Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller) (7 page)

I watched the crowd. The usual. Some fairly young guys, early twenties-out for a big night celebrating their newfound freedom to drink legally and have girls shake titties in their face. Older guys usually sitting up at the stage-overweight, looking like they had just been dumped by their third wife. Pulling bills off a wad and stuffing it into the garters of the girls shaking it on the edge of the stage. Supreme confidence in their ability to attract a woman-as long as their supply of cash held out. One guy rolled up a bill long-ways and held it in his teeth. The dancer squeezed it between her tits, snatched it out of his mouth with a wistful pout of a smile and circled to the other side of the stage.

More serious action on the couches off stage. Girls, topless with only dental floss for thongs, leaning over guys and grinding in time with the music. And then there were the guys who looked like they owned the party-a haze of pungent cigar smoke surrounding them and the occasional flash of gold out of the cloud as someone’s expensive watch was reflected in the light.

My reverie was interrupted as a girl glided to a halt beside me and sat down. This one was a looker-tall, sandy blonde, hard-bodied. She understood timing-paused a second. “Mind if I keep you company?” came out in a low, throaty voice with a faint hint of an accent. I nodded and she flowed onto the couch beside me-still not touching, but close enough where I could feel the heat of her thigh next to mine.

I waved at the waitress. Another drink appeared. “I’m Tasha.”

“John,” I said, staying with my newly adopted persona of John Doe until I could figure out something better. A quick tilt to her head, like she almost said something and thought better of it. A conversation that was as unmemorable as it was brief. The usual story about how “I’m here from Europe working for a modeling agency and just have to fill in here a couple of nights a week to make ends meet.” All bullshit of course, but we each had a role to play.

Music started-pulsing, loud. Tasha raised her eyebrows to ask the obvious question. “Sure,” I said gesturing with my hand and smiling encouragingly.

Time for Tasha to go to work. Stood in front of me, unbuttoned her top with a single snap on the back and languidly draped it around my neck. Reached out with her tiny foot encased in a pair of five inch stripper heels and spread my legs apart. She was amazing-tight firm breasts with tiny pink nipples winking from under the cover of the long blonde hair that reached almost to her waist. She moved into me with a catlike stretch starting at my waist, then leaned forward dragging her hair and tits against my body as she worked her way up. Before I knew it, four songs and eighty bucks of the Russian’s money were gone.

She sat beside me and snuggled against my shoulder. “Why don’t we go to the VIP room-I think you might enjoy it,” she said as she dragged her lips across my earlobe.”

Easy choice-spending a dead guy’s money on a beautiful blonde didn’t require much thought. “Let’s go,” I said as she grabbed my hand and led me across the room to a raised platform. At the rear of the platforms were eight by ten rooms hidden behind dark purple velvet drapes. Inside the room, barely visible in the dark light were low couches on the side and back walls.

Tasha pulled the two sides of the curtain together and turned her full attention to me. In two long steps, she strode across the room and straddled me while slowly wrapping both arms around me and pulling my face into her breasts. Then she bent her head down and whispered in my ear. “What in the fuck are you doing here? You’re a dead man!”

I might normally have jerked back with surprise but decided against it. I could feel something that felt suspiciously like the point of a knife blade buried in the hollow of my throat. Tasha was certainly proving to be full of surprises. I started to say, “What are you talking…?” when she cut me off and continued her tirade.

“Don’t react-they’re watching us on camera,” she said keeping the knife in position while continuing to grind in time to the music, and generally putting on a masterful performance.

Two can play that game. I plastered a lovesick smile on my face, groped her in a couple of inappropriate places and and felt a warm ooze of blood for my impertinence as she leaned into the blade just a little.

“And is a knife generally your idea of foreplay? I’m sure there must be a reason why you’ve got a blade sticking in my throat”

“Mercedes was a good friend of mine,” she said. “She was with you two nights ago. The guys in the club say you killed her and threw her in a dumpster.”

“I really should tell you, I have no friggin’ idea what you’re talking about. Sounds like probably the same night your friend disappeared, somebody beat the living hell out of me. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the hospital with some Russian guy on top of me trying to kill me; I don’t know who I am or why the hell any of this is happening,” I said as my voice started to tighten with the stress of this insanity.

