Choked Up (22 page)

“My stomach,” he panted.

“Lee, where are you? I'll call nine-one-one.”

“Are you my appendix, baby? Because I'm pretty sure I need to take you out.”

“You jerk!” A tiny, scoffing giggle popped from my lips. Then I laughed. Really laughed. I couldn't stop. It was like he'd reached inside my head and opened a tension valve. Tears ran down my cheeks. I finally caught my breath. “Rain Man called. He wants his social skills back.”

Lee chuckled. “This your first time playing outside?”

“Not gonna happen, cowboy.”

I could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Keep telling yourself that, if it cheers you up. I'll call you later.”

Dropping the Dodge Hellcat in the parking garage went smoother than anticipated. Mostly because I was so preoccupied with how the BOC would take down Stannislav, I didn't have time to get the yips.

I called Hank before I left the parking garage. His overly sexy secretary informed me he was out of country for the next four days, but would I want to see him Tuesday night?

I gave the honeypot a restrained and demure, “Hell, yes.”

The drive back to the penthouse was spent in a quiet fog of wondering how to come clean with Hank after the chop-shop bust and warn him my brothers were on Mant's case. We rode up the elevator to the penthouse, Kon insisting on carrying both my suitcase and duffel.

Stannis was on the phone. He put his hand over the receiver. “Good, you have suitcase, Maisie. We take trip.”

After a stream of Serbian, he hung up, came over, kissed me on both cheeks, took my hand, and led me into his room. He pointed at the bed. “Sit. What I pack, you choose similar.”

I gave him a thumbs-up, kicked off my shoes, and flopped down on my stomach.

He came out with a blue-black suit that he laid on the bed. He held up a Charvet shadow-stripe dress shirt. Hanging from one shoulder was a Charvet hairline-stripe silk tie in deep blue. On the other shoulder was a gauze-patterned tie in charcoal silver.

“Mmm. The silver. Definitely the silver,” I said. “Bring me your suit bag and I'll pack for you.”

He did, flopping down on the bed beside me, watching in delight as I folded his two sets of boxer-briefs, undershirts, and pajamas.

The look in his eyes fairly broke my heart. It was a tragic cocktail of affection, hope, and loneliness. Trouble was, I liked him more every day. The physical contact without any hint of sexual connotation—there was something so safe about his hands on me that wasn't safe at all, like a rabbit with a rattlesnake inside.

 

Stannis, Kontrolyor, Gorilla, and I flew first-class into JFK at 12:00 p.m. the next day, Stannislav apologizing for flying commercial. A Mercedes limo—not a rental—waited with two men. The driver's copilot took our bags from Kon and Gorilla. The four of us got into the car and drove an hour and thirty-four minutes into Newark. Because, as Stannis pointed out, “A fox never leaves tracks in a straight line.”

We parked again on high ground overlooking another CEC Intermodal transport train yard.

Stannis and his men got out of the car. Stannis was wearing black jeans, an Armani jacket, and black jersey tee with steel-toed black work boots. He opened his laptop on the hood of the limo. Kon and Gorilla set up as before.

The driver and the other man remained in the car. I stayed until Stannis signaled me to get out.

We'd parked on a wind plain. It took all of fourteen minutes before my hair was blown to hell and I was freezing.

“Twenty minutes,” Kon said, somberly.

“Report says trouble south of Control Point Ten.” Stannis typed on the laptop. “Cars cut loose. Left on stub track, waiting for road train with crew.”

Panic as palpable as bile rose in my throat. My heart beat double-time.

Kon shrugged. “Hot box?”

“Does not say.” Stannis frowned.

“What's a hot box?” I asked.

“When the axle get no oil. Fire. Ruins car.”

“Twenty-five minutes,” Kon said.

The BOC is moving on Renko and his outfit. And I'm here. With him.
My hands and the tip of my nose turned to ice.

Stannis reached over and put his hand on mine. “You are cold, yes?”

“I'm fine.”
Stay frosty. The endgame won't be here.

“Train coming now,” Gorilla said.

We waited the agonizing half hour for the train to pull in without Stannis's containers. He looked at Kontrolyor. “Call.”

Kon dialed. “Is me.” He rattled off the numbers of Stannislav's containers. “
Da?
How long? Okey.” He smiled at Stannis. “Air brake malfunction. Can occur with five-packer. Repaired and will be picked up by new train. Estimated time, five hours.”

Stannis closed the laptop and put his arms around me. “You are my luck,
Vatra Anđeo
. You stay with me always.”

A tremor of fear wobbled my knees. “Five hours? How 'bout we go get a drink?”

