Levon's Trade Read online

  He was washing up when one of the bikers joined him in the two-sink, two-stall head. The guy was wearing a Jack Daniels t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. It showed off arms covered in tats in a spider web theme. The guy leaned back against the door. No one was coming or going without getting past him first.

  “You a jumper?” The guy nodded at the chute and wings inked on Levon’s forearm.

  “A few times here and there,” Levon said. He leaned back on the sink shelf, making no sign that he was eager to leave.

  “LALO? HALO? Or just enough to qualify?”

  “I’ve seen the stars in the daytime. Best three minutes of my life.”

  “Screaming Eagles,” the guy said and pulled his collar down to show part of a tat of the eagle head of the 101st Airborne.

  “I jumped with them once at Fort Campbell. They mostly stay in the planes these days.”

  “What brings you to Cotton Lake, brother?” the guy said without brotherly warmth.

  “You the official greeter?”

  “Nobody comes here unless they mean to. Nobody stays unless they’re looking for someone.”

  “I don’t know anyone here.”

  “And nobody knows you,” the guy said.

  “You think I’m a cop.”

  “What am I supposed to think?”

  Levon held out his hands. They were big hands on thick wrists and rough with layers of callus.

  “Ever see a cop with hands like that?” Levon said. He’d worked two years of construction with Wiley and Manners before moving into security two months prior.

  “So you’re not looking for someone. But you’re looking for something. Am I wrong?”

  “I’m looking to buy.”

  The guy studied Levon’s eyes, searching for some kind of truth in them. He nodded and took his back off the door.

  “Give it ten minutes and come on out to the picnic tables,” the guy said and left the room.

  23

  * * *

  The scent of spiced pork still hung in the air even after the barrel grill was shut down for the night. The portico was outside of the lake of white glare a single pole lamp created on Hattie’s lot. The only illumination from inside was the glow of a cigarette. Levon took his time walking to the picnic tables, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in light.

  The guy from the men’s room sat at a table with another man and a woman. The other man was an older, heavier biker with a dense beard and brittle gray hair held back with a leather-thonged pony tail. The older guy said something and the woman got up and wobbled back to Hattie’s, carrying longneck empties.

  Levon stood regarding the two men. A scuff of boot soles on gravel behind him. He held his hands out from his side as hands expertly patted him down. They came to the long slide in a pancake holster at the small of his back.

  “That stays where it is, hoss,” Levon said, eyes on the older man who nodded. The hands left him.

  “Sit your ass anywhere,” the older man gestured. A patch on his leather vest read DUTCH.

  Levon straddled the bench across from the older man, keeping one foot outside. The third man, the patdown man, leaned on a table top off to one side. The guy from the men’s room stayed, taking pulls from a Coors longneck.

  “Dougie tells me you want to buy. What are you looking for?” Dutch said.

  “A half pound to start. Price depends on quality. If it’s good I’ll want a lot more.”

  “We’re talking ice, right?”

  “I want anything else I’d be somewhere else.”

  “How’d you hear about us?”

  “Jungle internet. I hear I should go to Cotton Lake if I want to buy weight. My only question is quality,” Levon said.

  “It’s Mexican. You can’t get weight domestic. Too many restrictions on the goods,” Dutch said.

  “That’s been our problem. No supply.”

  “Seven kay for a half pound.”

  “Five kay. We can up it to twelve for a full bag if the shit is what I’m looking for. I can use five pounds a month to start,” Levon said leveling his gaze on Dutch’s eyes.

  Dutch blinked at that. Sixty thousand a month. He smeared his Marlboro out on the scarred table top.

  “You local?” Dutch said.

  “I’m down from up north. Rust belt. Way outside your market.”

  “You come off 75? There’s a Cracker Barrel at the next exit south. Have breakfast there tomorrow.”

  “That’s it?” Levon said.

  “That’s it. Bring the five kay. Don’t worry about the bar tab.”

  And that was goodbye.

  He drove back to 75 and took a room at a Red Roof near the Cracker Barrel.

  The next morning the guy from the men’s room the night before slid into the booth across from him at Cracker Barrel. He plucked a breakfast link off Levon’s plate like they were old pals. Levon gestured to the waitress to fill his friend’s coffee cup. The guy wore a print shirt loose. His hair was road whipped.

  “You got something for me?”

  Levon placed an envelope of bills on the table. The guy took it with a grin for the waitress who loaded up his cup from a carafe. The envelope went under his shirt. The guy took a sip then put a cell phone on the table and slid it to Levon. It was new. A pay-as-you-go burner.

  “That’s it?” Levon said.

  “You’ll get a call then you get your stuff. We don’t know you.”

  “But I know where to find you.”

  “That’s right.” The guy grinned showing missing teeth. He got up and was gone.

  Levon finished his breakfast and paid the check. The cell buzzed as he was walking to his truck. Dutch was on the other end.

  “Your goods are under the front seat of your truck.”

  “This James Bond shit is getting tired.”

  “We’ll get to know each other better. Maybe I’ll let you fuck my sister.”

  “What about the weight we talked about?”

