the time for a big whirling uppercut, the bolo punch. I’ve taught the punch to Kip on the heavy bag that hangs from a live oak tree in the backyard. With enough behind it, the bolo dents the bag, rattles the tree, and snaps the twigs on some orchids growing out of the limbs. But that’s against a bag. Against a man, it takes too long to deliver . . . unless you have the hands of Sugar Ray Leonard, or your opponent is already bloodied and hurting. I brought the punch up from below my waist, and it met no resistance until it landed squarely on the bouncer’s chin. The impact lifted him off his feet. Then he crumpled to the ground and pitched forward on his knees, vomiting, just missing my dress shoes. Nobody said fighting was pretty.
I turned and saw Gorev moving toward me, something in his right hand. A switchblade. Click. The blade popped out.
Lord, how I hate a knife.
“We haven’t finished our talk, big mouth,” he said.
That’s when I heard the car tires squealing in the alley behind me. A Miami Beach police cruiser braked to a stop. A uniformed officer sat at the wheel. Detective George Barrios leapt out of the passenger door and surveyed the scene. The bloody, vomitous bouncer by the Dumpster. The porcine bartender facedown in the doorway. The two B-girls, now both barefoot and holding their shoes, their bouncy hair messy and tangled. Gorev, watching me with a murderous glare, his knife and hand back in his pocket. And, of course, little old me. Disheveled and beaten, scratched face bleeding, suit coat shredded, and quite possibly drunk.
“You look like shit, Jake,” Barrios said.
“Whadaya mean? This is my best suit.”
“How about I give you a ride home?”
“My car’s a block away.”
“Not a good idea. There’s a DUI checkpoint at the entrance to the MacArthur, and you’ll never make it through.”
“Okay, you’re on.”
I was about to open the back door of the police cruiser when Gorev shouted at me. “We will talk again, lawyer asshole.”
“Make an appointment. Have your B-girl call my B-girl.”
“I promise you will tell me everything you know about Benny the Jeweler.”
“Benny the Jeweler?”
“Who the hell else we been talking about?”
I was groggy so it took me a moment to process the information. The jeweler who knew all about the pit in Russia was named Benny. The guy who hired Miguel Dominguez to find Nadia was also Benny. I never won the Fields Medal for mathematics, but I could put two and two together. They were the same guy. Just a shred of evidence, but still, maybe something that would help lead me to Nadia Delova.
“I’ll tell Benny you said hello!” I yelled to Gorev, ducking into the rear of the police car.
W hen we were a block away, Detective Barrios said, “You shouldn’t mess with the Russians, Jake. They’re as ruthless as the Colombians back in the eighties.”
“Thanks for covering my back. Who called the cops, anyway?”
“No one. We been watching you ever since you got to the Fontainebleau.”
“To protect me?”
“ Hell, no. To let you do shit we can’t. And maybe pick up a scrap of evidence here and there.”
“Either way, I appreciate the help.”
“You’re getting too old for this shit, Jake.”
“You’re telling me.” My head was throbbing, and I knew the rest of my body would start feeling the pain as soon as the adrenaline ebbed. “George, there’s this burg in Vermont with a prep school. I’ll bet they’ve got a little police force with a kindly chief like Andy Griffith.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A New England Mayberry. Maybe the chief is about to retire just like the football coach at the prep school. We could have lunch every day at the local diner. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
Barrios looked at me sideways. Maybe wondering if I’d left some of my brain cells back at Anastasia.
“When you go on pension, George, think about it. Vermont. You and me. Best pals.”
“Did you get a
I turned and saw Gorev moving toward me, something in his right hand. A switchblade. Click. The blade popped out.
Lord, how I hate a knife.
“We haven’t finished our talk, big mouth,” he said.
That’s when I heard the car tires squealing in the alley behind me. A Miami Beach police cruiser braked to a stop. A uniformed officer sat at the wheel. Detective George Barrios leapt out of the passenger door and surveyed the scene. The bloody, vomitous bouncer by the Dumpster. The porcine bartender facedown in the doorway. The two B-girls, now both barefoot and holding their shoes, their bouncy hair messy and tangled. Gorev, watching me with a murderous glare, his knife and hand back in his pocket. And, of course, little old me. Disheveled and beaten, scratched face bleeding, suit coat shredded, and quite possibly drunk.
“You look like shit, Jake,” Barrios said.
“Whadaya mean? This is my best suit.”
“How about I give you a ride home?”
“My car’s a block away.”
“Not a good idea. There’s a DUI checkpoint at the entrance to the MacArthur, and you’ll never make it through.”
“Okay, you’re on.”
I was about to open the back door of the police cruiser when Gorev shouted at me. “We will talk again, lawyer asshole.”
“Make an appointment. Have your B-girl call my B-girl.”
“I promise you will tell me everything you know about Benny the Jeweler.”
“Benny the Jeweler?”
“Who the hell else we been talking about?”
I was groggy so it took me a moment to process the information. The jeweler who knew all about the pit in Russia was named Benny. The guy who hired Miguel Dominguez to find Nadia was also Benny. I never won the Fields Medal for mathematics, but I could put two and two together. They were the same guy. Just a shred of evidence, but still, maybe something that would help lead me to Nadia Delova.
“I’ll tell Benny you said hello!” I yelled to Gorev, ducking into the rear of the police car.
W hen we were a block away, Detective Barrios said, “You shouldn’t mess with the Russians, Jake. They’re as ruthless as the Colombians back in the eighties.”
“Thanks for covering my back. Who called the cops, anyway?”
“No one. We been watching you ever since you got to the Fontainebleau.”
“To protect me?”
“ Hell, no. To let you do shit we can’t. And maybe pick up a scrap of evidence here and there.”
“Either way, I appreciate the help.”
“You’re getting too old for this shit, Jake.”
“You’re telling me.” My head was throbbing, and I knew the rest of my body would start feeling the pain as soon as the adrenaline ebbed. “George, there’s this burg in Vermont with a prep school. I’ll bet they’ve got a little police force with a kindly chief like Andy Griffith.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A New England Mayberry. Maybe the chief is about to retire just like the football coach at the prep school. We could have lunch every day at the local diner. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
Barrios looked at me sideways. Maybe wondering if I’d left some of my brain cells back at Anastasia.
“When you go on pension, George, think about it. Vermont. You and me. Best pals.”
“Did you get a
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