Crow's Landing (29 page)

“Yeah. Way to go.”

“And you don't want him getting too close,” Virgil said. “Because if he does, he's going to find a little boy who looks like him. And the math works too.”

“You're right on the money.”

Virgil saw that her glass was nearly empty and reached for the bottle. “So if you track down the coke, and hand it over, then he's out of your life again. That the way it is?”

“I'm hoping that's the way it is.”

 * * *

It was midmorning when Hoffman walked into Yuri's office behind the pool hall the next day. He found the Russian at his desk, talking on the phone while rolling a cigarette. There was a rotund black man on the couch, with an acne-scarred face and a wispy goatee. His bare belly showed where his tight T-shirt didn't meet his sweatpants, and he had a dreamy, spaced-out look on his face that was all too familiar to Hoffman. The office smelled strongly of pot.

“Mr. Hoffman,” Yuri said when he hung up. “I wish you to meet my new friend Jay Dee.”

“Yo,” Jay Dee said and Hoffman didn't reply.

“I am deputizing Jay Dee,” Yuri said. “Because Jay Dee knows how to find the camp owned by the man Pop. Jay Dee used to go there with Mr. Soup, when they are teenagers and playing the basketball.”

Hoffman regarded the man on the couch doubtfully. “Where is it?”

“Adirondacks,” Jay Dee said.

“We know that,” Hoffman said. “But where?”

“Man, I don't know the name of this road, that road. I'm gonna know when we get there. I been there a lot of times. I got like a map in my head. We get there, I'm gonna know.”

Hoffman looked at Yuri, eyebrows raised. The big Russian just smiled as he stood up and walked to a cupboard in the corner. He pulled out an Adidas sports bag and tossed it on the desk, then went back into the cupboard for a bottle of vodka, a handful of energy bars, and a large bag of peanuts
in the shell. He put everything in the bag, then opened the top drawer to the desk and brought out a Colt .44 revolver, checking that it was loaded before tucking it in his belt. Finally he reached into the same drawer and produced an Uzi automatic pistol and a couple of clips. Both the Uzi and the ammunition went into the bag and he zipped it shut.

“Okay, now we are prepared,” he said, and smiled again. “Is like we are going on little picnic. You agree, Mr. Hoffman?”

“It's no fucking picnic,” Hoffman said.

Yuri wanted to take his truck but Hoffman vetoed the idea. The new deputy, Jay Dee, reeked of pot and body odor and the Russian himself wasn't exactly a fanatic when it came to personal hygiene. Hoffman had no intention of being crammed in the cab of a pickup for hours with the pair of them. They took his sedan.

They left the city just after eleven o'clock, driving north on 87, Hoffman behind the wheel with Yuri on the passenger side and Jay Dee sprawled in the center of the backseat, legs splayed, his hands resting on his big belly. With the long drive ahead of him, Hoffman once again considered the bizarre predicament he found himself in. Since the day he had seized the cylinder from the hick at the marina it was as if he'd been caught up in a ridiculous movie. A very long and ridiculous movie. If Soup wasn't hiding out in the camp up north, and Hoffman had little faith that he was, the movie would just get longer, although he doubted it could get any more ridiculous. Of course, Hoffman could end it at any time, just walk away from it all, take his pension and live with it, but he'd invested too much time and effort now for that to be a consideration, and the promise of a payoff was too big. He had come this far; he would play it out.

He wished he had scored a GPS system from the force before he'd retired. Now he was stuck with a state road map and the vague recollections of the pothead in the backseat. For a guide he had the lunatic in the front. At this moment the lunatic was looking at the map, charting their route. He had his seat back all the way and one big black cowboy boot was resting on the dash. His Stetson was pushed up onto his forehead.

“So what is first exit we take?” he asked. “There is U.S. 9, which takes us to Lake Placid. Is where they have the Olympics one time.”

“Yeah,” Jay Dee said brightly. “I remember going through there.”

Yuri glanced over at Hoffman, smiled, and looked at Jay Dee in the backseat. “This is where we go. You can stand easy for now, Deputy Jay Dee. We will not need your expertise until we reach the mountains of the Adirondacks. This is learning experience for me. I did not know they are having mountains in the New York State. But they cannot be big, like the Rocky Mountains?”

