Indigo Slam: An Elvis Cole Novel (7 page)

I looked serene. “No, but we’re often confused.”

“I got nothing to say to you.” Brownell tried to get up, but I hooked one of his feet behind the stool and pushed down hard on his shoulder, digging my thumb into the pressure point at the front of his neck. I didn’t like being tough, but I was willing to if that’s what it took to find Clark Hewitt and get his butt home to his kids. No one in the bar seemed to give a damn. He said, “Ow. My goddamned neck.”

“Relax and I’ll let go. If you try to get up, I’ll knock you on your ass.”

He stopped trying to get up and I released the pressure. As soon as I let go, he took a belt of the Popov. “Goddamn. That hurt.”

I took out my wallet and opened it to the license. “A fifteen-year-old girl who told me that her name was Teresa Haines gave me two hundred dollars to find her father.”

Brownell took another belt of the vodka.

“I have come up here at my own expense because Teresa, whose name I now discover is really Hewitt, and her two younger siblings have a missing father who has apparently abandoned them.”

Another belt.

“I have discovered that Clark Haines, whose name is also Hewitt, is a drug addict. I have discovered that Mr. Hewitt has come to Seattle, has spent time with his old friend, Mr. Brownell, but that Mr. Brownell doesn’t give enough of a damn about these minor children to cooperate in helping me find their father.” I put away the wallet, then took out the picture of Brownell and Clark and their wives and put that on the bar.

The picture was creased from having been in my pocket. Brownell’s jaw tightened. “You went into my home.”

“Yes.”

His jaw flexed some more, then he picked up the picture and put it in his own pocket. He had more of the vodka, and I saw that his hand was shaking. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about anything.” His voice was soft and far away.

“I know Clark was with you.”

He shook his head, and the soft voice came again. “You’re in somethin’ now you don’t know anything about. If you’re smart, you’ll just go home.”

“So tell me and I’ll go.”

He shook his head and tried to lift the Popov, but his hand was shaking too badly. I didn’t think it was shaking from the booze. “I can’t help you and I got nothing to tell you.” He blinked hard, almost as if he were blinking back tears. “I love Clark, you see? But there ain’t nothing I can do. I don’t know where he went and you shouldn’t be asking about him. I’m sorry about his children, but there ain’t nothing I can do about that. Not one goddamned thing.” Brownell’s hand shook so badly that the Popov splashed out the glass.

“Jesus Christ, Brownell. What in hell’s got you so scared?”

The bar door opened and the blond guy from the Lexus came in. He was maybe six-two, with hard shoulders and sharp features and ice blue eyes that looked at you without blinking. He stepped out of the door to make room for his friend, and the friend needed all the room he could get: He was a huge man, maybe six-five, with great sloping shoulders, an enormous protruding gut, and the kind of waddle serious powerlifters get. His thighs were as thick as a couple of twenty gallon garbage cans. The buzz cut was wearing a blue sport coat over a yellow T-shirt and jeans, but his friend was decked out in a truly bad islander shirt, baggy shorts, and high-top Keds. The big guy had a great dopey grin on his face, and he was slurping on a yellow sucker. The buzz cut said, “Willie.”

Wilson Brownell said, “Oh, shit.” He knocked over his stool as he lurched from the bar, then hurried through a door in the rear. Gone. The bartender didn’t look. The women didn’t look. The guy sleeping on the bar stayed down.

The buzz cut and his friend came over. “You are coming with us.” The buzz cut spoke the words with a careful, starched pronunciation that made me think of Arnold Schwarzenegger, only the accent was Russian.

“Sez who?” I can slay ’em with these comebacks.

The weightlifter reached under his shirt and came out with a Sig automatic. “You’ll come or we will shoot you.” He said it in a normal speaking voice, as if he didn’t give a damn who heard. Another Russian.

I said, “Have you guys been following me from Los Angeles?”

The weightlifter shoved me, and it felt like getting blindsided by a backhoe. “Shut up. Walk.”

I shut up. I walked.

Maybe Wilson Brownell was right. Maybe I was in something deeper than I realized, and now it was too late to get out.

Isn’t hindsight wonderful?

The buzz cut held the door as the lifter walked me out, then followed behind us. The big guy let the gun dangle along his leg but made no effort to hide it. A woman with two kids came out of a bakery across the street, saw the gun, then grabbed her kids and stumbled back into the bakery. I said, “Don’t you guys know it’s illegal to walk around with that thing?”

The big guy said, “This is America. In America, you can do what you want.”

“I’d put it away if I were you. The cops will be here in seconds.” Maybe I could scare him into letting me go.

He made a little gesture with the gun, as if it were the gun shrugging, not him. “Let them come.” Guess not.

“Who are you guys?”

The buzz cut shook his head. “Nobody.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the car.” Everybody’s a comedian.

The black Lexus was parked by a fire hydrant at the end of the block. This morning I was boarding a jet to fly to Seattle to find the missing father of three children in what should have been a no-big-deal job, and now I was being taken for a ride by two unknown Russian maniacs. I was willing to walk with these guys, but I did not want to get into the car. There are two crime scenes at every kidnapping. The first crime scene is where they snatch you, the second is where the cops find your body.

