Gone in a Flash (26 page)

Mr Big’s henchman walked in the kitchen. ‘He want peanut butter samwish,’ the hulking henchman said.

Mr Jones nodded at him. ‘Make it,’ the henchman said.

So Mr Jones got up and made a peanut butter ‘samwish.’ ‘Does he want jelly?’ Mr Jones asked, while still in the assembling phase.

The henchman turned and walked out of the room. Mr Jones stood there for two full minutes before the henchman came back. ‘Grape,’ he said.

While looking in the refrigerator for the grape jelly, Mr Jones asked the henchman, ‘So what’s your name? Or rather, what do we call you?’

‘I am Mr Green,’ he said.

‘Of course you are,’ Mr Jones said under his breath, getting a little tired of all the aka’s. He finished the sandwich, put it on a plate and handed it to Mr Green. Mr Green set the plate down, opened a cabinet and brought out a silver tray, upon which he sat the plate with the sandwich, reached in the fridge and brought out a Yoohoo, set that on the tray next to a crystal glass, opened a drawer and pulled out a monogrammed linen napkin, then, without a word, left the kitchen.

As Mr Green left, Mr Brown came in.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing in there?’ Mr Brown spat at Mr Jones.

‘The woman was dying!’ Mr Jones said.

‘He wouldn’t have let her die!’ Mr Brown said. ‘He needs her.’

‘For what?’

‘That’s on a need—’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Mr Jones said.

Mr Brown sighed. ‘I’m not really sure, but I think he wants her to make something for him. He’s got a whole lab set up in the basement.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I know and, personally, I just want my money so I can blow this whole scene.’

‘You and me both,’ Mr Jones said, elbows resting on the table, and feeling more dejected with every passing minute.

The kitchen door opened and Mr Green came in with one beefy hand squeezing Mrs Unger’s upper arm. She was untied and ungagged. Mr Jones stood up as they came in the room.

‘Where you taking her?’ he asked.

Mr Green held up an index finger and moved it from side to side. Then continued to a door at the far end of the kitchen.

‘That’s the door to the basement,’ Mr Brown said. ‘I guess she finally agreed to work for him.’

Mr Green and Mrs Unger disappeared behind the door as Mr Jones and Mr Brown listened to the footfalls going downstairs.

Mr Jones said, ‘I never heard of a basement in Houston. I thought we were too close to the ocean or something.’

‘Naw, it’s the ground water. We’re too close to that. Not having basements is more of a southern thing. But these big mansions, like buildings downtown and whatnot, they got basements.’ Mr Brown shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’

Mr Jones squinted his eyes at Mr Brown. ‘How come you’re being nice to me all of a sudden?’

Mr Brown sighed heavily. ‘Because I’m tired of being cranky, and, besides, what you did in there, with Mrs Unger in front of Mr Big, I’d say normally that took balls. But with you, I’m just not sure if you’re too stupid to realize how close you came to death.’

‘Well, Mr Nice Guy’s gone back into hiding,’ Mr Jones said.

‘No, I admire what you did. Wish I had the balls to do it. This whole situation here stinks. How come y’all killed Mr Unger in the first place? All Mr Big wanted was that damn satchel.’

‘We didn’t,’ Mr Jones said. ‘Well, I didn’t, but Mr Smith didn’t mean to. Mr Unger was too close to the edge, and me and Mr Smith had been running after him for a while, and Mr Smith was out of breath and mad, so he poked the guy in the chest too hard, I guess, and he just went over backwards.’

‘So it was a fucking accident?’ Mr Brown asked.

‘Yeah, I guess that’s what you’d call it.’

Mr Brown sighed heavily. ‘That’s not what the courts will call it – they’d call it murder in the commission of a felony and you’d be just as guilty as Smith.’

‘What felony?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘Snatching the bag – no, you didn’t. Chasing Unger? Not a felony.’ Mr Brown smiled. ‘You might be OK.’

‘You think I should turn myself in?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘Jesus! Just when I’m beginning to think you’re not a stupid asshole! No, doofus, you don’t turn yourself in. Ever! Shit.’ Mr Brown got up and left the room.

They didn’t see Mrs Unger again that evening. Not even for dinner. Someone delivered what Mr Jones thought of as a whole bunch of Greek food around eight o’clock, and he and Mr Green spread it out on the table in the kitchen. Mr Green again loaded the silver tray for Mr Big, and told Mr Jones to make a similar tray for Mrs Unger. Mr Jones couldn’t find another silver tray, but did find a plastic one. He found the plates and served the lady a little of everything, eager to go downstairs and see this lab, and especially to check that Mrs Unger was OK. He was worried about her. Not knowing her drink preference, Mr Jones fixed her a glass of ice water and a Diet Coke, knowing ladies liked the diet stuff. He found one of the monogrammed linen napkins, placed the ornate silverware on the tray, and headed to the door to the basement.

