Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (102 page)

The bar’s owner walked up to the table. “Hey, Yuri! I see you brought some of your Russian friends. I sure hope you’re not doing any
spying
! Ha, ha, ha, ha…” The owner walked away, still laughing.

“See?” said Yuri.

“What I wouldn’t give for a poisoned umbrella,” said Dmitri.

Ivan lifted the briefcase and set it on the table.

Yuri smiled. He cracked his knuckles and licked his lips, then turned the briefcase around to face him. “This is what I’ve been waiting for.” He flipped the latches and dramatically opened it with the lid facing the others.

Ivan was still smiling, but Yuri’s expression changed. He looked up. “What is this, some kind of sick joke?”

“What do you mean?” said Ivan. “It’s all there. Five million dollars!”

“Very funny.” Yuri spun the briefcase around.

“What the hell’s all this crap?” said Ivan. “Cologne, mints, condoms…”

The bar shook again as the subway rumbled by. It was late, only two people in the train: Eugene Tibbs in the first car, heading home with his silver briefcase, and in the last car, a tourist from Florida named Serge.

A
sheet-covered body lay on the sidewalk outside a pizza parlor.

“Roll film!”

The location crew from
Law & Order
panned over the body and up to the actors talking on the curb.

Cars began honking and swerving as five Russians ran through the middle of traffic on Broadway, sprinting up the sidewalk past Jerry Orbach, hopping over the body and disappearing around the corner.

“Cut! Cut!” yelled the director.

The Russians crossed the street again, running up Fifty-seventh and back into the Russian Tea Room. They dashed down the stairs and burst into the men’s room. Empty.

They ran back up the stairs toward the dining room.

The maître d’ blocked their path. “Do you have a reservation?”

The maître d’s head bounced on the steps as he was dragged back down the stairs by the legs. They pulled him into the men’s room and slapped him around.

“Who’s the urinal guy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Punch.

“Who’s the urinal guy!”

“I don’t know!”

They upended him and shook him by the ankles. Pocket change and silverware clanged on the tiles. A business card fluttered to the floor. Ivan picked it up.

“Big Apple Urinal Guys,” said Ivan. “Who’s that?”

The maître d’ shrugged upside down.

“There’s no address. Only a phone number.”

“You can use the reverse directory,” said the maître d’.

“How do you do that?”

“Just call the phone company.”

The N-R line
squealed into the subway station below Houston Street. Eugene Tibbs stood up and grabbed a handrail. Tibbs’s shift back in the Russian Tea Room had started like all the others, but the ending was a bit different. Tibbs had finished counting his tips and went to pack up his supplies for the night. He grabbed his briefcase from under the sink and opened it.

His blues were cured.

Tibbs slammed the lid shut and hurried out of the Tea Room. He’d been a paranoid mess ever since. He knew someone would come after the money, and they wouldn’t ask politely. Even if he gave it back, he was still dead. Only one option: leave the city as fast as possible and retire in millionaire’s style. He couldn’t stop shaking and looking over his shoulder. Why couldn’t he be cool like Ralph Krunkleton? What would the
real
urinal guy do in a jam like this?

The train doors opened, and Eugene stepped out of the car onto the Houston Street platform. He was quiet and
alone. Then movement. Eugene’s head snapped to the left. Way, way down at the opposite end of the platform, someone stepped out of the last car.

Tibbs stared at the man, standing there casually, reading a newspaper like he had nothing to do. The man looked up from the paper at Tibbs and looked back down quickly.

Uh-oh. Don’t panic. Where did you see this once? Adrenaline spun the memory Rolodex in Eugene’s head. Yes, I remember now.
The French Connection.
Tibbs took a single step backward, through the still-open door of the subway car.

At the other end of the platform, Serge looked up from his paper as Tibbs disappeared back into the train. So that’s it, thought Serge. He wants to play
French Connection
. Well, two can tango! He took a step backward into his own car.

Tibbs stuck his head out of the train. The platform was empty again. Perspiration increased. He took a step out of the car and stared down the platform.

Serge’s head popped out of the last car. He saw Tibbs. He stepped back on the platform. Tibbs jumped back into the first car. Serge jumped back into the last car. Tibbs jumped out again. Serge jumped out. On, off, on, off.

