Death's little helpers

11

Fort Lee is perched high above the Hudson River, atop the wooded cliffs of the Palisades, and an easy drive from Manhattan: straight up the West Side Highway and across the George Washington Bridge. It’s an old town, with a past that stretches back to the first English settlers and to the Dutch before them. The welcome sign at the town line boasted of it: Rich in history, it read, in flowery white script. Maybe so, but they kept it well hidden. Mostly the town seemed rich in on-ramps and off-ramps and parking lots, in shopping centers and drive-through banks, in video stores and copy shops and nail salons and pizzerias. What poverty it suffered seemed mainly in the areas of architecture and zoning.

It was midafternoon and raining when I crossed the GW, and traffic was heavy near the tolls. So I had plenty of time to gaze upon the tangle of highways where the toll plaza morphed into the New Jersey Turnpike and several other routes, and to study the thicket of indecipherable road signs posted there. Despite this contemplation, I had only the vaguest notion of where I was supposed to go. New Jersey does that to me.

I steered my rented Toyota to an off-ramp. The local streets were pitted and gray, and the local drivers had little patience with uncertainty, but I paid them no heed and eventually found my way to Lincoln Avenue.

It hadn’t been difficult to come up with an address for Richard Gilpin’s firm, Morgan amp; Lynch, though the one I’d found was not the one listed on the company’s Web site- that address belonged to a commercial mail drop in one of Fort Lee’s many strip malls. I’d plugged the Morgan amp; Lynch telephone number into a reverse directory, and out had popped a listing for something called Ekaterinberg Holdings, with an address on Lincoln.

It was a small office building, with a faA§ade of white brick that was going brown and narrow metal-framed windows. The windows were dirty and most of them were dark. The building had only four stories, but it loomed above its neighbors on the block, which included a Korean restaurant, decked out in mirrored glass and white stucco, a travel agency with a torn red awning, a two-level municipal parking lot, and a surgical supply company with barred windows and a sign proclaiming the area’s largest selection of latex gloves. Office space must’ve been tight down in the Caymans.

I drove past the building and pulled the Toyota into a space a block and a half down, in front of a bar called Roxy’s. Rain was falling harder now, and slanting in the wind. A wet shoe box flip-flopped across the street, following a plastic grocery bag that drifted like a ghost. I turned up the collar of my field jacket and opened my umbrella.

The lobby was a little larger than a broom closet, and done in algae-green tiles and fluorescent lights. There was a dusty plastic plant to the right as I came in, and a building directory on the wall to my left, behind a cracked pane of glass. I consulted it but learned little, as the only plastic letters left there had been arranged to spell the word SHAT. The elevator was to the rear, and taped on the wall next to it, in red ink on cardboard, was a handwritten note to the mailman. From this I learned that anything for Ekaterinberg Holdings or EK Industries or Gromyko Construction was to go to the fourth floor. I figured that included me, and I wedged myself into the tiny car.

The elevator smelled like a taxi, only not as fresh, and the short hallway it opened onto smelled even worse: cigarettes, beer, old pizza, mildew, and piss, not necessarily in that order. The strawberry air freshener that someone had sprayed recently was hopelessly overmatched. The walls were paneled in fake wood, like a basement playroom, and murky light came from a glass fixture overhead. The carpet was brown and squishy, like moss, and I was glad it was a short walk to the only door there was. It was blank but for a mail slot, and it had no bell. I went in without knocking.

I was in a room not much bigger than the elevator. It was windowless and pictureless, paneled and carpeted like the hallway. The only other door was on the opposite wall, and it was closed. The only furnishings were a dented metal desk to the left, a plastic swivel chair behind it, and a black canvas director’s chair in front. The desk was small, and the telephone and TV on top occupied nearly its entire surface. The director’s chair was empty. The swivel chair was not.

She was sprawled in it, her legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankles. She looked fourteen, going on forty. Her hair was white-blond on top and black at the roots. It was short in back and long on the sides, and an uneven fringe ran across her forehead. Her features were fine and childlike: a tiny red mouth, a small rounded nose, thin brows, narrow slightly tilted gray eyes, ears barely large enough for their half-dozen piercings and the hardware that hung from them. Her face was round and downy, the bones still hiding beneath a layer of baby fat, and her skin was a flawless white, but for the tattoos.

