The Equalizer (24 page)

McCall's gaze shifted across the dance floor to the bar area. He picked out another of the Chechen enforcers who had been at Moses's antique store. His name was Rachid, although McCall didn't know that. He was sitting quietly at a table, sipping a glass of wine, watching everything. McCall didn't think he'd be a problem, but more of one than Kuzbec.

McCall stepped down into the cocktail area. One of the cocktail waitresses in their shimmering silver outfits came over to him, but he waved her off. He walked over to where six of the dancers were sitting. The one at the first table stood up. She was in her early twenties, he figured. She had blond hair that floated down her back to below her knees. It was quite beautiful. So was her face, brilliant blue eyes, porcelain skin. She wore a powder blue dress that showed off her figure. She smiled at McCall.

“Do you want to dance?”

McCall shook his head. “I'm looking for…”

“Yes, you do,” she said, and lowered her voice. “Give me a hundred-dollar bill. Make a show of it. I'll give it back to you. Come out onto the dance floor, we can't talk to customers unless we're dancing.”

She took McCall's hand and led him out onto the dance floor. The Village People came on singing “YMCA.” Abuse's idea of throwing the crowd a curve. Or he just loved that song, forget the get-ups and the lyrics. McCall moved the girl around the dancing couples, and threesomes, in some cases four girls grooving together, his eyes continuing to survey the battleground.

His partner said, “I'm Melody. You're a good dancer.”

“I trained with Baryshnikov.”

She smiled again. In other circumstances it would have warmed McCall's heart.

“Not going to tell me your name?” she asked.

“Are you going to tell me why you're dancing with me?”

She lowered her voice again, although no one could have possibly eavesdropped on their conversation with the Village People saying the clientele could hang out with all the boys at earsplitting decibel levels.

“You were with Katia two nights ago,” Melody said. “There was something about the way you two danced. None of us thought you were a stranger to her. Are you her boyfriend?”

“No.”

Melody nodded. “Just a friend.”

“Not even that.”

“If you're looking for her, she…”

“I'm not,” McCall said.

“She didn't come in tonight.” Now Melody's voice sounded urgent. “She never misses a night. None of us do. There are another twenty girls waiting somewhere to take our place. So we're worried about her.”

“She's popular with the other dancers?”

“She's the best. She doesn't take crap from…”

Reflexively she looked over at one of the cocktail tables on the other side of the dance floor. McCall followed her gaze. Bakar Daudov sat there, immaculately dressed in a dark suit, drinking a double shot of Grey Goose. He was very still. He was searching the crowd. Maybe he was also waiting for Katia to show up for work.

“He's your handler?” McCall asked.

“He's like the manager here,” Melody said. “He's in charge of the dancers and the cocktail waitresses. He's…”

She bit her lip and didn't continue.

McCall nodded. “I know who he is.”

“You know him?”

“Men like him.”

“I'm frightened for Katia.”

“She's fine,” McCall told her.

Then he silenced her with his eyes as he danced her away from the side of the dance floor where Bakar Daudov sat.

“Where is she?” Melody asked, when his eyes told her she could. “I've called her apartment ten times. And her cell. It all just goes to voice mail.”

“She's somewhere safe.”

Melody looked at him in silence for a moment as the Village People finished and Pitbull started feeling the moment with Christina Aguilera.

“Because
you
took her somewhere safe?” she asked.

McCall ignored that. “I need to speak to Borislav Kirov. Where's his office?”

“Upstairs, first door on the left, but you won't find him there. He's hardly ever in his office. He likes being down on the floor. He holds court at a table over there.” She pointed. “In that alcove.”

McCall spun her around so that he could see the alcove. The angle was bad, and the alcove was in shadow. He could make out the dark figures of men at a long table. They could certainly see
out
into the club.

McCall nodded. “So Mr. Kirov is watching us now?”

“Oh, yeah,” Melody said. “He likes my hair. When I turn on the dance floor he says it's like a curtain of soft rainbows floating through the lights behind me.”