The lifter didn’t seem to be paying a lot of attention, but the buzz cut was looking at everything. He scanned the storefronts and alleys and rooflines, his ice blue eyes moving in an unhurried, practiced sweep. I wondered what he was looking for, and I wondered where he had picked up the habit. I said, “Afghanistan.”

The ice blue eyes never stopped their search.

The big guy said, “Da. Alexei was Spetnaz. You know Spetnaz?”

The ice blue eyes flicked at the big guy, and Alexei mumbled something soft in Russian. The big guy’s eyebrows bunched like dancing caterpillars. Nervous. I guess he was scared of Alexei, too.

I said, “I know Spetnaz.” Spetnaz was the former Soviet army’s version of our Special Forces, but they were really more like Hitler’s SS. Motivated zealots with a penchant for murder. “That’s a kind of Austrian noodle, isn’t it?”

The ice blue eyes flicked my way, and Alexei smiled. The smile was wide and thin and empty. “Da, that’s right. A little noodle.”

I wondered how many Afghan kids had seen that smile before they died.

The big guy was walking behind me, but Alexei was maybe three paces back and to the side so that he wasn’t between me and the gun. If I could put Alexei between me and the lifter, I could use him as a shield from the gun and perhaps effect an escape. Superman could probably do it, and so could the Flash. Why not me?

I slowed my pace, and almost at once Alexei slid sideways, brought up a Glock semiautomatic, and lockedout in a perfect two-hand combat stance. Guess they both had guns. He said, “The car is safer, my friend.”

I showed him my palms and we went on to the car. So much for effecting an escape.

They put me in the front seat. Alexei got behind the wheel and the big guy got into the back. When he got in, the car tilted. Steroids. We started away and the big guy leaned forward and pushed a CD into the player. James Brown screamed that he felt good, and the big guy bobbed his head in time with the music. He said, “You like James Brown, the king of soul?”

I looked at him.

Alexei said, “Turn it down, Dmitri.”

Dmitri turned it down, but not very much. He made little hand moves with the music as if he were dancing, looking first out one side of the Lexus, then out the other, as if he wanted to take everything in and miss nothing. “I enjoy the king of soul, and the Hootie and the Blowfish, and the Ronald McDonald’s. Do you enjoy the Big Mac?”

I looked at Alexei, but Alexei wasn’t paying attention. “I prefer Burger King.”

Dmitri seemed troubled. “But there is no special sauce.” He spoke Russian to Alexei.

Alexei shook his head, irritated. “No. No special sauce.”

I said, “Are you guys for real?”

The lifter said, “What is that, ‘for real’?”

Alexei pointed the Glock at me. “This is real. Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“Then keep your mouth shut.”

Grump.

A light patter of rain began to fall, and Alexei put on the windshield wipers. We took the Alaskan Way Viaduct up past Elliot Bay into Ballard, then turned toward the water and bumped along an older part of the wharf to a warehouse at the edge of a pier. The warehouse, like the pier, was old and unkempt, with great rusted doors that slid along tracks and peeling paint and an air of poverty. Dmitri climbed out, pushed open the door, and we drove inside to park between a brand-new $100,000 Porsche Carrera and an $80,000 Mercedes SL convertible. Guess the air of poverty only went so far.

The warehouse was a great dim cavern that smelled of fish and rain and marine oil. Dust motes floated in pale light that speared down through skylights and gaps in the corrugated metal walls, and water dripped from the roof. Men who looked like longshoremen were driving forklifts laden with crates in and out of the far end of the warehouse, and did their best to ignore us. Alexei blew the horn twice, then cut the engine and told me to get out. A row of little offices was built along the side of the warehouse, and, with the horn, a pudgy guy with a cigarette dangling from his lips stepped out of the last office and motioned us over. We were expected.

The three of us went through the door into a shabby office in which it was even harder to see. The only light in the place came from a single cheap lamp sitting atop a file cabinet in the corner. Three men were around an oak desk that had probably been secondhand in the thirties, two of the men in their mid-fifties, the third maybe younger. The younger guy was the one who’d waved us in. I had hoped that maybe Clark would be there, but he wasn’t Probably just as well.

An empty folding chair was in the center of the room. The pudgy guy gestured at it and said something in Russian. Alexei said, “For you.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

Alexei glanced past me to Dmitri and then an M-80 went off in my ear. I rocked sideways and went down to one knee, then felt myself put into the chair. Alexei leaned toward me. “No more jokes, now.” His voice was far away. “That was a slap, do you see? If Dmitri closes his hand, it will kill you.”

“Sure.” His face tilted crazily first to one side, then the other, and I thought I was going to throw up.

A fourth man entered, this guy a little shorter than the others, but wider, and hard to see when your eyes are blurring. He was in his fifties, with crinkly gray hair and a florid face and a dark blue shirt open at the neck to show a lot of grizzled chest hair. He was also holding a McDonald’s soft drink cup. Large. I guess that’s where Dmitri got it from.

