Setup on Front Street (11 page)

I
don't carry a wallet.

Well, that's not exactly true.

I carry one whenever I'm holding fake ID,
which is most of the time. This way, when I use a phony credit card, the mark
sees me pull it out of a wallet, just like any other citizen would do. But
wallet or no wallet, I always carry my money around in a clip, in my front
pants pocket.

So right now, until Yale Lando has my ID
ready, I have no wallet.

This means I carry everything else around
in my pockets. Normally, I don't mind until I have to find something other than
keys or money, which I can identify by feel. For everything else, I have to
empty my pockets, which is a royal pain in the ass.

So that's exactly what I did. Right outside
Avi's, I fished through all that shit until I found the phone number Rita gave
me the other day.

Fortunately, I kept it with me instead of
leaving it at Norma's. It wouldn't be wise to go back there just yet.

I walked to the Atlantic end of Duval
Street, back to the outdoor restaurant where I'd seen Rita a couple of days before.
A languid breeze rolled in from the ocean. Tourists loitered on the beach.

Calmly, I stepped up to the pay phone by
the entrance. I slid a quarter into the slot and I had her on the line.

"Don Roy! Hey, how nice to hear from
you."

She sounded like she meant it. In fact, I
could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yeah, listen. Can you meet me at that
restaurant? You know, the one from the other day?"

"Well, I guess so. When would you
—"

"Right now. I'm standing at a pay
phone out in front of the place as we speak."

"Well, let's see … it's about quarter
past three. At four-thirty I have to be at —"

"Rita, please."

She realized it was serious.

"Okay. Give me twenty minutes."

I shambled over to the restaurant, taking
an outdoor table like I did the other day. Glancing at the beach, I saw there
were more people there today, and they were more active.

A guy and girl in their early twenties
raced in and out of the water, splashing, tackling each other. The way they
rolled around on the sand reminded me of an old black-and-white movie I'd seen,
but I couldn't remember the name.

A little farther away, a few kids, around
nine or ten years old, squealed in delight over some game they were playing
involving a big inflatable ball.

All the while, the breeze, that beautiful
soft breeze, kept washing over me from the shore under sunlit skies.

Rita said twenty minutes? She made it in
fifteen.

I saw her approach my table in some kind of
two-piece belly-baring thing. She had my full attention, all right, as she
sashayed toward me.

This time she greeted me by leaning in with
a one-armed hug, accompanied by a peck on the cheek. For full effect, she made
sure to rub her breasts up against me while nuzzling my face.

Subtlety was never her strong suit. I could
see how she corralled BK.

"How are you doing today?" she
murmured. "It's so good to see you again."

Even this close, I caught only a slight
trace of perfume, but the trace was enough. I had to admit, it was intoxicating.

I wasn't too sure how to respond. I patted
her shoulder as she was hugging me.

I said, "Fine," or something like
it. Anyway, we sat down. I cleared my throat.

The fact was, though, I was clearing my
head. I hoped she didn't spot it.

She ordered an iced tea. I was ready to
open, but she jumped in first.

"I was really surprised to hear from
you so soon. Actually, I wasn't sure I'd ever hear from you at all." She
said this through an alluring smile.

I think I might've blushed right there, but
only for a second. I didn't recall ever doing it before, because, you know,
beautiful women never spoke to me that way, so I wasn't really sure what a
blush was supposed to feel like. But I know my face warmed up a degree or two
for sure.

I broke a small smile without thinking
about it, then turned my head downward and to the right. I heard her suppress a
giggle.

Finally, I said, "Well … thanks for
coming."

Shit, how lame was that!

I needed a little more head-clearing time.
Reaching for my tea glass, I took a long, long swig.

She lit a cigarette and waited for me to
continue.

Once I collected myself, I said, "I
asked you to come here because I need to know something. To your knowledge,
does the old man — or BK, for that matter — know anyone who might
be Russian?"

"Russian? You mean, like … from
Russia?"

"Well, yeah."

"I don't, uh … I don't think so."

She took a drag off her cigarette to help
her recall.

"You sure?"

She sank into thought. "I can't think
of … oh, wait. A couple of months ago — no, it was longer than that. Maybe
around Christmas. This guy came to the house one night. He met with BK in the
study. Later, BK introduced me to him. He was a foreigner, I remember. His name
wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before, and he spoke with some kind of
European accent."

"Was his name Vasiliev? Yuri
Vasiliev?"

"No. That wasn't it. It was a real
long name, it was like, uh, like …Chana — Charmo — oh, I can't even
begin to say it. As I remember, it sounded like it might've been Russian, I
guess. I can't say for sure. But he was definitely a foreigner. An older guy.
Like around sixty."

"What did he and BK talk about?"

"I don't know. Like I said, they went
into his study. They were in there about a half hour, then he left. I never saw
him again."

