Choked Up (23 page)

I was not a New Yorker. Dealing with the thronging mass of humanity for an entire weekend gave me a certain and desperate ache to move to the Utah Salt Flats and become a prepper.

It was a relief to return to the penthouse. And not just because I was going to see Hank the next day. Although I wasn't sure exactly how I was going to be able to wriggle free of Stannis and his crew.

As the only Russian in Stannis's in-home team, Kontrolyor was an outsider, a perfect mark to befriend. Or so I thought.

He was introducing me to Russian cuisine, and I was somehow choking it down.

This morning, he made me his favorite part of a traditional breakfast.
Kasha,
a sort of porridge made from different grains topped with fruit with
kompot,
a non-alcoholic drink made by boiling fruit in water.

It was beyond dreadful.

A river of furious Serbian spilled out of Stannis's office into the hallway.

I tried not to flinch. My shoulders locked above my ears in a semipermanent cringe.

I pointed my spoon in the direction of the office—miraculously, it didn't shake—and shot Kon a questioning look.

His mouth moued. “Mr. Renko is upset.”

“The containers?”

“No. That is very good. The Italians are happy. Mr. Slajic is happy.”

“Then what's the trouble?”

Kontrolyor shrugged. “I do not know. Only Russian or English for me.”

Stannis strode into the kitchen, back rigid, jaw set.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Yes.” Stannislav's mouth stretched in an unhappy grimace. He turned to Kon. “Take her out. Get her whatever she wants.”

This was what the McGranes called a “defining moment.” The moment you either stood your ground or accepted grunt status.

“Hey.” I rapped my knuckles on the counter. “Don't do this.” I threw Kon the thumb and he lit out of the kitchen.

“C'mon,” I said. “Let's go for a run. See if you can keep up.”

Stannis folded his arms across his chest.

“Please,” I said softly. “
Moj đavo
.”

The effect was electric. He threw back his head and laughed. “My devil? Where did you learn this,
Vatra Anđeo?
”

“Gorilla.” I winced. “I mean Ivanović.”

“No, is okey. He is ape.” Stannis touched my cheek. “I change. We run.”

 

Stannis hit the elevator button to the lobby. Only instead of going outside, he turned left and led me down a hallway into a pristine and overequipped workout room.

“But I thought we were going for a run. After I beat you, I was gonna buy you lunch.”

He wasn't having any part of it. He grabbed me by the elbow and marched me to the treadmills. “Are you such . . .” He huffed a breath through his nose. “What is babe?”

“Innocent?”

“Yes.” His finger came up in my face. “The shooter. Either you very lucky or he is very bad. He will try again. Or there will be more.”

I nodded.

Stannis walked to a table with books and magazines. He picked up the TV remote and handed it to me. “Choose show.”

We watched five miles worth of
The Thin Man
on TMC and got off sweating. We walked over to the gym mats.

“What's the trouble?” I asked.

Stannis dropped onto his stomach and knocked out fifty push-ups.

I matched him for thirty, waiting for him to say more.

“Goran asks me for thing I do not like.”

I flipped on my back and started doing crunches. “Maybe I can help.”

“Maybe.” Stannis laughed, rolled, and crunched with me. At 150, he quit, got to his feet, and gave me a hand up. “You know how to steal cars?”

“Doesn't everyone?” I gave him a playful shove.

“New cars?” He pushed back. “Expensive ones?”

I dropped into a boxer's stance. Did a little bob and weave. “I'm sure I could think of something.”

Stannis threw a fist at my face. He purposely didn't hit me, but he was so fast I dropped my hands in shock.

“No,” he scolded. “Never lower hands.” He unleashed a quick, but light, series of six punches. Each one hit me. Toying with me like a cat on a blind baby mouse.

I pretended to pout. He relaxed. I threw a couple quick jabs. He took my tags with his palms and stepped in with his left foot.

I threw a left hook and swept his leg out from underneath him.

He stumbled but kept his feet, laughing and shaking his head. “Muy Thai. Did not expect.”

“A girl's gotta do . . .”

He grabbed me to him for a hug. “I like. I take you to lunch, yes?”

 

Driven by Raw Chicken, Stannis and I were accompanied by Kontrolyor, who vanished once we were safely inside Tru. The restaurant, as before, was minimalist wonderfulness, only today it was jam-packed with power-lunchers.

I was more than a little surprised when the maître d' greeted us like old friends and escorted us to a primo table.

Stannis and I chatted about everything that was absolutely nothing during lunch.

It was starting to thicken, the trapped sand in my throat that was Stannis. Slicking over with genuine affection.

It wouldn't be long before I couldn't swallow.

