Chapter Six

 

          STEELE’S RESTAURANT, the sign over the door said. It was a solitary ramshackle building, with storefront windows that looked out over the end of highway 280 to the San Francisco skyline, off in the distance. Almost at the top of Potrero Hill, it had a spectacular view, one that had inspired a number of offers to buy the property, from real estate brokers, private parties, and banks, all wanting to tear down the ancient structure and maximize its value. They had, for the most part, all given up, accepting the fact, finally, that Malcolm Steele, the owner, was the slow moving, slow thinking, overweight black man that he appeared to be, entirely lacking in imagination, entirely set in his ways. Malcolm lived alone in the apartment upstairs, where he seemed content to spend his evenings watching TV, drinking, and sleeping in every morning until the restaurant opened for lunch. Every three months he took a trip to Houston to visit his aging mother for two weeks, leaving his cook and waitress, who were married, to handle the business.

          Actually, his mother had been dead for over seven years. When he got to Houston, he took a connecting flight to the Bahamas, where he had a substantial offshore bank account, a villa on the beach, and a mistress with a stable of lesbian girl friends.

          And he didn’t always sleep late. On Thursdays he was up early, to tidy up the front, sweeping the sidewalk, washing the windows, and tending to the potted plants that sat flanking the doorway and on the corners of the building. The place might be old, and run down, he said, but he liked to keep it clean, give it the personal touch. He picked Thursdays because it coincided with his weekly morning falafel delivery.

          On this particular Thursday morning, the delivery truck was right on time, as always. “Falafel Dreams,” was written in large Arabic style letters on the side, and underneath that, in smaller script, “Prepared and ready to cook.” The driver, Rimone, parked the truck, got out and opened the back, and began taking the trays through the open front door, without speaking to Malcolm. When he was finished, he stopped for a moment outside, where Malcolm was watering one of the potted trees.

          “Everything normal?” said Malcolm, without saying hello or looking up from his work.

          “Normal,” answered Rimone.

          Malcolm nodded and watched as Rimone got into the truck and drove off. He took another five minutes watering the other plants, then strolled inside, locking the door behind him. In the kitchen he looked over the trays of falafel, each covered with a transparent plastic sheet. One sheet was a slightly different color, a faint orange. He picked it up and took it to the bathroom and into the toilet. He slid shut the dead bolt on the toilet door and put the tray on the floor. Then he opened the toilet and took the first falafel patty, crumbling it in his hands and removing the plastic bag inside, throwing the falafel into the toilet. Putting the bag into his apron pocket, he continued the process with all twenty-five patties, flushing the remains. Then he went back into the kitchen, set the tray down on the counter, and went upstairs.

          From the hollow inside his terracotta bust of Martin Luther King Jr. he took out his testing kit. Picking one bag at random, he cut it open, put some of the powder into one of the test tubes. Satisfied with the results, he replaced the kit and screwed the base of the statue back on. “I have a dream,” it said across the bottom. Then he put the bags into a small combination wall safe, which he had to move the bed to get to.

          He went downstairs and left the building, walking down the hill to the Polecat Bar and Grill, his only nearby rival in the food business, where he always ate breakfast on Thursdays. After ordering, he went to the pay phone and dialed up a cell phone number. The number, he had learned after much difficulty, belonged to a migrant Mexican farm laborer that no one had seen for over ten years.

          “Hello,” said the familiar voice, a voice that, in all these years, he had never been able to identify as black or white.

          “Hello,” he said. “Mr. X?”

          “No,” said the voice on the other end. “You must have the wrong number.”

          “This is Malcolm. My order arrived on schedule and up to standard.”

          “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

          “I’ll have your deposit in the bank by the end of the day.”

          “No problem. Goodbye.”

 

 

         

          Once Yaro knew he was being tailed, it wasn’t too hard to spot. He’d checked out the street as he walked to the bus stop, and the super clean new Toyota Camry was clearly the only rent-a-car on the block. Now, from his seat at the back of the bus, he could see it weaving in and out of traffic in the gathering evening twilight, getting close to make it through the intersections, dropping back and even pulling over when the bus made its stops. He couldn’t identify which one of his new Czech friends it was, but they obviously weren’t too concerned about being discovered, probably figuring that their pose as big time LA dope dealers would make their interest in checking his movements seem fairly logical. He was headed for his meeting that evening with Sonny, and there wasn’t much point in trying to conceal it. If they knew about his trips out of town, they already knew where Sonny lived and that he and Yaro were connected.

