Restless Waters Page 13

  A flurry of dog hair rose in the air as Stas sank into the couch. The fur fell like a gentle mist as he stretched out his arms, as if unfolding a pair of wings. Then he pointed for me to sit in the chair opposite him.

  “Okay. Now you’re going to give me a great big order, right?” Yakimov asked with a smile. But his voice held a thinly disguised threat.

  I hoped to pry a few contacts from him before bolting for the door. Taking a deep breath, I launched into my spiel.

  “Of course. But first I’d like the names of some wholesalers that you deal with on the mainland. I want to check and make certain that everything’s on the up and up,” I said, congratulating myself for being oh-so clever. “After all, I plan to order quite a bit of inventory from you. That translates into a large chunk of cash. I’m sure you understand.”

  Then again, maybe not. For the strangest thing started to happen. Stas’s eyes bulged as if they were about to pop out of their sockets, and his grin grew so wide that I thought his face would explode. All the while he sweated profusely, as if a faucet had been turned on over his head. However, that wasn’t the end. The muscles in his arms sprang to life, expanding and contracting, until his veins joined in the dance, in what must have been some sort of horrible steroid reaction.

  “What’s going on? Now you don’t trust me? This is complete bullshit! Why did you come here in the first place if you were just going to waste my time?”

  Yakimov’s mood turned on a dime, as he suddenly rose from the couch and came toward me.

  Oh shit. There was no question but that I didn’t stand a chance if it came to fighting the guy.

  “Be sensible, Stas. Why don’t we talk this over? I’m sure we can work things out,” I tried to reason.

  But Yakimov kept moving forward like a bulldozer intent on mowing me down.

  Quickly looking around, I picked up the only thing that might possibly fend him off—his former true love, Sparky.

  “Don’t hurt the dog!” Stas wailed in a high-pitched howl as I raised the stuffed mutt high above me.

  “I won’t,” I tried to reassure him. “Just as long as you calm down.”

  But I kept a tight grip on the pooch, ready to use it as a club if necessary. Yakimov must have realized I meant business, because he started to back away.

  “Okay, Gloria. You’ve made your point. Tell you what. I’ll give you two references. After that, you’ve got five days to place an order before the prices go up.”

  Who knows? Maybe this was the way business was normally conducted in Hawaii. All that mattered was that the tactic had worked. And, at this point, I was willing to settle for whatever I could get.

  “You’ve got a deal,” I agreed. “Do I have your word that we have a truce?”

  The man looked at Sparky, and I could have sworn that his lips began to tremble.

  “Yes, I won’t touch you. Just put down the dog.”

  I had no choice but to believe him, having locked my gun in the glove compartment of my vehicle. I’d wrongly figured that a pet-store owner from Long Island would have little reason to pack heat while vacationing in Hawaii. But then I hadn’t known that I’d be dealing with a nut case like Stas Yakimov.

  Stas wiped a layer of sweat from his brow as I placed Sparky back down on the table.

  “I have those contacts in the other room. I’ll get them for you,” he offered.

  Right. Like I trusted the man out of my sight.

  “I’ll come with you,” I countered, stating it more as a fact than a suggestion.

  Yakimov’s kamikaze dogs broke into a round of maniacal barking before either of us could make a move.

  Stas rushed to the front window, where he pushed aside the ragged curtain and peered outside.

  “Damn. My other appointment is already here.”

  It seemed that Yakimov was a busy man. I glanced over his shoulder and spied a black Lincoln Continental that sat parked near my vehicle. A check of the license plate revealed it was a rental. Obviously, Stas wasn’t the only one making money off the Hawaiian reptile trade.

  “Call off your dogs, or I swear to God I’ll shoot the damn things!” shouted a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

  “I’ve got to do what he says,” Stas muttered, clearly beginning to panic. “You don’t know this guy. He’s totally crazy.”

  I figured it must be true if he could make even someone like Yakimov nervous.

  “All right, go ahead,” I agreed.