  “If you like the shit we can do that.”

  “When?”

  “You keep the phone Dougie gave you. I’ll call you tomorrow late. Give you time to confirm how outrageous my shit is.”

  “Then we do a serious deal.”

  “We’ll talk then.”

  The phone went dead.

  Levon drove north for Tampa. He pulled off at the exit for Seffner and went into the rest room at a Wawa carrying the Target bag he’d found under the front seat of the Avalanche. In the stall he opened the bag to find a paper envelope containing a sandwich baggie loaded with tiny rocks. They looked like dusty diamonds. He unzipped the bag and dumped the contents in the toilet and flushed.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “Folks see what they want to see. Never let them see what you are. Let them see what they want you to be.”

  24

  * * *

  The doublewide sat at the end of Lockhaven Road. A standalone steel garage building with six bays. A primer-shot Dodge Charger sat on the concrete pad by a pair of Harleys. The place had a view of Cotton Lake off the back deck where Dutch Manklin sat counting out the last of the fifty dollar bills on a granite topped table. Dougie sat with him. They were having coffees brought to them by Rachel, Dutch’s latest old lady. Dutch poured some flavored creamer into his mug and stirred.

  “How can you drink that shit?” Dougie’s nose wrinkled at the smell of faux hazelnuts wafting off the other biker’s mug.

  “You keep up drinking your shit black you wind up with the reflux, brother,” Dutch said while wrapping the stack of Grants with a double strap of rubber band.

  “Think this guy’s for real?” Dougie said.

  “His money is. You told me he went into the Red Roof alone, no reservation. No phone calls. Never talked to anyone.”

  “We don’t know him. This deal could be the set-up. Next time it’s him and an army of staties.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We can’t handle the weight he’s talking about anyway,” Dutch said tak
ing a sip of the milky mess in his mug. It left a frosting on his mustache that he licked away.

  “It’s a lot of money, Dutchie.”

  “It’s a lot of hassle and a lot of heat. Let him deal direct with the Russian. We pick up points off the deal. Ten percent maybe. That’s eleven kay we didn’t have last night without any real exposure.”

  Dutch picked up one of three cell phones he had on the table and punched send then send again. A female voice answered on the other end.

  “Tell Dimi to pick up, bitch.”

  25

  * * *

  The cellphone buzzed and shimmied on the table by the bed waking Levon.

  It was Dutch.

  “You got a meet two days from now. You know Channelside?”

  “Tampa. Where the cruise ships come in.”

  “That’s right, brother. There’s a bar. Upper level. The River Rock. Four o’clock.”

  “I hear you.”

  “But first you have to prove you’re up for the deal. We need to know you’re for real.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Use the cell I gave you. Take a picture of your cash and send it to me. Five minutes.”

  The line went dead.

  Levon got out of bed. Just after midnight. He got the satchel of cash out of the closet of the hotel room. He stripped off the bank bands and dumped it on the bed. He picked up the USA Today still lying where it had been slid under the door that morning. It went on the bed by the cash. He snapped a picture after figuring out the photo function on the phone. Took another for safety then forwarded it to the only number in his send file.

  The cell buzzed seconds later.

  “The newspaper was a nice touch. You like the James Bond shit after all.”

  “I have the cash. Do you have my product?”

  “We’ll talk at Channelside. Bring the cash.”

  “I’m that stupid,” Levon said.

  “It’s a public place. A cruise ship will be loading and off-loading. There’s gonna be assholes off the Carnival Princess everywhere.”

  “Sunday. Channelside. River Rock. At four.”

  The line went dead again.

  26

  * * *

  The moored cruise ship towered over the open-air mall at Channelside. The top decks of it were level with condos on the eighth floor of the buildings facing the deep waters of the turning basin.

  People in cruise-wear were exiting the ship and complaining that Tampa was colder than they anticipated. Channelside Drive was packed with cars heading for the long term parking garages. The cruisebound tourists climbing out of buses and taxis were dressed for Florida winter in layers of sweats. The two crowds, a human estuary of the boarding and debarking, mixed in the mall with idle hours to fill before departure.

  The mall was shuttered, a victim of economic downturn and the collapse of Florida tourism. The landed passengers were left wandering empty halls lined with white-washed storefronts. The food court was on the second level surrounded by shuttered theme bars, a locked up bowling alley and closed multiplex theater. There were tables and chairs under tattered awnings and tiki-style gazebos. The only food and drink available came from cart services that the city allowed to set up in the empty space.

  A stiff wind off the channel sent most of the time-killing tourists off to restaurants within walking distance. Or to the trolley to take them to warm bars and shops in Ybor City ten minutes away. That left most of the tables on the upper level of Channelside empty.

  Levon arrived early. He parked the Avalanche on the first level of the parking tower across the street. He joined the growing crowd of new arrivals and drifted up to the food court and took up a vantage point in the shade of an awning. From there he could watch as two men in leather coats took seats in front of the plywood-covered front of River Rock. The rest of the seats and tables bolted down to the deck were empty. They were both young guys with dark hair and carefully trimmed goatees. Both the kind of guys who spend a lot of time on their appearance. Their wrists flashed with jewelry.