          They would have to be dealt with, one way or another. Even if he shook the tail, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to just skip town, not with his money as low as it was. He needed this scam, and even with a new stake he had to settle this thing now. Milan had found him once, he could find him again. But if he lost three of his best guys, he might figure that the price of revenge was getting too high, and maybe even that Yaro had earned a little slack. He thought that way, and Yaro knew it. He and Milan had been pretty close once, which was probably why the guy was so pissed about the five million Crowns. Anyway, first things first. Even if he had lost his buyers, six keys of heroin was six keys of heroin; he would find some way to get rid of it, once the pressure was off.

          He was counting on one other thing, also. If Milan had said wait until they took delivery to kill him, they would wait. Initiative was not a trait Milan found desirable in his underlings. His experience with Yaro had probably increased his feelings in that direction.

          Sonny opened the door immediately at his knock, expecting him. They sat down in the living room. There was a fight going on the television, which Sonny promptly switched off. He knew that Yaro wanted a report on yesterday’s preparations for the operation, but there was something he wanted to get out of the way first. It was probably one of the biggest mistakes he ever made.

          “Listen, I’ve been thinking and there’s something I want to get straight.” 

          “Yeah? What’s that?”

          “When you make the delivery, I want to be there.”

          “That wasn’t part of the plan.” Yaro had, of course, intended to skip out on Sonny.

          “Fuck the plan. You’re a little too slick, Yaro. I don’t want you getting any ideas about skipping out on me. There’s no reason that these yoyos can’t keep the falafel heads buttoned down by themselves, and who cares if they can’t, anyway? Let ‘em all shoot each other. I’m keeping my eye on you. And the goods. Besides, your friends might decide to rip you off. Better if I’m there, for a lot of reasons.”

          Yaro had actually been worried that Sonny might say something like this. In the light of the latest developments, however, it seemed a much better idea.

          “Fine. You’re probably right. I could use some cover.”

          Sonny raised his eyebrows and reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels.

          “Okay, then. You want a drink?”

          “No, thanks anyway. How did it go with your machinist friend?”

          “That’s another problem. He wants a thousand bucks.”

          “That’s too much.”

          “He knows I don’t know anybody else I can be sure about.”

          Yaro was starting to get the glimmer of a new idea.

          “I’ll talk to him.”

          “He won’t want to talk to you. He doesn’t like making any new friends. He worries about heat.”

          “You said he’s German, right?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Tell him I’m Czech. He’ll stop worrying.”

          “Oh yeah? That’s all it’ll take, huh?”

          “That’s all it’ll take.”

          “You’re sure about that.”

          “Trust me. Besides, they’re not going to send Interpol after a machinist who moonlights a few silencers now and then.”

          “Otto’s a pretty weird dude. He might be doing more than moonlighting silencers.”

          “Try it.” 

          “OK. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

          “What about the apartment?”

          “It’s almost ready. I’m not bringing all my stuff over until we start. I don’t leave my guns lying around in empty apartments. The landlord might pop in for a visit.”

          “Then I can call in the troops.”

          “Call ‘em, yeah. Just tell me when you want to get started.” He took another drink. “Anything else? I’d like to catch the end of the fight.”

          “Just one more thing. Do you have a carjacking tool lying around?”

          Sonny looked amused. “I might. You planning on boosting a Camero for yourself? It better not be mine.”

          “Not exactly. Can you get it now?”

          Sonny slowly got to his feet and went into the bedroom. Yaro heard him rummaging around in the closet. He came back in a minute, the tool in his hand.

          “This what you want?”

          “Yes.”

          “You know how to use it?”

          Yaro laughed. “Don’t worry about that.” He had spent his youth stealing cars in Prague. At twenty, he had been the fastest in the business. 

          Sonny went into the kitchen, came back wrapping the tool in a dishtowel.

          “You got a lot of talents I don’t know about, I think.”

          “I do impersonations, too.”

          “I got the feeling you might be doing one right now. Your name really Yaro?”

          “Yaroslav. Sometimes they call me Yarda. Now you know everything about me.”

          “I doubt it. But whatever. Here.” He handed Yaro the carjacking tool. “I ain’t one of your fuckin’ special agents, Yaro. Play it straight with me, understand?”

          “Right down the line.” He put on his topcoat and slipped the tool expertly inside. “Anything else?”

          “Yeah. What about your end? Your apartment set up yet?”

