Resurrecting Midnight (32 page)

I had taken Hawks to Puerto Rico, flown down in back-row seats in coach.

The Russian flight attendant spoke in her native tongue, told Konstantin that there was something special for him. Konstantin nodded. She picked up a remote and pointed it at a sensor in the wall. Music came on. Songs by Mixail Krug, Vladimir Vysotsky, and Bulat Okud zhava. It was the musical genre called Russian chanson.
Blatnaya pesnya
. Criminal songs that praised the execution of traitors. It was the Russians’ equivalent of gangsta rap.

Konstantin smiled.

He sipped vodka straight up and as a chaser. First he sampled the rye bread, then the herring dish. The Russian flight attendant brought Konstantin a gift. It was a bottle of Sovetskoye Shampans koy. The number-one Russian champagne. An ass-kissing gift from Scamz.

There was real silverware. I picked up a knife that had a wooden handle and a blade sharp enough to kill. I wrapped that blade in a napkin, tucked it inside my suit coat.

I stared at the Arab woman.

She had an uneasy smile that told me she was surprised that I wasn’t overwhelmed by her beauty. But she was smiling at a man who had been all over the world.

She went to Alvin, tended to his needs, his broad smile good for her ego.

She glanced back at me.

I turned away, unaffected.

I rubbed my eyes. Massaged my temples. Took a few deep breaths.

I thought about Catherine and the boys. Wanted to go back there and fix that, not speed toward more problems. And I wanted to fix that other problem, the one that would cost me two million dollars. I couldn’t guarantee that Catherine and the boys would be safe unless I did.

My mind ached, felt as if it was being whipsawed.

Konstantin said, “Eat. Don’t offend our host, even if the
kozyol
isn’t here.”

With reluctance, I joined in. I became more concerned with offending Konstantin and his Russian ways than the shyster who had furnished the feast of the three kings. I ate caviar and sipped sparkling water. It felt like I was sitting on top of the world.

This was what it felt like to be him.

I whispered, “I get it.”

The flight attendant let us know that Scamz would call for a video teleconference when our meal was finished.

I’d heard his voice and now, once again, I would have to look into his face. He’d had a leash around my neck and he’d been tugging on it for three fucking days.

Like father, like son. Ruthless father and coldhearted son.

If I never saw his face, if I never saw Arizona’s face again, my world would be better.

While we waited for the king to call his knights, we hooked up Konstantin’s iPhone to the sixty-inch flat-screen. We played the grainy footage from The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Moving toward a storm, we sipped champagne, ate caviar, and watched death.

We studied how they moved like a boxer studied his opponents.

The way they worked as a team was both beautiful and terrifying.

The equipment they had was top of the line.

Stress lines grew in Konstantin’s forehead. Alvin bit his bottom lip and rocked a little.

I rubbed hand over hand, massaged damp palms until those palms turned dry.

We all fell silent.

Konstantin had another drink.

I took a coffee.

Shotgun had the same.

We talked awhile.

Then the flight attendants all came back, stood in front of us, smiling.

They let down their hair.

We pulled away from our conversation about The Four Horsemen.

We sat back and got ready to watch another show. The flight attendants changed the music, danced, and stripped down to their Victoria’s Secret. Each took turns dancing erotic dances that represented their countries. They became friendly. Real friendly.

The Russian chatted up Konstantin.

The Brazilian and the Ethiopian paid attention to Shotgun.

The beautiful Arab girl came to me, determined to make me smile.

Her French accent took me back to Montreal, to days when I was a happy little boy sitting on a stoop, reading a comic book, a sunny day, Catherine sitting at my side, smoking a cigarette.

The Arabian princess told me, “You are very handsome. Like the son of a king.”

She was determined to make me smile.

We conversed in French. Her soft touch and softer words were like gin and Viagra.

An hour later, the phone buzzed. The women dressed and turned the monitor on.

It was Scamz.

It was the man who had stolen his father’s name and now wanted to claim his throne.