“They're not the fucking Rockies,” Hoffman said irritably.

“They're big enough,” Jay Dee said. “You wouldn't want to climb one, dog.”

“There will be no mountain climbing on this trip,” Yuri said. “This is strictly hunting expedition. Our quarry is Mr. Soup. He is a small quarry, I will admit, but so far a formidable one.” He paused to look out the side window, off into the distance. “However, is not like the old days on the Great Plains, when the men hunt the buffalo. Foolish men—they were indiscriminate with their shooting and almost they make the buffalo … what is the word when an animal is no more on the earth?”

“Extinct,” Hoffman said.

“Extinct,” Yuri agreed. He sighed. “How I wish I could have participated in the buffalo hunt. I would have had Sharps fifty-caliber rifle. Can shoot one-half mile, this rifle. Who knows—maybe they would call me Buffalo Yuri, like the great Buffalo Bill.”

“The dude that started the football team?” Jay Dee asked.

“You're a moron,” Hoffman said.

Yuri gave Hoffman a look. “Come on, Mr. Hoffman. Jay Dee is making joke, I think. You must join in. This is great adventure we are on. Why is it you cannot enjoy yourself?”

Hoffman said nothing as he swung into the left lane to pass a tractor trailer. Yuri watched him for a moment longer, then turned back to Jay Dee, who, Hoffman suspected, had not been making a joke.

“Tell us about Pop's Camp,” he said. “How is it that you go there?”

“Shit, most everybody I knew went there, one time or another,” Jay Dee said. “This old white dude, Pop Chamberlain, used to run the b-ball program at the Y, and then like once a year he'd take a whole busload of kids up to the camp. Didn't cost us shit neither. I don't know where the money come from, but we never had to ante up a dime. I went three, maybe four times.”

Yuri glanced at Hoffman. “Mr. Soup—he is going with Jay Dee to this camp.”

“Yeah—I remember him being there. Him and me weren't never too tight. He was a big fucking star on the court, and I was this little fat kid, you know? Everybody said he was going to college, he was gonna play in the NBA, all like that. Shit, one pull on the pipe and that motherfucker wasn't going nowhere.”

In the front seat, Yuri shook his head. “Unfulfilled potential. Is a sad thing.”

“Whatever,” Jay Dee said. “The camp was cool, though. Played ball every morning but in the afternoon we got to swim and fish and drive around in boats and shit. They had this big mess hall, and the old guy's wife would cook for us. If we caught us some fish, old Pop would clean them up and she'd cook that.”

“I would have liked to attend a camp like this,” Yuri said. “I am working from the time I am nine years old.”

“It was cool, man,” Jay Dee said, and something came to mind. “Well, it wasn't all cool. They had this stage at one end of the gym and once a week they would bring in this band, fucking guys with like fiddles and banjos and shit, and they'd try to teach us to square-dance. Ever see a black man square-dance?”

“Never,” Yuri said.

“Well, you ain't about to neither. A nigger don't square-dance. Even Stepin-fucking-Fetchit never did that shit.”

Yuri smiled. “What about wild animals? Some buffalo would be too much to ask, I am presuming.”

“I never seen no buffalo,” Jay Dee said. “But there's bears. Black bears. They hang out at the dump.”

“At the dump,” Yuri said. “That is undignified. If I was a bear, I would be a noble bear. I would not eat garbage.”

“You get hungry enough, you might,” Jay Dee said. “As long as they wasn't thinking about eating me, I didn't fucking care what they ate.”

“Is good point,” Yuri said. “So when is the last time you see Mr. Soup?”

“I see him around all the time,” Jay Dee said. “But we don't run in the same circles. I don't smoke that shit and I don't
snort it. I might do a little hydro from time to time but I got it all under control, you hear? I got to think about my career.”

“What's your career?” Hoffman asked, glancing back. He was sick of the man's voice already and they hadn't driven thirty miles. Maybe this would shut him up.

“I'm in the music business, dog.” Jay Dee's voice held an element of incredulity, as if he expected Hoffman to be aware of this. “I mean, all the way in—producing, performing, deejaying. Jay Dee the Deejay, you dig?”

“Right,” Hoffman said. “Where do you work out of?”

