Been around a lot lately. On the prowl. Hanging around shady city streets by day and by night. Only come to my office to catch a few hours of shut-eye and to shave. Even gave my secretary the week off. She accepted it gladly. At least, now she can paint her nails in the peace and quiet of her own home. Funny, the office feels empty without her.
Almost as empty as the city streets at this time of day. And in this weather. It's about as nasty as the average Margarita you get this side of town. It's cold and damp, a chilly breeze blows up from the river and scatters the fine rain drops like cheap perfume. The chill creeps up on you like a bad premonition. I pull my coat around me tighter. It should be warm and sunny this time of year!
I make my way through deserted streets. I should be out here on a job, making money. Should. But no, this is personal.
Keep it professional, Larry admonishes in my head. Probably for the thousandth time. For a real pro there's no such thing as personal business. It's a waste of your skills, your energy and your time. Larry had always been a man of simple principles. This was his personal Zen. That's why he had been so good.
Maybe I should start to listen to his wisdom. Like this I'd just catch a cold. Or worse. Why was I doing this anyway?
I remind myself. I'm staking out a man. Not just any man. This one's got a history. We go way back. Me, him, two others. A gang of four. Used to do quite some business together. That was before I changed to the good guys. We used to call him the Russian. Because he was half Russian. Also had a lot of connections that way. Importing, he called it. The kind of import that doesn't go through customs but crosses the border tucked behind the back seat or beneath the car. Did good business, the Russian. Probably ended up owing lots of people. Some of them sure were the kind of people you don't want to owe even a penny.
Then one day he announced he had to disappear for a while. Lay low. So it had come to that. When I went to check up on him he had already gotten involved with some new boys. Extremely shady characters, the lot of them. He was clearly afraid. Didn't even trust us anymore. Anyone can be bought, I remember him saying. His new business partners had the power and connections to protect him. He was sure of that. From their looks I didn't have much faith in them. They weren't the types to work for people, only for wallets. But there was no talking him out of it.
Then he disappeared. Moved house, changed phones, changed habits. Professional like a KGB agent. We managed to locate him once more but soon enough he moved again. Didn't seem to want to stay in one place for too long. Word was that he was constantly on the move. Then people even stopped talking about him.
Years went by, things changed. Our gang of four doesn't exist anymore. But now that I'm back in town his spirit haunts me again. I wonder what he got himself into that he had to disappear so quickly. It turns out that a lot of people who used to know him also went missing. But that's not good enough for me. I want answers. That's my job. So I ask around. But no luck. As soon as I mention his name people close up like clams.
Then one evening, in one of his old hang-outs, I run into one of his former business partners, a small-time con man. Of course, he doesn't remember me. Quarter of an hour and a bloody nose later his memory has returned. He spits out an address where the Russian used to do his business from a year or two ago and swears by his mother's virginity that he doesn't know more. I let him go. Small crook like this can't do much harm.
When I finally find the address he's given me there's someone else living there already. They've been in there two odd years. Didn't know the previous tenant. The flat completely cleaned out before they moved in. This is where the trace ends. I've spent the last few days staking out the place. Maybe he's still around. Changed names or uses the place as a front for his business. I ask around but there's no lead. Nothing. Place is as clean as a nun's underwear. Maybe the little bastard lied to me. The thought has shot through my head a couple of times already.
Of course, there's still one more possibility. The one I've been avoiding so far. Maybe whatever the Russian was running from caught up with him in the end. I turn the thought around a few times inspecting it like a dead fish. That would explain things. Maybe I should ask the coroner? No, I know better than that. Those types wouldn't be the kind to leave evidence behind. Not a nice way to go.
Now, standing in the drizzle under a tree, I've got to face it: there's nothing here. I've followed up all my leads. I've been waiting around for almost a week and no sign of him. He's either dead or moved on. One way or the other I'm too late. Nothing more to be done. How I hate giving up!
I shoot one last glance at the house entrance through the wet haze. Then flipping up the collar of my coat I turn to leave. I turn my back on history. Somewhere in the distance a police siren wails. There's work to do.
No comments:
Post a Comment