There was one at the corner of her right eye that looked like a little red teardrop, and another along the side of her neck that spelled the word pain in elaborate black print. The same fancy lettering appeared on her knuckles, spelling the word white on her left hand, and bitch on her right. A green snake wound around the length of her skinny right arm and flicked its red ink tongue at her wrist.

She wore jeans and a tight gray T-shirt, and the hard-looking store-bought breasts underneath seemed to belong to a much larger woman. They jutted from her body like a stone mantel, and made a convenient shelf for her ashtray. She took a cigarette from it, puffed, and raised her head to look at me. Her little eyes were vacant and flat. She stared at me for a moment and then went back to her TV show, something about women whose husbands loved sheep. When the advertisements came, she took the ashtray off her breasts and put it on the desk and sat up. Her gray eyes got smaller.

“You want something?” She had a heavy accent, and pronounced her w as a v. Eastern European. There was no hostility in her voice, or even suspicion, just a mild curiosity that someone had turned up at her door. I thought for a moment. I wasn’t sure what name Gilpin went by here- assuming he was here at all.

“Richards around?” I asked. One of her brows went up, and something like a smirk crossed her young face.

“Dick?” She said it so it rhymed with seek. I nodded. Her gaze flicked back to the TV as the commercials ended. “In there,” she said. She flicked a thumb at the door, perched the ashtray on her bosom again, and went back into her slouch. I opened the door and went in.

It was a rectangular room with windows along one side that looked out on Lincoln Avenue and the rain. And it was full of cigarette smoke and testosterone.

The men sat at tables arranged end-on-end, in three rows that ran the length of the room, and they peered into their monitors and spoke into telephone headsets. It was a mostly young bunchtwenty-somethings- and mostly unappealing, like a group of spring-break drunks spoiling for a fight. There were a lot of neck chains in the room, and wrist chains, and expensive watches too. There was a lot of hair gel, and a storm front of clashing colognes. The dress code ranged from jeans to leather to silk tracksuits and rumpled Armani. Besides ashtrays, coffee cups, and beer bottles, skin magazines were the most common desk accessories. A lot of heads turned as I walked in, but they soon turned back to their monitors and telephones. They had work to do.

They were dialing for dollars. Some of them read from scripts and some were winging it; some of them whispered into their headsets and some were shouting; some pleaded, others cajoled, and a few all but threatened- but ultimately it was the same pitch, over and over again: the opportunity of a lifetime, don’t miss out, guaranteed returns, fully hedged, risk free, a sure thing. Send money now. The Morgan amp; Lynch sales force at work.

The guy closest to the door had a thick neck, shiny blond hair, and a red polo shirt that threatened to rip around his biceps. I stepped behind his chair.

“Where’s Richards?” I asked. He clamped his hand over his headset mike and twisted in his seat to give me an ugly look. Then he turned back around and started whispering.

“I’m telling you, Mr. Strelski- can I call you Gerald?- it’s all set to go. And when it does, it’ll go like a rocket.”

The guy next to him tapped my arm and pointed to the other end of the room, to a doorway partly blocked by one of the tables. I nodded and went over. The door was ajar and someone was talking on the other side of it. I recognized the deep, deeply sincere voice of Richard Gilpin.

He was on the phone and only glanced up when I came in. He was caught up in the rhythm of his pitch.

“… We’re pursuing some very exciting opportunities in the Latin American markets, Mrs. Trillo- some deeply undervalued companies…”

I tuned him out and looked around. The office was no bigger than the reception area and it was furnished along the same lines, though Gilpin had a fancier phone and, instead of a TV and fake breasts, he had a computer and a big Styrofoam cup of coffee. There was a metal filing cabinet in the corner, next to a trash can and a swivel chair. I wheeled the chair over and sat and watched Gilpin.

He was a broad guy in his late thirties, with big arms and shoulders and a block-shaped head atop a heavy neck. He had wavy well-barbered brown hair that he wore in a modified Prince Valiant. It hung low over his forehead and nearly brushed his pale brows. His dark eyes were narrow and set deep in his beefy face, and they were gathered too closely around his wedge-shaped nose. His mouth was small and thin, and his cleft chin had begun to dissolve into a blurring jawline. His tan was very dark and looked machine-made.

Gilpin wore khaki pants and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his hairless arms. He looked more like the football coach at a Sun Belt high school than a fund manager. In fact, he was neither. He stared off into infinity as he worked his mark, and his big hands carved the air as he spoke. He was wrapping up now.