  But Stas wasn’t waiting for my permission.

  “Spartacus! Spartacus!” he’d already begun to yell, while running outside to herd the dogs into their pen.

  With any luck, this just might work in my favor. It was possible that I was about to meet one of Yakimov’s major wholesale connections.

  My palms grew damp, and my pulse sped up. The reaction wasn’t one of fear but of excitement at the prospect of snagging yet another fish on my line. However, my hopes were dashed as Yakimov quickly hurried inside.

  “You’re going to have to leave now. We’ll finish our business later.”

  “Like hell we will,” I protested, as Yakimov began to brusquely steer me toward the front door.

  I tried to put on the brakes—until I caught sight of his visitor.

  A pair of pointy alligator shoes emerged from inside the car, followed by white polyester pants and a garish Hawaiian shirt. The cheesy attire covered a six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound frame. The only way to describe the outlandish sight was Blue Hawaii meets Saturday Night Fever.

  But the situation grew even more bizarre as the man’s face came into view. He had the pompadour hairdo of a fifties rock star and the nose of a punch-drunk fighter, crookedly embedded in a mound of puffy flesh. Forget Saturday Night Fever. This was definitely a scene straight out of The Sopranos.

  If Yakimov hadn’t been holding me tight, I might have fallen flat on the ground. But I also knew it was necessary that I keep my wits about me. The man walking toward the house was none other than Vinnie Bertucci—former bodyguard of a perp I’d busted in New Orleans for smuggling drugs inside wildlife shipments. Bertucci had moved to New York since then, where he now worked for a prominent Sicilian crime family.

  I no longer argued with Yakimov, but hastily strode out the door. My eyes remained glued to Bertucci, who lowered his sunglasses and stared in surprise. Vinnie was about to speak, when he realized that I was silently mouthing the word NO. Instead, he slowed down as I approached.

  “My name is Gloria Gaines,” I whispered while passing by.

  Then I continued on to my Ford as the two men went inside and shut the door.

  The smart thing would have been to immediately split. But there was something that I wanted to do first. I waited until I was certain that the two men were occupied. Then, unlocking the glove compartment, I grabbed my gun along with a baggie, and snuck into Yakimov’s backyard.

  The dogs remained locked in their pen, where they continued to bark. I figured the noise wasn’t a problem, since Yakimov wouldn’t be suspicious of trespassers. It gave me the chance to scurry over to Rocky’s shed, find the piece of scat, and scoop it up into my bag. Then hastening back to the Explorer, I turned on the engine and left.

  Ten

  I got as far as the main road before pulling over to park. Only then did I allow the torrent of thoughts, percolating inside my head, to break loose. What in hell was Vinnie Bertucci doing at Stas Yakimov’s? Had he finally broken his word and gotten involved in the illegal wildlife trade? I couldn’t imagine any other reason for his visit. If so, the delicate friendship we’d developed over the years was about to come to an end.

  My stomach twisted at the thought. Vinnie had helped me out of a couple tight spots. In return, I’d agreed to overlook his mob “activities” as long as they didn’t impact wildlife. Not only had that pleased Vinnie, but also the FBI, which had his New York crime family dead in their sights. They didn’t want me getting involved with any individuals in whom they might have an
interest. Perhaps they had good reason to worry. I’d intruded on their territory in the past when it had served my purpose.

  My heart hadn’t stopped pounding since his Lincoln Continental appeared in front of Yakimov’s house. Now it was hammering for a different reason. I was trying to figure out how to bring down Vinnie Bertucci.

  An hour crawled by before Bertucci’s black Continental glided into view. The Lincoln pulled up beside me and the window lowered as if of its own accord.

  “Hey there, Gloria. I thought I might find you here. We gotta stop meeting like this,” Vinnie joked, sticking his beefy head out the car window. “So, I hear you own a pet store in East Meadow these days. What’s the matter? You don’t make enough dough to open a shop in a fancy place like Great Neck?”

