“Your breakfast is ready. I don’t make good food so you can turn up your nose like Mr. Hoity-Toity and let it go to waste! Come in and eat!
“You!” she said, pointing at me like Uncle Sam on the recruiting poster. “Come and eat. You’re too skinny. What’s the matter with you, you don’t eat?”
Quint rolled his eyes. “Simi. My keeper.”
“I thought you said the devil hadn’t caught up with you yet.”
He barked a laugh and fell into another coughing fit.
I choked down Simi’s greasy rice, onions, hot-peppers, hot-sausage concoction when she was watching and fed a handful to the Jack Russell terrier under the table when she wasn’t.
“I see you,” she barked, facing away from me at the stove. “You feed that dog, he gets gas. You gonna stay and smell his farts, Missy?”
“Oh, go on with you, woman!” Quint growled. “Don’t you have to go to church?”
“To pray for your soul!” she shouted at him.
“Why the hell would you want me in heaven?” he asked. “You won’t be there.”
I snuck the dog another handful under the table.
They swore and shouted at each other for another five minutes before Simi made a rude gesture and stormed out.
“Is she always like that?” I asked.
“Nah. She’s on her party manners. We’ve got company,” Quint said. He took his plate off the table and put it on the floor for the dog. “I don’t care if he farts. He sleeps in her room.”
I put my plate down too.
“So what brings you, Elena?” he asked. “You didn’t wake up today and think you should, from the kindness of your own heart, go and visit an old cripple.”
“You think so little of me, Billy,” I said.
He laughed and coughed. “Like you said, you’re like me. Spill it.”
“Alexi Kulak. Do you know anything about him?”
He may not have been on the job anymore, but guys like Quint never really get out. They keep their eyes peeled and their ear to the ground. At one time, he had known more about Russian organized crime in South Florida than anyone else. I was betting he still did.
He made a sour face. “Why? You’re not dating him, are you?”
“No. But he was in love with a girl I knew. She was murdered over the weekend.”
“And you’re going to ask me if I think he could have done it? From what I hear, that one could pluck your eyes out and have them for a snack.”
“He didn’t kill her,” I said. “He wants to know who did.”
“So he can cut the bastard’s jewels off and shove them down his throat?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I can guarantee. And what do you care what Alexi Kulak wants? Did he give you that fat lip?”
“I tripped and fell and bit my lip.”
“Why don’t you just try to tell me you ran into a door?”
“It’s the truth,” I said, looking straight at him.
One advantage gained from my accident and the subsequent nerve damage: I had no problem telling a straight-faced lie. Of course, I had been a pretty good liar long before that.
“And Alexi Kulak wasn’t there at the time?”
“What’s he into?” I asked, pointedly ignoring his question.
“What isn’t he into? He’s a full-service mobster. Hijacking trucks, extortion, shylocking, prostitutes, drugs. This friend of yours, what was she into?”
“Wealthy men. She had expensive tastes.” I shrugged. “The more I find out, the less I feel I knew her.”
“Was she working for Kulak?”
“I don’t know. I got the feeling she led him around like a dog on a leash. But I know she wasn’t buying Gucci handbags with what she made grooming horses.”
“How does a girl like that snag wealthy men?”
“By their libidos, I suppose. She was a beautiful girl.”
“Could Kulak have been using her to get to one of her rich friends?” Quint asked.
“If that was the case, what would he need with me? He would already know whose heart to cut out. He told me she shut him out of that part of her life,” I said.
“The same would be true if she had been working for him in some other capacity,” Quint pointed out. “Those throats would already be cut.
“What made him think you could be useful to him?”
“Apparently, Irina-the dead girl-liked me,” I said. “Though I couldn’t say we were close. We worked together.”
“Doing what?”
“I ride horses.”
“That’s a living?”
“The horse business brought sixty million dollars into Wellington last year.”
“Jesus,” Quint said, impressed. “And you don’t have to get shot it.”
“Not usually.”
“So Kulak knew you’re in that world. Do you run in the same circles as the dead girl?”
“No.”
“Does he know you were a cop?”
“He knows whatever Irina told him. She told him I helped a young girl find her sister last year.”
“What makes me think there’s a lot more to that story?”
“There is,” I said, “but nothing relevant to this.”
“What are you going to do?” Quint asked.
I shrugged. “I want to know who killed Irina too.”
“You didn’t tell anybody on the job up there about Kulak?”
“No offense, Billy, but I’d rather not end up on the business end of a sledgehammer.”
“There’s no guarantee that won’t happen even if you do help him, Elena. He won’t want a loose thread left hanging,” Quint said. “This guy is the real deal. He’s smart, ruthless. Alexi Kulak is as cold-blooded as a snake.
“Do you know how he came into power?” he asked.
“I’m here to learn.”
“The story goes he got off the plane from Moscow, went up to West Palm, where he was supposed to become a lieutenant under Sergi Yagoudin. Kulak, Yagoudin, and another lieutenant met. Kulak cut Yagoudin’s throat from ear to ear. He killed the lieutenant, put the lieutenant’s prints all over the knife. Then he got rid of that body, but he kept the guy’s hands. I hear he still keeps them in his freezer and uses them from time to time to leave prints at crime scenes.”
“If it was only the three of them meeting, how do you know this isn’t just a heartwarming Russian bedtime story?” I asked.
“It’s true” was all he said. He wouldn’t say more. He didn’t need to. “You’re playing with a cobra, Elena. You will get bitten. It’s just a matter of when and how badly.”
Chapter 18
They sat around a mosaic-tile-topped table imported from Italy. It was three hundred years old and had come from the villa of a wealthy merchant in Florence. It weighed as much as any one of the polo ponies grazing in the irrigated field on the far side of the vast, manicured back lawn and gardens.
Jim Brody believed in living the good life, and he had more than enough money to do it. With nothing but a BA, a big ego, id a good bluff, he had started his own firm in 1979, representing professional athletes in contract and endorsement negotiations. In the beginning, his knack for picking up underestimated athletes about to become superstars had built his reputation. His reputation for big-dollar deals had then brought big-dollar players.
He often called his practice “a license to print money.” And he had no problem spending it.
Two young Hispanic men in white jackets and black slacks served the breakfast. Omelets made to order, bacon, sausage, hash owns, pastries, fruit, three kinds of juice, champagne, and fresh-ground coffee Brody had flown in monthly from a private plantation in Colombia.
His friends gathered here weekly for breakfast. The Alibi Club, they called themselves. Men who shared his passions for money, polo, beautiful women, and assorted other vices. Sebastian Foster, forty-three, at one point the fifth-ranked tennis player in the world. Paul Kenner, forty-nine, former major-league-baseball all-star, one of Brody’s early successes. Antonio Ovada, fifty-one, Argentinian, old money, owner of one of the top polo teams in Florida, breeder of top-dollar ponies. Bennett Walker, forty-five, Palm Beach, old money, Brody had known him for years. Charles Vance IV, fifty-three, CEO of a company that owned a fleet of luxury private charter jets. Juan Barbaro, thirty-three, Spanish, one of the top polo players in the world.