Mr Green caught him halfway there. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Give.’ He held out his arms for the tray. ‘Open,’ he said, indicating with his head the door to the basement. ‘Key,’ he said, nodding at his pants pocket. A large placard, like one you’d see at a gas station for the men’s room, hung out of Mr Green’s left side pocket. At the end of it was one key.

Mr Jones used it to open the door. Mr Green just stood there. Mr Jones nodded his head at the door. ‘It’s open,’ he said. Still Mr Green just stood there. ‘What? Aren’t you going down? I fixed all the food for her—’ It was then that Mr Jones noticed the look on Mr Green’s face. It wasn’t pleasant. In fact, he had the distinct feeling Mr Green was contemplating doing harm to Mr Jones for reasons unknown to Mr Jones. And then it clicked. He put the key on the tray and Mr Green stopped looking at him and went down the stairs to the basement.

Mr Jones sighed audibly and headed for the table. That encounter had taken the steam out of Mr Jones. He wasn’t even hungry any more. He grabbed a dolmas out of the bag and slowly ate it.

I
woke up at seven in the morning. Totally awake, not going back to sleep, no way, no how. I hated that. I love to sleep. I love to sleep late. I love to lie in bed on a weekend morning with my husband and spoon. I used to love it when the kids would barge in the room way too early on a weekend and jump in bed with us – all three of them plus us in the king-sized bed; this was before Alicia joined the family. Back when they were little. God, how I missed that.

I got out of bed, trying not to disturb Alicia, although I think an earthquake wouldn’t disturb Alicia, and headed for the bathroom, hoping that what woke me was just the need to pee, and then I could go back to sleep. Of course I was able to pee – when am I not? But I was still wide awake. I wandered into the kitchen and put on the coffee, grabbed some orange juice and went to the front door to see if the Sunday Austin paper had been delivered. It had so I took it back to the kitchen with me, finished the OJ, then started on the coffee. Then it hit me: we were going to Houston today! That’s why I couldn’t sleep! I realized my face was hurting from the large smile. Why was I smiling? Because I was getting out of town? Because Luna was getting her husband back? Because Graham would be going back to school? No, in my heart of hearts, I knew the reason I was smiling was that I was back in on the chase.

God help me, that was it. I lost the smile. What kind of person was I that normal things went to the backburner when there was a crime to be solved? I wasn’t in law enforcement – not police, or a bounty hunter, or a private detective, or even a lawyer (although the bounty hunter thing had possibilities – I would look good in black lycra with crossed ammo belts). There was the added bonus of a fancy hotel with piped-in movies and room service, and as much nookie as either of us could handle. I was going to try to be more mature about this. Take a back seat to Luna and her Houston brethren. Try not to go crazy. Well, at least not bat-shit crazy. I have a tendency toward bat-shit crazy.

I opened the paper, ready to be dazzled by the daily mayhem.

‘What do you mean, you called Luna?’ DeWitt said around a mouthful of granola bar.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mayfair said. ‘I think I mean I picked up my phone and punched in her number and said, “Hello, Luna, this is Mayfair.”’

‘God, I hate it when you try to be cute—’

‘I never have to
try
to be cute. It’s just who I am,’ Mayfair said.

DeWitt slammed his fist against the steering wheel of their car. ‘
Why
did you call her? You think we need the help of some yokel cop who couldn’t find these guys even in her Podunk town, much less a city the size of Houston, for God’s sake!’

‘I thought it would be nice to have someone around to bounce ideas off. You don’t bounce. On you, they just fall flat.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe it’s not me – maybe it’s your ideas!’ DeWitt said.

‘Whatever,’ Mayfair said, watching the city flash by her side window, glad once again that her parents had opted to leave Houston when she was a kid and settle in Austin instead. Coming from the gateway to the Hill Country, all this flatness made her anxious. The only hills in sight were overpasses.

‘So she’s actually coming here?’ DeWitt said.

‘Yep. She’ll meet us at HPD around noon.’

‘Again, why?’

‘Again, bite me.’

