Out There Bad mm-2 Page 5

  I parked down a side street around the corner from Fantasia’s. Moving in the shadows, I scanned for the marauding Mercedes Benz. I couldn’t see Gregor but I knew he was somewhere on the street with his eyes on me.

  “Anya called in sick, said she was visited by the monthly red tide,” Mac told me as we leaned against the bar. “Lot of that going around on Sunday nights. Slow as frozen molasses.”

  “Got an address on her?”

  “No, wouldn’t give it up if I did.”

  “Fair enough. Her friend, the Russian redhead, she come in tonight?”

  “Tatyana? Sure, she’s in the lap room. You wanna dance, just wait ‘til her man of the moment is broke.”

  I waited for the time it took to drink two cokes. I turned down several offers to have my world rocked by the bored dancers. Finally, the curtains parted and Tatyana led a rumpled looking older gentleman out. She was a zoftig little girl, maybe five feet five and that was in heels, she had copper-penny colored hair cut in a short bob. They had only taken a few steps before I was at her side.

  “Sorry, pal, I’m on a dinner break, you’ll understand I’m in a hurry,” I said, taking her hand.

  “Sure, um, alright, I guess,” he stammered.

  She followed me into the VIP room. I snapped the curtain closed behind us.

  “You want a dance? Or maybe something more pleasing?” Her voice was a practiced combination of raw lust and innocence. Her accent was thick, but designed to be charming and exotic. Sitting down on one of the sofas, she looked up at me, wide eyed.

  “Where’s Anya?” I stood over her.

  “Who?” She looked at my bruised jaw. “I know you.”

  “Let’s cut through the bullshit, I saw you in the car with Anya. Where is she?”

  “Victor’s going to kill you.”

  “He your pimp?”

  “He’s our driver. Keeps us safe from crazy Americans who don’t know a fuck is a fuck, not a love affair.” Her young eyes had turned cold and jaded. “Now you want a dance or a blow job or a fuck? No? I go back to work.”

  She started to stand. Placing a hand on her shoulder, I held her in place. My free hand snatched her purse off the sofa. “I’ll scream,” she said unconvincingly.

  “And I’ll clue Mac in on your side action… Your choice.”

  “You have no idea who you are fucking with.”

  “That’s right, I don’t.”

  “They can reach out and flick, your life is over, no one can stop them. You are a walking corpse, but you don’t know it.” Her eyes were beady and lifeless.

  “If I believed every person who told me I was dead, I wouldn’t have made it out of the fifth grade.” She shrugged and studied her fingernails with practiced indifference. I rifled through her bag and came up with a cell phone, a wad of bills, a counterfeit driver’s license with an address in Brentwood and a postcard from Moscow. The note on the back was all squiggles, backward letters and too many consonants to make sense, but the address was in English. It was in West Hollywood’s Little Kiev, not far from where Victor and the giant had braced me.

  “All I’m going to do is make sure Anya’s ok. If she’s copacetic, I’m gone and you’re free to continue business as usual. But if you get stupid and call Victor, folks are going to die.” I dropped a fifty and walked out, hoping she was smart or scared enough to keep her mouth shut.

  “This goes down twisted, we could wind up in a lake,” I said.

  “Pravda,” Gregor said.

  “You want to wait here, call in the cavalry if I need it, cool with me.”

  “What fun would that be?”

  We had been watching the house for the past hour. It was a two story faux Tudor mansion, the rolling lawn guarded by a tall iron fence. We had circled around the back alley and discovered that that too was covered by an equally formidable fence.

  “Bolt cutter?” Gregor said, looking at the locked front gate.

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s the plan, boss?”

  “We wait.” Which we did. Around midnight, there still hadn’t been any movement from the house other than a few upstairs windows going dark as the occupants went to sleep. I sent Gregor out for coffee while I slunk down behind an overgrown hedge across the street.