She turned slightly in her chair to face
the breeze from the water, which had picked up some. It rustled her hair a
little. I liked it.

I said, "And BK never told you
anything about him? Or about what they discussed?"

"No. He didn't. But, you know, now
that you mention Russia, back a couple of years ago, while you were away, BK
did set up a sister-city deal with some Russian city."

My eyebrows went up.

"He did?"

"Yeah. It was one of the first things
he did as mayor. Now that I think about it, a couple of Russians showed up on
the island not long after that, in connection with the whole thing."

"Did BK ever go over there?"

"No, he could never get away. But …"
Her voice lowered several tones as she realized what she was about to say.
"But the old man went in his place."

I practically saw the light bulb click on
over her head.

"Do you know where he went? What he
did over there? Anything at all!"

It was all I could do to stay calm.

"No, no I don't. What's all this
Russia stuff about, anyway?"

She stubbed out the cigarette, then
swallowed the last of her tea.

"I can't tell you right now, Rita. But
listen, did BK or the old man have any dealings with Frankie Sullivan?"

"Not that I know of."

She looked around for the waitress. Once
she found her, she signaled for a refill on the iced tea.

Then she said, "BK and I were in his
bar a few times, and he and Sullivan seemed to know each other. I mean, beyond
the local-businessman-knows-the-mayor kind of thing, you know? It seemed like
they were more than casually acquainted, but I never knew anything about it."

"But BK never mentioned any deals with
him? Or any connection between Sully and the old man?"

"No."

She reached for another cigarette. As she
shook it loose from the pack, it fell out onto the concrete floor. She left it
there, but didn't go for another one.

"Look, Don Roy, what're you getting at
here?"

"Like I said, I can't tell you right
now, 'cause I got nothing solid."

Her voice slipped into come-on mode, and so
did her flashing eyes.

"Oh, I'll bet you've got something
solid for me."

Her smile said even more than that. So did
her soft hand as she lightly wrapped it around my index finger.

I chuckled.

"As nice as it sounds, the last thing
we need right now is to get carried away with that."

I knew she agreed. I mean, she was the
mayor's wife, for Chrissake. She finally let go of my finger.

I said, "Is there any way of finding
out what the old man did while he was in Russia? Or if he had anything going
with Sullivan?"

"Well, he might have something in his
files. I know he has a hidden file cabinet in his office. He keeps all his real
important stuff in there."

"Hidden cabinet?" My eyes snapped
upward from my iced tea. "Where is it?"

"There's a big leather sofa against
one wall. Right next to it is a boxy end table with a lamp on it. The table's
the cabinet. The files are inside it."

I remembered the sofa. A big, heavy leather
thing. Part of a corner set, with a matching armchair. The table was between
them, right in the corner, blocked from view on all sides. Only the lamp was
visible, sticking up from it.

Pretty clever, keeping it right in plain
sight.

"Do you know what's in it?"

"No, but I've seen him a couple of
times move the chair out of the way and open it. From what I could tell, there
were just files in there."

I looked around to make sure no one was
paying attention.

"How does he open it?"

"It's got a lock on it and he uses a
key. Like opening the front door to a house."

"Does BK have something like that,
too?"

"Not really. We have a safe, but it's
just for cash and jewelry … that kind of thing. The old man keeps stuff in
there, too."

"He does?"

"Yeah. We live in his house in Old
Town, the one he lived in for so many years before he moved out to Key Haven.
Way back when, he had a safe built into the floor inside one of the closets.
He's got one in Key Haven, too. He uses them both."

"Both?"

"Right. But he keeps all his important
legal papers and shit in that file cabinet. Right in his office, where he can
get to them when he needs them."

"Do you know what he's got in the
closet safe in your house?"

"Uh-uh. That one has two compartments
inside it. One for BK and me, and one for him. Each compartment has its own key
and he's got his."

I ran that around the block.

Then I said, "Listen, do you know if
he's going out of town anytime soon?"

"I know he's leaving on April
sixteenth. Him and his bimbo girlfriend."

"April sixteenth? How is it you've got
the date down?"

"He goes over to the Bahamas for a few
days every year right after paying his income taxes. Probably to celebrate how
much he saved by cheating."

I let out a big exhale as I sat back in my
chair. After a moment, I stood up, throwing a five on the table.

"I've got to go now, but I owe you
one."

She grabbed my arm. "Don Roy, does
this mean we're going to get that old bastard?"

"No
it doesn't. And don't get your hopes up. Remember, he's no small-time
punk."

"Well … if that's the case, then …"
She gave me that pouty smile again. "Then can't a girl get her hopes up
about
something?
"

I smiled goodbye back at her.

On my way out, my smile turned into a chuckle.

