Run Baby Run (8 page)

The light at Claiborne was green, and Hutch made a quick right, hoping to throw the Sicilians off, but it didn't work.

"I'm gonna get away from 'em. Belt up," Hutch said. Olson ignored him but whined, "I'll never get to San Diego."

Hutch knew the cross streets by the cemetery rarely got traffic, so he chose those blocks to click his own seatbelt in place. The SUV stayed firmly on their heels, not trying to pass, merely following.

Hutch was dreading the next light. Night life was hopping on Orleans. There were good-timers, high-rollers, and wanna-be's dotting that stretch, in and outside the clubs.

He started honking in advance. The light turned in his favor, but a man was walking with a woman across Claiborne. He was old, tall, and skinny, with a fresh high and tight trim, leaving only hair on the top of his head. She was young, thick-bodied, and had long braids. They were both high and ready for each other's action. Like all good New Orleanians, they didn't look up at the source of the honking, figuring it could just go around them.

Hutch kept blasting away.

Tall and skinny was trying to seduce. "I ain't gonna lie. Matta fact I think you... Oh my!"

He saw the jeep bearing down on them and pulled her forward with him in a big jump. Hutch swerved past them. She tottered on her heels and went down sitting. Her light long summer dress typically extended to her toes, but as she fell, the slits on each side worked like a parachute, and flew up to her hips.

The eyes of tall and skinny, still standing, bugged out.

She cursed and swung her purse at him, and its contents emptied to the street, many of which were promptly run over by the passing white SUV. She tried to get up, slipped and fell down again, scooted on her rear, and angrily pulled tall and skinny down to the pavement with her. He tried to shield himself from her slapping.

The crowd outside Jo-Ro's Lounge erupted in laughter. Eyes emptied with tears. Men fell to the ground holding their sides. Women slid down to the sidewalk smacking their own legs. Catcalls abounded.

"That juicy tail ain't never leaving the street," one of them called out.

"Get him, girl," another said.

"You gonna get it for half price now, Harold!" shouted a smart ass, which sent another wave of people falling down to the sidewalk.

Hutch and Olson were holding a gambler's lucky hand at the street lights. They hit Esplanade and St. Bernard, both busy intersections, at greens and sped through untouched.

Just past Elysian Fields, Claiborne going downriver turned into Robertson. Hutch zigged and zagged a bit around traffic at the Elysian Fields dual lights, blew through both at St. Roch, and had a green for both at Franklin. The SUV, though, did the same.

A deep cough rumbled Hutch to his waist. The recent memory of a plan dissolved in the moldy soup of the present.

"Right now I should be sleepin' in Houston, dreamin' 'bout drivin' to Galveston and takin' a cruise to Brazil," he whispered, shaking his head.

The plan was that Olson would drop him off at the cruise ship terminal where Hutch's trip was already booked under the name Maurice Richard. Olson would drive alone to his new place. The money would all be divided up before then.

Hutch had decided when the cruise ship arrived at port in Salvador, Brazil, he'd disembark normally with everyone else but melt into the city and make it his home.

"Stay strong. Can still get there. Gotta mission to change my condition," he murmured, standing up again to look through the window.

8

T
wo Russians faced two Sicilians. There was open hostility on each side of the hallway. All of them had the physiques of NFL linemen who were no longer in shape.

The Sicilian duo was hostile because they were unarmed. Their pieces were removed from the shoulder holsters and taken at the front door earlier. The Russian duo was hostile because they
were
armed.

Excessive steroid use had thinned the hair of each man. The gel they all used made each of their heads look like the product of a hasty artist. Simple blocky skulls with a few swept back hairs as if afterthoughts.

They were standing outside a closed door. The décor throughout the house could only be described as ostentatious. The structure itself resembled those surrounding it along a tony section of Lakeview. Six pillars in front, though, left only comparisons to a well-moneyed frat house.

The four men were on the job. None of them could emit a minute of charm anyway. Wasn't what they were hired for. The air around them was one giant pregnant pause whose water was about to break.

The determiner of "if" and "when" was on the other side of the door. His name was Alex Yevchev. He spoke English with a Northern Russian accent. Yevchev dressed and adorned himself with jewelry of the type that newly wealthy young men are given to. Skin was cadaverous. His expression, however, was very much alive.

To say he was angry would be an understatement. For the time being, it was wrapped in the veneer of a steely falcon waiting out its dinner.

"Dominic, you are not following me. I do not get fucked. I do the fucking."

"Mr. Yevchev, I'm telling you. I don't know how they got the combination. I didn't write it down. I told nobody. Just your mouth to my ears. I know it looks bad they got the safe open. But they did." Dominic Cavallari, known as Mr. C to his employees, was in the hot seat.

"Do you think I am stupid?"

"No, not at all."

"I am trying to understand how the safe in your office is emptied of my money. I am also trying to understand how you do not know when it is happening."

Cavallari was struggling. "There was a disturbance downstairs. I needed to deal with it."