Arizona’s baby’s daddy.

Chapter 31

The Gulfstream entered airspace over South America’s east coast. Dark skies. Cold rain. The kind of cold rain that made corpses shiver in their graves.

Summertime was over. Winter had begun.

We landed in the darkness at Jorge Newbery AeroPark. The airfield that faced the brown waters of Río de Plata and was fifteen minutes from downtown Buenos Aires. It was the same airstrip the president used. Our Gulfstream was parked next to President Cristina Fernández de Kirchner’s version of Air Force One. An older man waited on us. He stamped our bogus passports without asking any questions, entered the information into the computers. The cargo that had been loaded was removed, taken to a small truck, and whisked away uninspected. Alvin followed Konstantin and me as we walked behind a security guard. We loaded up in a van and were taken to Jazz Voyeur, located on floor -1, the basement level of the Melia Boutique Hotel. It was three hours before the lower section opened for breakfast. We entered through a back door, unseen by the night staff.

The basement restaurant was a five-star room. Flourescent and recessed lighting shone on every white tablecloth inside a room big enough to hold a hundred patrons. Low ceiling, polished wooden floors, and exposed brick walls, each wall lined with poster-sized black-and-white photos of jazz musicians. Jimmy Heath on sax. Joe Henderson on sax. Paolo Fresu. David S. Ware. Lester Bowie. George Coleman. Chet Baker. Dozens of photos decorated the four walls.

A black baby grand piano marked the center of the room, and a man in a black suit was playing what sounded like Beethoven, one of the lost songs. It was our Latin benefactor, his black suit a tailor-made British cut. He played almost as well as his father used to play. Almost.

He said, “Gentlemen.”

“Scamz.”

“Gideon.”

Konstantin nodded.

Alvin remained silent. He looked around, holding in his amazement, his first time seeing a brand-new world.

Scamz continued playing like he was at rehearsal for the Metropolitan Opera. He had on a suit that looked like it had been designed by Alexander Amosu, a designer who made two-piece suits that went for more than one hundred thousand dollars.

Sierra was at a table. Her hair was pulled back. If my mind hadn’t been filled with other thoughts, her beauty might have been disturbing. Her brother was at the same table. Both had wineglasses in front of them; a half-empty bottle of Villavicencio mineral water was on the table.

The brother took note of Konstantin and me, but when he saw Alvin, intimidation flashed in his eyes. Sierra looked at us, then looked away, not even a head motion as hello.

Scamz said, “Have a seat. Five minutes.”

I said, “This is supposed to be urgent.”

“Five minutes. We are waiting on the part of the package we have to arrive.”

“Who else is in this hotel?”

“No one. I rented the building.”

“Every room?”

“Every room has been rented.”

“That’s about sixty or seventy rooms.”

He nodded.

I nodded. “I need a gun.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have one. And get the same for my friends. That video you sent us, if that’s who is after you, you should have quadruple security posted at every entrance. You should have men on the rooftops and on every block for three blocks out. Don’t bring me down into a fucking death trap. And kill the Liberace routine; lay off the keys and get me a fucking gun.”

He stopped playing. His fingers froze on the keys. He didn’t look up.

He said, “Sierra. Get the man what he requested.”

Sierra nodded at her muscular brother. Her brother reached underneath their table and took out a box. Several boxes were next to him, all stacked next to the wall. He had been guarding the hardware. He opened the smallest of the boxes. I went and looked down at the contents. Five nine millimeters were inside. New guns. And more than a few clips. I took out two of the nines, handed them to Konstantin. He nodded. I took two more, handed those two to Alvin. I kept one for myself. Then I took out extra clips, passed those to my friends.

I turned to Scamz and said, “Something is missing.”

“Missing?”

“You get me something heavier than these pop guns?”

Scamz nodded.