OUTSIDE
the restaurant, I went back to the pay phone. As soon as Rita left, I dropped a
bunch of coins down the slot and dialed the Vegas number.

After a couple of rings, Doctor Chicago
picked up.

"Doc. Don Roy Doyle."

"Don Roy, my man! What's happenin'?
You out now?"

"Been out over a week now. I'm back in
Key West doing my parole. Glad to see you're still in Vegas."

"Oh man, I'd have to be crazy to leave
this place. Pickin's here are so-o-o easy. Motherfuckers just leave shit lyin'
around, waitin' for me to come along and pick it up. Just like always."

"Amazing, isn't it?" I said.
"How Vegas is really changing, but some things just stay the same."

It really was amazing. Hotels in Vegas,
like everywhere else, were switching to those new card-type keys that slip into
a slot. But Doc could get past them as though the doors to the rooms were wide
open.

"Yeah, man. You right. So, what you
got goin' down there?"

I turned around to face the big, blue
ocean. Looking at its gentle waves sent a calm swell over me.

"Yeah, well, that's why I called you.
I got a job I need done, and you're the man to do it."

"Shi-it! Lemme hear it. Whatchu
got?"

"It's a house here in Key West. I'm
interested in the contents of a particular file cabinet."

"What kind of cabinet?"

"Mickey Mouse. Disguised as an end
table with a dead bolt lock. Opens with a regular key."

"Shit man, that sounds like somethin'
you could handle yourself."

"The cabinet's nothing," I said,
"but getting into the house might be difficult. Alarms, plus there's a
maid living there."

"When we talkin' about?"

"Okay,
today's the third. The owner'll be leaving town on the sixteenth. After that,
you've got a three-day window of opportunity."

"The sixteenth? Lessee, that's … that's
a week from Tuesday. Okay, man. The Doctor is
in!
I'll be there."

"Yeah, but Doc, look. I know what your
fee is for these custom jobs, and I'm kind of strapped right now. I can —"

"Whoa! Don Roy, you my man! You put me
on to some pretty serious scores back a few years ago with them phony books
that you keep money in."

"Well, you paid me for each one of
those. I mean, I —"

"No, no, no. I owe you one, man. Just
get me a plane ticket and this one'll be on the house."

"Hey man, you serious? That'd really
mean a lot to me."

"Serious as a fuckin' heart attack,
man! Shit, all you want's some files in a regular house? Say no more! They're
yours!"

"Thank you, brother. I'll send you the
plane ticket. Same PO box?"

"The very same. See you in Key West,
man."

I reached in my pocket for another quarter.
Ryder's number looked back at me from the scrap of paper he gave me.

This was a first for me. Calling the FBI.

Out of instinct, I hesitated, but dialed
the number anyway.

His voice was relaxed, much more than mine.

"Ryder, this is Doyle."

"What's up?"

"Whitney Senior went to Russia a
couple of years back. Can you find out where he went over there and what he
did?"

"Hmm … passport and travel records.
That's State Department stuff."

I felt the government stonewall going up.

I said, "Who gives a shit? Can you
find out or can't you?"

"Why would he go to Russia?"

"BK arranged a sister-city deal with
some town over there, and the old man went as the official rep of Key
West."

He paused. Finally, he said, "I'll see
what I can do."

"Wait a minute. There's a couple of
other things. First, I need what you've got on a guy named Yuri Vasiliev. He's
Russian muscle."

"I know him. We've got a jacket on
him. What else?"

"Sully told me he gave some money to
one of those outfits that invest your money for you … what do you call it?"

"Investment counselor."

"Yeah, that's it. He said he invested,
uh, some of the profits from his club with these people. You know, where the
money goes into office buildings and whatnot. I think that might have something
to do with all this. Can you find out anything about it?"

"Doyle, that's SEC shit. The FBI
doesn't have jur —"

"Wait a minute. What'd you call
it?"

"SEC. The Securities and Exchange
Commission. They're a
very
independent agency and they
don't
give out information to just anyone."

"Yeah, but you're not just anyone,
right? You're FBI."

He groaned. "You don't understand. I
can't go through official channels here. This is all off the record, what we're
doing. I can't just call up the SEC and demand —"

"Listen, you were the one who dragged
me to that fucking falling-down bakery, telling me how you could help."

"All right, now you listen. I want
Whitney, just like you do. It's just not going to be easy, is all. I know a
couple of people over at State, and maybe I can get a favor out of one of them.
The SEC thing, well … I don't know."

"Well, do what you gotta do. Just
remember, my life is on the line here!"

"Okay." He let out a sigh.
"But it might take me a week or so."

"Shit, you can't get it any
sooner?"

"Hey, I'm not a magician! Now, the
Vasiliev material, that's FBI. I can get it today. This other shit'll take
time."

I muttered a curse before giving him the
number of the rooming house.
 
"Make
it quick."