          Yaro walked to the door, opened it.

          “Except for the bomb stuff. Ben Lauden’s brother could be living there.” He turned and started down the outside stairs. “I’ll call you,” he said over his shoulder.

          It was dark as he came down the stairs. He scanned the area below, stopping on the landing to light a cigarette. The Camry was parked down the block, just around the corner from the bus stop. He started walking in the other direction, moving fast, like he was in a hurry to get somewhere. A car door slammed, and he heard faintly the little squeal of the electronic locks coming on. He didn’t look back, but turned the next corner quickly, heading for the five way intersection a block up. He knew the area around Sonny’s building, had spent two hours walking around there one afternoon, just in case he might need the information someday. It was the kind of preparation that had kept him alive for years.

          When his tail rounded the corner he was in plain sight near the intersection, pretending to check a map with his pocket flashlight. He peered around, moving so as to look like he was getting an angle on one of the oddly intersecting streets. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the tail duck into a storefront alcove, waiting for him to move. He still hadn’t identified which one it was.

          He snapped off the light, stuffed it and the map in his pocket, walking purposefully, like a man who has spotted his destination. Without pausing he reached for his wallet, pulling out a bill like he was about to use it, just before he lost sight of the tail. Then he turned and ran as fast as he could across the street. He was crouched low behind some garbage cans waiting for pickup when the tail made the corner. Half a block up, in the direction he’d been going, was a North Beach strip bar with a five dollar cover. The tail hurried up the street, looking in all directions. It was the one who had called himself Hunza. He stopped in front of the bar, looking around again, then fished a bill from his pocket and hurried inside.

          Yaro ran back to the intersection, not taking the street he had used before, but the one next to it, which angled back in the direction of Sonny’s place. There was an alley a block down that crossed over behind Sonny’s, and Yaro took it, running at top speed. It came out just up the street from the Camry.

          He stood in the shadows for a moment while some guy and his girl friend went out of sight, turning the corner to the bus stop, then strolled casually to the car. Checking the area once more, he whipped out the carjacking tool and slipped it into window jam. As he’d hoped, Hunza had locked the doors, but rent-a-cars usually didn’t come with alarms. He went down out of sight on the front seat and closed the door, resetting the locks. After a few moments he rolled over into the back.

          Five minutes later he heard the car door open and Hunza slip behind the wheel, cursing heavily. He threw the car in gear and made a squealing u-turn, then sped up the street. After taking the North Beach entrance to Highway 101 they went south for fifteen minutes, then pulled off the freeway and into the airport Hilton parking lot.

          As Hunza switched off the ignition, Yaro came up from the floor of the back seat and stuck his nickel plated Walther PPK behind his right ear.

          “Dobri Den, Hunza,” he said, in his sweetest voice.

          Hunza froze, said nothing.

          “Booooo,” said Yaro, doing the Czech imitation of a cow.

          Hunza exhaled heavily, watching Yaro in the rear view mirror. “Dobri Den,” he said finally, in a reluctant voice.

          “Good boy,” said Yaro. “Now, keep looking at me, that’s good. Slowly take out your gun, left hand please, and drop it behind you into the back. If anything else moves, including your eyes, I’ll blow your fucking head off. Yasna?”

          “Yasna,” said Hunza, doing as he was told.

          “Now,” said Yaro, continuing in Czech, “I assume your buddies are waiting for you in the hotel, is that right? Please tell the truth, Hunza. If you lie about anything, I promise, I will shoot you first.”

          Hunza nodded his head. “Yes, that’s right.”

          “Fine. We are going to visit them. I will have my gun in my pocket as we go through the lobby. If you do anything funny, I will shoot you. If you talk, I will shoot you. If you fucking fart, I will shoot you. Understand?”

          “Yes,” said Hunza. “Listen, Yaro –“

          “No talking! I will get out of the car first, then you. Stay slightly ahead of me and don’t turn around. And Hunza –“

          “Yes?”

          “Try not to look so serious.”

          They went through the lobby and waited at the elevators until they could take one that was empty, getting out on the seventh floor. At the door, Yaro took the Walther out of his pocket. He gestured for Hunza to knock.

          “Ano?” said a voice behind the door, a few seconds later. Yaro nodded to Hunza.

          “Hunza tady.”

          The door opened and Yaro pushed Hunza quickly inside, refocusing the gun.

