Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) (10 page)

It rang half a dozen times before she picked up, her voice crisp, “Hello Mr. DelPiero, it’s good to hear from you.” There was an audible pause that lasted long enough for her to say, “Mr. DelPiero, is that you?”

“Yes, it is,” I said, recalling my cover identity, and wondering if I should have fumbled through it with an Italian accent, but deciding it would have been butchery to even try. “I’m having second thoughts about Bucahrest. I don’t think a place with that kind of population is what I am looking for. I don’t know. I’m honestly having second thoughts about the whole thing.”

“I see,” she said. “Please hold one second.” I expected the line to shift, maybe some filler music while I waited, but what I heard was a thick clicking noise followed by three short beeps. “There, now we can talk safely. Tell me what’s going on.”

I filled her in about the devastation of Westbahnhof, including my encounter with the authorities and how close I had come to attacking them. She listened quietly, taking in the events with only the occasional grunt serving as a verbal nod. I finished with having to show my passport again as I boarded the train to Bucharest. I didn’t mention the pain. Always hold something back.

She digested the story in silence, much as she had when I revealed my identity, before saying, “You did well in not antagonizing the authorities. Austria has taken a rather hard line with super criminals.”

“I didn’t see the actual bad guys, but if the train station was a clue, they were powerful. Then again, their cops were better armed than the army types who were supposed to guard my prison transfer. Bucharest is going to be the same thing. Someone is going to recognize me. I stand out from normals.”

“Bucharest will not be the same thing. Romania has little in the way of super criminals, or superhuman activity at all for that matter. What they have is deep seeded corruption scaling their entire infrastructure from their faux democracy down to local police. Keep a low profile and pay well with your bribes. You will be fine.”

“No, I need an island,” I said. “I need someplace far from the things of man, a place where people aren’t going to notice me.”

“Island bases are so blasé,” she said. “You don’t want to be that person. Besides tracking you will be a matter of simply pointing a satellite in your direction, and that is nothing compared to the logistics and increased cost of importing the things you need to an island. We would need another shell to pay the legitimate shippers, and hope we pay them well enough that they don’t report your movements. Trust me, a big man like you will disappear in a crowd in Romania.”

“Dammit, it’s not that,” I said, my gruff tone a reaction to her patronizing lecture. “Bucharest is full of people, and I’m going to poke the bear. And the bear has a goddamn gorilla working for him. I don’t want people getting hurt on my account. Not anymore.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone softer. “There are vast tracts of undeveloped land that we can easily acquire. More than enough space for you to do what you need in solitude.”

“How vast are we talking,” I said, my mind wandering to the server hive sketched out on four pieces of paper.

“I can’t be certain, but I will do some research for you.”

Maybe something underground, to contain the amount of damage Haha’s team could do. “Something near the mountains,” I said. “But with room to expand downwards without mutating anyone’s water supply.”

“Understood, I will get my people on it immediately.”

I said nothing, noting how heavy my breathing was.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. Hey, thanks for talking me off the ledge.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “I am sorry about the other night. It was wrong of us to judge you. Vandela felt awful the next morning. She sends her regards as well.”

“Can’t say I blame you. It was terrible when I lived it, and mass murder was probably not the best icebreaker.”

“Maybe, but we pressed you for a story. We shouldn’t have balked at the details.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been amazing. “

“Thank you,” she said. “I will contact you soon regarding those property questions.”

“Okay, but we’re probably going to need a short period of radio silence after this. I’ll find a way to contact you when I’m settled. It’s going to get dangerous, Annit.”

“I understand,” she said, her voice firm. “Enjoy Bucharest Mr DelPiero.”

The next step was tricky.

Pulling into Bucharest’s Gara de Nord train station I knew that choosing the right person mean the difference between success and failure. I stayed on the train long after we had arrived, letting everyone debark before me, letting all the overeager taxi drivers get their fares to weed out the more desperate fellows. I hopped off, the last passenger on the train and headed toward the exit.

The first thing I noticed was how wrong Annit had been about my purported ability to blend in with these people. They were much more colorful than she had intimated, and despite the coming winter, most folks were dressed for brisker weather, with plenty of yellows and reds represented. People had darker skin than I, and their hair color was so richly black it made mine look pale in comparison. Annit had painted the picture of a bunch of tall, pale people, but I pretty much towered over everyone.

The place was bustling as well. The station was filled with thousands of people coming and going, most carrying bags and dragging suitcases behind them, moving faster than seemed possible. They were swarming around and through me, all with such purpose that I drew little attention in the end.

The cabbies were in a mob near the main entrance, their cars strewn throughout the area, not a single person passing them without being solicited. Beyond the frenzy, a small group of men huddled near their cars, steam rising from the idling engines. The icy wind pulled at their coats, and the smoke drifting from their cigarettes. They spoke to one another while still looking over the crowd, sharing a laugh.