“ That actually makes sense in some weird sort of way-I’ll explain later,” Tasha said as she paused for a moment. After a moments thought, she leaned back and I heard a click as she folded the switchblade. “You have to get out of here. That blonde surfer dude look won’t fool anyone who knows you and takes a second look. I can’t believe no one’s recognized you yet.”

“I’m open to suggestions, just what do you have in mind?” I asked, somehow realizing that even if I wasn’t sure if I could trust her, I really didn’t have many options at this point.

“I’ll get my car and meet you in the front,” she said. “Miguel is on the back door and carries a pistol stuck under his shirt in the back-there’s no way you can get out there. I’ll get up like I’m going to the bathroom. Give me two minutes and I’ll pull up to the front door. Whatever you do, get outside quick-these guys have been tearing the town apart for three days trying to find you.” With that, she slipped out through the curtain while I nonchalantly checked the time on my watch and subtly tried to stem the trickle of blood still running down my chest.

It was the longest two minutes of my life. At any moment, I was expecting several guys to come bursting into the room. It would have ended badly-didn’t matter if I busted up the first couple of guys through the door, sheer numbers would have carried the day for them.

One minute-thirty…casually rising from the couch. One minute-forty- sliding open the curtain and beginning to move smoothly and quickly through the crowd like a leopard cruising through the jungle. One minute-fifty- the front door in sight, a noise behind me like another door being violently shoved open. Standing between me and the door-the same gorilla I saw at the Delano the night before. He inclined his head as if listening to an earpiece and when he straightened, our eyes met. Recognition bloomed instantly across his ugly face-I hit him running full tilt with my head in his chest. He exploded out the door, knocking the two doormen out of the way.

Car tires squealing from the side. I glance to the right figuring speed and distance. Tasha slid to a halt between the scattered bouncers. I hit the car in midair, catching myself on the roll bar with my left hand and vaulting into the right seat of the black BMW Z4. Thank God for convertibles. One of the bouncers is starting to pull himself up on the passenger’s side of the car. I smash the car door into his face with a sickening crunch of bone-he drops like a stone. Another one grabs the driver’s side door and is fumbling for the lock. He screams in agony as Tasha drives her knife through the back of his hand and into the doorframe. We leave in style-twin smoking streaks of rubber as Tasha exits the parking lot.

I look at Tasha and she’s giggling hysterically. I can’t help it-I start laughing too-funny how almost dying can do that to you sometimes. “That was just like a scene out of a bad James Bond movie,” she said wiping away the tears as she slowly choked away the laughter.

“I know, but I usually don’t knock four guys on their ass when I’m leaving a movie,” I said as we headed south down A1A. “By the way, since we’re in a hell of a lot more trouble than we were fifteen minutes ago, any ideas on where we can hide?”

“How about your place?” she asked glancing over at me in between the whine of gearshifts.

“Hey, you lead the way, because I have no friggin’ clue where ‘my place’ is,” I said. leaning back in the seat and trying to enjoy the ride.

We continued south accompanied by the muted crash of the surf rolling in from the Atlantic. About four miles later, we turned right into the Bahia Mar Marina-my internal navigation was still working even if my memory wasn’t. I had another flash as we passed the gates; I knew this place.

Tasha parked near the docks and we started walking out to G dock. We were dwarfed by the huge luxury yachts that seemed to stretch the entire length of the docks. All gleaming stainless, teak, and fiberglass combined to create floating works of art with full time crews working hard to keep them that way. I was excited in spite of myself-no idea of how I could ever afford to live on one of these-maybe I’d won a lottery at some point in my life? Near the end of the dock, we walked around the stern of a hundred fifty foot Bennetti to see a small sailboat tied against the pilings.

I looked at Tasha aghast. “Please tell me you’re kidding… I live on this?”

“It’s not that bad,” she said with a smirk. “And it’s forty five feet -actually a little bigger than it looks.”