 

Kon and Gorilla stayed on-site with the chauffeur's partner. Stannis and I drove to the closest bar. A nasty little dive, whose faded and flaking paint spelled out Joshua Johnson's.

I glanced at Stannis, looking decidedly upper-crust in his tech-fiber jacket. But he was packing, so it had to stay on.

We walked inside. It smelled like every other dive bar—smoke, stale popcorn, and wet peanut shells. The Boss played on the jukebox.

The regular clientele wasn't exactly thrilled we'd arrived. I told Stannis to choose a table while I got the beer.

Everyone was drinking pitchers of PBR, so we would, too. I ordered a pitcher of beer, chips, and some candy bars from a bartender who thought “the stink-eye” was a hot look for him. I asked for darts. He slapped three pieces of bent plastic onto the counter. I dropped a ten to the twenty I'd laid on the bar. “No change.”

He reached beneath the bar, then set a glass with six new darts on the tray.

“Thanks.” I waitressed the load over to the low table in between the pool table and the darts where Stannis was sitting. I poured the beers.

He raised his glass. “
Death twitches my ear. ‘Live,' he says.... ‘I am coming.' ”

One of my father's favorites.
I clinked my pint glass against his. “To Virgil.”

Stannis's eyes danced. “Very good.”

Jackson Browne came on, singing about the girl who could sing.

“We have not found shooter yet,” Stannis said. “But I promise you there will be much blood.”

I nodded. “Is Black Hawk hunting for him?”

“No. Only my men.” He took a swallow of beer and grimaced. “Tastes like cold piss.”

It kinda does
. “Isn't he one of your men?”

“No.
Chyornyj Yastreb
is like me, only with smaller team. Very skilled, but does as he chooses.” He rapped his knuckles on the table and pointed at me. “You meet him tonight. You like very much, I think.”

“Awww. I'll always like you best.” I stood up. “Let's play darts.”

He beat me handily. Every game. Didn't matter that I was mentally shaken harder than a Bond martini; Stannis was a machine. The more points he spotted me, the more focused he became.

Three florid, beer-glutton local boys moved into the area and started playing pool, making sure to edge a cue into our game every couple of minutes.

We ignored it until the sausage-nosed fire-hydrant ringleader put a cue between my legs.

When it got to mid-thigh, I spun hard left. The cue wrenched out of his grasp and clattered on the dirty cement floor.

A sallow-faced cinder block smacked the ringleader in the chest. “Almost broke it off in the bear trap twat.”

The crew laughed.

My fingers curled into fists.

I bent and picked the cue up.

The third in their crew, wearing a filthy
Don't Fear the Reefer
T-shirt, jeered, “Yeah, girl. Bend over. That's right. Can't keep your hands off my stick.”

I smacked the cue against my palm. “Why don't you have another beer, make another observation.”

“My dick in her mouth will shut her up,” said Fire Hydrant.
Aren't you a fine, helpful fellow.

There was the smallest hitch in Stannis's step before he came to me, shaking his head. “Maisie, Maisie. You should not provoke.”

The crew was so surprised it took almost ten seconds for Cinder Block to grab his crotch and echo, “Provoke this!”

Stannis took the pool cue from me and held it out to the ringleader. “I prefer you play from other side of table, yes?”

The crew laughed. Cinder Block spat. “That's not how it works, asshole.”

“Will be challenge then.”

The six-foot-two ringleader topped the scales at three bills and change. He gripped the cue and shoved Stannis in the chest at the same time. “Fuck off, Russkie.”

Stannis stumbled back two steps.

Reefer laughed. “But leave the muff behind.”

Stannis closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath in his nose, and exhaled it out his mouth.

Uh-oh.
“Let's go,” I said.

Stannis turned, pulled a S&W .44 short from the holster riding at his lower back and placed it on the table with a
clunk
. Next came a seven-and-a-half-inch folded Buck knife from his front pocket. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

They never saw it coming. Stannis hit with the ferocity and speed of a mongoose let loose among a nest of sleepy cobras. A throat punch and knee to the groin. Ringleader dropped to his hands and knees, wheezing. Reefer grunted and came at him. Stannis connected with a driving elbow to the eye socket. The gritty sound of breaking bone was unmistakable. Reefer reared back. Stannis whipped a vicious kick into his knee. Reefer stumbled onto a table, upending it. Glasses and bottles shattered against the floor.

Stannis closed in on the last man standing.

Cinder Block drew the pool cue back, tangling it in the bar stools. In a single, smooth motion, Stannis swept up an almost empty pitcher of beer and cracked it against Cinder Block's head.

In broken glass and beer, Cinder Block fell flat-out against the pool table.

Astonishing.

The bar was silent except for the overloud Bon Jovi cranking out “You Give Love a Bad Name.”