I squeezed through the crowd; walking past a set of pillars that reminded me that Romania had long been an Eastern Block country. The station was a testament to a time when Bucharest had been the seat of Nikola Ceausescu, the most repressive of the satellite leaders of the Soviet Union’s extended empire. The big pillars were blackened from car smoke, not cleaned in decades and the yellowed stones were lined with the same soot. Above the station tower was a clock forever stuck at 9:23.

Among the remaining drivers, a group of three looked the most promising. They studied my approach, and I had the keen feeling that I was being silently vetted. That was fine, I was doing the same. I looked their hands first; noticing one of the three had heavy calluses. I dismissed him instantly, turning my attention to the others.

“Either of you two speak English?”

One man nodded, the other took a drag of his smoke.

“I lived in UK, bro,” the English speaker said.

“You?”

The other guy shrugged, “I speak some.”

The older fellow looked decent enough, but he wore jeans and a denim jacket with a striped collared shirt, a few gold chains hanging around his neck. He was heavy set with a thick growth of facial hair that seemed to continue down his chest and back. His eyes were glazed, unmotivated, as if he was more interested in smoking a cigarette than anything I had to offer.

The other was younger but just as cheesy-looking, slicked back black hair, a thigh-length leather jacket with gray slacks, and black leather shoes. He was clean-shaven, but had the feel of a guy who was too much a fan of James Dean. His features were chiseled from stone though, a classical form of handsome that could easily translate to the cover of any magazine.

It was less his look and more his eyes that drew me in. Sharp and calculating, I could feel him studying me, figuring me out. His mind was moving, adding up how much he could take me for. The guy was a born thief.

My choice was almost made, but one final question would determine which man was the best candidate.

“You guys have a gun?”

They regarded me as if I was one of the security police, about to make an arrest. The guy with chains finally opened his coat, revealing a shoulder-rigged revolver. I looked at the guy with the leather jacket who just laughed and took a drag off his cig.

“What the fuck you want a gun for?”

The guy with the chains spoke to the younger man in Romanian, drawing a chuckle, but nothing more. Mister Chains rattled off another, longer sentence, finishing with the word “Bubu,” and the younger man rankled. It must’ve been a nickname.

“Let’s go,” I said, motioning to the young man in leather, still somewhat unsure. “Which one is your car?”

He stood there a moment, shrugging to his buddy and flicked the still smoking cigarette at the pavement, motioning to a hatchback that looked like a compact Toyota but was a brand I had never seen. He used a key to open the trunk, waiting for me to toss my bags in, before closing it, then took the driver’s seat. I sat up front because the rear of the taxi was too small for a guy my size. The front wasn’t that spacious either.

“So,” I said, putting on my seatbelt, something that he watched with curiosity. “No gun, huh?”

The taxi driver smiled, “Why do you ask?”

“Answer me.”

He started the car and threw it in gear, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t need one,” he said, looking back at me. “Where do you want to go?”

“The most expensive hotel in town,” I said.

“What for?”

“I like good food.”

He took off into traffic, weaving through with skill that made me instantly jealous. The guy knew the car and how far he could take it through the stop and slow traffic, moving with confidence, all the while managing not to drive like an asshole.

“Grand is good,” he said absentmindedly as he drove. “Athenee is a Hilton. You know Hilton, right? Central is good too. Also Sarroglia and Rembrandt.”

He looked over at me when we were stopped waiting for some pedestrians.

“Any are good.”

I pretended not to care, shrugging with nonchalance. “Good food is all I care about,” I said.

The driver smiled, as if he knew I was still testing him. As soon as the foot traffic passed, he tore off, reaching over to the radio dial and finding some techno music.

“This bother you?”

I shook my head, waiting for him to show his hand, but he reached for his pack of cigs and held them up to me. I shrugged and he popped one in his mouth. He pressed in the car lighter, silent the whole time. He didn’t drive angry, and honked only at the more egregious examples of bad driving. Once the lighter snapped out, ready, he lit his cigarette and rolled down the window, exhaling smoke.

“If you want good food,” he said. “Don’t go to those places.”

“No?”

He shook his head in a micro gesture, the lines in his face downturned in disapproval.

“Expensive,” he said. “Lots of money for stupid fat tourist.”

“I see.”

“You’re hungry?”

I nodded.

“I’ll take you to good place.”

We drove for a bit, and I wondered if the special place was something secluded, a small warehouse, maybe, with three or four of his guys, armed with guns, eager to take every last cent from me. I chuckled to myself, thinking of their surprise when I started collecting limbs.

“What’s so funny,” he said.

“You’re Bubu?”

He flashed a nasty look, taking a long slug off his smoke.

“Not that. Don’t call me that shit, okay?”

“The other guy called you that.”

“My name is Bogdan.”