After I got over the initial shock, I looked a little closer and had to admit it
was
a beautiful boat-just a little bit of a letdown compared to the forty million dollar yacht beside it. It looked like a greyhound of the sea, low sleek, and fast as hell. A sloop if I remembered my sailboats correctly with a mast that seemed to go up forever. I couldn’t tell the age, but it was definitely a classic boat in what appeared to be mint condition. We clambered aboard and unlocked the hatch leading below.

“Thank God for small miracles,” I said as I entered the cabin. “At least it has air-conditioning. Oh, and thanks for saving my ass back there. Assuming we can actually avoid being interrupted by someone trying to kill us in the next few minutes, we really need to talk. Especially about your fondness for inserting sharp, pointed objects into people with very little provocation.”

“Every girl needs a little protection,” she said whipping out the switchblade in a blur of motion and proceeding to clean the remaining traces of blood from the blade. “And we can certainly talk; but first things first,” she said diving into the depths of the refrigerator and coming out with a pair of ice-cold Blue Moon beers in her hand. “Salute,” she said as she popped the tops and handed me one.

“Thanks.” I clinked the bottle against hers, flopped down on the burgundy settee and took a healthy swig of the best beer I’ve ever tasted. The boat was subtly lighted with recessed lighting scattered throughout. I took a second to admire the interior of the boat-heavy on the teak and varnish and laid out the way an offshore sailboat should be-everything securely stowed, a galley that would let the cook strap in during the roughest weather at sea, and electronics in the nav station that would rival those on a boat twice her size. It just seemed right to me, nothing I could really consciously remember, but somehow at a much deeper level, I knew I was home.

Four in the morning and the doors had finally closed on the Platinum Club and the last cop had left. It would be a night they wouldn’t soon forget, Dimitri thought ruefully-one of his bouncers in the hospital with a concussion, another in surgery trying to repair the sliced tendons in his hand, and cops poking their noses everywhere.

It must have been one of the damn customers that called 911 during the fight-Dimitri usually preferred to solve his own problems in a way that left few witnesses and no cops. He rubbed his chest and winced-it felt like that big bastard had broken his sternum when he smashed him with the head butt on the way out the door. All that had come before was easy; what was to come next was much more difficult. He had to explain to his boss Sergei Popov how he had failed him. He hoped he would live to see the sunrise.

Dimitri had good reason to worry. Popov had already heard from his sources in law enforcement exactly what had happened. Sitting in his home on Fisher Island, Popov reflected on how his fortunes had taken him from a god-forsaken outpost in the Ukraine to this luxury penthouse in one of the wealthiest enclaves in America. Fisher Island was only separated from the end of South Beach by the turbulent waters of Governor’s Cut, but it might as well have been on a different world. Private, with fewer than three hundred residents and accessed only by a ferry, the clientele read like a Who’s Who of movie stars and the uber-wealthy. Popov was able to cultivate a persona as just another nouveau riche Russian without having to answer many questions from overly inquisitive neighbors.

Twenty years before, he could have only dreamed of such a life he mused as he considered the vagaries of fate that had landed him on these shores. The fall of the Soviet Union had brought chaos and with that came opportunity for those bold and ruthless enough to seize it. Popov had been a career soldier who after years of struggle was finally promoted to the rank of Colonel-General in the Ukrainian army.

He might have eventually ended up in the Ministry of Defense until he committed career suicide by sleeping with the wife of the mayor of Kiev. She certainly had been a fine piece of ass, squealing in bed like a street corner whore, but in retrospect, it probably was not such a good idea. In a different time or if the cuckolded husband had more connections, Popov might have simply disappeared forever.

Fortunately, Popov had a few connections of his own and rather than disappearing or being forced to resign in disgrace, he was marked as unreliable and sent to a dead end command with responsibility for the maintenance and security of the nuclear weapons stockpile. Boring work until the early 90’s when the Soviet Union dissolved, leaving the Ukraine as the third largest nuclear power in the world.

Over the next few years, these weapons were gradually returned to Russia for decommissioning and Popov made connections in the conventional arms side of the business. Bt the year 2000, he was illegally exporting surplus weapons systems ranging from submarines to tanks into trouble spots all over the world from the dark depths of the African continent to the tin pot dictators in South America.