“Absolutely think about it, Mrs. Trillo- but you need to know that the fund is almost closed at this point. The window is small and getting smaller.” Gilpin listened and nodded. “Overnight is no problem, Mrs. Trillo, absolutely none at all. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” Gilpin punched a button on his phone console, pulled the headset off, and sighed heavily. He rubbed the back of his neck and turned his head from side to side. Finally, he looked at me.

“What do you want?”

I was quiet for a moment, searching his face for some resemblance to Gregory Danes. I found none. “I want to talk about your brother.”

Gilpin winced and hunched his shoulders. “Fuck… you’re the guy on the phone. What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was still deep, but the smoothness was suddenly gone.

“You wouldn’t take my calls, Richard, and I had an afternoon to kill.” Gilpin wrinkled his brow and looked behind me, through the open door. He lowered his voice.

“You a cop?”

“Not lately.”

“Private?” I nodded, and Gilpin relaxed minutely. “Working for who?”

I smiled at him and shook my head.

“I don’t know what your business is,” Gilpin said, “but I can tell you this isn’t the place to do it. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached. If I were you I’d hit the road, Jack.”

“And where is your management today, down in the Caymans or down the block getting takeout? By the way, do I call you Gilford around the office, or Richard, or just plain Dick?”

Gilpin blanched behind his tan. He got up, shut the door, and retreated behind his desk again. He moved quickly for a big man.

“You’re hysterical, buddy, a fucking riot. I figure you got about ten minutes before you’re laughing out your asshole, so make the most of them.”

I poked at the carpet with the tip of my umbrella. “I don’t need long, Richard. Just tell me when you last heard from your brother.”

“From Greg?” He snorted. “I never hear from that little prick, unless I call him- and I gave up on that a while ago.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. He made a sour face and put it down. “And he’s my half brother.”

“So the last time you spoke to him was when?”

Gilpin’s mouth puckered with something worse than the taste of his coffee. “A year ago- no, fourteen months it was.”

“And?”

“And nothing. That’s the last time we talked. Full stop.” Gilpin looked at the door.

“What did you talk about?”

He wrinkled his brow some more, and anger began to vie with nervousness in his small deep eyes. “What the fuck business is it of yours?”

“I said I didn’t need long, Richard, but you’re slowing things down.”

Gilpin’s thin mouth twisted. He pointed a stubby tan finger at me. “Screw you, buddy. You’re nothing. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

I shrugged. “Of course you don’t, Richard, it’s your choice entirely. Just like it’s my choice to call your pals down at the SECin the enforcement division, maybe- and tell them where they can forward your Christmas card this year. I’m sure they’d be fascinated to hear what you and your associates are up to.”

Gilpin blanched again. “Hey, I don’t know those guys from Adam,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I don’t know what the hell they do out there, and I don’t ask; we just share the office.” But even he wasn’t convinced. He put his hands up and shook his head a little. “All right, all right: the last time I talked to Greg… I called him fourteen months ago, about some money, a loan I needed. My big brother ran true to form and told me to fuck off. I told him to screw himself, and that was the end. Conversation didn’t last ten minutes.”

“That the way it usually goes between you two?”

Gilpin made a mocking smile. “You’re real perceptive, pal. You must be a pro.”

“You know any of his friends? Anybody he’s close to?”

He barked a nasty laugh. “You think I know shit about his life? You think he’s had a goddamn thing to do with me since he went off to college? Christ, he barely had the time of day for me before then. Talk to his buddies on Wall Street if you want to know about him; talk to his dyke wife; talk to anybody but me.” Gilpin took another swallow of his coffee and made another wretched face.

“So you don’t know where he might go on vacation?”

The nasty laugh again. “I told you- I don’t know about Greg’s life, and I don’t want to. I got my own problems.” He gestured around the room and snorted. “I got my own fucking vacation to worry about, right here.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and arced it into the trash can in the corner. Coffee splashed on the wall and ran down the paneling; Gilpin didn’t seem to mind. He looked at me again.

“Greg’s missing?” he asked. “Is that what this is about?” Before I could answer, he screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his thick hands over his face. “Fuck it, I don’t want to know. Just do me a favor and get the hell out of here, will you?”

Gilpin slumped behind his desk, and I saw fatigue and chronic worry beneath his artificial tan. He was like a long-caged animal: exhausted and resigned, any fight left in him no more than reflex. He hadn’t said much, but it was all he had. I got up.