  He hadn’t been gone five minutes when the black Mercedes appeared. The giant and Victor were in the front. On the dark street, I couldn’t see who was in the back, but I’d bet the ranch whoever it was was lovely, young and partied for a price. They stopped in front of the gate while it slowly rolled open. As they drove in, I ran across the road, slipping through the gate as it slammed closed. Ducking to the right, I pushed in behind a thick line of cypress. I could hear several car doors open from the back of the property, then all went silent. From an inner courtyard, a fountain splashed and the crickets rejoined their song.

  “Hey gulla boi, you ready to die?” Victor slipped out from behind a tree, pointed a large automatic at my head.

  “Only if you’re ready to kill me,” I said.

  “I think I am… Da, why not.” His thumb snapped off the pistol’s safety. There was a whistle of wind and a heavy object connected with the back of his bald head. His eyes shot up and his body went limp. As he fell to the ground, I saw Gregor standing behind him with bolt cutters in his hand.

  “Can’t I leave you alone for one minute, boss?”

  “Apparently not.” We pulled Victor to his feet. He was groggy and didn’t seem to be able to focus his eyes. Slipping his piece into my belt, we dragged him towards the back of the house.

  A large shale turnaround separated the house from a free-standing six-car garage.

  “Where is Anya?” I asked Victor, slapping his face hard to make sure he was paying attention. His head lolled, indicating a short stone stairwell leading down under the house.

  At the bottom landing we found a short hall lit by a single bulb. A sturdy padlock secured a door at the end of the corridor. Gregor tried the bolt cutters, but the lock must have been made of hardened steel. With a shrug, he applied his boot to the door. The wood splintered in, snapping off a ragged panel that remained attached to the lock. As the door fell open, I tossed Victor through the opening. Guns in hand, we rolled in after him, Gregor went left and I right. On one knee, I swept the room. Cots were lined in three rows, it was a cramped dormitory. The walls were unpainted concrete, beams and floorboards made up the low ceiling. It was the sort of basement you’d expect to find tools and spiders in, instead we found eight beautiful young women. They were sitting or laying on the cots. Our kicking the door in got their attention, but none screamed or showed any real panic at having two armed men burst in on them. On a paint-worn dresser, a black and white TV showed a dubbed version of Pretty Woman. Out of Julia Roberts’ mouth came the voice of a bored Russian actor.

  “Moses?” I hardly recognized Marina, she looked like a child in her flannel pajamas, her makeup scrubbed off. “Why have you come here?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked her.

  “You have to leave, now.”

  Looking past her, I scanned for Anya. Tatyana, the tiny redhead, sat close, burning into me with her cold eyes. “They will kill you for this,” she was a broken record.

  “Anya?” I called out. Victor started to try and stand up. Gregor knocked him down and whipped a lock tie around his wrists.

  Moving down the rows of girls, I found Anya at the back of the basement. Crumpled up into a ball, she seemed to be hiding from me.

  “Anya?” I touched her leg and she looked up at me, her eyes full of fear.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her eyes darting to the other girls.

  “You want me to leave?” I said.

  “Yes.” Her face wasn’t as sure as her voice.

  “I thought you were in trouble.”

  “Why? Did I say I was in trouble? No, I did not. Now go.” She had gotten up and was pushing me towards the door.

  “I guess I’m an i
diot.”

  “Yes. Now go.”

  “Foolish old man, I thought you were a prisoner. No?”

  “No. We are free to come and go as we wish.”

  “Right, only the lock on the door says different.”

  “For our protection. The lock keeps us safe.”

  “From guys like me. Ok, my mistake.” I looked from her to the other girls; their fearful sullen faces told me they weren’t intending to give us a parade, or jump into our arms with gratitude.

  “Alright. Gregor, let’s go,” I said and walked between the bunks to the doorway.

  “How about him?” Gregor stood over Victor.

  “Leave him.” We were out in the hall when Anya caught up. Grabbing my arm, she looked into my eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “You don’t understand, I can’t go with you.” She spoke in a whisper.