When the new guy entered the other men stood, and murmured greetings of respect. The new man spoke more Russian, and Alexei handed over my wallet. The new man put his cup down and sat on the edge of the desk to look through my wallet. Deciding my fate, no doubt.

I rolled my head one way, then the other. The disorientation was beginning to pass, but the soft tissue around my ear felt tight and hot.

The new guy finished going through my wallet, then tossed it to the floor. His eyes were tired and lifeless and uncaring. Just what you want to see when you’re being held in a chair by a three-hundred-pound Russian with steel fingers. The new man said, “I am Andrei Markov.”

“All right.” He spoke pretty good English.

“Where is Clark Hewitt?” It hung like a chime tone in an empty room. All of this was about Clark.

“I don’t know.”

Markov nodded and the steel fingers tightened into my shoulders like pliers. Alexei backhanded me with the Glock and a starburst of pain erupted from my other ear. Some days suck. Some days you shouldn’t even get out of bed. I said, “Who is Clark Hewitt and why is he so important?”

Markov said, “Tell me where he is, or I will kill you.”

“I don’t know.” My ears were ringing. I shook my head to stop the ringing but the shaking made it worse.

Another nod, and this time Alexei hammered back the Glock and pressed it hard into my neck. Dmitri stepped back to get clear of the splatter.

I said, “I’ve never seen Clark Hewitt, and I don’t know where he is. I don’t know anything about him.”

Markov said something to Alexei and Alexei answered in Russian. Markov said, “Do not lie. You were asking about him. You were at his wife’s grave.”

“His name came up in something I’m working on so I came up here to find out about him.”

“What thing?”

“I’m trying to find a drug importer from San Francisco. Before he disappeared he said he was going to buy some dope in Seattle off a connection named Clark Hewitt. I came up here to find out.” Good lying is an art.

Markov stared at me some more, thinking about what I had said, trying to decide whether or not he believed me and how far to take this if he didn’t. The Glock hovered like a living thing three inches from my left ear. I thought that I might be able to block it away and drive up into Dmitri, and if I was lucky I might be able to live another ten seconds.

Far away a dog barked. Deep and throaty and coming closer.

I said, “I don’t know Hewitt. I don’t know you guys. What in hell is going on here?”

The phone rang, and the man to Markov’s right answered it and listened without speaking. He put down the phone and said something and Markov’s steady eyes wavered.

Something was happening out in the warehouse. The dog sounded closer now, and men were moving and there were voices. Markov murmured more Russian. The Glock disappeared and Alexei stepped away and the barking came to the door. A guy in a suit stepped inside, holding out a federal badge, and announced, “Federal Marshal.” He was a tall guy and the suit fit well. He glanced at me, then came over and jabbed a finger into Dmitri’s chest. “Step back, fatso.”

Dmitri squinted at Markov, and Markov nodded. Dmitri stepped back.

The guy in the suit looked at me. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

“We’ll get you some ice.” He turned back to Markov. “My name is Special Agent Reed Jasper, United States Federal Marshal. The men behind me are with United States Customs. They have some paperwork they’d like to discuss with you.” A powerfully built guy wearing an assault suit and a Browning 9mm was outside the door with the dog, and the dog was straining to get into the room. It was a big, muscular mix, maybe shepherd and Akita, and it looked like it wanted to bite. Behind him, other men were moving through the warehouse.

Andrei Markov spread his hands. “I am always happy to cooperate with the authorities, Special Agent.”

I said, “My name is Cole. I’m a private investigator from Los Angeles. These men brought me here against my will and assaulted me. I’d like to press charges.”

Jasper put away his badge, then picked up my wallet and lifted me off the chair as the guy with the dog came in. Jasper never again looked at the Russians, but kept all his attention on me, as if I was the reason he had come and the Russians were now someone else’s problem. He said, “You’ll live.”

“I said that I want to press charges.”

“Sure.” He led me out of the room.

Maybe a dozen federal agents were moving through the warehouse. There were a couple more dog handlers in assault suits, but most were wearing blue rain shells that said
POLICE
—
U.S. Customs
. Jasper led me past them without another word and out into the rain. Maybe Jasper could tell me what was going on. Maybe Jasper could tell me why Clark Hewitt was so important, and why I had been grabbed, and why Andrei Markov had come maybe three seconds from blowing my brains out. I said, “Man, am I glad to see you guys.”

Jasper said, “You won’t be.”

“What does that mean?”

A guy in a blue shell was waiting beside a nondescript government G-ride. “Is this the dude?”

Jasper tossed him my wallet. “Yeah.”

The new guy slipped my wallet into his pocket without looking at it, then went around and climbed in behind the wheel. His blue shell said
MARSHAL
. I said, “Would you guys tell me what’s going on?” I seemed to be saying it a lot, and no one seemed willing to answer.

Jasper pushed me against his ride, pulled my hands behind my back, and cuffed me. “You’re under arrest, asshole. If you know any good lawyers, you’d better get ready to call ’em.”

Wilson Brownell had been right. I had stepped into something deep, and now I was drowning.