The subway system put an end to the game. The train’s doors closed, and it pulled away into the tunnel.

Just Tibbs and Serge alone on the platform. They locked eyes. Eugene blinked. He took off running for the stairs up to Houston Street. Serge sprinted after him.

Eugene tripped and went sprawling on the steps. Mints, Bic razors, business cards everywhere. He turned around. Serge was gaining. He got up and started running again, coming out of the subway and reaching the street. Car noises, food smells. He evaluated each direction, then took off west.

Serge ran up the steps, grabbing a business card and reading it on the run.

They galloped all over lower Manhattan, through the Village and SoHo. Serge was faster, but Eugene knew the turf, running through restaurant kitchens and up service lifts. He crossed Bleecker Street and turned south, but Serge was still there, a block back.

A yellow taxi-van
drove five women up Hudson Street, a recorded message playing in back: “This is Mary Wilson of the Supremes asking you to
Stop! In the name of safety!
Please buckle up.”

“Pull over,” said Teresa. She checked the address against her paperback. “This is the place.”

The BBB got out in front of the White Horse Tavern.

Rebecca pointed at the sidewalk. “Dylan Thomas bought it right there. The permanent hangover.”

They stared at the pavement.

“Should we be feeling good about this?” asked Sam.

A tanker truck was parked at the corner, next to a crane dangling an array of metal wands over a vintage Checker cab.

“Look,” said Teresa. “They’re shooting a movie.”

A technician turned on the rain machine, and the wands began to drizzle on the taxi.

“Roll film!”

Two people got out of the cab and kissed passionately.

Five Russians sprinted up the sidewalk. They ran through the rain, vaulted the hood of the cab and knocked over the embracing couple.

“Cut! Cut!”

The book club took a step back off the sidewalk as the Russians stampeded past them and disappeared into the darkness.

“Now we’re seeing the real New York,” Maria said cheerfully.

The Russians finally arrived at the address they had gotten from the reverse directory, using the urinal guy’s business card. They stared up at the grimy brick building, and it reminded them of the factories back in Leningrad. But they had heard Americans liked to spend a lot of money to live in depressing places. They walked quietly up the stairs and came to a landing with two doors.

“Which one?” asked Alexi.

“Take your pick,” said Ivan. “If it’s wrong, we’ll just try the other.”

Alexi stuck a lock pick in the handle. The door opened easily, as if by itself.

“Don’t be shy,” said a smiling woman with a glass of Chardonnay, holding the inside doorknob. The loft was cavernous, full of people in tank tops and black turtlenecks, nibbling fondue and sushi. Three spotlights lit up a large, blank canvas propped in the middle of the room. The stereo was extra loud, playing a synthesized mélange of electronic buzzes, beeps, chirps and sirens, the newest Nihilistic German discotheque music designed to make people think, “Gee, it’s got a great beat to dance to, but what would be the fucking point?”

The Russians mingled. More wine, more raw fish, more knocks at the door. The Eurotrash arrived. Someone rang a tiny brass bell; the crowd quieted and gathered around the canvas. The Russians strained for a better view from the back. A naked man came out of the bathroom spooled in Saran Wrap. He walked to the middle of the loft, produced his penis from the layers of plastic and whizzed on the canvas.

The crowd applauded to show they were hip, but not too much, to show they were hip.

Alexi turned to Ivan. “I think we have the wrong apartment.”

Eugene Tibbs stood
panting at the corner of Broadway and Houston, looking back up the street. Finally lost him. He returned to his apartment, sluggishly climbing the stairs. Nihilistic music thumped from the apartment next door. Eugene stuck his key in the knob.

Inside the apartment, the Russians heard Tibbs’s key. “Someone’s coming!” They packed themselves in a closet. Lots of jostling, “Shhhh!” “No, you ‘Shhhh!’” They got settled in and peeked out through the slats in the accordion door.

Tibbs was ready to turn the doorknob when he noticed something. The talcum powder on his knob was smudged. He looked at the landing and saw footprints in the fine layer of white powder. Eugene tiptoed back toward the steps. He stopped when he heard someone at the base of the stairs. He slipped over to the landing’s window and climbed out onto the fire escape.