“Very poetic. He that kind of a man?”

“He's very private. None of us know much about him. He's married, a couple of teenage sons. He's surrounded at all times by an entourage. He's at that table most every night, talking to customers, taking phone calls, working on his iPad. He's a little scary. When is Katia coming back?”

“You'll know when she walks in.”

“But she
is
coming back to the club, right? That would be very important to her.”

She said it as if it was life-and-death. With enough emphasis, albeit ambiguity, for McCall to stop dancing.

“Why is that?”

Melody shrugged. “She's a stranger here in New York. She has a teenage daughter to raise. She needs this job. We all do.”

It wasn't really an answer, but McCall wasn't going to press it. A new number started. Demi Lovato having a heart attack. He escorted Melody back to the cocktail tables, making a show of handing her a hundred-dollar bill.

“I'll give it back to you,” she whispered.

“Keep it,” McCall said. “If the snake in the dark suit watching us asks you questions, tell him exactly what was said between us. Which is nothing that can hurt Katia. You don't know where she is because I haven't told you. Understand?”

“I don't. What's going on here?”

“Have you been asked by Bakar Daudov or Mr. Kirov to do more than dance with the customers?”

Melody took a step back, as if she'd been slapped. Her demeanor changed. She tried to find some righteous indignation, but it didn't work too well.

“I'm not a whore,” she spat out.

“I know you're not,” McCall said gently. “You might consider finding a new club to dance in.”

“I can't do that.”

“Then be careful,” he said. “Be aware.”

She took in a breath and nodded. “I try to be. Most of the time it's fine. Most of the customers just come to the club to dance.”

“Try and keep it that way.”

McCall walked through the cocktail tables and skirted the dance floor. He didn't look at Daudov. He was pretty sure the enforcer did not recognize him from Bentleys. He had not once looked in the direction of the bar when he'd been sitting in the booth there with Katia.

McCall reached the alcove.

Kuzbec stepped right in front of him.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I need to talk to Mr. Kirov.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“He'll see me without one.”

“Mr. Kirov is busy tonight. If you'll leave your name with me…”

“Next time you're guarding a prisoner,” McCall said conversationally, “I'd take the ear pods out of your ears. Just a suggestion.”

It took a couple of moments, then realization flared in Kuzbec's eyes. He almost lunged for McCall. A voice from behind him said, “Bring him in, Kuzbec.”

Kuzbec stopped, staring at McCall, humiliation in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists. Slowly he got himself under control. McCall gave him the time. The young Chechen stepped to one side and McCall walked through the archway into the alcove.

It held only the one long table. There was white latticework all around it, like a gazebo, with vines and bougainvillea laced through it. The table would seat at least eight. It was set for an early dinner, but it hadn't been served yet.

Borislav Kirov sat at the center of the table. He was a compact, muscular man with dark brown hair. His eyes were brown and alert and highly intelligent. He had a close-cropped beard, a cleft chin, thin lips. He was in his forties, wearing a dark suit. McCall noticed his manicure was perfect. There was a whiff of cologne from him, something expensive. He regarded McCall with a kind of frankness that was both welcoming and wary.

There were four other men at the table. One of them, at the end of the table on Kirov's left, was dressed in what McCall had come to think of as Chechen black, but he was not from Chechnya. His features put him more into Serbia or Croatia. He was probably in his late thirties. He watched McCall approach with gray eyes that were as dead as a fish. He had powerful hands, which lay on the table in front of him. No rings of any kind. No suggestion of marital or other affiliations. Colorless. Just the kind of barracuda who would be circling the likes of Borislav Kirov.

At the other end of the table was a guy who looked like he sold used cars in a suburb of Dallas. He wore a tan sport coat, a gaudy string tie, a black cowboy hat, no doubt alligator stitched cowboy boots hidden beneath the table. He was in the middle of an expansive story, his jeweled hand still waving vaguely in the air. He looked surprised by the interruption. Next to Kirov, on his right, was another young Chechen turk whom McCall had not seen before. On Kirov's immediate left was a gaunt, ratty little man in a pinstriped suit who looked somehow haunted. As if he'd wandered into the alcove, sat down, and realized he was at a very dangerous table.