Nothing had changed in the big room when I passed through; the boys were still smoking and working the phones, and this time no one raised a head. Something had changed in the reception area, though.

The girl was gone. In her place behind the desk was a compact man, wearing a green waterproof field jacket just like mine. He had short blond hair and precise handsome features on a narrow white face. His eyes were gray and slightly upturned and reminded me of the eyes of the girl who wasn’t there. The TV was still on, but it was C-SPAN, not sheep, that he was watching. He looked at me briefly and impassively when I came through the door, and then his eyes went back to the screen. I paused for a moment, expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. I crossed the room, and his hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out with a phone. I left the office and found the elevator waiting in the empty hallway.

They were outside, just beyond the lobby doors, and there were three of them. Two were big, and the third was bigger. The two big men held wide golf umbrellas. One man was around thirty, with dirty-blond hair, tied in a ponytail. He had a lot of rings on his umbrella hand, and his high cheekbones, pointed nose, and V-shaped mouth made him look something like a shark. He wore a long canvas duster, fastened to the throat. The other man was older, with short dark hair, a neat beard, and suspicious eyes. He wore work boots and khakis and an expensive waterproof shell over a plaid shirt, and in other circumstances I might have taken him for an engineer or a geologist. They had a couple of inches on me, each, and an easy twenty pounds. The third guy was a different story altogether.

He was six-foot-six, at least, and nearly three hundred pounds, and his bald bullet-shaped head was mostly covered by an intricate tattoo: two dragons locked in mortal combat, their red fangs clashing at the top of his skull. A hint, perhaps, of what went on underneath.

His face was fleshy and hairless and fish-belly white. A pale blue scar ran from temple to cheek down the left side, and met up with another that ran across his chin. His brow was a shelf of bone above small black eyes and a nose that had been rebuilt several times. His mouth was a lipless wrinkle, and his arms looked like two sacks of rocks. He was dressed in black motorcycle leathers, black gloves, and heavy black boots, all soaked through with rain. Rain beat down on his bare head, and each drop seemed to enrage him. He seemed to like the feeling. His eyes were locked on me.

The geologist nodded. “Let’s get out of the rain while we talk,” he said. He motioned me under his big umbrella. He had an accent, but it was slight and I couldn’t place it. My carry permit is no good in Jersey, my gun was safe at home, and my options were limited. I nodded back at him, rolled up my umbrella, and stepped under his. The shark stepped in beside us and Attila brought up the rear. They walked me into the parking structure next door.

Inside, the two big guys closed their umbrellas and led the way up a ramp to the second level. Attila walked behind me and made kissing noises. The only car on the second level was a massive black Hummer. It had smoked windows and a big chrome brush bar, and it glistened with beaded rainwater. The two big guys walked toward it but stopped when they were twenty yards away. I stopped too. They turned to face me. Attila paced behind me and made sniffing sounds. The big guys looked at me and I looked back, and we stood that way for a while.

“Shall we talk?” I said finally.

Attila came up close behind me and roared in my ear. “Shut up, bitch!” His voice was high- another steroid juicer, no doubt- and his accent was Eastern European. His breath had a burnt chemical odor, and the smell off his body was sour and powerful. He resumed his pacing and bumped me with his shoulder as he did. It was like getting sideswiped by a bus. I staggered forward a step but kept looking at the other two guys. A smile flickered across the shark’s face. He shook his head slowly and put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. We stood silently for another couple of minutes and then we heard footsteps.

It was the compact blond man from the reception desk. His field jacket was zipped against the rain, and his corduroy collar was turned up. His head was down and his hands were in his jacket pockets, and he didn’t look at us as he came slowly up the ramp. The two big guys shifted nervously as he approached and even Attila grew still.

He came to a halt between the two big men and opened his jacket and shook off the rain. Underneath he wore a black sweater over a gray shirt. He was about five-foot-seven, and he looked like he was made of rebar. He ran a small, strong-looking hand through his hair and flicked away the water. He looked at me.

“Are you Morgan or Lynch?” I asked. He ignored my question.

“What is your name and what is your business with Gilpin?” he asked. His voice was soft and flat and faintly accented.

“Didn’t Gilpin tell you?” The two big guys shifted, and Attila came around to yell down at me.

“Bitch! You answer the questions!” The chemical smell was overpowering. A meth smoker maybe. Steroids and meth- the breakfast of champions. Great. The compact man cleared his throat and made a gesture to Attila with his small hand. Attila went around behind me again.

