Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

Patience, Eddie knew, was the keystone of the surveillance arts. He sat in his Olds until almost midnight, at which point the back door of the M & I opened and a white-coated man loaded five covered trays into the back of the van. Someone locked the door behind him.

The tail was easy. Eddie stayed a block behind the Dodge van, but he could have been on the guy's bumper. No one expects you to follow the food, he thought. They went down Coney Island Avenue to Fort

Hamilton Parkway, where the van stopped at a small frame house that faced the BMT yards and backed up on Greenwood Cemetery. A broad-backed man helped the driver carry the trays into the house. From the way the guy checked out the street, Eddie knew he had the right place.

When the van pulled away, Eddie got out and approached the house. He came at a side angle, trying to see if he could get near a window. The blinds were shut. He didn't know what room or even what floor the game was on. Getting closer wasn't worth the risk. "Trust your instincts," the Priest had always said.

Only one car was parked in the driveway, but five trays of Russian food had just gone in. No doubt this was the game. If Sergei was as sick as Richie Costa had said, he'd be at some game. Gamblers are the worst junkies; they will not rest until they find action. And they can't get their fix on just any corner.

Eddie took a quick drive around the neighborhood. He knew the players would be on their own as far as transportation back to their cars. Most would call for a cab and have it meet them a block or two away, probably New Utrecht Avenue. Chances were good that Sergei would make an early exit on a Friday night. He had to keep tabs on the Eurobar. If he didn't protect his own interests, some snot-nosed bastard would jump right in his shoes.

Eddie sat back, settling in for the long haul. He dismantled the car's interior light, then checked his equipment: rope, tape, and stolen handcuffs. He wore a carpenter's pouch tied around his waist. The Smith & Wesson.38 rested in the small of his back, sitting in a stiff leather holster he'd bought behind police headquarters on Centre Street when Wagner was mayor. He took a sip of the soda bought from the M & I. It had a picture of a tiger on the can, but he had no idea what the flavor was. Maybe cream, but he wouldn't swear to it.

His old partner had hated the waiting. Paulie had always tried to spook the quarry by any means possible. If the Priest were here now, he'd be sending a bouquet of flowers to the door, then an ambulance, or an undertaker. All would be asking for the subject by name. His idea was to make it too uncomfortable for the suspect to stay inside for long. Bad guys were always antsy. Sooner or later, the suspect would bolt, and then he'd be theirs.

It was almost 2:00 a.m. when the first player walked out the door. Eddie focused the binoculars on the doorway, hoping to use the available light. Too tall for Sergei, but light was going to be a problem. The cops today probably had night-vision goggles. They had a lot of advantages today. The cell phone being the biggest, in his opinion.

Technology, however, was no match for luck, and this was Eddie's lucky day. Twenty minutes later, a pissed-off Sergei Zhukov slammed the door behind him. No doubt it was Sergei. The height, the weight, the hairstyle, the waddling walk. A little drunk, but it was him. Eddie let him walk to the corner before he started the Olds.

With his headlights off, Eddie moved to the intersection. He watched Sergei waddle to the next block, going toward New Utrecht. Eddie opened the car door a crack and held it with his left hand. He waited a few beats more, until Sergei was in the middle of the dark stretch opposite the subway yards; then he turned his bright lights on and drove right at him. Sergei glanced over his shoulder, but too late. At thirty miles an hour, Eddie held the door as a battering ram and slammed into the Russian. Briefly airborne, Sergei slammed to the ground, tumbling over. Eddie jumped out, holding the rope in his teeth. Sergei was on his hands and knees. Eddie grabbed his legs and dragged him back until they were both hidden by the Olds; then he rode him until he was flat, facedown. He pulled the stunned Russian's arms behind him and handcuffed him quickly. Eddie took the rope from his teeth and began tying Zhukov's legs, like a rodeo cowboy working against the clock. A car's lights swept over them. Sergei started yelling. Eddie pushed his face to the ground. All he needed was a patrol car; no way his timing could be worse. But it wasn't a cop; it was a taxi, probably looking for Sergei. Eddie yelled, "He's fine, just a little drunk." The taxi pulled away. The lettering on the door said bay ridge limos, not good samaritans, inc.

Eddie took a roll of duct tape from his pocket and ran it one time around Sergei's face, but he held his mouth wide-open and the tape went inside. Eddie kept rolling tape, winding it five or six times around Sergei's head, as if his skull were a maypole. The hard object Eddie thought was a gun in Sergei's pocket turned out to be a pint of vodka. He yanked the Russian to his knees, then to his feet. He wrapped his arms around him and carried him to the back of the Olds, bent him over his open trunk, then stuffed him inside and slammed it shut.

Sergei kicked for the length of time it took Bruce Springsteen to sing "Born in the USA." The more he kicked, the louder the music. Finally, he stopped. Eddie drove to the parking lot in Marine Park, the same park where he and the Priest had killed the crazy bastards who murdered Marvin Rosenfeld and his beautiful wife, Svetlana. He parked at the far end and turned the Olds around to face the entrance. He walked around back and opened the trunk. He didn't need to take out the bulb; Sergei had broken it with his feet.

"Fuck you" was the first thing Sergei said when Eddie took the tape off his mouth. Some skin and a fair amount of black hair came with it. Eddie shoved the old tape in the carpenter's pouch.

"You want my money, take my money," Sergei said. "Stupid fucking American slob. Go ahead, look in my pockets. Ten thousand dollars, more money than you'll make in your stupid fuckin' life. Go ahead, take it."

"Look at me," Eddie said. He waited until he saw the slow recognition cross Sergei's face.

"The cop," he said.

"Not a cop anymore, so it doesn't matter what the hell I do to you."

"Oh, Mr. Tough Cop, look, I'm shaking at your scari-ness. You think you can fucking scare me, American pussy? You don't know shit about me. I'll rip your heart out of your chest and eat it like Big Mac. Untie me, go ahead. If you are a man, go ahead."

"I'll untie you," Eddie said. 'Tell me where my daughter is and I'll untie you."

"Your daughter?" he said. "Your daughter is in Brooklyn."

"How do you know that?"

"I saw her when I fucked her. I fucked her in the ass."

Eddie hit him so hard, the back of Sergei's head dented the metal wheel well. He closed the trunk and walked away, pacing back and forth in the darkened parking lot.

When he opened it again, the Russian was breathing hard, as if he'd run a distance. But he had enough wind to laugh. Eddie hit him again, then pulled back, regretting it. He needed him conscious.

"You can hit no harder than that?" Sergei said. "My mother hits harder than that."

"Where in Brooklyn is my daughter?"

"In my bed. I left her in my bed."

"You're a lying piece of shit," Eddie said as he pulled Sergei's legs out of the trunk. "Tell me where she is."

"Check my dick," he said. "See if your daughter is there."

Eddie took Sergei's wallet, keys, vodka, and cell phone. He stuffed them in the carpenter's pouch. The roll of bills was thicker than Eddie's wrist. Ten grand might be close. He held Sergei's leg away from the car and put the barrel against the Russian's left foot. Once again, he asked him about Kate.