Setup on Front Street (10 page)

THE
next day, I found Milton shooting pool in a smoky little joint behind one of
the shopping centers on North Roosevelt. His long hair flowed out from beneath
a soft-brim hat, which tried real hard to cover up a heavy bandage.

He was bent over the table, lining up the
seven ball for an easy long shot. The eight and the nine were cripples, hanging
on the lips of their respective pockets.

I reached beneath my shirt to adjust my
piece in my rear waistband, just in case I needed it, then moved over to a
point a few feet off the table, directly in his line of vision.

As soon as he saw me fill up the background
behind the seven, he stroked the cue ball, scuffing it with a loud, awkward
clack. It rolled harmlessly off to the right.

"Nice shot, Milton," I said.
"Real finesse. You got this game down."

He came up to me. "What do you
want?"

"I heard you were a world-class pool
player. I just wanted to see an exhibition. You know, the game as it was meant
to be played."

Meanwhile, his opponent sank the seven,
eight, and nine in quick fashion, scooping up the two twenty-dollar bills that
lay on the table's rail. Another player stepped in to challenge the winner,
throwing down a twenty of his own.

Milton went over to the wall to rack his
cue. He grabbed his half-full bottle of beer, then swigged from it, hoping I
would go away. I didn't.

"Now, we can move over to the corner
here and speak privately, like gentlemen," I told him softly, "or I
can reopen that gash on your healing head. What's it gonna be?"

Without comment, he walked toward the
corner of the bar. I was right on his tail.

We took two stools at the far end. He was
about my size, but as I'd learned from our previous meeting, not nearly as
tough as he should've been.

Apprehension crept into his eyes.
"What do you want, Doyle? Why you bothering me?"

"Let's just say I don't appreciate
being grabbed off the street. Especially not by the likes of you."

"Yeah, well … you already made that
point." His hand gestured toward the bandage on his head. "So now
what do you want."

"I want to know how Frankie Sullivan
wound up down on Front Street the other night with his throat cut."

"Hey! That wasn't me. I had no part of
that."

He pulled nervously from his beer, nearly
draining it.

"Oh, I know you didn't do it, Milton.
You don't have what it takes for a job like that. But I just bet you have a
good idea who the old man sent out to do it."

"I don't know nothing about it."

His eyes darted up and down the beer
bottle, over to the pool table, and anywhere else he could think of so he
wouldn't have to look at me.

"Who was it, Milton? Was it your
playmate Bradley?"

"I told you I don't know nothing! Bradley
works hand-in-glove with Mr Whitney. They don't tell me shit."

He finished his beer and signaled for
another. Moments later, it was there.

"Well, why don't you get him to tell
you?"

"Hmph! Yeah, right."

I kept my
voice down in the polite zone. "Yes, Milton. Really. You can find out what
happened. You and Bradley are tight, aren't you?"

"Yeah, we're tight, Doyle. And that
means I'm not snitchin' him to
you
." He started in on his fresh
beer.

"Milton, I just want to know who did
it. After all, I'm not a cop. For all I know, Bradley didn't do it."

"He didn't. So leave it alone!"

"I thought you said you didn't know.
That they never tell you anything. And now you say he didn't do it."

He went for his beer again, but I grabbed
it, slamming it down on the bar, hard.

"Hey, fuck you, Doyle! That's all I
know. Bradley didn't have —"

I wrapped my hand around his index finger
and
 
bent it back, way back. He winced. I
bent it back a little farther, raising his pain level.

"Listen, asshole," I whispered.
"I want to know who clipped Sullivan. If you don't want to tell me, this
finger goes, right now. If you make a peep in here or draw any attention to us,
I'll crack your fucking arm in two, I swear to God. Sullivan's dead and my
money's gone, so I've got nothing to lose, Milton. You understand me?"

He nodded while trying not to scream.

I kept up the pressure.

"
Tell me!
"

His free hand went palm down, telling me he
had enough. He tried to say "okay" but it wouldn't come out.

I loosened my grip on his finger, but
didn't let go entirely. He exhaled out all of the sharp pain, but the heavy
soreness stayed with him.

He finally caught his breath, speaking
between gasps, "Bradley didn't do it. But he farmed it out to two guys
from Lauderdale."

That would figure. No direct connection to
the old man.

"Who were they?"

"Hey, what's the dif —"

I grabbed the finger again, bending it to
the point of snapping. Milton's upper body wrenched in pain.

But I had to hand it to him, he kept quiet.

"Awright,
awright!
"

I let go. He massaged his finger but it
didn't do him much good.

"Yuri. Yuri Vasiliev. That's the only
name I know, but he's Bradley's contact up there."

"Vasiliev? Is he Russian?"

"Yeah."

"Who is he?"

"How the fuck should I know?" he
replied.

I went for the finger, but he pulled his
hand back fast.

"Hey!" he said. "That's all
I know. You want the guy's life story, call his mother."

I flagged down the bartender. "Give my
friend here another cold one," I said. He brought the beer. I threw a five
on the bar.

I looked back at Milton.

"You were a good boy today. You
deserve a drink on me."

