Second, he'd done it on my turf.
The Russians scared the crap out of people, so most weren't willing to talk. But when I've got my mean on, I can be pretty damn persuasive. Herb and I shook down a pimp owned by the mob, got word that Polchev was paying off fighters to throw matches. If they didn't play along, his crew killed them. Wendt was a Chicagoan, but it didn't take much research to find two other murders that matched Polchev's signature.
A tip took us to New York. We called ahead, playing nice with the locals, and were invited to visit as part of a joint task force. It seemed Polchev was a person of interest in several recent murders. The NY fuzz put a tail on him, checked with their informants, and learned Polchev was planning to put the squeeze on a boxer named Dombrowski. We met the lead investigator, Kelley, at a dive bar, to supervise a sting operation. Kelley informed us, in no uncertain terms, that this was not our collar, and we were to maintain a hands-off policy.
Herb and I had no problem with this. I wanted Polchev, bad. It didn't matter to me which city locked him up, as long as someone did.
“This is an excellent burger,” Herb said. There was so much of it on his face, shirt, and tie, I was dubious he'd gotten any of it into his mouth.
“I'll take your word for it.”
“You should eat something, Jack. The food is good.”
My stomach was still a bit queasy from our flight. The pilot called it “a little bit of turbulence,” but it had been enough to knock the ice out of my complimentary cup of water. Besides, I had a rule never to eat in a place where the main source of lighting was neon.
I checked my watch, then glanced over at the bar. In my left side peripheral vision, Polchev and two cronies sat, drinking top shelf vodka. Polchev was the one with the diamond in his front tooth. To my right, four men argued about the merits and detriments of toothpaste.
“You know fluoride is poisonous?”
“Is not.”
“Is so, Jerry. They don't use fluoride toothpaste in space.”
“You can't brush your teeth in space, dumb ass. It's a vacuum.”
“You mean it can clean your rugs?”
“There's no air in space. You tried to brush your teeth, your brain would slurp out your nose.”
“I mean on the space shuttle. No fluoride in the toothpaste, because astronauts have to swallow it.”
“Makes sense. If they spit it out, it would float after them, following them around all mission.”
I tuned them out. Or tried to, at least. I turned back to Herb, took a sip of my club soda and lime, glancing casually at Polchev. He and his men were all armed. Kelley said nothing was going to go down here, and I hoped he was right. The bar was crowded, and shooting would be a catastrophe. I hoped that this Dombrowski guy was good at keeping his cool. Kelley said he was a social worker. Interesting combination, social work and boxing.
Herb finished licking his fingers and dug out the paperback he was reading. Afraid, by Jack Kilborn. He'd read a good portion of it on the plane, every once and a while pausing to whisper, “Jesus H. Christ.” Apparently, the book was supposed to be scary.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Herb whispered again.
I hated it when people did that, because of course I had to ask what was so upsetting.
“This girl is hanging upside down over a pile of dead bodies,” Herb said.
“Sounds like fun.”
“You gotta read this, Jack.”
“I will. Right after I order a burger.”
The four next to us segued into The Wizard of Oz.
“The horse of a different color died. The color they used on him was toxic.”
“Was not. They used gelatin. He kept licking it off.”
“You're thinking of the tin man.”
“The tin man licked off his paint?”
“No, dummy. The horse.”
“The tin man licked the horse?”
“You guys know it's impossible to lick your own elbow?”
They all tried to do just that. I shook my head and inwardly wept for the gene pool.
The front door swung open, and a guy walked in. Athletic build, not bad looking, a bit old for a boxer. But I knew it was Dombrowski by the way he walked. Economical, no movement wasted, but coiled, like he was waiting for something to happen.
Dombrowski played it cool, walking up to the four nitwits, having a drink and joining in the conversation. Then he had a few private words with Kelley that I missed in the bar chatter.
When Polchev and his goons approached him, I told Herb to put away the book and pay attention. He tucked it into his inside jacket pocket.
Dombrowski seemed confused about everything happening, and I wondered if Kelley had bothered to inform him what exactly was going down.
Then everything went to hell. The boxer hit the mobster, and the other mobsters drew their guns. If that wasn't bad enough, one of the goons picked up the recorder Dombrowski had dropped. A simple sting operation, where no one was supposed to get hurt, was moments away from turning into a bloodbath. I wanted to smack the shit out of Kelley for staging this in a public place, but before I could, instinct took over and I had my .38 in my hand, pointing it at the thugs.
“Police! Drop the weapons!”
The bar went silent. No one moved. I could hear my heart beating, and sensed Herb draw his gun next to me, and Kelley draw his as well.
“That's one damn sexy cop,” said one of the four. I think it was one of the Jerrys.
“Drop them, hands in the air,” I ordered. “Or we will shoot you.”
There was a bad moment when I thought they might be stupid enough to point their guns my way. But the moment passed, and the mobsters let their weapons fall to the floor.
“Chick cop is wearing Armani,” said one of the four.
“You sure? Could be Fendi.”
“It's Armani,” I said. “Now shut the fuck up or I'll shoot you guys, too.”
Dombrowski must have noticed he didn't have any guns aimed at his head anymore, because he resumed pounding the crap out of Polchev.
Kelley got to him before we did.
“Cool it, Duff. We got him.”
“Asshole has my dog.” Punch. “He's going to tell me where A is.” Punch. “Or he's going to spend the rest of his life eating his meals through a straw.” Punch.
Herb grabbed the recorder, zip-tied the other two mobsters hands behind their backs, and I asked everyone in the bar to kindly step outside.
“Everyone, get the fuck out, now!”
Okay, maybe it wasn't so kindly.
“Duffy, ease up, man.” Kelley was trying to hold Dombrowski's arm back, and not doing a very good job. Polchev looked like someone dropped a lasagna, extra sauce, on his face.
I pointed the gun at the boxer.
“Shit, the Fendi cop is gonna shoot Duff.”
“Armani. She said Armani.”
“That the designer guy, got shot?”
“That was Versace.”
“Think she's the one who shot Versaci?”
Apparently, the Four Stooges hadn't left when I'd ordered them to.
“Mr. Dombrowski, stop hitting the mobster and get your hands up over your head.”
Kelley stared at me. “Lieutenant, he's one of the good guys.”
“And I'm trying to save him from a murder rap. Get ahold of yourself, Mr. Dombrowski.”
The boxer looked at me. There was anger in his features, but some sadness too.