  Bertucci’s laugh was rough as a chunk of Parmesan cheese being shredded on a grater.

  “What say you lead the way back to Waikiki and civilization, and we get the hell out of this place. I’m staying at the Royal Hawaiian. We can ditch the cars there,” Vinnie instructed.

  Of course. Only the best hotel in Waikiki would do.

  I guided the way back through a torturous line of traffic, glancing into my rearview mirror every so often to see how Vinnie was doing. He handled the rush-hour melee pretty much as I’d expected. Bertucci kept his middle finger raised in the air, with his other hand planted smack on the horn. Naturally, all the other cars assumed his efforts were directed solely at me.

  We finally escaped the highway and crossed the canal into tourist heaven.

  “Now this is more like it,” Vinnie said when we arrived at his picture-perfect pink hotel.

  He stretched his limbs and rubbed his stomach, which growled as rabidly as one of Yakimov’s curs.

  “What I need is a thick, rare steak and a coupla shots of scotch,” Bertucci announced, and gave me the once-over. “From the look of things, you could use a good meal yourself. Whadda ya livin’ on these days? Bananas and coconuts? I swear to God, it looks like you’re fadin’ away. But you’re still as gorgeous as ever.”

  I nearly kissed the guy, tempted to overlook any differences there might be between us. That was the nicest compliment I’d been paid in years.

  “Just don’t take me to any of those native places where they try to foist that Spam or poi crap on you,” he warned.

  Instead I took him for a stroll along the strip, where we passed kitschy souvenirs made in Taiwan, an assortment of hot-looking hookers, and pain-in-the-ass street performers. It seemed to take all of Vinnie’s willpower not to run off with one and whack the other. But what really caught Bertucci’s eye was a two-story cylindrical fish tank that comprised the front window of a chi chi clothing store.

  “See? Now this is the way to get people interested in wildlife,” Vinnie informed me, his complexion glowing bright cobalt blue in the tank’s reflection. “You gotta capture animals and put ’em where they can be seen as people walk by. You should learn a thing or two from this.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I retorted, not bothering to tell him that such places already existed. They were known as zoos and marine aquariums.

  Down the street were Gucci, Prada, and Hermes boutiques, where every customer inside seemed to be Japanese and spoke little English.

  “For chrissakes. What’s going on? Hasn’t anybody ever told these people that they’re the ones that lost the war?” Bertucci grumbled irritably.

  What Vinnie didn’t comprehend was that Waikiki is as much a Japanese resort as it is an American one, a town where numerous businesses are Japanese owned and run.

  So much for sightseeing. It was time to stop and eat. I settled on a restaurant that any carnivore would have loved—a place that specialized in Kobe beef.

  “How’s business going these days?” I asked, making small talk as Vinnie dug into his salad with gusto.

  “Which one are you talking about?” he responded, through a mouthful of lettuce.

  I picked a shred of romaine off my arm and placed it in my napkin.

  “I don’t know. How many have you got now?” I queried.

  “What, are you kiddin’ me? I’m a regular fuckin’ Trump,” Vinnie retorted, shooting a shard of carrot my way.

  The guy could be lethal, even while eating.

  “Not only do I look after the family’s holdings, but I also got my own business interests, if you know what I mean.”

  I’d learned that firsthand while working a case in Montana. Vinnie and I had both been after one Benny Gugliani, a former wiseguy who was placed under the federal witness-protection program. By the time the dust cleared, Vinnie had taken control of Gugliani’s booming business in survivalist gear.

  “Such as your business venture in Montana?” I inquired.

  Vinnie broke into a high-pitched rat-a-tat-tat giggle, as if still tickled by the memory. “Yeah. That was a good one, huh? We had fun together on that thing. In fact, remember that Indian friend of yours?”

  Vinnie caught me off guard and I nodded, unable to speak over the lump that formed in my throat. I’d been thinking of Matthew Running all too much lately.

  “Well, we still send each other postcards every once in a while,” Vinnie continued. “Come to think of it, I got one not too long ago. It said he might be coming to New Yawk. Ain’t that a kick in the rear?”