I headed for the door, but he called after
me. "Doyle!" I turned back to him. He was still rubbing his finger
and his hand. "That … that girlfriend of yours..."

I was back on him in an eyeblink, grabbing
his shirt collar. "What did you say?"

"I …
well … I just …"

"Give."

I took his head between my big hands, ready
to crush him to dust.

"I just don't go along with hurting
women, you know what I mean? So I'm telling you … Bradley … he's capped the
deal with this Yuri guy. Your girlfriend's next."

"What?"

"You heard me. But you didn't get it
from me, you understand? I'm just telling you 'cause I don't think it's right.
Hurting women, I mean. Especially when they don't have it coming."

I grabbed his shirt front, then shook him
once. Hard.

It was all I could do to control my fury. "Why
does Whitney want to kill her? She doesn't know anything. She's no threat to
him at all."

He rubbed his wrist, then his forearm. I
could tell
 
the soreness was creeping up
toward his elbow. I shook him so hard, he wheezed his answer.

"Bradley tells me you pissed the old
man off the other day. Icing the girl is his way of getting back at you."

Before he finished his sentence, I was out
the door.

I
raced back to Norma's.

On the way, I realized what was going on. I
got under Whitney's skin, all right, like no one else had probably done in a
long time. He could see I wasn't afraid of Ortega, that I wasn't going to take
any of this sitting down.

Only problem was, he couldn't kill me as
long as the frame for Sully's murder was holding. If I went down for it, that
put him in the clear. So it figured that Norma had to go as my punishment for
getting uppity with him.

Running from the car to her apartment
building, then up two flights of stairs, I pulled my .22 as I ran down the
hallway toward her apartment. Everything looked okay, but I clung to the wall
as I neared the door.

I heard the radio playing inside. Country
music, Norma's favorite. Slowly, I reached for the doorknob, turning it,
pushing the door back an inch at a time. The music became clearer — a
Merle Haggard weeper.

When I got the door all the way open, I
peered inside. I could only see into the living room. Nothing out of order.

I edged my way in, both hands on my gun.
From my left, a figure darted out of the kitchen, startling me.

"Hi, honey."

It was Norma.

I let out a huge exhale. Replacing the gun
into my waistband, I took her in my arms.

"You scared the shit out of me, you
know that?" I said.

"Why? What's — the gun
—
why did you have your gun out?"

I pulled myself together quickly.

"Has anyone been here? Anyone at
all?"

"No. Why?"

"Any phone calls? Anything out of the
ordinary?"

"No,
nothing … well … there was a phone call a few minutes ago, but that wasn't
—"

"Who?
Who was it?"
I shook
her.

"Stop
it! You're —"

I stopped.

"Who
was
it?"

Her eyes regained that innocence I
remembered from so long ago. The look I carried around in my head during my
years in the joint.

"It was only the building
manager."

"What'd he want?"

"He said there was an electrical
problem or something — oh, I don't know, something about circuit breakers
— and that he was sending two electricians up to take care of it. He
wanted to make sure I'd be here to let them in."

I grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the
door.

"We're out of here."

She resisted, slowing me down.

"Don Roy! What's going on? What's this
all about?"

I kept moving, dragging her behind me until
she finally caught up. We took the stairs down. I held her back as I scoped out
the parking area. No movement anywhere, so we made a break for the car.

Fortunately, her apartment complex was laid
out in a pretty confusing manner. Poorly-marked buildings, out-of-the-way
entrances, parking lots all over the place created a real hodge-podge. Anyone
coming here for the first time would have a lot of trouble finding their way
around.

Once we got the car going, I told her,
"We can't stay at your place.
You
can't stay there."

"Why not? What's happening?"

"There
are men who are after y — after me. I can't tell you any more than that,
but please believe me, we're not safe there. We've got to stay somewhere else
for a while."

As we
headed down the exit road, I glimpsed the rear view mirror. A dark blue Land
Rover circled one of the buildings, the driver invisible behind dark tinted
windows.

I took her straight to her mother's up on
Big Coppitt Key.

I know she was thinking I might've been
afraid back there. I was afraid all right, but not of Vasiliev or his pals. I
was afraid that I'd've shot them right there in her apartment the second they
walked through the door.

Gunfire, naturally, would bring the cops.
Once I put weapons into the Russians' dead hands, it probably would've gone
down as self-defense, but just having the gun in my possession was a violation
of my parole. Ortega would've seen to it that I was sent back.

I couldn't have that.

I
took it easy all the way through the ten-mile trip back to town from Big
Coppitt. The calm breeze drifting in the open window settled me down to the
point where I could check out my options.

One, I could corner Bradley the way
I'd done with Milton. Maybe do him in at the same time.

But that wouldn't accomplish anything.
Bradley was probably not as much of a pushover as Milton was. It could get real
rough. What's more, I doubted that he could tell me anything I didn't already
get from Milton.

Besides, wasting him would permanently
erase any link between Sully's killers and Whitney.

Two, I could confront Whitney with
what I knew, hoping to rattle him and push him into making a big mistake.

But if he kept his cool, which was
certainly possible, then he'd never stop until he got me.

