last thing they wanted was some Homicide dick walking into the middle of something and screwing up their work.
He had learned the basics about Kulak—what he looked like, his record, etc. Father Chernoff had supplied the information that the auto salvage yard behind Magda’s was Kulak’s legitimate business. But his last-known address, according to the DMV, was smack in the middle of the Baby Gap store downtown, and Landry had found no other notations of an actual address, nor had there been any mention of relatives.
But relative or not, Kulak had been close to Irina Markova. He had offered her a job, a well-paying job. Criminal enterprise paid a hell of a lot better than shoveling horseshit. That explained the pricey wardrobe. It also probably gave someone motive to do her harm. Maybe because she crossed somebody up. Maybe to get at Kulak. Maybe Kulak had killed her himself and the phone message had been an act to throw the scent off.
Landry went in the back door of the bar and down a narrow, dimly lit hall with an uneven floor. The place smelled of beer and boiled cabbage, and the smoke was so thick it stung his eyes and jammed in his throat like a fist. Conversations died as he walked in and took a seat at the bar. People stared at him openly, then glanced at one another and muttered in Russian.
He looked at the bartender, a massive bald man with blue tattoos inked all over his skull. “Vodka. Straight up.”
“What you want here, Copper?” the bartender asked.
Landry repeated himself. “Vodka. Straight up. You have vodka, don’t you?”
“Do bears shit in woods?”
“You tell me.”
The bartender laughed loudly, poured him a shot, and set it on the bar in front of him. Landry tossed it back and fought the need to grimace and gag. The bartender poured him another and he repeated the process, on a mostly empty stomach.
The bartender laughed again. “You Russian, Copper? You drink like a Russian.”
“What makes you think I’m a copper?”
“You’re all the same. Big attitude, shiny shoes. We don’t got nothing to tell you here, Copper.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“It don’t matter.”
“You’re not going to tell me where I can find Alexi Kulak?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. A relative of his was found dead today, and we need to know what to do with the body.”
The bartender made a sour face and shrugged. “This person is dead. There is no reason to rush. They will be just as dead tomorrow and the next day.”
“So, I should come back tomorrow and wait until Alexi Kulak shows up?” Landry said. “You know, I’m a busy man. I can’t hang around like that. Maybe I should send a couple of squad cars over, put some uniformed officers in here. Is that what you want me to do?”
The bartender frowned, making his skull tats undulate.
A voice behind him laughed. “Is joke! American police, you can’t do nothing to make people talk.”
Landry glanced over his shoulder. The one behind him was nearly as large as the one behind the bar. Good. If he had to prove himself, this was the guy to do it with.
“You say please and thank you and let criminals get off with slap on wrist like naughty children,” the man went on. “Is not like Russia.”
There were many murmurs of agreement.
Landry turned around on his bar stool. “If Russia is so fucking great, what are you doing here, Boris? Did you get tired of standing in line all day for a roll of toilet paper? Do you even use toilet paper? Do they have indoor plumbing in that ass-backward country of yours?”
The Russian scowled darkly. His hair was thick and bristly, like the pelt of a bear, and came to a V just above his brows. A vein stood out in the side of his neck. “You watch your mouth here, little policeman. There are more of us than you.”
“Did you just threaten me?” Landry asked. “Did you just threaten a law-enforcement officer?” He turned back to the bartender. “Did he just
He had learned the basics about Kulak—what he looked like, his record, etc. Father Chernoff had supplied the information that the auto salvage yard behind Magda’s was Kulak’s legitimate business. But his last-known address, according to the DMV, was smack in the middle of the Baby Gap store downtown, and Landry had found no other notations of an actual address, nor had there been any mention of relatives.
But relative or not, Kulak had been close to Irina Markova. He had offered her a job, a well-paying job. Criminal enterprise paid a hell of a lot better than shoveling horseshit. That explained the pricey wardrobe. It also probably gave someone motive to do her harm. Maybe because she crossed somebody up. Maybe to get at Kulak. Maybe Kulak had killed her himself and the phone message had been an act to throw the scent off.
Landry went in the back door of the bar and down a narrow, dimly lit hall with an uneven floor. The place smelled of beer and boiled cabbage, and the smoke was so thick it stung his eyes and jammed in his throat like a fist. Conversations died as he walked in and took a seat at the bar. People stared at him openly, then glanced at one another and muttered in Russian.
He looked at the bartender, a massive bald man with blue tattoos inked all over his skull. “Vodka. Straight up.”
“What you want here, Copper?” the bartender asked.
Landry repeated himself. “Vodka. Straight up. You have vodka, don’t you?”
“Do bears shit in woods?”
“You tell me.”
The bartender laughed loudly, poured him a shot, and set it on the bar in front of him. Landry tossed it back and fought the need to grimace and gag. The bartender poured him another and he repeated the process, on a mostly empty stomach.
The bartender laughed again. “You Russian, Copper? You drink like a Russian.”
“What makes you think I’m a copper?”
“You’re all the same. Big attitude, shiny shoes. We don’t got nothing to tell you here, Copper.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“It don’t matter.”
“You’re not going to tell me where I can find Alexi Kulak?”
“No.”
“That’s too bad. A relative of his was found dead today, and we need to know what to do with the body.”
The bartender made a sour face and shrugged. “This person is dead. There is no reason to rush. They will be just as dead tomorrow and the next day.”
“So, I should come back tomorrow and wait until Alexi Kulak shows up?” Landry said. “You know, I’m a busy man. I can’t hang around like that. Maybe I should send a couple of squad cars over, put some uniformed officers in here. Is that what you want me to do?”
The bartender frowned, making his skull tats undulate.
A voice behind him laughed. “Is joke! American police, you can’t do nothing to make people talk.”
Landry glanced over his shoulder. The one behind him was nearly as large as the one behind the bar. Good. If he had to prove himself, this was the guy to do it with.
“You say please and thank you and let criminals get off with slap on wrist like naughty children,” the man went on. “Is not like Russia.”
There were many murmurs of agreement.
Landry turned around on his bar stool. “If Russia is so fucking great, what are you doing here, Boris? Did you get tired of standing in line all day for a roll of toilet paper? Do you even use toilet paper? Do they have indoor plumbing in that ass-backward country of yours?”
The Russian scowled darkly. His hair was thick and bristly, like the pelt of a bear, and came to a V just above his brows. A vein stood out in the side of his neck. “You watch your mouth here, little policeman. There are more of us than you.”
“Did you just threaten me?” Landry asked. “Did you just threaten a law-enforcement officer?” He turned back to the bartender. “Did he just
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