“What’s taking him so long?” asked Alexi. They slowly opened the closet door and ventured out. The place was a shambles. Drywall kicked in, wiring torn out, down feathers everywhere from slit pillows, jars of stuff dumped on the kitchen floor.

“Do we have to make such a mess every time we look for something?” said Ivan.

Alexi held a flowerpot in each hand and smashed them together. “We’re looking for something?”

Serge made it to the top of the stairs. “Two doors, hmmm. Eenie, meenie, miney moe.” He stuck a bobby pin in the lock.

“Someone’s coming!” The Russians piled back in the closet.

Serge opened the door. “Anybody home?” He turned on the lights and looked around at all the dumped-out drawers and broken stuff. “I could never live like this.”

He walked around the room, pawing through clothes, checking behind paintings.

“What’s he doing?” asked Vladimir.

“Shhhh!” said Ivan, peeking out the slats, strips of light across his face.

Serge was checking under sofa cushions when he heard the doorknob. “Uh-oh. Someone’s coming.” He jumped into a second closet on the opposite side of the room and peeked through the slats.

The knob turned and the door creaked open. In walked five huge men in tuxedos with waist-length dreadlocks—the crazy Jamaican gang from Queens in a turf war over the urinal guy rackets. They had gone to the mattresses with the Sicilians over control of the West Side, and guess who got caught in the middle?

“Hey
mon
—anybody home?” The Jamaicans walked through the loft with TEC-9 machine guns at their sides.

Ivan peeked through the slats and whispered out the side of his mouth: “Silencers.”

The Russians screwed suppressors on their pistols.

The last Jamaican stopped and stood still. The others turned around. He held a finger to his lips, then pointed at the closet. They raised machine guns.

“Hey
mon
! Looks like nobody’s home.” The Jamaicans clicked their safeties off. “We’ll just have to come back another time.”

The front door of the loft crashed open, and in rushed a crew from the Balboa crime family assigned to protect Tibbs. They opened fire on the Jamaicans. The Jamaicans shot back. The Russians let ’er rip through the closet door at the Jamaicans and the Italians, who both fired back at
the closet in a confusing burst of triangulated fire. Music pounded through the walls.

The Jamaicans ripped off long, puttering bursts of small-caliber fire, the Russians blazed with nine-millimeter rounds, the Balboa crew rat-a-tat-tatted with fifty-caliber tommy guns. Serge sat down in the bottom of his closet and pulled a coat over his head.

Two of the Rastafarians were hit immediately, and they went down spinning, their machine guns still firing, strafing the walls, the lighting fixtures and the Russians’ closet. Three of the Russians were hit, then two of the Balboas, then another Jamaican, lead flying everywhere. A burst of bullets cut through the kitchen, a line of bottles on the counter blowing up in succession: ketchup, olives, A.1., jerk sauce. The windows blew out; a sink faucet got hit and geysered. The closet door splintered above Serge. He covered his ears and gently rocked back and forth, singing to himself:
“…I woke up in a SoHo doorway, a policeman knew my name…”

The shooting finally stopped. The room was still except for thumping German music. Nothing but a thick cloud of smoke, the smell of cordite, a spraying faucet and a swinging lamp that finally snapped and crashed. Almost everyone dead or dying. Ivan was left with just a flesh wound in the thigh, under a pile of dead Russians in the closet. He pushed them off, one by one, like sandbags, and finally pulled himself free. He fell through the closet door into the room.

There was a moan from the middle of the loft. One of the Jamaicans was coming around, pushing the fallen lamp off his head. Ivan limped toward him. The Jamaican saw the Russian coming and tried to get up, but couldn’t. He dragged himself across the floor, begging. Ivan kicked him in the stomach, then the head. He picked up the Jamaican
and slammed him into the door that connected the apartment with the adjacent artists’ loft. The door gave way.

The Jamaican came crashing into the unit next door, distracting the crowd from a man in a pope costume defecating on the Sinead O’Connor CD box set.

Ivan entered the room next, kicking the Jamaican across the floor. He snatched a steaming fondue pot off the table.

“Pull your pants down! Now!”

The crowd applauded.