Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“You’re a smart guy. You’ll think of something.”

“You goddamned asshole-”

Joel stopped him with a look. “I meant what I said before. We’re through, Dan. I like Carol, but if I see you again she’s a widow. Now you’ve got ten seconds to get the hell out of here! Ten… nine… eight…”

“Joel, think about what you’re doing!”

“Seven… six…”

“For Chrissakes, we’ve known each other twenty years!”

“Four… Three…”

Dan could tell from the way Joel’s eyes had glazed over that none of that mattered. There was nothing he could say. No way to get through to him.

Putting his arm around Shrini’s shoulder, Dan helped him down the driveway. He knew if he as much as looked back, Joel would shoot him.

Petrenko sat in the back room of a small Italian restaurant on Prince Street. Yuri stood to his right. Across from him sat “Uncle Pete” Stellini. Stellini, close to three hundred pounds and almost as wide as he was tall, was in his sixties with gray hair that had been dyed black and a face as round as the moon. Petrenko had dug around enough to find out that Stellini’s nickname “Uncle” didn’t come from his friendly fatherly appearance, but from when he was younger and doing collections. The story was that when he got his hands on a deadbeat, he’d twist the guy’s arm behind his back and make the guy say “uncle” before he broke it. Three of Stellini’s men now stood behind him, all of them smirking as they stared at Petrenko. They were all out of shape, all carrying at least an extra fifty pounds. Even though Yuri’s gun had been taken before they were brought back to meet Stellini, Petrenko had no doubt that he and Yuri could dispatch all of these Italians if they had to.

“What can I get you?” Stellini offered, a warm smile stretched across his face. “Cappuccino, espresso? I can’t have you sitting there with nothing.”

Stellini ordered one of his men to get Petrenko his drink. “And bring a plate of biscotti,” Stellini said with a wink towards his guest.

“Now, I gotta tell you, I appreciate you coming to talk to us like this,” Stellini said. “You could’ve gone off and done something stupid instead, and Viktor, that wouldn’t have been good for anyone. Now here’s the thing. Forget about what you’ve been seeing on the news. Ray had nothin’ to do with that bank job.”

This was pretty much what Petrenko had expected him to say. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

Stellini maintained a casual, friendly appearance as he looked at Petrenko. Absent-mindedly, he popped a couple of pieces of candy into his mouth. Realizing it, he held a paper bag out to Petrenko. “Chocolate malt balls,” he said. “You want one?”

Petrenko shook his head.

“I dunno, I’m addicted to these things,” Stellini said. “Of all the things I could be eating, it’s gotta be this shit. What are ya gonna do, you know?”

One of the wise guys returned with the espresso and biscotti. Petrenko sipped the espresso slowly, his eyes colder than any rattlesnake’s as he stared at Stellini.

“Now, as I was saying,” Stellini continued, his manner no different than if he had been talking to a long-time acquaintance. “Ray had nothin’ to do with that bank. Those pictures, they’re fake. This is nothin’ but a frame.”

“They look authentic,” Petrenko said.

“You gotta give the FBI credit. They’ve been trying to squeeze Ray for over a year now, trying to get him to turn rat. Ain’t gonna happen. So this bank job goes down and they must’ve got the brilliant idea to manufacture that videotape. They did a fuckin’ nice job with it too. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was Ray myself.”

“So would I.”

Stellini showed a hurt look on his expansive face. “You think I’m lying to you about this?”

Petrenko took a last sip of his espresso before placing the cup on the table. When he looked back up at Stellini there was nothing at all human left in his eyes. “I know the money stolen from me is lost,” he said. “But I need the other items returned.”

“The coglionis on this asshole,” one of the wise guys said. “He’s going to come here and call you a liar.”

Stellini raised a hand to shut the man up. “I don’t think he’s saying that. The guy’s upset, and you know, who can blame him?” Then to Petrenko, “I can’t promise anything, but if you want I can ask around, see if I find anything. How’s that sound?”

Stony-faced, Petrenko asked what this would cost him.

“Twenty grand,” Stellini said. “I’m gonna have to spread some money around, and I’ll be lucky to make a nickel out of this, if you understand what I’m saying. But I wanta do this ’cause I’m happy you came to me first, especially under the circumstances. As I said, I can’t make any promises. Right now I don’t got a fuckin’ clue who did this.”

Petrenko shrugged. “Twenty thousand, okay.”

“Now, as I’m saying, I can’t promise nothin’. But I’ll do the best I can.”

Petrenko leaned back in his chair, his eyes unblinking while he stared at Stellini. “I need those items,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. I heard you. Just don’t expect any miracles.”

“If I don’t get them this way, I will have to try another.”

“I hope that’s not a threat,” Stellini said. He frowned, popped a couple more chocolate malt balls into his mouth. “So far we’ve left you alone, and I gotta tell you, I got friends who ain’t too happy about that. We know you got a nice thing going, but as far as I’m concerned, the world’s big enough for all of us, right? So we’ve been nice and kept out of your business. And now I’m going out of my way to help you out. So a little respect, capisce?”

Petrenko told him curtly that he appreciated his help.

“That’s all I wanted to hear. I’ll try my best to find out who knocked over that bank. When I find out, you’ll find out. And forget about Ray. The FBI, they’re not as smart as they think. Their frame’s not going to hold. A few days, tops, Ray’s gonna be exonerated.”

Petrenko hoped he was right. At that moment he’d give anything to have Raymond Lombardo out of custody and in his hands.

Dan had to drive around the backwoods of New Hampshire for twenty minutes before he found a drug store. After buying aspirin, antiseptic, gauze and bandage tape, he returned to the car to find Shrini with his sneaker off and in the process of removing a blood-filled sock. His friend looked pale and was sweating badly. Resting for a moment, Shrini swallowed a handful of aspirin. Then, moving gingerly, he finished taking off the sock.

The good news: the bullet had gone through his foot and was found rolling around in his sneaker. The bad news: his foot was a mess.

“Ow, ow,” Shrini cried while Dan tried to clean the wound with antiseptic. The bullet had hit Shrini under his ankle and the wound was still bleeding. Since Dan didn’t know what else to do, he pushed some gauze against the wound and wrapped it tight with tape. As he applied pressure, Shrini clenched his teeth hard enough that Dan could hear them grind.

“I am going to kill your friend,” Shrini forced out, tears streaming down his face.

“Come on, don’t talk like that.”

“You are joking, right?”

“We’re not killers.”

“After what he did to me, I will gladly kill him.”

Shrini squeezed his eyes shut. “Ow, ow,” he cried. “I think that bullet broke bones in my foot.”

Dan stared at him, frozen, with no idea what to do. Finally, he started the car. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

For the next half hour the only sound as they drove was Shrini moaning every few minutes.