TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) by Lawrence de Maria Page B
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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clacking away and spewing out more material. Something was up.
She looked at me and smiled.
“A Geiger counter. I’ll explain later.”
That’s the type of comment that normally demands an immediate explanation, but I trusted Abby, so I kept going and got both my visitors comfortably seated in my office. They declined coffee.
“You look well, Leon,” I said.
“It was a walk in the park,” he replied. “I needed the rest.”
He did look good, and was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and red polka dot tie. I had never seen him in anything but a track suit. Rev. Futterman was in full minister garb but seemed uncomfortable. The last few times I had seen him on TV, he was wearing a charcoal gray that must have cost two Sunday’s worth of collection plates in his blighted parish. His thick salt-and-pepper hair, though, was, as usual, perfectly coiffed and his nails gleamed.
“Leon tells me that you are a trustworthy man,” Futterman intoned.
He had a deep, sonorous voice that did not need a microphone if one was not available. I looked at Leon, who smiled. Being vouched for by Leon would not get me into Fort Knox or the gumshoe hall of fame.
“I try to be,” I said, tenting my hands somberly.
I realized I looked ridiculous, so I untented.
“And that you are good friends with District Attorney Michael Sullivan.”
“I just gave him some bagels,” I said, helpfully, wondering where this was going.
Futterman looked confused. But before he could respond, I heard a familiar bark. Then the door to my office opened and Maks Kalugin walked in with Gunner straining on a leash. Maks does not knock. He let go of the leash and Gunner launched himself into my lap, and smothered me in wet doggie kisses. Gunner has a tongue the size of Greenland and is a big hound, so I barely managed not to topple over. He was happy to see me, and likewise. But I had guests, and I finally managed to calm him down. Abby came in with a dog biscuit that would choke a Tyrannosaurus and took control of him, leading him out to the reception area. Kalugin and Leon looked at each other, and nodded. Professional nods; it was obvious they knew each other. Without a word, Maks left.
The Reverend looked stunned.
“That was your dog?”
“Yes.”
“He is big.”
“Just out of puppyhood,” I said proudly.
“What kind is he?”
“Byelorussian Ovcharka, also known as an East European Shepherd, a mix of East Siberian Laika dogs and German Shepherds. Red Army war dogs in World War II.”
Leon was looking at me with new-found respect.
“You have Maks Kalugin walking your dog?”
“Long story. Now, what is this all about?”
Futterman regrouped.
“As you undoubtedly know, Staten Island is awash in heroin.”
He was right. It was not news to me. The borough’s heroin epidemic had even been cited in the national news media, including a Page 1 story in The New York Times , which generally ignores Staten Island unless a plane crashes on it.
“Almost 80 percent of new users are white,” Futterman continued, “and now the authorities are treating the scourge more as a disease than a crime. There is talk that prosecutors and judges should not treat users too harshly.”
“And you oppose that?”
“On the contrary. I believe that is the correct approach. But in the past, young black men and women were sent to jail for heroin use, and they threw away the key! I suspect that people of color will still be treated differently from whites. And I believe that many of those already incarcerated should have their cases reviewed.”
I looked at Leon.
“My people don’t go near that crap,” he said.
I knew that was probably true. But I also knew that heroin was so cheap now it probably was not worth the risk to a certain caliber of criminal. But maybe he was sincere. The Rahms stayed away from any drug business, no matter how profitable. It was one of their stricter rules. Early on, a couple of their men had broken that rule
She looked at me and smiled.
“A Geiger counter. I’ll explain later.”
That’s the type of comment that normally demands an immediate explanation, but I trusted Abby, so I kept going and got both my visitors comfortably seated in my office. They declined coffee.
“You look well, Leon,” I said.
“It was a walk in the park,” he replied. “I needed the rest.”
He did look good, and was dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and red polka dot tie. I had never seen him in anything but a track suit. Rev. Futterman was in full minister garb but seemed uncomfortable. The last few times I had seen him on TV, he was wearing a charcoal gray that must have cost two Sunday’s worth of collection plates in his blighted parish. His thick salt-and-pepper hair, though, was, as usual, perfectly coiffed and his nails gleamed.
“Leon tells me that you are a trustworthy man,” Futterman intoned.
He had a deep, sonorous voice that did not need a microphone if one was not available. I looked at Leon, who smiled. Being vouched for by Leon would not get me into Fort Knox or the gumshoe hall of fame.
“I try to be,” I said, tenting my hands somberly.
I realized I looked ridiculous, so I untented.
“And that you are good friends with District Attorney Michael Sullivan.”
“I just gave him some bagels,” I said, helpfully, wondering where this was going.
Futterman looked confused. But before he could respond, I heard a familiar bark. Then the door to my office opened and Maks Kalugin walked in with Gunner straining on a leash. Maks does not knock. He let go of the leash and Gunner launched himself into my lap, and smothered me in wet doggie kisses. Gunner has a tongue the size of Greenland and is a big hound, so I barely managed not to topple over. He was happy to see me, and likewise. But I had guests, and I finally managed to calm him down. Abby came in with a dog biscuit that would choke a Tyrannosaurus and took control of him, leading him out to the reception area. Kalugin and Leon looked at each other, and nodded. Professional nods; it was obvious they knew each other. Without a word, Maks left.
The Reverend looked stunned.
“That was your dog?”
“Yes.”
“He is big.”
“Just out of puppyhood,” I said proudly.
“What kind is he?”
“Byelorussian Ovcharka, also known as an East European Shepherd, a mix of East Siberian Laika dogs and German Shepherds. Red Army war dogs in World War II.”
Leon was looking at me with new-found respect.
“You have Maks Kalugin walking your dog?”
“Long story. Now, what is this all about?”
Futterman regrouped.
“As you undoubtedly know, Staten Island is awash in heroin.”
He was right. It was not news to me. The borough’s heroin epidemic had even been cited in the national news media, including a Page 1 story in The New York Times , which generally ignores Staten Island unless a plane crashes on it.
“Almost 80 percent of new users are white,” Futterman continued, “and now the authorities are treating the scourge more as a disease than a crime. There is talk that prosecutors and judges should not treat users too harshly.”
“And you oppose that?”
“On the contrary. I believe that is the correct approach. But in the past, young black men and women were sent to jail for heroin use, and they threw away the key! I suspect that people of color will still be treated differently from whites. And I believe that many of those already incarcerated should have their cases reviewed.”
I looked at Leon.
“My people don’t go near that crap,” he said.
I knew that was probably true. But I also knew that heroin was so cheap now it probably was not worth the risk to a certain caliber of criminal. But maybe he was sincere. The Rahms stayed away from any drug business, no matter how profitable. It was one of their stricter rules. Early on, a couple of their men had broken that rule
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