          “Turn around and stay in front of me, Pavel.” He looked past them. Petr, the fat one, was rising from his seat on the sofa, the remains of a pizza sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He started to reach into his coat. Pavel quickly shook his head.

          “Gentlemen,” said Yaro, his sweet voice again, “please don’t panic. I only want to talk. Just talk, that’s all.” He smiled at Petr, gave the other two a push with his left hand, motioning them forward. “Everybody behind the coffee table, please.”

          “You won’t be able to kill all of us, Yaro,” said Pavel. He seemed like the leader. “One of us will get you.”

          “Why should I want to kill you?” said Yaro, trying to sound sincere. “You’re my customers. I haven’t even asked for your guns.” If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that they would never all give up their guns. Another thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want a hotel room shootout with three of Milan’s best killers, killers he had been seen associating with by a hundred witnesses at the Jungle Club. He took Hunza’s CZ 75 out of his pocket, holding it by the barrel with two fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he walked forward. Then he carefully set the Walther and the CZ down on the coffee table and stepped back. They looked at each other, surprise registering on their faces. Hunza reached down and grabbed his CZ, leveling it at Yaro. The other two stayed motionless.

          Yaro put his arms out at his sides, palms forward.

          “And why, gentlemen, should you want to kill me? We can make a lot of money together. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

          They all looked at each other again, Petr’s eyebrows raising slightly. Pavel gestured for Hunza to put his gun away. Yaro turned slightly and moved over to one of the easy chairs in the room.

          “May I sit down?”

          “Sit,” said Pavel. They all sat down.

          “You wanted to talk,” said Pavel, “so talk.”

          Yaro settled into his chair, trying to look as relaxed as possible. 

          “I do not know how things are done in Los Angeles, but in San Francisco we do not usually put our suppliers under surveillance.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Only the police do that.”

          He stayed for a moment this way, looking intently at each one of them in turn. Then he sighed and sat back in his chair.

          “But somehow,” he went on, smiling, “I do not think you are the police. You do not look like the police. You do not act like the police. And you do not .... feel like the police to me. It is something that I pride myself on being rather sensitive about.” He stopped and lit a cigarette. No one spoke. “Maybe you think I am the police. Maybe you want to find my supplier and cut me out of the action. Maybe you’re just bored with watching television. I don’t know. But, truthfully, I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” He stopped, took a drag on his cigarette. “Excuse me for raising my voice. But I do not work well while being followed around. It tends to make me nervous. We can have a nice relationship here, do a lot of business, make a lot of money. But for this to happen, you are going to have to leave me alone to do my work. I told you I would make delivery in November. I am not going to spend the next three weeks being spied on every time I go to take a fucking piss.” He put out his cigarette, which he had hardly smoked, stabbing the ashtray impatiently. “So, what’s it going to be? Money? Or Russian games?”

          “Why,” said Pavel, “is it taking you so long to do this deal?”

          “My supplier is out of town. Taking a vacation somewhere. That’s why I have taken the opportunity to make a few little trips myself. Perhaps expand my business. I never expected the three of you to hang around here. Surely you have better things to do in LA. But that is your business, and I have no interest in meddling in it. Do you think you can bring yourselves to extend me the same courtesy?”

          Petr and Hunza looked expectantly at Pavel, who took a moment before answering, considering what he was going to say.

          “Alright. Deal. We did think there was a chance you might be the heat. I guess we’ve seen enough to be satisfied about that. We’ll leave you alone. But we’re staying in town. Let’s meet once a week just to touch base, OK? Just in case something changes. You name the place.”

          “Fine,” said Yaro, standing. “How about the Jungle Club, every Saturday night. It has a good band, nice action. I can introduce you to a couple of whores who won’t blow your cover.” He smiled. “Who knows? We might even get to be friends.”

          Pavel smiled back. “Yeah. Who knows?”

          “Now,” said Yaro, “I’ll take back my gun, if you don’t mind.”

          “Sure,” said Pavel. He picked up the Walther, pulled out the magazine, ejected the bullet in the chamber. He handed the two pieces to Yaro. “No problem.”

          Yaro put the pieces in his coat pocket and walked to the door. Just before going out, he turned back.

          “If I see one of you guys hanging around my place again, the deal is off. Understood?”

          “Understood,” said Pavel.

          “Fine,” said Yaro. He stepped into the hall and closed the door. He stood there for a moment, taking deep breaths, then walked to the elevator. Before catching a taxi back into the city, he stopped at the hotel bar.

          He needed a drink.