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the enormous majority of the English people are snobs.
—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
COMMUNITY RECREATION PARK,
PARADISE HILLS
1:55 PM PDT
THE ENGLISH GUY informed Mick his name was Gilchrist and that he was head of Lord Alistair Bletchly’s security detail like it was a big frigging deal and Mick should be impressed.
So when Mick said, “Yeah? Who the fuck’s Lord Alistair Bletchly?” the guy got all Euro-trash, a prissy guy without a sense of humor.
“Please,” the English guy said loftily, “let us not waste time. We both know you were following Lord Bletchley.”
“Following my ass. I was out for a drive.”
Mick didn’t give a fuck. What the hell was this old fart in an English accent gonna do, gun or no gun? Nothing, that’s what. Wasn’t like this was Mick’s first rodeo.
The guy saying then, “The sooner you drop the pretense and silly games, the sooner we can all get on with our lives. Now . . . who hired you to follow Lord Bletchly. The Russians? The Germans? The Japanese? Tell me who it was.”
This fucking guy was really starting to piss Mick off.
“Excuse me? I work for me. No Russians, no Krauts and no fucking zips, either.” Mick sighed; speaking of Russians, he had to piss like a Russian racehorse while this daffy old fart wanted to have an international tea party in the back of his limo . . . Frigging English, man . . . Mick saying, “I told you, I’m following this stripper’s got something belongs to me. I track her down to your boss’s party last night, I don’t know, I’m just following the only thing I got. I see the Rolls come out, I figure I’ll follow it a ways, see if maybe she’s in the car and if not, I’m on my way. Then you come jumping out with your guns and your attitudes like you’re cops, which you aren’t or you’d’ve flashed badge, or the mob, which you aren’t or I’d be dead. So there you go, as far as I’m concerned, we’re all caught up and it’s time I start walking back to my car.”
Gilchrist raised his pistol. “Sit back, Mr. Smithidopolous, and relax— we have not finished talking. When we are done, my men will give you a lift back.”
“S’alright,” Mick said, “I can use the walk.” This time, Mick got a pistol in the ribs. “Nice piece— they make that in men’s?”
Mick thought it was pretty funny, but Gilly was unamused. “They make them in Italy and equip them with hollow-points that blow out the back of a man’s skull. Now tell me about the woman.”
Mick considered making a grab for the gun, because the guy was really starting to piss him off and it was a small caliber Mick figured he could take, then thought, What the hell? “C’mon, Gilly, you must know her, she had your boss’s address.”
Gilchrist smiled wanly. “Who is she?”
“Just some dancer’s got something belongs to my boss or might know where I can find it.”
When one of Gilchrist’s men tapped on the window, he said, “Please wait in the car.”
“And if I don’t?”
Gilchrist smiled pleasantly. “One of my men will be shortly wiping your brains from the window.”
“Sure, tough guy.” Mick nodded in the direction of a basketball court and the kids playing hoops. “Silencer or not, they might notice. And I know watching American movies, you might get some strange ideas, but blowing a man’s head off is still a fairly serious crime.”
Again the smile Mick was finding increasingly annoying. “I carry diplomatic papers,. You do realize the implications, yes?”
“Let me guess: you kill me and the cops can’t touch you?” Mick shrugged. “Well lemme tell you something, sport: I’m married to a nymphomaniac who’s bankrupting me one boob-job at a time. I’ve got a boss who’s a homicidal, karaoke-obsessed maniac. And I’ve got a swollen prostate makes me wanna piss 24/7. And you’re threatening to shoot me? Ha ha. Be my guest. In fact, you can even use my gun.”
Gilchrist’s silent uncertainty was priceless and he said nothing until his man tapped on the window again. “Wait here,” he said, climbing out to stand talking with his man.
The way the man gestured at Mick, it got him thinking it might be time to vamoose. Before he could make up his mind, Gilchrist climbed back in and again leveled his pistol at Mick; for the first time, Mick noticed the ring on the man’s finger, heavy and set with a black stone within which floated a golden pyramid. “This woman,” Gilchrist said, “who is she?”
“I told you, some dancer. A Swedish chick named Heidi. Or maybe German. Not entirely sure, now.”
Gilchrist’s gaze lay heavily on Mick, like he was analyzing a new bug. “Tell me, Mr. Smithidopolous, how do you describe your line of work?”