Yevchev's teeth shone like they were ready for prey. "Do you not have bouncers for that?" he asked, reeling in the other, at least thirty years senior to his age of twenty-eight.

"Yes, but this was a vio... a disturbance that was a little worse than usual," Cavallari said, trying not to use the word "violent" or anything like it.

"You are downstairs and your bouncer, this monkey you call Hutch, is not in his place? And your two men, the fools outside my door, are nowhere to be found?"

"Mr. Yevchev, they were out doing pick-ups. The other clubs. The escort places. All the rest. It takes a little time." Cavallari tried to re-focus the subject.

Yevchev couldn't be swayed.

"Do
you
think I do not know where my money comes from? You are not thinking with your head."

"No, no. I wasn't implying... "

"Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth. You say many things to me like I am a stupid man to you. But you, you are the one not thinking with a head."

Cavallari was confused by this. He expected full-on ferocity. That's what he trucked in himself. What he knew. He couldn't follow indirection.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Yevchev's left hand had been picking at his goatee or impatiently tapping on a bottle throughout the encounter, but now he raised his claw and pointed it across the desk. The diamond bevel in his large watch seemed to pulse.

"I mean you are thinking with your prick." He circled his pinky finger. "With your tiny Sicilian prick," he accused.

Cavallari felt his head clamped. He briefly closed his eyes and winced.

"There is only one reason you are still alive. It is your tiny prick."

Yevchev continued.

"I will now tell you a thing. When it was the time that my people, strong Russian people of the earth, make the deal with your people, old tired Sicilians, for a piece of the action, we still do not trust you. A Sicilian would piss on his own mother and cut her throat for a little money. We do not trust you. We installed our own cameras in our clubs, okay? From the
beginning
."

The vise around Cavallari's head cranked tighter. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He'd already soaked through his undershirt.

"We keep you on because your people vouch for you. They call you 'loyal.' They call you 'no nonsense.' This sounds good to my people. We do not have to bring in new guys and set it up. It is already set up. This is good for us. Yet, we do not trust you."

Yevchev's eyes narrowed.

"What do you do with people you do not trust? You check on them. Watch carefully. What they do. For three years we watch you with our cameras. I have been pleased with what I have seen except for one thing. Do you know what that is, Dominic? The flaw?"

Cavallari's ears were popping from the build-up of pressure. Yevchev wasn't expecting a reply.

"
This
is what I have seen week after week. I have seen you on the first floor away from the office at the same time every weekend your two men are doing their pick-ups. I have seen you look around the room. You spend time doing this. Making your choice. I have seen you speak to the bartender. I have seen the bartender nod at you. Do you see where I am going, Dominic?"

Cavallari began shaking; his knees, his hands on his knees, and his feet. Yevchev kept on.

"Here is where. From our cameras, I have seen the bartender put a pill in a drink and give it to a shot girl. She takes it to someone, the one who is your choice, for free. He is different every week but always looks the same. Most of the time he accepts the free drink, and the girl goes off to sell her test tube shots. Yes, he always looks the same. He is young and his I.D. did not get checked at the door. He is with one friend. Maybe two. No more. He is pretty. What do I see next? I have seen you wait before discreetly directing him away from his friends. Through the dance floor and into the courtyard. Yes, Dominic. You leave my money in my safe with no protection because you are thinking with your tiny fucking prick."

Yevchev began to thunder. Tension also increased among the four outside the room.

"So, what do we do, Dominic? We put another camera in the little room where you take your pretty boys. I cannot watch this shit you do, so I make my guys watch it. Kostya and Pavel on the other side of the door. What do they tell me? I hear that you have a little prick and are a bad man."

Cavallari's inner organs were wrapping around themselves.

"We keep these videos, Dominic, so you cannot fuck us like your little boys. You are not in the ground right now only because we have video from early this morning. We have seen your second floor bartender enter your office, open my safe, and put my money in a big box for beer. We have seen your nigger bouncer look out for him. Both of them leave my club together. We see this. How do I first hear about my own club being robbed? Not from you. On the computer. Because you yell and make noise about it that is overheard by a reporter."

Yevchev paused and threw back a drink. He cleared his throat after having a second one.

"There are things I know. You did not help Clint Olson open the safe, but he opened it easily. He is now dead. Many stories are in the news by mosquito reporters about my club. They do not say my name. It will stay that way. Yes? It is time to find out things I do not know. How the bartender opened my safe. How we will find Hutch and my money. It is time for your fools to come in."

Cavallari tried to speak. "Mr. Yevchev, you don't... "

"Shut up. A man who cannot be trusted will only speak the truth by one method. It is how I find out the space between what you say and what you do." He called out, "Kostya! Pavel! Bring them."

Johnny and Big T were already suffering from sore necks and backs after driving into a house a few hours earlier. Lack of sleep and a bad feeling heightened the aching.

The larger of the two Russians grunted across the hall and gestured to the others. All four rose together, the one called Kostya opened the door, and the Russians waited to follow the Sicilians inside.