Wearing a devil's grin, Stannis walked back to the ringleader and kicked him in the face. He followed with a trio of savage rib-cracking punts.

“Stop!” I said. “Enough!”

The bartender racked and aimed a twelve-gauge Mossberg shotgun at Stannis's head.

He stared at the bartender in curiosity. “Is that to scare?”

Without a thought, I raised Stannis's gun to the bartender's head. “Why don't you put that down?”

 

And because beating the tar out of three guys and sending them to the hospital wasn't enough excitement for us, we went back to the site overlooking the train yard and cooled our heels watching Stannis's recovered five-packer roll in.

The wind hadn't abated. It was cold and boring and I was getting the come-down shakes from the bar.

I pressed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Kon and Gorilla talked and made notes. Stannis monitored everything on the laptop while the crane hot-loaded the twenty containers onto five double-trailered semis.

“The seals?” Stannis asked, “They appear unbroken?” Kon looked through the scope. “Clean from here.”

Stannis grinned and elbowed me. “A little . . .
hiccup?
” He looked at me to see if the word was correct.

I nodded.

“And still, we have fun, yes?”

Yeah, if you call an armed standoff and the demise of my career as a law enforcement officer fun.
“Lots.”

We watched the semis exit the CEC train yard, got in the car, and drove back to New York.

Stannis had a suite at the Baccarat Hotel. A place where swank had to pawn swag just to get in. And like most big shots, Stannislav Renko had no time to enjoy it. Showered and changed, we were back in the limo fighting perpetual Manhattan traffic on our way to the Cetta Brothers' Sparks Steakhouse. The Don Constantino's regular hangout.

Last to arrive, we were escorted through the saloon-like multilevel restaurant to the Violet Room. It resembled a
Downton Abbey
library with one exception: It was topped to the ceiling with shelves of wine instead of leather-bound tomes.

The Don Constantino, Tony “Big Tuna” LoGrasso, and two other heavyweights were smoking cigars. Eddie had brought along his arm candy, Bobby Blaze, the singer from The Storkling. Vi Veteratti and her right hand, Jimmy the Wolf, rounded out the party.

Stannis and the Italians exchanged boisterous back-slapping greetings.

Vi and Jimmy didn't bat an eye at my introduction.

“Mr. Yastreb sent his regrets,” said the Don.

“A disappointment, yes.” A small frown creased Stannis's brow. He hadn't known. And he especially didn't like hearing it from Constantino.

The Don nodded. “Your man shows respect.”

“Yes, he is good. And lucky for me.” Stannis raised a hand and stroked my cheek. “I prefer my date not to shave.”

That passed for high humor with this group.

Two waiters popped bottles of Dom Pérignon and filled flutes. When everyone had a glass, Big Tuna raised his. “To our continued and profitable partnership.”

Everyone drank.

Stannis raised his glass again with a grin. “Or, as we say in my village, one devil does not scratch out another devil's eyes.”

Everyone drained their glasses, all wearing the smug smile of “
I am above the law.
”

As the waiters refilled, Eddie came over with Bobby Blaze on his arm. He took her glass and set their empties on the waiter's tray. “Bring me a Manhattan.”

“Ma'am?” the waiter asked.

“Vodka on the rocks.”

“She'll have tea. With honey,” Eddie V. snapped. “She has to watch the pipes.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Bobby's lip curled. With deliberate motions, she took a long silver cigarette case from her clutch and slipped a cigarette into an ebony holder. Eddie V. frowned, but pulled a book of matches from his pocket and lit one with his thumbnail. “One.”

She exhaled a thin wisp of smoke that seemed to last forever. “Naturally.”

It should have looked ridiculous. Instead it made me want to start smoking.

Vi Veteratti glad-handed her way over to the Don, past Big Tuna and the heavies. She whispered something in his ear.

Eddie V.'s eyes went flat. He showed Vi his broad back and started talking to Stannis.

Bobby's bright red lips twisted in a friendly sneer. “Who the hell are you?”

“Maisie McGrane.” I smiled. “Your stage name is better than mine.”

“It's not.” Bobby sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it toward the ceiling. “Eddie made me change it. Legally.”

Ouch. Not really much to say to that.
“Gee . . .”

“Call me Paulette. Paulette Maslick.” She rolled her eyes. “You must be something to land Stannislav Renko.”

“I do all right.”

Across the room, Vi Veteratti let loose a sensual laugh. Eddie stiffened but didn't turn around.

With a sly smile, Vi snaked her arm through the Don's. Laughing, he kissed her cheek.

