I turned my gaze from top of bridge. There was nothing for me there. What I was looking for was underneath.
In the dark.
I stalked down the hill, half-walking, half-sliding. Walked slowly toward shadow of bridge’s arch. It was small space. Maybe three feet at top of the arch, the ground covered by perfect, white snow.
Undisturbed.
I crouched down, staring at scene for long moment.
The bridge should’ve sheltered ground from above, if snowfall had been light and gentle as it was now. No, this snow had to have blown in. And that couldn’t have happened last night. Because last night was clear and twenty-two.
At Midway.
Meaning heroin wasn’t hidden here, by me or anyone else.
Then what had drawn me here?
I looked again. If there is one thing we Russians know, it is cold. So much of our magic came from the need to endure the frigid winds that sweep down from the arctic north, freezing the land and everything on it.
To my trained eye, this pool of shadow beneath bridge looked like warmth. Small, yes, but large enough to lie down, keep out the wind with a flattened cardboard box anchored by a couple rocks. Hang blanket up on other side and you would have a kind of cocoon, far from prying eyes of Chicago PD.
So why was no one here?
There were no broken bottles, no used needles, no cast-off clothes, no used rubbers, no moldering paper bags. Up above there was discarded newspaper and crows fighting over fast food. Down here there was nothing? Why?
I got down in snow, crawled forward.
Looked up.
On the underside of the bridge, at the highest point of the arch, someone had drawn a cross
(bone white in moon’s pale light)
using white chalk.
I reached for it with trembling hand. If this was the prompt, touching it would restore my memory instantly, feelings and facts and knowing coming back like an El slamming into me.
Had Georgi set me up?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
But the part of me that was kind of man that could rise to be a lieutenant in Krasny Mafiya said, Now, quickly, before winter’s spell is broken and human eyes are upon you.
I thrust my hand up and smacked my palm against the cold stone.
Nothing happened.
No drugs here and no memory, which meant what? A trick to throw Chinese off? Or to get me killed? Either way, someone had set me up.
And then I heard a familiar voice say: “Well, looky here, dammit it if it isn’t my boy, Val. How ya doin’, Val?”
I closed my eyes.
Dexter Johnson.
I inched out on my back.
“Slowly now,” said Johnson and now his voice was deadly serious. If I moved wrong he would shoot me.
Or something worse.
I stopped when my head was clear and lay there in the snow, arms sticking up in standard “I Give Up” position.
Dexter Johnson was a tall black man. He was in his late forties, craggy, distinguished face, salt and pepper hair, trim goatee, soulful eyes.
And he was holding a Beretta nine millimeter on me.
“How did you defeat the spell, Dexter? Nothing human could’ve been watching me.”
He spat out a piece of rancid hamburger. “You know the worst thing about stakeouts, Val? You eat like shit.”
I let out slow, angry breath. Angry at myself for being so stupid. “You were crow.”
He shrugged.
“What about second crow? Is that your partner?”
Johnson smiled, bright ivory against his dark skin. “C’mon, Valeri. Sometimes a crow is just a crow. Now why don’t you tell me what you’re up to?”
“I am doing nothing wrong, officer,” I said innocently.
He looked at me a long moment, and then he said, “Carrying, Valeri?”
“Glock,” I said at once, “small of my back.” When it came to guns, Chicago PD didn’t fuck around. “I have permit,” I added as an afterthought.
“Roll over on your tummy, would you, Val?”
I did as he said and he took the Glock, patted me down, and cuffed me. “Where is the permit?”
“Wallet. Back pocket of slacks.” I turned my head so I could see him.
He reached into pocket and grabbed wallet, flicked it open, and searched through contents until he found permit on official yellow paper. He pulled it out and, without looking at it, dropped it to ground. A stray breeze sent it flitting across snow.
Johnson smiled pleasantly. “Sorry, man, can’t find it.”
I knew better than to say anything.
He jerked me to my feet. “Valeri, my brother, I think it’s time you and I had a confab.”
Every interrogation room I’d ever been in is same, walls painted off-white or slate gray or pale green, a rectangular table, sometimes steel sometimes battered oak, window of one-way glass facing suspect, dim lighting, and one more thing.
The smell of fear.
Sweat, piss, grease, and BO, it comes off suspects in waves and somehow soaks into everything: walls, table, chairs, everything.
This time Chicago PD handcuffed me to the chair: steel frame painted gray, black cushion, better than anything I’d ever gotten in Novosibirsk. Johnson sat opposite me. I didn’t know who was behind glass.
Johnson leaned back in his own government-issue chair and steepled his hands behind the back of his head, like this was his favorite place in the world. Hell, maybe it was. “We’ve got you on a nice weapons charge, my man.”
“Lawyer,” I said.
U.S. Constitution is only couple hundred years old, so is not very powerful magic, but sometimes is all you need.
Johnson sighed. “OK, OK, don’t talk to me, then.” He shrugged. “It’s cool. Just listen.
“Last night we got a late tip that a drug deal was going down. We watched the place until morning.”
“Hoping to catch someone in act,” I said.
Johnson shrugged again, as if to say, “Can you blame us?” “Anyway, when we did go in, we found popsicles that had once been Black Dragons, but, and this is the funny part, no drugs.”
“Only Black Dragons are stupid enough to do drug deal without actual drugs,” I said.
Johnson laughed, a rich, musical sound. “Oh, that’s funny, man, real funny.”
“As funny as your weapons charge?” I asked.
“You know how I found you today, Val?”
Now it was my turn to shrug.
“Really? Not even a guess? I tailed you coming out of a Chinese medicine shop.”
“Is a free country. I can get medicine anywhere I like.”
“Yeah, I just think it’s real suggestive when the Russian mob is talking with the Chinese mob the day after this deal went down at the warehouse.”
“Detective Johnson,” I said gravely, “I am not associated with organized crime in any way.”
“Sure, sure,” he said easily.
He knew I didn’t have drugs. He arrested me for gun, hoping I’d be carrying heroin around. A magician powerful enough to take down five Dragons might’ve had juice to transmogrify drugs. Problem is, as with all magic, there are limits. The catch with transmogrification is that changed item retains its principal trait, even in changed form. And what is principal trait of 47 kilos of heroin?
That it is very, very valuable, of course.
No doubt Johnson had his lab rats work quick reveal spells on all my valuables: the Rolex, the $753.47 in my wallet, my gold rings, my diamond stud earring, and my platinum lighter. Apparently none had changed into mountain of drugs, and he was now grasping at straws.
He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out small, square box and slapped it down on the table. He pulled the top off, revealing the black, shriveled claw inside. “Care to tell me what this is?”
I looked down at it and then looked at him. “Is good luck.”
“Good luck?” His eyebrows shot up. “A Chinese monkey paw? Man, haven’t you heard the stories?”