“Businessman. I own a restaurant night-club, the Olympic Palace, down in the Gaslamp, live music on the weekends, nice happy-hour crowd. Why, you need a job?”
“Thank you, but I have a job.”
“As Lordy B’s geriatric bodyguard?”
“I trade in information, Mr. Smithidopolous. And I have just learned you are not being entirely truthful when you say your job-description is a simple night-club owner.”
“What can I say,” Mick said, “you got me. We do catering on the side. You should try our souvlaki— best in the city.”
“You are a captain in the Greek mafia and run a crew for Bivo Papacostas, head of the Hellenos crime family in San Diego. He is also your uncle.”
“More of an older cousin, really. On my mother’s side.”
“You and your cousin are affiliated with the Cyprus Syndicate, a world-wide organization involved in both criminal and non-criminal enterprises and headed by Stelios Constantine, the man Interpol has dubbed the Minister of Death.”
Mick shrugged. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“I suspect your Heidi is actually Mona Alexovna Romanokova, code-name Tatiana-7, an ex-colonel in the Russian army.”
That one caught Mick a little by surprise. “Wait a minute. The stripper Heidi?”
“We believe she planned to gain access to Dr. Ducroix’s research via romance by possibly compromising him through extortion and black-mail. This failed, and Russian intelligence operatives attempted to kidnap Dr. Ducroix and smuggle him to Russia last night.”
“The stripper Heidi my wife calls super bitch? Wow.” Mick shook his head, recalling the Redesigning Humans book in Heidi— or Mona’s— bedroom.
Boy, talk about misjudging a book by its cover.
Mick said, “If you guys knew all this, how come you didn’t stop her?”
“Unfortunately, while we knew elements of the Russian’s plot before last night, we didn’t find out about Romanokova until a short time ago, when a Russian agent broke under enhanced interrogation. We thought we were safe in that your own government had surveillance on Dr. Ducroix. Unfortunately, they ran into some trouble last night that compromised surveillance at a critical juncture.”
“Hard to get good help, ain’t it?” Mick watched a tall black kid weave the court through traffic before laying the ball into the hoop just as smooth as you please. “And you’re telling me this because . . .”
“Because you are about to help me. I assure you, this will solve your problem with Mr. Papacostas.”
“Yeah? And how’s that?”
“Because I have the tape you are looking for.”
That caught Mick by surprise, too. To which he replied, “I call bullshit.”
Gilchrist smiled a cold English smile. “I must say, that is terrible lip-syncing. Like watching a poorly dubbed Japanese monster film.”
Without having seen the tape, Mick thought it might be an accurate description. Of course, he wasn’t gonna admit it to this pompous asshole. “Hey, pal, the fact of the matter is, Beev— Mr. Papacostas— is a great singer. Just so happens on that particular night, the auditions, he had a bad case of bronchitis. So he made due. So what? Just because you’re sick doesn’t mean your dreams get rained on. You know, Beev— Mr. Papacostas— could win American Popstar.”
“Oh come no, surely you don’t believe that.”
Mick shrugged. “Not really, but you never know. You ever seen the drips on that show? Look, he needs a shot and I need him to get his shot—” though it had occurred to Mick on more than one occasion, Bivo getting a shot and losing could give Mick even more people to kill “— so that’s why that tape can’t fall into the wrong hands.” Mick frowned. “How the fuck did you get it?”
“I have my sources, Mr. Smithidopolous. Of course, I will need a favor.”
Of course. In Mick’s line of work, people always needed a favor. The fact Gilchrist was a snaky, oily English prick and thoroughly unwholesome in a sophisticated, yet seedy, kind of way made it that much harder. Still, what was Mick to do?
“What can I say? I’m a captive audience.”
“Indeed.” Gilchrist smiled. “Mr. Smithidopolous, you are going to kill a man tonight.”
Mick laughed . . . Ha ha, I am going to kill you, you pompous English fuck . . . and said, “You’re the one with the fancy gun. You kill him. I got an important karaoke function to attend.”
“Yes, well, my organization can in no way be connected to his killing.” Gilchrist smiled his arrogant English smile, seriously, you had to see this, a total fucking prick, and said, “The man lives in Dallas, in an area called Highland Park. You will board a private jet at Lindbergh Field . . .”
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