Johnny and Big T entered with heavy steps, stopping a few feet behind the chair Cavallari was seated in with his back to them. They felt an exceptionally menacing presence in the room. The air conditioning was blasting and the shadows of Cavallari's lies were cast around the room. Kostya and Pavel fanned off slightly so they could see Yevchev while maintaining firm control over the two in front of them.

Yevchev spoke as a gracious host. "Dominic, your men have been waiting. They must be thirsty." He held up a sleek bottle with the bust of a man in profile pictured toward the top.

Johnny and Big T replied with polite nervous denials in unison.

"I see you have manners, but please. I am offering. You must accept," Yevchev soothed.

Johnny and Big T fell over each other with their excessively formal refusals. These were men who picked their noses and scratched their crotches in public, so manners hung on them like fine drapes in a zoo.

"Hmmm. Maybe you think vodka is only a drink for Russians? That it will not sit well on your Sicilian tongues? It is wrong, this thought. I do not drink vodka because I am a strong Russian."

At this, Kostya and Pavel subtly turned their heads toward each other.

"No, no. Let me explain, so you can understand," Yevchev said. He set the bottle down and pointed at it.

"This is Chopin Vodka. It is made in Poland, a country of farmers. This man pictured is Chopin."

Yevchev mused.

"He was a famous musician from this same place. They are honoring their countryman. I do not know a fucking thing about Chopin, but that does not matter. This vodka from Poland is made of potatoes. It is the best. I am from Kirov Oblast. Potatoes are in my blood. My people have bled for potatoes. Many years ago. You must not deny my request. Please, which of you will drink first?"

To strengthen the gesture, Yevchev poured three fingers worth into a cut crystal glass next to his own.

Big T shrugged and stepped forward to accept. Pavel, who was behind him, pulled out a gun doubled in length by a long cylindrical silencer and watched intently. Both he and Konstantin, known as Kostya, exchanged firm glances.

Yevchev handed the glass to Big T, who threw it back and nodded in appreciation. There was no toast. Big T started to walk back to his spot but stumbled slightly on the edge of an expensive Persian rug when he saw Pavel's gun. He regained himself and squared his shoulders, especially so, when Yevchev ordered, "Turn around."

The Russian was now standing behind his desk, screwing his own silencer in place. He did this patiently and methodically. Yevchev breathed in and out loudly through his nostrils, stared at Cavallari, and finally let his thoughts take wing.

"You are the one with the flaw, Dominic, but you are worth more to me alive."

"Mr. Yevchev, we'll find the money, my men and I," Cavallari assured.

As if he'd heard nothing, Yevchev said, "It is a sad thing if the one responsible for the loss of my money is not held accountable. The fucking monkey Hutch is out there and must be found, but I cannot shoot you, Dominic. You will find my money. Your death would not look good now that you have brought attention to my business. How? By thinking with your prick."

Yevchev looked up in thought.

"Before you all arrived here, I had a question to understand. Who is the sacrifice for Dominic? Why should it be the one who is not afraid to step forward and drink from me? The other, the rude coward, is the sacrifice."

Johnny took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"But then I thought, 'Sasha, these are Sicilians. They are all rude. They are all cowards. The sacrifice
for
Dominic is the one who is
like
Dominic.' I saw that clearly. The one who bends to pressure, who does not think with his head, who is ruled by his appetite, that one will accept the drink."

Johnny opened his eyes. Big T's mouth dropped.

"After my money is found, Dominic, I will chop off your tiny fucking prick. Even then, you are worth more to me alive. For now, though, I do not need you in a hospital."

Cavallari was both horrified and relieved. He moved his legs together in an unconscious shift of protection.

"Do you know what this means that I cannot chop it off right now and feed it to you? Instead, the one who accepted the drink is your sacrifice," Yevchev said.

With that, Yevchev and Pavel lit up Big T so that his large frame bounced around in a death dance. From the front. From the back. They both cleared out their magazines. Kostya took his own gun out for security, but Cavallari and Johnny didn't budge.

Yevchev delivered an unholy benediction to Big T, prone on the floor, while the Sicilians pled their own private desperation.

"Fucking piece of shit. You are nothing to me," the Russian seethed.

To Cavallari: "Two of my rugs are ruined. That is coming out of your pay. See, capitalism is a good thing."

To Johnny: "You will help this pervert return my money or the next blood is yours. Yes?"

Both men nodded the nod of assent that comes easily when you can feel a dead man's warm blood on your own skin.

Yevchev sighed.

"I am again trying to understand.
This time
you will speak the truth. First, how will you find my money?"

"We've got a bunch of NOPD officers working for us. Muckety-mucks too. Captains. Lieutenants. Hutch won't get far," Cavallari said in a shaken way. He could no longer feel his body around him.

"You will call me from the club and give me the tax information for your bouncer. My people can track his credit cards and his phone. Have you been to his house?"

"Yeah, but nobody at his place. Maybe a few leads. Nothing solid. Realize, my guys, uh, guy, almost had him."

"'Almost' is the talk of losers. I have all my money or none of it. I will not get fucked, Dominic. You see this guy, this muscle man."