The younger one took the money, glanced at his friend as they both stood up, and said, “S’il vous plait.”
“What, you fucking with me?” Suhonen barked.
“No, no,” the guy said, grabbing his jacket off the chair. “It’s just French. It means…”
“Get lost.”
The pair slunk into the crowd, and Suhonen waved to Markkanen, who had a beer in each hand.
“You loaded or something?” Markkanen asked, taking a seat. He set one of the beers in front of Suhonen.
“Not really. I just don’t know anyone around here, and sometimes it’s better to do things the easy way.”
Markkanen sipped his beer. “At least we’re sitting.”
“The end justifies the means.”
“Works for me. What’s your name?”
“Suikkanen,” he stated, and took a hard swig of beer in true Suikkanen style.
“Suikkanen? You got a first name?”
Suhonen grinned and took another gulp. They kept their voices low enough that nobody sitting nearby could hear them over the din. “Sure, but I save that for the judge. Barely remember it. Always gone by Suikkanen.”
“You from up north?”
Suhonen wrinkled his brow. “Hell no. From Lahti, man.”
Markkanen grinned. “Soccer or hockey?”
“Street boxing,” he stated flatly.
Suhonen was really from Lahti; he wouldn’t think of saying anything else. He could fool people pretending to be Suikkanen, but only if he could handle the details.
“Okay.”
“So what the hell are all these questions about?” said Suhonen abruptly. “I thought you had some business to talk about.”
“I gotta know who I’m working with,” Markkanen grumbled. “I was expecting Juha, and I got Suikkanen. I know him, but I don’t know you. I need some background.”
“Well, alright,” said Suhonen, understanding the man’s angle. Suhonen knew that Saarnikangas was a stranger to Markkanen, but the big man was pretending to be on a first-name basis with him. Suhonen was also pleased that Markkanen seemed interested in Suikkanen’s services, maybe even a little excited.
“First off,” Markkanen continued. “How do you know Juha?”
“I don’t. I know of him. He’s a worthless junkie I couldn’t care less about.”
Markkanen raised his eyebrows.
“But,” Suhonen went on, “I knew his dad. Cell mates. Before he died, he asked me to look after his kid. I didn’t see him for probably ten years. Then last spring I ran into him, and of course he tried to hit me up for money. I know where that would’ve gone, so I said no. I figured his old man wouldn’t want me to support his smack habit. Anyway, I gave him my number so he could call if he needed something…”
“Did he say he’s in trouble?”
“Is he?” Suhonen asked, but regretted his haste. Suikkanen would have said casually that Juha’s always in trouble.
“Nah,” Markkanen answered, assessing him from the other side of the table.
“How much does this pay?” Suhonen steered the conversation away from Saarnikangas.
Markkanen scratched the back of his neck. “We’ll talk about that later.”
“Uh-uh. I need to know if it’s worth my time,” he switched to arrogance as a tactic.
Markkanen’s lips were smiling, but his eyes were hard.
“Sure it is.”
“If you say so.”
“Did you come all the way from Lahti?”
“Yup,” Suhonen nodded. He wasn’t driving, so he could drink the beers necessary for the role.
“Where you staying?”
Suhonen smiled broadly. “Juha said I’d be able to make enough money to pay for a hotel room. So I thought, since I’m coming to Helsinki and all, I may as well relive some memories over at Hotel Katajanokka.”
“The brig hotel?”
One of Finland’s oldest prisons had been turned into a Best Western hotel with a penitentiary theme. The hotel had been completed in ’07, with remodeled rooms, but the corridors still had prison bars. It had a long history-the first prison at the site had opened in 1749, and the oldest portions of the present building dated back to the 1830s.
“I just had to. Maybe I could expense it, you know.” Suhonen said, downing the last of his beer.
“I ain’t paying for extra expenses, but your total fee will cover it. Let’s go outside. There’s something I wanna tell you.”
Markkanen led the way out the door, and Suhonen wondered what this was about. The big man had enough assaults on his record that they could be headed for a fight. But based on the conversation, that was unlikely, at least for now.
It was snowing harder now, and a wall of falling flakes beneath the glow of the streetlights split Helsinki Avenue in two. The pub across the street was no longer visible.
There was still no bouncer at the door. Suhonen wondered if it was intentional, or if Lydman had skipped his shift. But he could find out later.
Two inches of wet snow covered the sidewalk, and after the first few steps it started to soak into their pant legs. The men walked eastward along the largely deserted road.
Markkanen stopped. “Listen, Suikkanen. You seem tough enough, but I’m gonna need a sample of your work.”
Suhonen kept quiet.
“Right now, the street looks empty, but once we round that corner, someone’s bound to come along.”
“And?”
“Well, you claimed you were a boxer in Lahti. Three punches for the first chump that comes along and the job is yours.”
“Huh?”
“Yep. You hit the first person you see. If it’s some gang of ten heavies, you can skip them, but anything else goes. Don’t hurt ’em too bad, just a few good shots. After that, the job is yours.
Suhonen stared at Markkanen. “In Lahti, there was always a reason. We didn’t just beat up anybody.”
“You got a reason now. The job is easy and pays three grand, but I wanna see if you have what it takes.”
Suhonen wondered if Markkanen suspected he was a cop. This was the classic test for smoking out a rat. A cop could blow through a red light or dabble in illicit activities, but they weren’t supposed to steal, much less harm anyone.
“What the hell,” said Suhonen and strode down the street. “It matter if it’s a chick or a kid?”
“Nope,” Markkanen answered and held back about thirty feet before following along.
Shit, Suhonen thought. He couldn’t beat up anyone, not even by faking it. He couldn’t go that far. His Glock was tucked behind the waistband of his jeans. Maybe he could pick a fight, lure Markkanen closer, then arrest him. He could bust Markkanen for inciting an aggravated assault, and the guy would do time. But the trial would be a damn nightmare, and a media circus. Claims of provocation would fly, and one way or another, Suhonen would end up in the dispatch center, answering 911 calls. Nothing wrong with a desk job; he just wasn’t ready for that yet.
He reached the corner, looked around and spotted a shadowy figure on the other side of the street, maybe fifty yards off. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but it was clearly coming towards him. It would be thirty seconds max before they met.
Suhonen glanced back at Markkanen, who nodded. He had noticed the person too, then.
I can’t beat up anybody, Suhonen thought. What if he just pushed them over and pulled a few fake punches. But that wouldn’t work. Whoever it was would panic, and Markkanen would be able to tell from his reaction that Suhonen wasn’t serious.
He had to arrest Markkanen. Suhonen stepped onto the crosswalk and noticed a cruiser coming down the street. The driver slammed on the brakes and the car went into a slide, stopping about ten feet behind the crosswalk.
Suhonen bent over and scooped up a snowball. At a distance of less than ten feet, he hurled it at the driver’s side window of the police car.
He took a couple steps closer.
The door opened, and out stepped a stocky-looking cop. Suhonen didn’t like the idea of scuffling with this guy.
“You got a problem?” the cop asked, reaching for his nightstick.