Arizona’s brother brought out another box. He put it down and ripped open the flaps. I looked inside. Three shotguns. Two had short barrels. I nodded at Alvin. He came over and looked at the hardware, inspected it like he was a pro. Straps were in the box. Alvin took off his coat and took out one of the straps, attached it to both ends of one of the sawed-off shotguns. He looped the strap over his broad shoulder, then put his jacket back on. It was concealed the same way Clyde Barrow used to carry his Browning A-5. Alvin moved with it, tested to see how fast he could draw it. It was impressive. Like watching Chuck Connors in
The Rifleman
.

Alvin nodded at me.

Scamz picked up where he had left off, went back to playing the piano like he was at Royal Festival Hall. He looked cool. But he was nervous. Playing that piano was his tell. He was thinking, considering, plotting, and trying to deal with his insurmountable level of stress.

Loaded gun in hand, I felt better, like a baby who had been given a pacifier.

I looked at Sierra and said, “Suppressors for the nines?”

Another box was produced. Suppressors were distributed while Beethoven played.

There was more food. A buffet of exotic fruits. Melons. Mangos. Grapes. Kiwi. And plates filled with
facturas
; bite-sized pies and cookies, croissants and
medialunas
.

There were two exits. I checked both, always looked for the exits.

One was a wooden stairway that had sharp turns and ended one level up at the rear of another restaurant and bar area. The second was the glass elevator at the opposite end of the room. I didn’t like being in a basement. A basement was a death trap.

Konstantin sat at the table near me. Shotgun came back to the table and sat next to Konstantin. I looked into Alvin’s eyes, read his mind, then I nodded.

With a shotgun under his coat, a nine in his gigantic hand, Alvin went for more food.

I guess he was Shotgun now. Had to stop thinking of him as Alvin.

I went for water, poured some in a wineglass. Konstantin did the same.

Scamz was making me wait. Like I had made him wait. Establishing who was the boss. Arizona was probably doing the same. Mind games. Boardroom psychology at its best.

I didn’t belong to any organization. Never would. I was my own boss. I was my own man. Had been my own man since I was a teenager. Would be until I took my final breath.

I preferred to work alone. But this didn’t look like that kind of job.

On the plane, hours ago, that conference call, that was on my mind now.

Scamz had had workers on the hunt for the last few days, trying to pick up a signal, had them moving twenty-four hours a day, moving around the capital city and deeper into the outlying areas. One had picked up a signal at Retiro. Retiro was like Grand Central Station meets a mile-long sidewalk swap meet. Bus stations, train stations, and a subte line damn near on top of each other. Then the signal had moved with the pace of one of the departing trains.

His worker had raced to a car and taken to the streets, drove as the train moved. He made it to the Belgrano stop ahead of the train but didn’t have time to get out of the car and run to the train. He sped past rugby, soccer, and polo fields, ran red lights and followed the train past the Mercado and Rivadavia stations. He was hoping that whoever was transporting the package left the train and made the job easier.

The signal was strong for forty-five minutes, until the driver sped by the San Isidro station. Then the signal faded. They had left the train.

The worker sped back, parked, and searched the area. Jogged around Belgrano, an area lined with two-story buildings, shops on the first floor and apartments rising over the stores. He moved on and paused at a five-way intersection that fed into a traffic circle, Pico monument and a flagpole in the center of the circle, where Belgrano, 9 de Julio, and Acassuso kissed like lovers at a swingers’ club. From there, there were four ways the signal could have moved.

The worker took 9 de Julio until it ended at Avenida del Libertador, both streets no more than two lanes wide and intersecting in front of La Catedral de San Isidro. First he went inside the church. The package hadn’t gone in that direction. He ran out of the church. Across the narrow street was the start of a park that was filled with vendors. The signal had gone down the concrete walkway, crossed the street, and went into a crowded plaza that had restaurants and more shops. The signal moved to the right. Toward the entrance to another train. Tren de la Costa
.
The city trains cost one peso twenty centavos. The coastal train, seven pesos. The coastal train ended at Parque de la Costa and Tigre.

The worker had hurried and hopped on that train.

That was the last time Scamz had heard from that worker.