  At the same time they arrived, three other men took up positions around the food court, doing a poor job of appearing to be casual lookie-loos. They got their coats off the same rack as the seated men.

  Each man at the table either spoke on or played with smart phones as they waited. They might have been strangers except that they were dressed like actors auditioning for the same part.

  Levon approached using the milling crowd around the hot dog and pretzel wagons as cover. He was right up on the pair before they noticed him. The younger of the two eyed the Nike bag slung under Levon’s arm. He took a seat across from them, straddling it with one leg free. The bag went out of sight under the table. The younger man stuck out his hand and smiled.

  “They call me Dean,” Dimi Kolisnyk said.

  “Bill Coates,” Levon said.

  The other man didn’t offer his hand or a smile.

  “Cold, yes?” Dimi said hunching his shoulders.

  “It’s the water,” Levon said.

  “Still, warmer than Ohio, yes?” Dimi’s eyes weren’t smiling any more.

  “You ran my plates,” Levon said.

  “We know you are not called Bill Coates. But it is okay. If your money is good you call yourself whatever you like.” Dimi laughed at his great joke. He was alone in his mirth.

  “It’s good.”

  “We see, yes?”

  The other man pulled the Nike bag to a place on the ground between them. He unzipped the bag and pulled aside the t-shirt lying atop the stacks of cash bound with rubber bands. Dimi leaned over to run his fingers through the bundles.

  “We good?” Levon said.

  “Good. Very good.”

  “Where’s my goods?”

  Dimi slid a plastic card with a key atop it over the steel table top.

  “Is in a locker at Gold’s Gym. The one off Waters. You can find it?”

  “I’ll Google it.”

  “Yes. Google it,” Dimi said, amused. “Your stuff is in the locker with this number. The card is a one-day guest pass. Come and go. Stay and work out. Whatever.”

  “What if I want to reach you again?”

  “You use burner that Dutch gave you. He tells me. We set up deal.”

  “He tell you this is a once a month deal?”

  “He told me. You like the shit in locker we do more business.”

  Levon sat regarding Dimi. The tourists moved past like fish in a pool, colorful and slow. Dimi’s lips thinned and eyes narrowed.

  “You leave first. Go back to Ohio. Shovel snow,” Dimi said, no smile. He waggled his fingers in a shooing motion. The other guy smiled for the first time.

  Levon moved away through the crowd for the exit, never looking back. He brushed right by one of the leather jacketed watchers who eyed Levon all the way down to the street.

  He crossed to the parking tower and walked to where the Avalanche was parked. A panel-sided van was parked in the next slot. Levon stopped to turn.

  A flash of light turned his world to an explosion in luminescent white before going black.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “Never let them bind you. Never let them take you to a second place. You won’t like it. You fight like a cornered hound or a treed cat. You never, never, never let them take you somewhere else. Even if you have to die. Believe me when I tell, it’s better to die on your terms than theirs.”

  27

  * * *

  He’d been tazed before. The trick was to go limp early. Possum up.

  His thoughts were coming back together. The muscles in his legs and arms starting to answer to his brain. The burning in the joints was subsiding. The crushing fatigue was still to be overcome.

  Fuck that. Fight through it.

  Levon was in the back of a van and it was moving at speed. Two figures were trying to turn him on his back. Arguing in Ukrainian. He opened his eyes.

  Danny and Van. The blond twins. Danny was pulling Levon�
�s wrists together. He jerked an inch-thick tie-wrap tight around them. Van was crouched at Levon’s feet trying to join two tie-wraps to bind his ankles together.

  Danny was telling Van that he got his done first. Van was bitching that he couldn’t get the two bands to connect.

  Levon brought a knee up and drove the heel of a work boot into Van’s face. A snap of gristle. A spurt of blood. With the same motion he brought his joined hands up to drive deep into Danny’s crotch. He grabbed a double handful and twisted hard. Danny howled.

  Maintaining his death grip on Danny’s genitals, Levon rolled, carrying the now shrieking man with him. Danny was atop him, providing cover. Van was backed against the rear doors of the van, rising to his feet. A hand to his nose to staunch the gout of blood running into his mouth and over his chin.

  The van came to a violent, slewing halt. Levon and Danny, joined by Levon’s grip, went airborne and crashed against the cage mesh separating the rear of the van from the driver’s cab. The driver was unbuckling. Levon head-butted Danny in the mouth. He felt the other man’s jaw separate with a pop. Danny shrieked in his ear with a gush of fresh blood and broken teeth. Levon relaxed his grip on the man’s junk and yanked an automatic from the holster in Danny’s belt.

  More shouting. The driver and Van. A new weight pressed atop Danny and down on Levon under him. Van was in the fight.

  Levon levered the end of the pistol against flesh and pulled the trigger again and again. The weight came off him. Van leaped back crying out, holding both hands to a spreading stain on his thigh. Danny, shuddering, rolled off of Levon leaving him drenched in blood. The van filled with the smell of hot piss.