On the other hand, if I also took option
number one, putting Bradley down first, the old man would lose his buffer to
the Russians. Then he might not want to involve himself in such a direct way.

Possible, but too many ways to go wrong.

Three, I could tell Ryder what I knew,
and let the FBI work it out, nailing Vasiliev and Whitney in the process.

Out of the question. They might get
Bradley, maybe even Vasiliev, but even if they both rolled over, which was far
from certain, Whitney might well beat the rap. His money and connections around
here ran deep. Very deep.

Besides, never trust the government to do
anything on your behalf, especially if you've got a lot at stake.

Four, I had to remember one thing: I
wanted my two hundred thousand.

It had cost me three years of my life and I
came all the way back here to get it. Plus, I had a feeling Sully died for it.

≈≈≈

As soon as I got back to town, I went straight to the rooming
house I stayed in when I first returned to the island. I damn sure couldn't go
back to Norma's, so the room would have to do for the time being.

Also, I needed to stash my piece again. I
had things to do in broad daylight that didn't require a gun, so I couldn't
risk being picked up with it.

After I ditched the weapon, I went out
again, this time on foot, over to Keys Tees.

Avi was hustling a customer into some
expensive T-shirt add-ons when I walked in. The guy was resisting for all it
was worth, but after a few minutes of Avi's perfect-pitch pressure, he caved
and handed over his plastic.

Avi bagged the merch, the sucker left, then
we were alone.

"Donny, my boy!" He wasn't
smiling. "So sorry to hear about your good friend Sullivan. I been in his
bar. He was good businessman."

"Yeah, well, not that good,
apparently."

"I hear they think you do it, but I
know different. You and he good friends."

Is there anything that ever happens in this
town without everyone knowing about it?

"Listen, Avi. What do you know about a
guy named Yuri Vasiliev?"

His dark eyes were still, but the lids
flickered ever so slightly. I wouldn't've caught it if I wasn't looking right
into them.

"Who?" He tried hard to stay
cool.

"Yuri Vasiliev. Come on, you heard
me."

"Nothing," he replied. "I
don't know the name."

"Avi, don't bullshit me now. Who is
he?"

"I don't know —"

I took one step toward him, menace all over
my face.

"Donny, wait." He held up a hand
between us. "You don't know this guy. You don't
want
to know
him."

"Let me pick my own friends, Avi. Now,
who is he?"

Reflexively, he looked around. It was just
the two of us. He gripped my forearm, pulling me to the back of the store.

Once we were in the far corner, he hunched
his shoulders a little. His eyes were anxious and he spoke in hushed tones, as
if he were about to reveal nuclear secrets.

"Where you get his name from,
Donny?"

"An invitation list to the White
House."

"I'm in trouble if they know I tell
you anything." His voice was hollow with fear.

"They'll never know. Now tell
me."

He reached into his pocket for a
handkerchief. After dabbing at his forehead a couple of times, he used it on
his palms. They needed it.

"He's bad guy. Very bad. He is number
one enforcer for the Russians in Fort Lauderdale. Sent down two years ago from
Brighton Beach."

Brighton Beach, up in Brooklyn. I knew
about it. Center of operations for the Russian mob in the United States and a
direct line to the old country. This guy Vasiliev was obviously a heavyweight.

"What's his connection down
here?"

I already knew it was Whitney, of course,
but I wanted to see if Avi could tell me anything about it.

"I don't know of any."

"Well,
he must have one because he's here in town right now."

Avi's eyes widened. He checked the front of
the store again to make sure no one was listening.

After another dab or two at his forehead,
he said, "Yuri Vasiliev is
here?
In Key West?"

The fear wouldn't leave his face.

"I don't know if he's
still
here, but he was out driving around the Ocean Walk apartments forty-five
minutes ago. Now, what's up with this guy, Avi? Why're you pissing your
pants?"

"Donny, you must try to understand. I
never see him before. I only hear about him. All bad things. He deals in death.
If he is in town, someone is going to die. And if he knew I was talking about
him like this, I would be that someone."

"Don't
worry. I told you, no one's gonna know. Now, there's one more thing. Do you
know of any connection between Vasiliev and Wilson Whitney?"

"
Whitney?
Who used to be
mayor?"

Avi couldn't hide his astonishment that the
two might be linked.

"Yeah, him."

"No, none. Does
he
know
Vasiliev?"

"I'm pretty sure. Or at least one of
his goons knows him."

"You must believe me, Donny. I know
nothing of Whitney. I pay him bribe once, it was back around eighty-five,
eighty-six, during his last years as mayor. Just to get police to stop
undercover work in my store. I see him ten minutes, no more. Nothing
since."

His voice got softer and softer till I
could barely hear him. It was as though he thought there were hidden
microphones all over the store.

Hell, maybe there were. Who knows how these
people operate?

I went
along with it, whispering, "So, what you're saying is this Vasiliev's a
real badass."

"What I am saying is, if he is in
town, it must be important.
Very
important. He is their best and he
reports only to the top guys. If you are involved in this, Donny, you must be
very, very careful."

He clutched my wrist for effect.

I gently removed his hand.

"Thanks for the warning, Avi."

I left the store.