Or breathe.

“The run was good idea,” he said.

I gently twisted my wineglass by the stem.
Man up, Maisie
. “What has you in knots?”

He started to speak, frowned, then started again. “Is . . .”

I put up my palm to stop him and said the magic words, “You don't need to tell me. I just thought you might want to talk about it.”

The disclaimer, like it had for my mother so many times before, opened the floodgates.

“My uncle, Goran. Now I am
Mesar,
he becomes
Bik
. Charging into new venture. He grows reckless.”

And shipping rail containers of chopped auto parts is as safe as a box of methadone in a rehab clinic.
“You mean, like stealing new cars?”

“Exactly. New cars not good. A big risk for not-so-good reward.” Stannis leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Goran wants a dozen new luxury cars in Juárez next week.”

“Juárez, Mexico? Jeez. How?”

“Shipping is no trouble. But I do not like to work with the cartels. Too much drugs make for too little sense, yes?”

I thought of Scarface Junior Eddie Veteratti, and nodded. “Couldn't agree more.”

“Exposure at the train yard. Security at the dealership.” Stannis leaned his forearm on the table. “How would you do it?”

I chewed that one over. Slowly. Trying to figure a back door for the BOC to walk in. “I'd hit the transport. The cars are at their most vulnerable on the road.”

“How?”

There was something in the way those bright blue eyes focused on me. His charisma triggered a need to impress him. Not my usual MO. At all.

I swirled the last of the wine in my glass, watching the liquid move, not thinking of anything in particular. A case of my mother's, distillery tank trucks being robbed, swam up from the bottom of the glass. “Everything is on a shipping schedule. Carmakers can't alter that. Dealers need delivery dates. So do intermodal train yards and truck transport for the last leg.”

“Yes.” He nodded patiently. “But without prior knowledge, hijack is ineffective.”

“Real luxury cars—the kind you're talking about—top-of-the-line BMW, Lexus, Mercedes . . . those cars carry a price tag over 100K. Do you really think the carmakers are gonna risk the final leg in open transport? Where a stray rock or sand could damage the paint job? No way.”

“Go on.” Stannis rotated his hand in a circle. “From intermodal train yard, semis travel no more than 320 kilometers.”

I turned on my iPhone and fired up DuckDuckGo. In less than a minute I had confirmation. “Open transport—cars loaded up on open racks behind semis—constitute ninety percent of all cars shipped. Enclosed transport's ten-percent piece of the pie is divvied up between private individuals and luxury cars. There are only three companies in Chicago with the ability to handle the shipment of multiple luxury cars.”

I slid my phone across the table. “That's where I would start.”

He barely glanced at the names on the phone. “Next?”

“The trucking company won't let the drivers know until that day,” I said. “But Dispatch will. And the more expensive the cars, the better the driver they choose.”

“True. And drivers will not be hero when you show them picture of family.”

Stannis smiled. “What other troubles to forsee?”

“GPS tracker on the transport semi. Radio communication with Dispatch. Armed guard, maybe? Stealing the transport itself would alert law enforcement. Transferring the cars will take time. GPS trackers on the cars themselves.” I sat back and pointed at him. “The car keys. Probably in a safe in the cab. Driver may or may not know combination.”

“Fast to think.” He tapped his finger against his temple. “You know this how?”

“An old smuggling case of my mother's,” I said. “She's an attorney.”

“A good one?”

“The guy got ten years when he should have gotten twenty. She had him out in thirty months.” I shrugged. “What do you think?”

He laughed. “I think I like to know your mother.”

“You did very well for start. Not many things you did not consider.”

“Oh?” I said. “What'd I miss?”

“The hijack itself. The drivers, the cargo, dispose of transport. Things of this nature.”

He hadn't really been asking.

Stannis raised his wineglass. “To live long enough to win many scars.”

Chagrined as a piece of burnt toast, I lifted my glass in salute. “To the fut—”

Across the restaurant, I saw the aristocratic, foxy face of Walt Sawyer grinning at . . .
Mom!
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. She didn't pull away. Instead she flipped hers to hold his.

My lungs compressed.

Stannis scanned the restaurant and saw no threat. “What is it?”

I threw back the rest of my wine and coughed. “My mother is here.”

He followed my gaze. Walt was still holding her hand. “Your mother is black?” Stannis asked.

“Yes,” I answered mechanically. “My birth mother was killed in an accident. When Mom married Da, she adopted us all.”

Stannis put his napkin on the table. “Let us go greet your parents.”

“That man is not my father.”

He stood up. “Then let us go meet this man.”

“Why not,” I said and pulled the pin.