  “Unbelievable,” I agreed.

  What was going on? Was everyone in touch with Matthew Running except me? I quickly changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on something that might have been.

  “Speaking of surprises, what brings you to Hawaii? In particular, to see Stas Yakimov? Don’t tell me that you’ve gotten involved in the reptile trade?” I questioned him, figuring we might as well get right down to business.

  Vinnie threw his fork on the table and actually stopped eating.

  “No way. Now you’re insulting me. Haven’t I always told you that I’d never harm a living, breathing thing?”

  Vinnie looked at me with a pair of sad eyes and, for a moment, I was ready to apologize.

  “That is as long as it has four legs or more,” he added with a chuckle. “Besides I don’t wanna have to take on someone like you, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Evidently we were both thinking along the same lines.

  “Then what brings you here?” I once again asked.

  Vinnie pushed aside his decimated salad and leaned in closer.

  “Okay. This is just between you and me, right? A coupla of friends shooting the breeze.”

  A spider vein on his nose twitched, and I nodded in agreement.

  “You know my policy,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. No little four-legged creatures are involved in this deal. Although a few males in the animal kingdom probably wish they could be,” Vinnie said, with a twitter. “My business associates…”

  “You mean the Travatellis?” I interrupted.

  Vinnie skewered me with a look. “Hey, you know better. No names in public, okay?”

  “Sorry about that,” I responded, having been put in my place.

  Vinnie raised a chastising eyebrow and then continued. “My business associates are big into the black-market trade for Viagra these days. Of course, I don’t need that kind of thing myself,” he quickly added. “But there’s a helluva market out there for guys that could use a helpful boost—or those hoping to land a four-hour erection. Our friends at Lehman Brothers figure that demand is soon gonna triple to six billion dollars a year. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, but where do you come in? After all, the drug is already legal,” I reasoned.

  “Sure. But you still gotta have a prescription for it,” Bertucci explained.

  Vinnie grew silent as a waiter placed a large slab of beef in front of him. He sliced the meat with expert precision and stuck a chunk of it into his mouth.

  “Hey, this is terrific. What did you say this stuff was called?” he asked between bites.


  “Kobe beef,” I replied, tasting my own well-done steak.

  “See? That just shows you how screwed up the legal system in this country is,” Vinnie complained, with a shake of his head. “First O. J. walks, and now Kobe Bryant gets a cut of beef named after him.”

  I decided it was probably best to leave it at that, and not mention where the meat really came from, based on Vinnie’s reaction to all the Japanese tourists in Waikiki.

  “Anyway, we’re tapping into those countries where Viagra hasn’t been approved yet,” he said, continuing to eat as he spoke. “This thing is huge—no pun intended. And I’m not talking about that twenty-five-or thirty-milligram crap. We’re dealing in one-hundred-milligram pills only. That way, you get more bang for your buck. My associates are pipelining these goodies around the world for twenty-five smackers a pop, and people still can’t get enough of ’em.”

  That was interesting to know. In a strange sense, maybe Vinnie and Viagra would actually help with my work. The drug might take some pressure off those creatures whose bones and body parts were believed to be magical aphrodisiacs. Those species ran the gamut from snakes to turtles, whales, monkeys, and bears, along with tiger bone, rhino horn, and seal penises. I was all for Viagra, if it cut down on the slaughter of innocent creatures.

  As much as I enjoyed the idea, it still didn’t explain what Vinnie was doing here, and why he’d paid a visit to Stas Yakimov. It was as if he had read my mind when he spoke up.

  “Stas has been doing some work for us. The only problem is that a large chunk of change keeps disappearing from this end. I’m here to straighten out any financial problems. I guess you could say I’ve become a regular CPA enforcer.”

  Vinnie daintily picked a piece of meat from between his teeth with his little finger.

  “I don’t get it. Is Yakimov selling the stuff or stealing it for himself?” I questioned.