I looked out the window, watching the city. “I don’t give a shit what your name is. Just don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“Panties aren’t in a bunch, okay bro,” he said. “Bubu is just…a pet name. Call me Bogdan.”

“And the other guy,” I said.

He ran his shifter hand through is hair. “The other guy was my uncle. He can call me whatever.”

“So, Bogdan,” I said. “Would you know where to get…I don’t know…an MRI machine for me?”

He laughed, a curt, contained juggling act that threatened to spill the cig from his lips.

“MRI machine? What the fuck for?”

“I need one. Today.”

“To buy?”

I shrugged, “To have.”

He thought for a moment, “It’s too big.”

“You can’t get it?”

Bogdan’s smile wasn’t fading; he thought this was one big joke.

“I can get it. Need a truck though,” he said, his gaze sweeping across an intersection as we drove through the heavy traffic. “Truck first, then the MRI machine. After that I get you a tank and a MIG, okay?”

“Can you get a MIG?”

“You’re crazy or stupid,” he said. “Or crazy and stupid, huh?”

“Or rich and motivated…and a little crazy.”

He almost rear ended the car in front of us, and didn't move for almost twenty seconds.

“The MIG is hard,” he said. “What you want a MIG for?”

“Does it matter?”

Bogdan shrugged, “Not really, bro, but the MIG is hard. Can get Soim jet. Is ‘Hawk’ in English. Is shitty Romanian jet plane, but easier to get. Or does it have to be a MIG?”

I smiled and leaned back. “Just drive us to the food place, Bubu. Then we’ll worry about the rest.”

*              *              *              *

“So why the MRI and the MIG and that stuff,” Bubu said as we ate.

He had brought us to a small restaurant on the edge of town.

I was in the middle of ripping the flesh of a mititei, a caseless sausage at the end of a wooden kabob that was traditionally eaten as an appetizer. There were a few left over and I nibbled on the spicy meat.

“I was checking to see if you were squeamish about committing a crime,” I said between chews.

“What does ‘squeamish’ mean?”

I cleared my palate with a long swig off my Azuga beer. They came in 2 liter bloated bottles, and I figured it would be better than ordering a whole bunch of them, despite Bubu’s complaints that it was shitty beer.

“It’s like when you have a problem,” I said. “When something bothers you.”

He shrugged, only picking at his plate of snitel, a plate of pounded pork tenderloin breaded and fried schnitzel-style and stuffed with cheese, red peppers and a mushroom filling. The whole thing was served with yellow rice and some steamed vegetables. I had eaten three plates already, and was eyeing his.

“In Romania,” he said. “Everyone is squeamish.”

“Isn’t squeamish,” I said, correcting him to what I thought he meant.

“Is not?”

I shook my head. “You mean most people don’t care, right?”

Bubu nodded, “This. If you have money, you get what you want.”

“Including a MIG,” I said.

“You want this,” Bubu said, tapping his untouched plate with his fork.

“Sure,” I said, grabbing the plate and taking fork and knife to the meat.

“Why a MIG?”

I took a huge bite and made him wait while I chewed, swallowed and washed it down, draining the beer. I motioned to the waitress for another.

“You eat like you’ve never eaten before in your life.”

“How do you think I get so big, huh,” I said. “Anyway, I don’t want a MIG. Rather, I don’t need a MIG. But if you can get one, or the other plane you were talking about, then I might have a need for one.”

“Hawk,” he said. “IAR-99. It’s a Romanian plane. Very old, very crappy.”

“Whatever,” I said. “I can use the parts and make something serious. And I might need something to get around fast.”

“Are you a pilot?”

I laughed, cocking my head as if the question was ridiculous, “No.”

He nodded, “So you want a plane, so take it for parts, so you can build another plane, but you can’t fly this plane.”

“How hard can it be?”

“I think you go with my uncle better,” he said.

I laughed and patted him on the shoulder, pulling out my laptop from the bag and setting it on the table. “I have a list,” I said, but his expression curdled.

“What,” I said. “Don’t call you Bubu, don’t touch?”

“No, Bubu is fine,” he said shaking his head and pointing at my laptop. “Why you use such shit computer?”

I looked at him like he was insane.

“This laptop. It’s shit.”

“You can get better?”

Bubu smiled, drinking from his beer.

“Of course, man,” he said, his attention suddenly taken by a beautiful young girl that entered the restaurant with a few of her male friends. I turned my attention to her, and he slapped my shoulder.

“Don’t look like that,” he said.

“Why?”

“Roma girl,” he said. “Gypsy,” he added when he saw it didn’t register to me. “Don’t fuck with them. They’re trash.”

I shrugged, not caring if the woman’s two muscled friends came over to start trouble or not.

“She’s pretty,” I said.

He laughed. “Lots of pretty girls in Romania. Gypsies just full of disease, and get you pregnant, then father comes to ask for money for baby and if you don’t give it, he and all her brothers will kill you. Don’t fuck with them, okay?”