She nodded and I took her into a bodega on the other side of the street and bought her a ham sandwich and a Coke and a bag of Fritos and watched her eat all of it without stopping. I wondered when she had her last meal. All the time I was with her, she stared at the box of chocolate. I gave it to her. She shoved the candy into her mouth.
“Where do you live? Will you show me?”
“I have something,” said Dina, clutching her fist shut.
“Show me.”
When she opened her hand, she had a thin silver chain with a blue ceramic evil-eye charm in light blue and white.
“Where did you get this?”
“In the playground,” she said.
I waited.
“Will you give me money for it?” She looked up at me and her eyes were like a desperate little animal.
“Why should I?”
“I got it from the playground. I got it near the swing.”
“You took it from her?”
“No. I picked it up.”
“How much?”
“One hundred.”
“No way,” I said in Russian. “No deal.”
“Fifty.” She was tiny and hungry and scared and an easy mark. The necklace wasn’t worth five bucks.
“I’ll give you twenty-five,” I said and she lit up like somebody had turned a switch.
I gave her some bills with one hand while I called a friend, a good female cop I know who would come and help me get the kid to a safe place.
“I want to go home,” she said.
I held on to her as best I could, but as soon as she felt me loosen my grip-I couldn’t handcuff her or anything- she broke away, same as earlier, just broke free and ran like hell and disappeared among the broken buildings.
“Artie?” It was Bobo Leven, the detective who had answered the call on the playground case. He was leaning against the jungle gym smoking. I looked at the swings. The body was gone.
“Yeah, hi, Bobo.”
“You got my message?”
“I got it. I’m in a hurry, so what do you need?”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. Bobo looked anxious. “You’ll do the case fine, Bobo, you’ll make your name with it.”
His real name was Boris Borisovich Leven, but everyone called him Bobo. He was twenty-eight and smart as hell, having finished Brooklyn College in three years instead of four, followed by his MA at John Jay in criminology. He was still living at home these days, out on Brighton Beach with his parents.
And he knew the Russkis out there as well as anyone in the city, including me. Also, his mother, who ran a little export-import business from the house-Russian embroidery, varnished boxes, cheap porcelain, that kind of shit-went back and forth a lot, so he had a handle on what was doing over there. Bobo had cousins every place: LA, London, Miami, Los Angeles, Moscow, Tel Aviv.
At six four, with the kind of long springy muscles you get if you work out right, he played good basketball. He had an accent, but he was a handsome kid with nice manners, and when I needed a favor, he was always ready.
I had worked with Bobo Leven a few times. And once, I took him out drinking with a couple of the guys, and he loved the tribal aspect of it, the fact you could say things you couldn’t say to anyone else in language you could never divulge to civilians. He knew there were things that only other guys on the job understood. They liked him okay. But one of my oldest friends said to me, “He looks nice, he acts respectful, but I don’t trust him much.”
A couple of hazmat guys, white paper suits, yellow rubber boots, showed up and started working over the playground, taking samples of dirt, looking at their Geiger counters, whispering to each other through their masks, and Bobo, seeing them, looked nervous.
“What are they here for?”
One of the guys removed his mask and I recognized him from a job I did once. Couldn’t remember his name, and he was older and heavier, but the face was the same. I went over and talked to him out of Bobo’s hearing. I didn’t want him getting in the way. The wind puffed out the papery white hazmat suit.
“What’s going on?”
“Somebody thought the scene could be hot,” said Tom Alvin, name on his badge. “They always think a scene is hot, you know, man, I mean, it’s an obsession, they find a case, they send us in, and what the fuck difference does it make, you know? They’re consumed, man, with the idea of a dirty bomb. They read too much shit in the papers, you know, like that spy thing over in England, what was his name, the Russian dude that got poisoned? You heard about that? Some kind of radiation shit, but it was like a couple of years ago. Man, we better all pray McCain gets elected, he’s like a regular fucking war hero and if we get trouble, he’s the guy.” He paused. “You wanna know what they should do?”
“What’s that?”
“They should stop seeing movies that got nothing to do with what’s going on, all them big thrillers with nuclear shit in them, and worth nothing, nada, zero. They should spend some money inspecting container ships, and the baggage holds of all those aircraft from crazy places, how about hospital waste, how about them nuke plants that got no controls? But we don’t got no money for that, right, man? It’s coming, but not like this in some fucking playground, or in somebody’s sushi like the guy in London. One day, it’ll just come outta the sky, bang, like the Trade Center, bing bang boom!” He snorted, threw his smoke on the ground, crushed it with his foot and put his mask back on. “Artie, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You working this?”
“No, just passing by.”
“Didn’t you work a nuke case way back in the day, out by Brighton Beach? You tracked some nuke mule who carried stuff out of Russia in his suitcase? I remember that. With some of those fucking Russkis, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“So you think you got something here?” I gestured at the swing.
“I’m not sure. You want me to give you a call?”
I nodded in Bobo’s direction. “Call him, if you want.”
“What did the hazmat guy say?” Bobo asked.
“Give him your number, he’ll call you.”
“So would you work this with me, Artie?”
I told him I was seriously on vacation.
“I can call you for some advice?” He was polite, but I didn’t feel comfortable with this guy. Maybe all he wanted was to do the case right, but there was something I couldn’t explain. I wanted to get away.
“Or maybe we could have a beer together once in a while and I could talk through it with you?”
“Sure,” I said, and headed for the street, Bobo following me, scribbling in his notebook fast as he could write.
Outside the playground, I leaned against Bobo’s red Audi TT and wondered how he could afford it.
“Nice car,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“So what do you think?” said Bobo, dragging in smoke the way only a Russian guy can do it.