Stannis came around to my chair and took my arm. I picked up my purse and forced a smile. Together, we crossed the room.

Walt looked right through me as we approached their table.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Maisie,” Mom said. Her eyes widened slightly. Lawyer to the core, she doubled down on the hand holding by placing her other hand on top.

“I'd like you to meet my dearest friend.” She pulled her hands away, perfectly choreographed to Walt Sawyer raising his to me. “This is Walt Sawyer.”

I shook his hand. His face was a polite mask. “Very pleased to meet July's only daughter.”

“And who is this?” Mom asked.

“Stannislav Renko.”

He shook her hand with a small bow and turned to perform the same with Walt. “Is pleasure.”

“Indeed,” Walt said. “We haven't ordered yet. Would you care to join us?”

My mother had no physical tells. Which was, in effect, a tell itself. There was nothing she wanted less than for us to join them.

The joke was on her. Walt knew I'd never accept the invitation. “I'm afraid we've just finished,” I said.

“Pity.” Walt picked up the wine list. “Shall we open a bottle of champagne? Toast to new friends?”

“Walt.” Mom laughed. “I'm sure Maisie has to get back to work . . .” She looked at me, full lips crimped in curiosity. “Darling, why aren't you in uniform?”

“She has a meeting with Mayor Coles today,” Stannis lied smoothly. “I tell her she is more than parking maid.”

The very words my mother was dying to hear.

They seemed to scald her ears.

“So you see,” Stannis said, slipping a possessive and casual arm about my waist. “We must go.”

My head was a mess.

“You are unhappy?”

“Yeah, Stannis. I think my mom is having an affair, so yeah, I'm pretty feckin' unhappy.”

“All from hands together? She showed no concern.”

“She doubled down. A trick.”

“One I know well,” he said. “Very clever, your
majka
.” He shook his head and put his arm around me. “Grown, but such child.”

I pushed him away from me.

He chuckled. “Maisie.” He held up one hand. “Love.” Then the other. “Sex.” He moved them independently up and down. “Sometime together. Most times not.”

“She's married!”

“So attraction is forbidden? Never have . . .” He snapped his fingers looking for the word. “Flirt? Affair?”

“You're not helping.”

“Life is too uncertain to forego what makes one alive.”

He turned my face to his. “Is wrong to judge your
majka
.”

The Range Rover slowed and I looked out the window.

Albany Park. Chicago's Serbian stronghold.

Raw Chicken maneuvered us into an uncomfortably narrow alley that ran along the side of Christo Keck's Garage, a faded blue and white aluminum-sided building. The SUV barely made a sound as we drove over two separate sets of down in-ground spikes, so Keck's could stop you coming or going.

The alley opened into an enormous eight-foot chain-link, fenced-in yard topped with razor wire. A patchwork of plywood and cheap fiberglass panels kept it private. We stopped right inside the fence, next to a tow truck. The yard was full of cars and junk, impossible to navigate.

Two twenty-foot intermodal containers sat in the rear corner of the yard. A man in filthy coveralls carried a windshield to an open Dumpster at the rear wall of the garage.

We got out of the car. Kon and I followed Stannis into the garage. The whine of reciprocating saws was punctuated by blasts of acetylene torches, metal clanks, and Serbian shouts.

A pleasant-faced, stocky man with a short beard came around from behind the U-shaped counter in the center of four work bays. “Stannislav.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, slapping him heartily on the upper arms. “You are well?”

“Very good, Christo.” Stannis removed a single strip of paper from the inside pocket of his suit coat and held it out to the garage owner. A handwritten list of names.

Keck's eyes flickered from me to the list and back to me. “Who is she?”

Stannis opened his fingers. The paper drifted slowly down on to the rubber floor mat.

Keck's cheek twitched. Eyes on Stannis, he bent to retrieve it.

In a blur of motion, Stannis beat him to it. He straightened, the paper impaled on the tip of the Buck knife none of us saw him draw.

“87. Zed. Plus 8.” Stannis extended the knife to Keck, who reached out and pulled the paper from it.

“I meant no insult.” The garage owner pulled an ancient Chicago White Pages from 1987 and thunked it onto the counter.

Stannis folded the knife and slipped it into his pants pocket.

The front door buzzed. Keck went behind the counter, hit a button, and the door opened.

Two janky teenagers with the evident markings of meth addicts entered the garage, one carrying a greasy backpack, the other pulling a wagon with a cardboard box inside. They came right up to the counter. The slightly larger one started unloading catalytic converters from the box, while the other, bald with a scabby head, named the vehicles they had been stolen from. “Escalade, Escalade, Ford F-150, Cherokee, Cherokee, Silverado.”