  “Yeah, you made that clear.”

  “They have my little sister. If I don’t do what they say, they will kill her.”

  “Get your sister and I’ll take you both out of here.”

  “No, she’s…” She let out a sad string of Russian words.

  “She says,” Gregor translated, “her sister left Russia, but they will not tell her where she is now. The sister’s thirteen. She must do whatever they want.”

  “You think she’s being straight?” I whispered to Gregor.

  “Yeah, boss, I do. Not the first time I heard shit like this. They took my cousin to Israel, told her she’d be a hotel maid, then threatened to kill her father if she didn’t work in their brothel.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She killed herself,” he said.

  “Get your things,” I told Anya, “We’re leaving.”

  “I can’t.” Anya’s eyes darted back to the dormitory where all the girls were watching us.

  “We’ll get your sister back, I promise.”

  “Oh, you promise, that makes all ok? They will kill you and me, and then who will look after Nika?”

  “How are you going to take care of her? Call it what you want, but you’re a slave.”

  “Everyone is owned, at least I know who owns me.” She wasn’t budging. I looked to Gregor for help.

  He spoke to her in soft Russian. After a moment, she slowly nodded her head.

  “Let’s go,” Gregor said.

  “She coming with us?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’d you say?” I asked him.

  “Told her the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Told her she was screwed with the men here, they wouldn’t believe she didn’t bring us. And that we were bad motherfuckers, no Russian pussies are going to take us down.”

  While she went to collect her things, Gregor and I climbed the steep stairs.

  Stepping onto the shale turnaround I saw movement behind us. Spinning around, guns up and ready, we found ourselves facing three AK47s. The giant and two other Russian thugs stood against the house on either side of the stairwell. Gregor flicked his eyes to me, asking if we should go for it, let rip and see how many we could take down before they shredded us. Three full auto assault rifles vs. our pea shooters, odds were a little too lopsided even for a degenerate gambler like me. Dropping the hammer on my.38, I tossed it toward the giant. Gregor let out a grunt of displeasure, then gave up his piece.

  The giant told us in Russian to put our hands on our heads. I may not have understood his words, but I knew the drill. After a rough pat search, they moved us through the back door of the mansion, through a kitchen that would make Emeril Lagasse drool, through a dining room with a long oak table and into the whitest room I’ve ever been in. I guess it was a den or some such. Thick white shag ran up to glossy white baseboards. A horseshoe of white leather couches faced a huge flat panel TV monitor. The screen was showing ten smaller pictures, images from security cameras. In the lower left picture I could see the girls in the basement dormitory. Anya was freeing Victor.

  In a large white club chair, facing the screen, sat a man who looked well into his seventies. A fringe of white hair circled his wrinkled bald head. He looked from the monitor to me, his eyes dull and empty. A small smile crept into his lips, but died before it could make it to his eyes.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You Americans, your stupidity is only matched by your arrogance,” the old man said. “Somehow in your tiny reptilian brain, you thought you could stroll onto my land and pilfer my possessions. Can you truly be that dense?”

  The question seemed rhetorical, a strike to the back of my head with a rifle barrel told me I was wrong. I stumbled forward, struggling to keep my face neutral.

  “Too dull to answer a simple question?” the old man asked. “Let us try one that is a bit more specific: who sent you?”

  My lack of an answer was met by another rifle hit. It must have been the giant behind me, because the blow drove me to my knees. Gregor tried to get to me, but two men threw him against the wall, and pinned him there.

  “A slow learner, I see,” the old man said. “Victor told me you worked for Don Gallico, but I cannot see that as being truthful. If he wanted to send me a message, he would simply pick up the phone, not send a simpleton and his Armenian serving boy. With the tip and a tap, I can turn Gallico’s power off and he knows it. So the question remains, who sent you?”

  “Fuck off.” The rifle butt knocked me flat onto the floor. The middle of my spine burned like it had a hot poker on it.

