'Til Death (part Six of Fifteen)

‘Til Death

A Trick Molloy Mystery

©2009 Michael A. Stackpole

Part Six

That they knew my name was not a good thing. I might not have a mole on the Vice squad, but Turpeluk apparently did. This meant he knew I’d been making inquiries. I’d not told anyone in vice about Lou’s connection, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if Turpeluk was good enough to connect some dots. Links between me and Lou weren’t exactly state secrets.

I tossed my napkin over my plate and smiled. “Trying to watch my weight.”

The waiter approached with my bill, but my keeper waved him away. I tucked a twenty under my plate.

My keeper frowned. “You are Mr. Turpelov’s guest.”

“And I’m a big tipper.”

“Da.” He smiled, then waved me toward the street. I decided to call my escorts Boris, Ivan and Nikolai because I needed a way to tell them apart. They formed a cordon around me. Not so much ready to stop a bullet, but they’d put one hell of a dent in any car headed in my direction.

605 turned out to be even more Old World than I’d expected. Dark because of all the woodwork, it had been decorated with antiques—and we’re not talking Soviet chic. This was all pre-Revolution, hard-core Tzarist stuff—icons and the like—save for a widescreen TV and a couple of Spartak banners. I expected to see the place populated by grandmothers huddled over tea.

And maybe a gypsy or two in the corner ready to read tea leaves.

Aside from my escorts and a sullen barman with a walrus moustache, Peotr Turpeluk was the only other person present. He rose from his table and offered me his hand. I shook it, feeling as if I’d been stabbed through the hand as our flesh met. Very talented, and very strong.

If anything good came out of that, it was my spotting a flicker of surprise on his face. He’d caught much of what I had. I waited for his eyes to narrow as he shifted to look at me. They didn’t. He was in his lair and in command. No fear, no curiosity.

He bade me sit, then turned and filled two glasses in metal cages from a samovar. I normally don’t like tea, but I didn’t figure I was in position to refuse. As he set both cups down, the bartender passed Boris a bottle of clear liquid. Turpeluk accepted it and smiled.

“You will join me, yes? We make our own vodka.”

“You are very kind.”

Turpeluk laughed, and his henchmen followed him. “This is not often said of me, Mr. Molloy. Especially by someone who has been asking about me. You must know I have resources. I must determine if you are threat to me.”

I held my hands up as he poured the vodka. “I’ve been asking about you, at the behest of a friend.” I thought about playing it coy, but someone at vice had already blown my cover. “Lou Sandberg is concerned after Irina.”

“He should be.”

“Cards on the table. The two keys you want him to steal wholesale at $20,000, maybe $25,000. That’s five times what it would have cost him to bring Irina over. It will also cost him the rest of his life in prison when he gets caught. Then there is the risk to you having the coke in your possession. Not a good business proposition. I’m here to ask if we could not, instead, pay the cash equivalent and call it even.”

The Russian leaned back and sipped his tea. “Mr. Molloy, your friend did not have the $10,000 needed to bring Irina over. Why would I believe he has five times that now?”

“He doesn’t. I do.” Collecting it would take my calling in a few favors, but I could pull it together. “I owe him my life.”

I watched Turpeluk closely. Most criminals would have jumped at the offer. He’d take my money and go after Lou for the cocaine anyway. I caught nothing from him. I occurred to me that he might have wanted specific kilos, so they couldn’t be used in evidence. He might even be being paid to get them. If so, things suddenly became very complicated.

He leaned forward, setting his glass on the table. “I am business man, Mister Molloy. I incurred cost bringing Irina and her sister here. I wish return on investment. I have set my price. Mr. Sandberg has gotten my message, yes?”

“He got it.”

“And yet he sends you to me.” The man frowned, both hands wrapped around his glass. “He needs another message.”

His tea bubbled and foamed.

I shifted my vision. What had been gold before had become incandescent, like looking into the heart of the sun. Tea or that vodka triggered him, making him that much more powerful. In an eyeblink I raised a blue shield to block any magickal attack.

The tea had been a diversion.

Ivan caught me with a punch to the back of my neck. I slammed face first into the table. As I rebounded, my shield fading, Ivan whipped the chair around and Boris kicked me in the stomach. Breath gone, I hit the floor.

Feet and fists pummeled me. Those boys knew what they were doing. Nothing broken, just soft tissue damage and a few bone bruises. I was message and messenger both. Muscles, ribs, they kept pounding me relentlessly.

They pounded me until all I could do was lay there crying.

Two of them dragged me out and dumped me in the alley.

I rolled onto my back, aching as never before. Somehow I fished my phone from my pocket. I flicked it open with a thumb and hit the red emergency button. For most folks that dials 911. For me it was a number I never called.

It was the number of last resort.

I just had to hope someone would answer.

If you are enjoying this story and were wondering how we got here, please visit the Stormwolf Store. The short story “The Witch in Scarlet” is the Trick Molloy tale that immediately precedes this one.