Keck opened the drawer and laid eight twenties on the counter.

“Two hundred forty dollars? Shee-it, man!” Scabby scratched his head. “Don't be a fuckin' asshole. Fitty each. Three hunnert.”

The garage owner picked up an Escalade converter. “This is worth sixty. The others thirty.”

The teens talked it over, took the money, and slunk off, wagon squeaking behind them.

Stannis folded his arms over his chest.

“What?”

“You grow lazy,” Stannis said softly. “Foolish. Such risk for little money.”

Keck's ears turned red. He held up the paper Stannis had given him. “I get what needs to be gotten.”

Stannis turned to Kon. “These mechanics are thirsty. Take them for beers.”

Kontrolyor nodded. “Her, too?”

“No.”

It took Kon less than three minutes to get the men out of the garage. The automatic door clicked behind them.

The knife was out again. Stannis drew it faster and smoother than a guy on the grift could palm a twenty. “You will not conduct such business inside again.” He tapped the blade against his palm.

“Yes.” Keck's glance flickered between the list and his own fingers, the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead proof he'd heard Stannis's order. He counted backward on his hand, then opened the phone book, tracing down the list to the first name on the paper. He did the same with the next few before raising his head. “When do you need it?”

“Twenty-first. But there is something else,” Stannis said. “I need electronic monkeys. Four. Young, fast. Can disable GPS and security quickly.”

“Not a chop?” Keck frowned.

Stannis ignored the question. “Rate I pay is one and half. Six-hour notice.”

Keck rubbed his forehead. “I can do that.”

“I want the one”—Stannis raised a closed fist and waggled his little finger—“the one they call Pug.”

Keck opened his mouth to speak, but Stannis spoke first. “He paid the blood price for foolishness. This is his redemption.”

The garage owner nodded.

“Good.” Stannis said. “Leave us.”

Christo Keck grabbed the phone book and paper and disappeared into the back office, closing the door behind him.

Stannis handed me his phone. “Call Black Hawk.”

I scrolled through the contacts and stopped at the picture of a Sikorsky UH-60 next to the name
Chyornyj Yastreb.
I hit Dial, then Speaker, and set the phone on the counter.

“Go ahead,” said a guttural voice with a strange electronic undercurrent. A vox modulator for security.

“I am with
Vatra Anđeo,
” Stannis said.

“
Anđeo,
” the electronic voice said. “We meet soon, yes?”

Stannis nodded for me to speak.

“I look forward to it,” I said.

“The assignment is go,” said Stannis. “Tonight I discuss with my men.”

“There is still much to be done,” Black Hawk said. “We meet tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Will
Anđeo
be there?”

“No,” Stannis said.

“Then let us ask for her blessing.”

Stannis winked at me. “What is your wish for our venture?”

Hank's Law Number Seventeen
popped into my mind:
The true fight is won without fighting.
I thought for a moment. “I wish for you the blessing of cunning. To take advantage of your target's lack of vigilance.”

“
Spasibo,
” Black Hawk said.

Finally, a Russian word I understood. “You're welcome.” “
Anđeo
is very wise, Stannis.”

“As she is beautiful.”

 

We spent the night at the penthouse, Stannis holed up in his office with three bruisers while Kontrolyor and I played cribbage until he tired of losing.

Kon left me on the white leather sofa binge-watching episodes of
Bosch
on Amazon while he went to work in the kitchen on yet another inedible Russian dish.

I was just starting the fourth episode when Stannis and his men finally said their good-byes. He came back from the elevators, rubbing the blue-black whiskers along his jaw, and sent Kon to clean up his office.

“You look wrecked,” I said. “Can I get you anything?”

“No. Am very good.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a bank-wrapped stack of fifty-dollar bills onto the coffee table in front of me. “Tomorrow you go to Traffic Enforcement Bureau. Then go shopping or maybe see mother, yes?”

And Hank.
“I'd rather stay. Can't I help?”

He bared his lower teeth in a smile. “Your time will come.”

I picked up the money and riffled the bills with my thumb. Five thousand dollars. “This is too much.”

The smile slid from his face. “How much too much?”

I tucked my feet under me. “It's not that.”

“A man tries to kill you as warning to me, and you do not demand more? You value yourself so little?” he asked silkily.

“You don't understand.”

He squatted down in front of me and put his hands on my knees. “Tell me.”

“It feels like I'm taking money for being your friend. And that's not right because”—my voice cracked—“I like you.”

“Ah, yes.” Stannis laughed and kissed me on each cheek. “And I adore you,
Vatra Anđeo.
”