“Gilpin tells me everything, which I think you will come to see as a sensible course of action.” He was quiet for a moment, and he tilted his head slightly as he looked at me. “What is your name, and what is your business with Gilpin?”

“I’m a PI, and I’m working a missing persons case. I thought Gilpin might have heard from the guy I’m looking for. Apparently he hasn’t.”

The small man pursed his narrow lips and gestured again to Attila, who came around in front of me. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear; perhaps that is why you have not answered my questions fully. Or perhaps you have not understood me.” The rain was falling harder, and the small man’s voice was nearly lost in the rushing sound of it. My heart was pounding. “I think Goran’s questions would be more clear to you.” Attila smiled hideously at me and made his kissing noise.

I looked at the small man and took a deep breath. “I’m happy to speak with you and maybe answer some questions too- and if you want to answer a few in return, I’ll even spring for the coffee. But lock your freak back in the attic, and let’s do this like civilized people.” Attila’s nostrils flared and his little black eyes got smaller and blacker. He took a step toward me and drew back his fist. He opened his mouth, to roar at me, but I interrupted.

I snapped my umbrella up into his crotch and drove the metal point into his balls. I’m not sure how much damage it did, but it got his attention- long enough for me to hit him twice in the throat with the stiffened fingertips of my right hand. The blows came up from under, from the legs and hips, and with plenty of twist and momentum. He made a retching sound and clawed at his throat, and while he did I pivoted and kicked him hard in the side of the knee. He went down, and his bald head made a wet cracking sound on the pavement.

I stepped back, breathing hard, and was surprised to find I still had my umbrella. The geologist was pointing a big automatic at me, and so was the shark. The small man was shaking his head slowly, and there was a look of weary disappointment on his neat face. He rested a hand on the geologist’s arm and spoke softly in a language I didn’t recognize. The two men lowered their guns and the shark knelt by Attila, who was still on the ground and whose eyes were unfocused. Blood was leaking from his nose. The small man looked at Attila and sighed and shook his head a little more.

“The drugs make Goran excitable and too easily provoked. He is less and less useful.” He looked up at me. “Perhaps you are too easily provoked, as well. Perhaps if I were any less… civilized… you would be dead right now.” I struggled to get my breathing under control and managed a shrug. Between them, the shark and the geologist hoisted Attila to his feet and half walked, half dragged him to the Hummer. They heaved him into the back seat and shut the door and waited by the car. I took another deep breath.

“If you were careful enough to want to talk to me in the first place, I figured you’d be careful enough not to escalate things needlessly. Not before you knew who I was, anyway- and who else might know where I went today.”

He nodded. “That is a great deal of speculation… and risk.”

I shrugged again. “Not that much,” I said, and I smiled a little. “Not with a guy who watches C-SPAN and has such good taste in clothes.”

A whisper of a smile passed across his face. “More than you think, I assure you,” he said.

“You want to have that chat? My offer of coffee stands.”

The small man shook his head. “We will talk here. You said that Gilpin was of no help to you- that he had not heard from your missing person, yes?” I nodded. “And you believed him?” I nodded again. “Gilpin said you threatened him… with certain regulatory agencies.” Another nod. The small man looked at me, silent, waiting for more.

“He wasn’t cooperative at first; I needed some leverage.”

“So, your threats were empty?” It was one of those Do you still beat your wife? questions.

“My feeling about the Feds is that they should earn their pay,” I said. “They don’t need my help and they don’t want it.”

“So you have no reason to speak with Gilpin again or to disturb my business any further?”

“None that I can see.”

“You have no reason,” he said. His soft voice was cold and there was no question in it. I looked at him for a moment and nodded. The faint smile flitted across his face again, and he turned up the collar of his jacket. “So I will not see you again, Mr…” He held out his hand.

I looked at him and shook it. It was like a fistful of cyclone fencing. “March,” I said.

He nodded. “Gromyko.” He zipped his jacket and climbed into the passenger seat of the Hummer. The geologist got behind the wheel and the shark got in back, and they drove down the ramp and out into the rain.

I stood at the top of the ramp for several minutes and let the tension drain away, but my limbs still quivered with loose adrenaline as I walked to my Toyota, and I was edgy and alert. If I hadn’t been, I might have missed the cars that followed me back over the bridge and into Manhattan.

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home