“Siblings.” Bobby tipped her head back and blew another languid rail of smoke over her shoulder. “You seem like a nice kid, so lemme give you some advice. Watch your toes around Vi. I may be a kitten with a whip, but she's a cat with a chainsaw.” She sauntered over to her place at the table.

As women were in short supply, Bobby and I ended up on opposite sides of the table. The Don took the head, Tony “Big Tuna” on his right, and—to Eddie's extreme vexation—Vi on his left. Stannis sat at the opposite end, with a heavy on either side.

Jimmy the Wolf held out my chair, then took his place at my side. “Like the hair. Now you're lookin' like the game you're playin',” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Dangerous.”

I opened my mouth.

“I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said.

“Not this time. You like tough guys, dontcha? But maybe you're starting to think you don't wanna play so rough anymore.” He reached over and tapped his finger on the handle of my steak knife. “Like that night at The Storkling, am I right?”

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Are you hitting on me, Jimmy the Wolf?”

“Yeah.” He smirked. “I am.”

“Well, knock it off.”

He laughed. Which earned me a dirty look from Vi.

The Don had ordered in advance. Blasé waiters delivered exquisite lobster, steam-started and broil-finished, and delicately marbled NY strips. Everyone drank the Bordeaux—complex and firm—except Eddie, who poured more Manhattans down his throat than anyone was interested in watching.

It didn't seem to take his cocaine cowboy edge off, either.

My steak was a gift from the gods, seared on the outside, rare on the inside. But as I cut into it, my mind kept flashing on Stannislav's boot breaking the Jersey guy's ribs.

I forced the bite into my mouth. The image disappeared immediately.

Eddie turned to the Don. “Your men get a look at the merchandise?”

Big Tuna answered for Constantino. “We are more than satisfied with Mr. Renko's attention to detail in our dealings.”

“Good,” Eddie said, twitching and magnanimous. “'Cuz it's time we talk expansion. Renko's working more than this angle and—”

“Now is not the time or the place, Eddie,” Vi said.

“Shut your piehole,
sis.
Last time I checked, you couldn't keep your own friggin' house clean.”

It was like dropping an electric eel in a puddle. “You dare to—” Violetta started. The Don put his hand on hers and she fell silent.

Don Constantino, Big Tuna, and the heavies showed no emotion. Not even the barest hint of curiosity.

Stannis's voice sliced through the air. “I have no interest in expansion with you.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me no?” Eddie's face darkened.

“I am businessman, Eddie. And we do business,” Stannis said. “But I have many interests. I will do as I wish.”

“You think you can shit in the nest, then go off on your own? You got another fuckin' think coming.”

“Goran Slajic pays much for Don Constantino's protection.” Stannis wiped his steak knife off on his napkin. “I do not ask permission.”

Eddie's face turned pugnacious. “I friggin'
own
Chicago. You don't do nothing without my say-so. And I say—”

Bobby pulled at Eddie's sleeve. He yanked his arm away and for a split second, I thought he might backhand her. She blanched.

Jimmy the Wolf glared at Eddie and muttered, “Asshole.”

“I say ‘hop' and you say ‘how goddamn high, Mr. Veteratti?' Are you friggin' hearing me, you Serbian fuck?”

Stannis tapped the blade of the knife slowly against his palm.

The cachet of having Mobster Paul Castellano gunned down in front of your steak house was one thing, but an eviscerated Eddie Veteratti in the Violet Room was something else altogether.

And it wasn't going to happen on my watch. Five Irish brothers gave me the coping skills of Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell.

I picked up a spoon and
tinged
my glass three times.

Everyone turned to me in surprise.

I pushed back my chair, got to my feet, and yawned. Not for effect, but from pure high-octane stress. “Don Constantino, before this becomes a business meeting, Bobby and I would like to thank you for this wonderful meal.”

I raised my chin slightly at Bobby and smiled. Feeling a little desperate herself, she stood up.

“Fly me to the moon,” I sang. “Let me play among the stars . . .”

Bobby stepped in and took over, slowing it down and torching it up in honeyed tones as she sauntered over to the Don. “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.”

A private floor show lasted all of two stanzas before Big Tuna and one of the heavies started belting it out.

Even Eddie was clapping when she finished.

The Don's enchantment with Bobby calmed Eddie, who ordered another Manhattan and started chatting with the heavy on his right.

Stannis cocked his head to one side and shrugged at me.

Dessert was accompanied by old Mobster stories and easy banter. As it did with most addicts, Eddie's mercurial anger with Stannis seemed to evaporate into the ether.

Don said something to Big Tuna, who in turn came down to our end of the table and relayed it to us. “Miss McGrane, Mr. Renko? Don Constantino asks you remain at the Baccarat this weekend as his special guests.”