“Down-to-earth,” I agreed. “Of course, we’re down in the dirt, reveling in our filthy work.”
Joe laughed. “That was a nice spiel. All the stuff about how we disgust him, how we make him sick? Priceless.”
“We appeared to generate a lot of passion from him. Seems strange for a man who’s got nothing to hide to get so passionate about our conversation.”
“Almost as strange as offering us twenty grand to back off.”
“Twenty grand’s a lot of money,” I said, using the keyless entry device to unlock the truck door for Joe. “Probably foolish of us not to take it. As a matter of fact, I have to say I resent you making that call without even pausing to discuss it.”
“Very rude of me,” Joe said, dropping into his seat as I started the engine and began to back out. “I don’t know where I get off making such decisions single-handedly. But, if it makes you feel any better, we probably run a much higher risk of getting shot if we keep pushing on this case.”
“That does help,” I said. “I mean, sure, twenty grand would be nice, but it can’t match the adrenaline rush you get from gun battles with the Russian mob. Shall we look them up next?”
“We’ll look for them. I don’t think we need any dialogue exchange with them just yet.”
“Sounds good, grandpa. Don’t want to rush you.”
I spent the next five minutes maneuvering the truck out of the parking space. It was a small space to begin with, and by the time we returned a van had parked behind me, making it even tighter. I’d back up about ten inches, cut the wheel, pull forward, cut the wheel again, and throw it in reverse to gain another ten inches. Joe groaned.
“We live in the city,” he said. “You’ve always lived in the city. So why do you feel the need to have this monstrosity? You have some sort of cowboy identity crisis? You want I should buy you some boots and a hat, maybe some spurs? Start calling you ‘podnuh’?”
“Joe,” I said, “you drive a Taurus. So shut the hell up, stick your head out the window, and let me know if I’ve got a few inches to spare on that side.”
CHAPTER 8
VLADIMIR RAKIC and Alexei Krashakov, it turned out, lived in what was basically my old neighborhood. I’d grown up on a narrow street off Clark Avenue, and Rakic and Krashakov shared a two-decker about twelve blocks south. I’d never known anyone who lived in that house, but I’d passed it almost daily as a kid. Somehow, knowing they now inhabited my childhood territory made me like them even less.
Joe and I cruised the block a few times before a parking spot offering a good vantage point opened up. The sun was still out, and we had to park facing into it, squinting against the light, but it was the best we could do. Joe had insisted we take his Taurus; he claimed my truck would stand out as unfamiliar to the neighbors. I tried to argue that no car screamed “undercover cop” quite like a Taurus, but he ignored me.
We parked and settled in for the wait. There hadn’t been any cars in the driveway when we drove past, and none were parked at the curb in front of the home, so it appeared the Russians were out on the town. The two-decker was painted a light blue that was turning gray from weathering, but it was in better shape than most on the block. The house was the same style as many others in the neighborhood, and I recalled from past visits to such homes that on each level there were two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining room, one tiny bathroom, and a living room. There would probably also be a dank cellar and an attic with low ceilings.
Joe looked around sourly. “This neighborhood’s gone to hell. When I was a rookie, this actually wasn’t a bad street. Nobody cares about their own home anymore.”
“I grew up around here,” I said.
He stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and pointed at me. “That’s right. I’d forgotten that. You know any of the neighbors? Someone who could give us some good dirt on the Russians, maybe?”
I shook my head. “Not this far south.”
We sat and waited. I was thankful the temperature had crawled a little higher than in recent days, because we had to keep the engine off to avoid attention, and that meant no heater. The street was quiet. Behind us, on Clark, the traffic was thick, but on the little side street only a few cars passed. Once a man in an old military parka with several days’ worth of stubble on his face stumbled down the sidewalk and glanced in the car, saw us, muttered something, and crossed to the other side. He was carrying a paper bag in his left hand, and I saw him lift it to his lips as he neared the corner.
“Told you this car wasn’t discreet,” I said. “He thought we were cops.”
“Guy like that? Probably thinks every third car on the street is a cop.”
“What do you think was in the bag? Southern Comfort?”
“Old Grand-Dad,” Joe said confidently. “No doubt about it.”
An hour passed, and then the monotony was broken by the arrival of the mailman. He moved slowly from house to house, wincing as he took the steps, as if maybe the years and the weight of the mailbag had taken a toll on his back.
“Think we should check their mail?” Joe asked. “See if maybe there’s a letter from Hubbard in the box?”
“Don’t see what it would hurt.”
“It’d hurt if one of them is in the house, or they drive in while you’re up on the porch.”
“I like how smoothly you do that.”
“Do what?” Joe said, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.
“Make it so I’m the one who’s going up on the porch.”
He smiled and spread his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who’s so anxious for action with these guys. I’d hate to stand in your way.”
I stepped out of the car and walked down the sidewalk, head down, hands in my pockets. Just another neighborhood guy out for a stroll. I needed the bottle wrapped in the paper bag, though, to blend in better.
The house was about two hundred feet from where we’d parked. No one seemed to notice me, and the only car that passed didn’t slow down. I took the four steps up to the porch, the dried, flaking paint crackling beneath my shoes. The two windows facing the porch were dusty, and inside it was dark. A heavy-duty steel storm door protected the wooden front door. The old tin mailbox was fastened to the wall beside the door. I lifted the lid with my finger and slipped the contents out. Four envelopes; four pieces of junk mail. A wasted trip. I dropped them back into the box and pulled on the handle of the storm door. It was locked. I stepped up to the window, put my face close to the glass, and shielded my eyes with my hand, trying to make out the interior. Tires crunched on the street behind me, and I turned to see a black Lincoln Navigator pulling into the driveway.
Two men sat inside, and neither looked particularly friendly. They opened the doors and stepped out of the vehicle, watching me carefully. The driver was a few inches shorter than me but thick, with dark hair, pale skin, and a jutting jaw. He had a heavy blue jacket on, and as he walked around the Navigator he pulled the zipper down, allowing him to reach inside the coat if he wanted to. The passenger was taller, with very broad shoulders and blond hair. His nose was large and slightly hooked, and his cheekbones and jaw were clearly defined and solid, giving a quality of strength to his face.
I remained on the porch, a smile fixed on my face, but I didn’t speak. They approached slowly, then walked up the steps and stood in front of me, spaced so they blocked the steps completely.
“Children are dying,” I said.
They exchanged a glance. Confused. The shorter one said, “What do you talk about?” His accent was thick.
“AIDS,” I said casually. “Children are dying, now, gentlemen. Not just adults. Children. Think about that. Then think about what you’ve done to help the problem.” I watched them as they stared at me. “It’s okay, gentlemen. Not many of us are doing our share to combat the disease. That doesn’t mean it’s too late to step in and do your part, though.”