Russian could be into anything. Hoffman knew nothing about the man. He could have checked him out, but it wasn't as if Hoffman had been looking for a Boy Scout. However,
if the police were in the pool hall right now, Hoffman sure as hell didn't want them wandering out here in the alley. No matter what they were looking for, they'd be real interested in the duffel bag in Hoffman's trunk.

He walked back and forth a couple more times, waiting for the Russian to come out, and then he decided he'd had enough. He started for the door, then thought about the coke in the trunk and walked back along the side of the car and reached over to slam the lid shut, not thinking to grab the keys from the trunk lock. He turned and headed inside.

The Russian was not in his office. Hoffman kept moving, down the narrow corridor and into the poolroom, where he found him standing at the front counter, talking to the grizzled old man who ran the cash register. Hoffman could see the cruisers out front, through the plate glass. There was also an ambulance there now, parked in front of the restaurant across the street. One of the uniforms was standing on the sidewalk by the front door of the restaurant, talking to a woman who appeared to be a waitress.

Yuri turned when Hoffman approached. “Someone is having heart attack at restaurant across the street.” He laughed at the thought. “Is not good advertisement for your restaurant.” He assumed the voice of a circus barker. “Eat here, then have heart attack!”

Hoffman shook his head, but he was relieved.

“You have no sense of humor, copper,” Yuri said. “That is your problem. Every day you must laugh.”

“I don't think you and I find the same things funny,” Hoffman said.

“Maybe not,” Yuri said. “So then back to business.” He began to walk to the rear of the room and as he did he spoke to Hoffman over his shoulder. “Is time to find out if this dope
you bring me is as good as you are bragging. All the time I have heard of pure cocaine but never have I seen it.”

They went through the room and down the narrow hallway, past Yuri's office, to the back door. They stepped outside into the alley, expecting to find Soup there waiting for them. But Soup was gone.

And so was the car.

It rained all night and it was still raining when he got up the next morning. Virgil had intended to harvest the rest of his wheat today but that would have to wait now until things dried up. He was also going to have to learn how to manage with just one arm for a few weeks. Fortunately, he was right-handed and the Russian cowboy had been considerate enough to stomp on his left arm, although Virgil recalled he'd been all in favor of breaking them both.

The pain wasn't too bad this morning. The disapproving doctor had supplied him with some Percocet and he'd taken one before going to bed the night before. Getting up at dawn, he'd gone without. The arm was uncomfortable but tolerable. His head hurt where the crooked cop had whacked him with the gun, but he could live with that too.

Taking a shower had been difficult, trying to keep the plaster cast out of the spray. Drying off took some contortions but shaving, strictly a right-handed exercise, was not a problem. He had cereal for breakfast and sat at the kitchen table for a while, drinking coffee and watching the rain as it came down, forming puddles in the driveway and filling the ditch out front. The horses were gathered beneath the large chestnut tree in the corner of the pasture field. The two Percherons, if that's what they were, appeared to be slowly growing accustomed to their new home and were grazing beneath the tree with the others. Virgil wouldn't bother feeding them
grain this morning since they wouldn't walk up to the barn in the rain to get it and the trough would just fill with water, ruining the feed. They had plenty of grass.

Watching them, Virgil realized that Mary Nelson hadn't called, as she had promised. It was true that he hadn't been home much in the past couple of days. He had no answering machine or voice mail so in all likelihood she had phoned and been unable to leave a message. She wouldn't worry; she knew that Virgil, in spite of his reluctance, would take care of the draft horses.

It bothered him not getting the rest of the wheat off. The rain would make the grain tough, but there was nothing he could do about that, just as there was nothing he could do about the weather. That didn't stop him from thinking about it. And worrying about his wheat crop was easier than worrying about the woman named Dusty. She had seen the stitches in Virgil's head and the cast on his arm, so she was aware that the men looking for her were serious, whether she wanted to admit it or not. The fact that she had asked about a gun told Virgil that she was more frightened than she let on. It was obvious that she knew a hell of a lot more than Virgil. There were things that she'd told him, but he was pretty sure there was more that she hadn't.

He was tempted to call the Albany police and tell them who it was who had taken his boat. But he had no way of knowing who he could trust, or if in fact anybody would believe him. If this Hoffman had just retired a few days ago, he would obviously still have friends in the department. Virgil needed more information and sitting there, watching the rain come down, he couldn't think of who might provide it.

It took another couple of cups of coffee and an hour of boredom before the obvious person came to mind.

He headed out just before noon, driving east to the Hudson River. He didn't have much to go on; all Buddy had said was that he was renting a place on the water near Coeymans. Fortunately for Virgil, the beat-up Cadillac was conspicuous, and so was the guy who owned it. Virgil decided he would travel up and down River Road, hoping to spot either the car or the man.

He reached Coeymans, a town of seven or eight thousand, around one o'clock. There was a shopping area, a few bars and restaurants, and a large boat launch on the river. After driving through the town a couple of times, Virgil flipped a coin and took River Road south, checking out the seasonal cottages and cabins along the shore. Buddy said he fished every day, but it was still raining heavily and Virgil doubted that Buddy would be out in the weather, not in a little aluminum boat. Virgil suspected that Buddy was a man who liked his creature comforts.

He drove south as far as Coxsackie and then retraced his route to Coeymans, where he headed north. The rain finally began to let up and the clouds to the west broke into large chunks, which the wind pushed off to reveal blue skies beyond.

When he found the Cadillac, it was parked just where he might have expected—outside a bar. The place, called The Flats, was a low-slung stucco building on a narrow lane a couple of hundred yards from the Hudson. Buddy, of course, was inside, drinking draft beer and playing shuffleboard with a very tall blond woman of about forty-five wearing artfully torn blue jeans and a tight tank top. The blonde was attractive, in a weathered way, and her breasts were impressive, quite large and very round, probably not original equipment. Original or enhanced, she was apparently proud enough
of them that she had decided not to hide them in the constraints of a bra. Looking at Buddy's beaming face as he fired the rocks down the hardwood table, Virgil was quite certain that Buddy was okay with that.