They were on their own for breakfast. Mr Jones still didn’t see Mrs Unger, and he also didn’t see Mr Green take a tray down to her. As he was alone in the kitchen, Mr Jones went to the door of the basement and turned the knob. He almost fell over from shock when it turned in his hand. As it was, he drew his hand back like the knob had been on fire. He touched it again, turned it, and pulled the door back. Looking down the stairs, he saw nothing but a black pit. Looking up, he saw a light switch on the door’s inner frame. He flipped it on and the stairs lit up. Checking behind him to make sure no one else had come into the kitchen, he stepped onto the small landing, letting the door silently close behind him.

Gingerly he made his way down the stairs, holding on to the railings. At the bottom it was gloomy and dark. He looked around for another light switch and found one. Switching it on exposed an empty basement. Well, empty of any lab-type stuff, as far as Mr Jones could tell. There was a broken chair, some lawn furniture, and a few boxes, but definitely not a lab.

To the right of the stairs was a door that opened into a large laundry room. Straight across from the stairs was another door, with a padlock. Mr Jones went to this door and knocked. And again, shock: someone answered.

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.

‘Mrs Unger?’ Mr Jones asked.

‘Yes?’ she said, her voice closer to the door now.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Please let me out of here,’ she said.

‘The door’s padlocked,’ Mr Jones explained.

‘You’re the big guy, right? The big American guy? Can you kick it in?’ she begged.

‘I probably shouldn’t do that. Mr Big would get real P.O.’d if I did that.’

‘Who’s Mr Big?’ she asked.

‘You know, that Russian guy who runs this,’ Mr Jones explained.

‘Oh, Vlad,’ she said, derisively. ‘I’d call him Mr Bald.’

Mr Jones laughed. ‘Yeah, he is pretty bald, huh? How come you know his name?’

‘He was our financial backer. In case you get away and I don’t, know this: his name is Vladimir Andronikov. This is his house—’

‘What street are we on? I called my friend and left a message, but I didn’t know what street to tell her.’

‘Dalton Lane,’ Mrs Unger said. ‘Who did you call? Are they on their way? Did you call the police?’

‘Well, now, no, I didn’t call the police. I don’t know any police. But I called my friend – she’s this girl we kidnapped, but she likes me because I helped her get out of it, and she’ll help us, I swear.’

‘A girl? Are you being sexist or is it really a girl? How old?’

‘Like sixteen, seventeen, hard to tell.’

‘Shit! A girl! How can she possibly help?’ Mrs Unger asked.

‘She’s real smart,’ Mr Jones said.

Mr Jones heard the door open above. ‘Gotta go!’ he said and scooted quickly into the laundry room, and hid behind one of the machines.

From above he heard someone say something in Russian. Then someone else answered him in Russian. Had to be Mr Big – Mr Bald! Ha! He liked that – and his henchman Mr Green. Mr Big’s voice, higher in octave, was screaming at Mr Green, who’s deep, throaty voice sounded defeated. Their voices grew louder as they came down the stairs.

Mr Big said something else in Russian and then Mr Jones heard the hasp of the lock being withdrawn and the door to the room where Mrs Unger was being held opened.

‘Ah, Elizabeth,’ Mr Big said in a bright voice.

Mr Jones moved to the door of the laundry room and opened it a crack to listen.

‘How are you this morning?’ Mr Big said.

Mrs Unger didn’t answer.

‘Are you hungry?’ Still no answer. ‘Mr Green, please fix our good doctor some breakfast. With a lot of hot, hot coffee, eh? You Americans love your hot, hot coffee. I prefer tea, but as you Americans say, “Different strokes for different folks.”’ Mr Big laughed.

‘Actually,’ Mrs Unger said, ‘no one has used that reference since the mid-eighties. You’re behind in your slang, Vlad.’

‘Please, Elizabeth, don’t try to make me angry. You know what I’m like when I’m angry. We don’t want to see that again, do we?’

Mrs Unger said nothing.

‘So, Elizabeth, how does it go? Were you able to accomplish anything last night? I hope that flash drive was all that you said it would be.’

‘The flash drive is fine. What I
need
are those notebooks from my lab. Do you have them?’

‘We’ll try again today to get them for you. The police are watching your lab.’

‘Too bad they weren’t watching my house,’ Mrs Unger said. ‘Maybe then they could have killed all of you.’

‘What is that word? Oh, yes! Spunk! You are showing spunk today, Elizabeth. What has changed that makes you feel you can disrespect me as you are now doing? Do I not still have you as my hostage? Do I not have the ability to tear off the rest of your fingernails at my whim? Can I not still kill you with a wave of my hand?’