  “Yes, yes, you are quite the deipnosophist. Pasha, kill the Armenian,” he said to the giant. When the giant turned to look at Gregor, I rolled onto my back and kicked upward with all I had. The steel toe of my boot connected with his groin. A high pitched shriek burst out of him, along with all the air in his lungs. Rolling to the left, I grabbed the barrel of the rifle that hung loosely in his hand. I swung it like a baseball bat. I could hear the crack of the stock when it struck his head. The giant took two wobbly steps then collapsed onto the floor.

  Flipping the AK around, I drew a bead on the old man’s forehead. The room went still. The old man’s dead eyes opened only slightly. Gregor was still pinned to the wall, one of the goons pressed his rifle into Gregor’s eye socket.

  “Better tell your punk to release my friend, before I get nervous and this whole deal gets wet,” I told the old man.

  CHAPTER 6

  Slowly, the old man let out a hissing sigh. “We have quite a conundrum here. You appear to have captured the king, checkmate. But what if the king does not mind dying?”

  “Then we have one thing in common.” I kept the AK trained on his face.

  “If you shoot me, they most definitely will shoot him.” He tilted his head toward Gregor, who shrugged indifferently. “How delightfully stoic, brave heroes to the end.”

  “Fuck this noise.” Pivoting, I pulled the trigger. Blood exploded from the knee of the man holding a rifle on Gregor. As he fell, Gregor grabbed his second guard by the collar and ran him headfirst into the wall. Before the echo of the shot died, all were down and I again was aimed at the old man. He hadn’t moved an inch, he simply watched it go down.

  “Nicely played. I seem to have underestimated your brute desire to win,” he said.

  After Gregor tied the goon squad up, he went down to get Anya. I had a little chat with the old man. If his turn of fortune had shaken him, he sure was hiding it well. “Young man, you have truly stuck your head into the proverbial hornets’ nest. The odds of your surviving the next forty-eight hours are less than zero.”

  “Maybe I should deep six you and walk away.”

  “That is what I, if in your cheap shoes, would most certainly do. But it would not change your fate. From this moment forth, no hole will be deep enough nor distant enough for you to hide in.”

  “Where is Anya’s sister?”

  “Quite honestly, I have no knowledge, nor desire for any, of the girl’s whereabouts.”

  The report of my rifle explo
ded into the still room. The bullet ripped into the club chair’s leather inches from his head, kicking soft tufts of stuffing onto his cheek. He looked from the hole to me without fear.

  “Game’s over, motherfucker.” My ears were ringing from the shot.

  “On the contrary, the game is just now beginning. Get your little slut and get off my property, your histrionics are starting to bore me.”

  I wanted so badly to splatter his smirking face across his lovely chair. But that would be wrong, and more importantly, stupid. Never make a bold play until you know the rules of the game. I had made that mistake by stumbling in here, no need to compound it.

  After sweeping the mansion and binding all the occupants, we left through the front door. Anya had emerged from the basement, wearing a deep green velvet dress that made her eyes sparkle. She had matching green heels, expertly applied make-up and her lips shone like fresh washed cherries. Even on the run she wanted to look her best.

  At the car, Gregor had me pop the trunk. From under his greatcoat he pulled an AK47.

  “A souvenir,” he said, and slammed the trunk closed.

  “Did they tell you where my sister is?” Anya asked as we drove slowly down the quiet street.

  “We’ll find her.”

  “How? What have you done? If she dies, it will be your fault.” She was right, of course. Now a thirteen year old girl’s life depended on my next move. I needed to buy time, time to think, time to plan. I needed a drink.

  Borrowing Gregor’s cloned and untraceable cell phone, I called Lowrie at home. He was an LAPD homicide detective, and the only cop I trusted. I roused him from deep slumber, but years on the job trained him to snap to alertness regardless of the hour. After busting my balls for waking him, we got to it. I gave him the mansion’s address and told him he would find a basement full of trafficked Russian girls, illegal weapons and hog tied Russian mobsters.