McCall stopped in front of the table. He didn't move. The next move was Kirov's. Kirov nodded at the Slavonic type. The man got to his feet with a kind of liquid grace. He walked to McCall's side and gestured with one hand. McCall leaned against the table and splayed his legs. The Slav frisked him expertly. When he was finished he looked at Kirov and shook his head and then returned to his seat and placed his hands, palms down, back on the table.

McCall straightened, his eyes never leaving Borislav Kirov's face.

Kirov said, “You took something that belongs to me last night.”

“The girl doesn't belong to you,” McCall said. “Neither does her mother.”

“Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“You acted alone?”

“Yes.”

“It was a very sophisticated break-in,” Kirov said. “You used tranquilizer darts. Very effective.”

“I used to work with big cats. Philadelphia zoo.”

“They opened a big cat exhibit there, I believe.”

“That was a while ago. In 2006. First Niagara Big Cat Falls. In addition to the big cats there were three snow leopards, three cougar kittens, and I brought in a jaguar cub. When the three Amur tiger cubs were born in 2007 I left.”

“Taking with you some of the weaponry that was made available in your work.”

“I was going to go on safari in Zimbabwe. It didn't work out.”

“I didn't know Katia had such a special friend.”

“I'm not special.”

“You took out four of my colleagues. That makes you special.”

“They weren't expecting an attack. Here's the deal, Mr. Kirov. Katia works in your club. She likes it here. She's grateful for the job. She enjoyed being a cocktail waitress. But you want her to dance. She can do that. But that's
all
she's going to do for you.”

Kirov had not moved since McCall had entered the alcove. Now he took out a package of Sobranie Russian cigarettes. It had
SOBRANIE OF LONDON COCKTAIL 100'S
on it. He took a distinctive silver lighter out of his pocket. McCall noted the initials
BK
on the bottom. He flicked the flame to the end of the cigarette, pocketed the lighter, blew out the smoke, and regarded McCall again with that frankness that almost bordered on cordiality.

“You rescued this young woman on your own?”

“That's right.”

“Not even a backup?”

McCall let that one go. Kostmayer
had
stayed in the car.

“So, what are you, exactly?” Kirov asked. “Some kind of Don Quixote? Tilting at windmills?”

McCall said nothing.

Kirov leaned forward. Now any irony or amusement had left his eyes.

“You risked your life. Katia must be very special to you.”

“I'm just someone she knows.”

“Her lover.”

“No.”

“A vigilante.”

“If you want to call me that.”

“It was a very dangerous thing you did. And very stupid.”

“Maybe. But Natalya is somewhere safe right now. And so is Katia.”

Kirov shrugged. “At some moment they'll have to continue with their lives.”

“That's right. Tomorrow morning Natalya is going to go back to school. Tomorrow night Katia is going to come here to the club and put on one of those revealing, but very stylish, dresses and be charming and vivacious and dance with the customers. You've got other dancers you can coerce into after-hours activities.”

“And you don't care about them?”

“I don't know them. I know Katia. You're going to leave her alone.”

Finally the Dallas car salesman could stand it no longer. He was grinning.

“
Damn!
This is fun.” He extended a beefy hand. “Samuel Clemens, sir. My ma was a big Mark Twain reader. Named her first boy Samuel. I'm working here with Mr. Kirov. He's opening a new Dolls nightclub in Fort Worth and I'm gonna run it for him.”

Okay, Fort Worth, not Dallas
, McCall thought.
Pretty close
.

McCall did not shake hands. Clemens let his hand drop, but was still grinning.

“Mr. Kirov's been telling me about his dancers. How he looks after them. Think I'm gettin' a pretty good picture here. I'd say you're in a heap of trouble, son.”