“Happen to be between gigs at this very moment,” Jay Dee said. “Working on my own shit. Just getting it together, making it tight. Gonna do a CD of my own material. I'm gonna be a force, you watch.”

“Yeah, we'll be watching for that,” Hoffman said. He shot Yuri a glance and the big Russian shrugged.

“Is good to dream,” he said.

“Like Soup?” Hoffman asked. “He was going to be a basketball star. Look where it got him.”

“I am sad for Mr. Soup,” Yuri said, agreeing. “He made a bad decision. I am afraid he is like the buffalo on the Great Plains. He is in danger of becoming extinct.”

 * * *

By the time they reached the exit for U.S. 9, the future rap star Jay Dee was sound asleep in the backseat, head back, mouth open. Hoffman stopped for gas outside of Elizabethtown and the man never as much as stirred.

They drove west, where the road began to rise, running between rock cuts and pine forest. The traffic was steady; it was Saturday afternoon and people would be heading for their cottages and lake houses. Yuri had removed his boots and his dirty socks were now planted on Hoffman's dashboard.
He had dozed off for a while as well, and when he woke up he reached into the athletic bag at his feet and retrieved a couple of the energy bars, which he ate, washing them down with slugs of vodka. When he offered the bottle over, Hoffman refused. He could see bits of food floating inside.

A few miles along, Yuri turned the radio on and began searching for stations. There was hip-hop and new country and golden oldie rock-and-roll, but evidently none of that was to his liking and after a few minutes he turned it off. He read the road map for a time, tracing their route to Lake Placid with his large forefinger.

After he tossed the map aside, he looked out the window for a while, and presently drew the Colt revolver from inside his coat and began to point it at the passing trees, making shooting noises, like a child playing cowboys and Indians, then grew tired of that and laid the gun in his lap. He glanced into the backseat at the slumbering Jay Dee, and turned to Hoffman.

“I am bored,” he said. “Tell me your sad story, copper.”

“I don't have a sad story.”

“Oh, but everyone has sad story. If I tell you mine, it will break your fucking heart.”

“That case, I'd rather not hear it.”

“Don't worry,” Yuri said. “Is not for you to know. But what about you? You are respected policeman, protecting citizens of the community, and now you are involved in this dirty business. Surely you have story.”

Hoffman drove in silence for a while and then jerked his thumb in the direction of Jay Dee. “There's my story right there. Guys like him. I spent thirty years out on the streets. And I've seen the scum and the garbage out there, dealers and addicts and thieves and pimps. I've thrown them in jail
and watched them walk because our court system is run by Mickey-fucking-Mouse. After a while a man gets sick of it. After a while a man just throws his hands up. You can only beat your head against the wall so many times.”

Yuri began to laugh. “You sound like bad novel!” he said. “You are man of great integrity but system fails you. You have no choice but to go bad.”

“You have no idea what I'm talking about,” Hoffman said. “I don't give a shit what you think anyway.”

“Is good. Because I am not buying this story. I think it is about the money with you. Same as everybody.”

“Okay, so it's about the money. Who the fuck are you—Mother Teresa?”

“I am mother to nobody,” Yuri said. “I am merely businessman.” He sighed and glanced out the window. “But I am sad because I am born too late. In my heart I am cowboy.”

“You're a fucking cowboy, all right,” Hoffman said. “That's the one thing we agree on.”

“I am cowboy,” Yuri said. “Do you know how I know this?”

“I don't need to know how you know this.”

“I have a code. That is how I know. A man must have a code. What about you, Mr. Hoffman—do you have a code?”

Hoffman shook his head, wishing the Russian had stayed asleep. “Yeah. Sure.”

“No,” Yuri said slowly. “I don't think so. You do not strike me as a man who has a code. Tell me—what is your favorite Western movie?”

“I don't watch movies.”

“This is your problem,” Yuri said. “I have all the movies. The Clint Eastwood, the John Wayne, the Randolph Scott.” He paused. “Alan Ladd in
Shane.
This is great character. At first you think this is wimpy little guy, but later you see he is
made of iron. But a man with his time running out. Is very sad to watch. Is symbolic thing. Like the Rooster Cogburn. You know the Rooster Cogburn?”

“Gee, I don't think I know anybody named Rooster.”