The Wrong Man

54

Traffic was light on my side of the commercial district, given the unofficial holiday of the day after Thanksgiving, plus it was just after four in the afternoon. The sun was close to setting, but among skyscrapers in the city, it was, for all practical purposes, nightfall already. I steered clear of the east and north sides, where the stores were presumably swollen with early Christmas shoppers. I didn’t like to think about Christmas. It reminded me too much of my wife and daughter.

I avoided the expressway on the western border of the commercial district and took side streets south. Sasha Maldonov wouldn’t tell me where she was staying, but she told me where she wanted to meet. She wanted a public place, she said, but not too obvious.

The street was zoned commercial, but the stores weren’t exactly bringing in the early shoppers. The city’s southwest side didn’t attract Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus and Macy’s. This street had consignment stores and payday loan services and convenience shops.

I pulled my SUV into the parking lot of the boarded-up restaurant on the southeast corner. There were no working lights, and by now the sun had set, so visibility was poor. To the east of this building was a big-and-tall store that also advertised secondhand clothing. Its neighbor to the south was another vacant building that used to be a shoe store, I think. But in between the two vacant buildings was an east-west alley.

And standing on the street, next to the alley, was a woman in a long black coat and baseball cap. Sasha Maldonov. Tall, attractive, long dark hair spilling out beneath the cap. She said she’d be in a dark coat and red baseball cap. I couldn’t make out the color of the cap in the dark, but there was no doubt we’d connected.

I nodded to her. She nodded in return and turned down the alley.

I approached the alley with caution. I looked down it before committing. The alley wasn’t a through-and-through; it dead-ended about a hundred feet down. There were garbage dumpsters along the right side and at the far wall. The lighting was poor, provided mainly by a streetlamp across the street. Sasha stood near a door that was part of the now-vacant restaurant. She gave me a curt wave, urging me to get away from the street and farther into the alley.

I kept my approach cautious. I had a tape recorder in my pocket. I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t make it a habit to carry it and lacked the permit to do so. I probably should have stopped home to get my weapon, but I hadn’t.

I passed the garbage dumpsters and got within maybe fifteen feet of her. She seemed apprehensive, and I didn’t want to rush anything.

“Mee-ster Kolareech,” she said to me in a thick accent, as I approached her. “I can be sure you were not followed?”

“I wasn’t followed,” I said, though I wasn’t sure of that fact at all. I raised my hands in a calming gesture. “Tell me how you want to do this.” I took another step toward her.

Then the door next to her burst open. A man stepped out, and Sasha-or whatever her name was-stepped inside, disappearing. Now it was me and this guy, who was wearing a leather jacket and a turtleneck.

And holding a Beretta in his right hand, aimed directly at me.

Then I heard noise behind me. Another guy, similar in look and build, had been hiding behind one of the dumpsters. He had a gun, too. He stepped out behind me. One in front of me, one behind me.

I did a double-take, then something registered with me. These were the two guys from Vic’s who were harassing Tori the night I first met her. The guy in front of me was the one I had clocked and sent to the ice outside.

“We meet again,” he said, giving me a wide smile.

It didn’t make sense. But this was no time for logic games. I had to assess and do it quickly. He was too far away for me to reach him, to kick out or lunge for him. But it seemed like that was my only play here, because of the second guy behind me. There was no way I could turn and run, as goon number two had cut off my exit. My only chance was to charge the first guy and hope that the second guy opened fire on me, missed, and hit his partner. The odds of success were right up there with lightning striking each of them dead simultaneously.

All of these thoughts passed within a second or two. I didn’t have too many more seconds to spare.

“How’s the shoulder?” I asked, to buy some time, at least make him want to say something wise in reply, at which time I could make my move and pray.

“Oh,” he replied, “it’s doing much-what the-”

I started my lunge forward, but his eyes had moved beyond me and then an explosion impacted his right shoulder, followed rapidly by one to his chest that sprayed me with his blood. His gun fell from his hand with the shot to his shoulder. His body collapsed with the chest shot.

Instinctively, I altered my direction from a lunge forward to a dive to the left, hitting the ground hard, pain shooting through my kneecap and confusion reigning in my brain. This didn’t make sense. The second goon shot his partner?

Another shot fired, and then I heard the guy behind me drop, too.

I waited for a count of one or two seconds before I raised my head. Both of them were down. Neither was moving. I got to my feet and realized I had totally fucked my left knee in my dive. I limped over to the first goon, who was dead beyond any doubt. Still, I kicked his weapon far away from him. I dragged myself over to the one who’d been behind me. The bullet had entered his left temple. Presumably, he’d turned to look back toward the street and was shot before he could complete a pivot, much less fire his weapon. His gun had fallen behind him, but I kicked it away, anyway.

I had more questions than ever. But I was unbelievably lucky to be alive, however odd the circumstances. So sore knee and all, I decided not to press my luck any further and got the hell out of there.