Blues Highway Blues (A Crossroads Thriller Book 1) Read online

  “Get him on his feet,” the Runt ordered.

  Moog reached for Daniel and pulled him up, forcing him to stand on trembling legs that weren’t ready to bear weight. When he wobbled and collapsed, the big man threw an arm around him like a puppeteer working a middle-aged Muppet.

  Filat approached them. “Here’s how this will happen.” Daniel could smell the fresh caviar and stale smoke on the Russian’s breath. “I let you go now.”

  A way out was more than Daniel could have hoped for a heartbeat earlier. “You will?”

  “I’m surprised too,” he said with a shrug. “In old days, I cut belly open, tie guts to railing, and throw you over. Make you human yo-yo.” The Russian’s eyes sparkled at the thought of it. “But for million dollars, I let you go get my money.” That didn’t mean he’d given up on the idea of trying to “rock the cradle” with Daniel’s entrails, but there was no advantage in making that clear now. “Bring it back to me in twenty-four hour.”

  “I will,” Daniel assured him. It was a hard bargain, but a minute earlier he’d been praying just to touch solid ground. Another day, regardless of the price tag attached, was definitely a win. Every-thing else could be worked out moving forward. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Filat flashed the evil smirk that was infamous from Abakan to Zverevo. “You think I let you go alone?” He chuckled at such a ridiculous notion. “No, no. You have traveling companions.”

  He walked over to the Frigidaire-size henchman decked out in the Jamie Dukes suit and patted the man’s unnaturally broad chest with a pet lover’s affection. “You already meet Moog.” Michael Jackson had a chimpanzee. Mike Tyson had a tiger. Filat Preezrakevich had a pet who could beat Champ’s cat to death with that fucking monkey.

  “’Sup.” The big man raised his catcher’s mitt of a hand as good-naturedly as if they’d just made acquaintances at a garden party. Moog was, after all, a businessman, a contractor who got things done—whatever needed getting done. If that meant breaking bones, he snapped them. If blood needed spilling, it flowed by the bucketful. And if some guy needed to be hung over the balcony like Old Glory on the Fourth, then he was a human flagpole. But it was all business; there was no reason to be personally unpleasant.

  Filat circled around behind Daniel and gestured off to the shadows at the far edge of the balcony. “And this one—”

  Daniel hadn’t noticed another man on the patio, but one stepped out of the darkness as he was introduced. “Hola, puta.”

  “This is Señor Jesus Arturo Castillo del Savacar,” Filat announced proudly, pointing at the asesino who was no taller than he was, but whose eyes were considerably crazier. A deep scar ran down his face, from his left temple across his thin, sneering lips, and then over to the right side of his neck. “But his friends and foes call him Rabidoso.” The Russian put his hands on the Mexican’s shoulders. “He came to me from Cártel del Golfo. Like me, his own men tried to kill him because they feared him.”

  He looked proudly at his protégé, like a father passing on the family mantle of murder and mayhem. “If you try to fuck me, he will kill you in a way that when you finally die you will be surprised because you will think you already spent two weeks in hell.” A broad smile spread over the Mexican’s severed lips, pleased that someone appreciated his special skills. “And when he’s done with you,” Filat continued, “he will kill your family. Your friends. Your family’s friends. Your friends’ families.” He checked himself. “There will be a lot of killing. You understand.”

  “Mr. P.,” Moog interrupted hesitantly, looking first at Daniel and then uncomfortably at the Mexican. “I can do this on my own. I don’t need no—”

  “What you need, Moog”—the Russian’s tone was like a rolled-up newspaper across his dog’s nose—“is to do what I say.”

  The big man’s posture was respectful, but it was clear he had something more to say. “It’s just that, you know, I roll alone.”

  “Don’t question me, Moog.” He glared the big man down. “There are reasons I am where I am and you are where you are. I would think after what happened in Costa Mesa you would understand that.”

  “Yes, sir.” Even the big man knew it was the truth. “I was just sayin’—”

  “I have reasons,” Filat snarled, daring him to take issue further. “You don’t need to know the reasons. You just need to do the job.”

  There was more Moog wanted to say, but he held himself to a respectful, resigned nod and a “Yes, sir.”

  Filat turned his attention back to Daniel. “There one more thing we need discuss before you go.” He took an Urso Venice cigar cutter from the left pocket of his robe and a Cohiba Behike from his right. He rolled the cigar between his fingers and listened to the subtle sound of the leaves as he clipped the tip with a surgeon’s precision. “Collateral.”

  Daniel wasn’t sure he understood. “Collateral?”

  “Before you go,” Filat explained as he stalked over to the patio bar to retrieve a glass of Russo-Baltique that was waiting for him there, “you need leave something behind.” He savored a sip of the vodka. “A show of good faith until you return.”

  “Leave something behind?” Daniel wondered if the Russian wanted his watch. Maybe the cash in his pocket. Perhaps the title to his car.

  “Hold him,” the Russian instructed.

  An instant later, Rabidoso was behind Daniel, twisting his left wrist high above his back, using the leverage to force him forward at the waist. Daniel bent in compliance but couldn’t escape the sharp pain that ran up his arm. He tried to resist, to raise a pained objection, but all he could articulate was an anguished “Ahhhhh!” through gritted teeth.

  The Russian stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Daniel’s thinning hair, and lifted his head until he had no choice but to look into his tormentor’s eyes. “Maybe you have million dollars. Maybe this saves your life. Who can say?” The predatory glare in the Russian’s bulging eyes didn’t seem too optimistic about the possibility of salvation. “But anyone who fucks with Filat Preezrakevich pays with flesh and bone and blood!”

  The Russian moved behind him and a second later Daniel felt something slip over his left pinkie. It took a second to process what was happening to the hand held painfully behind his back. The realization came as a flash of pain in his left pinkie, sharper and more intense than anything he’d ever felt before. He screamed out in a voice so loud and feral that it scared him, as if the cry were coming not from his own contorted mouth but from the gaping maw of some tortured demon howling at the endless agony of an eternal flame.

  It had been a nice dramatic touch, but even with its precision-honed blade, an Urso Venice cigar cutter was simply not the tool of choice for the smooth removal of a human digit. With the thin blade wedged into the bone, the Russian struggled to force it completely through the finger, working the steel back and forth. With each failed attempt, Daniel screamed louder and louder, struggling convulsively against Rabidoso as the pint-size assassin fought to maintain his hold. Filat pushed the blade farther into the bone, trying in vain to claim the resistant trophy, but after a dozen tries, even he had to admit stronger measures were needed.

  “Moog.” Filat pointed at his dilemma, and then walked away from it. The big man amiably ambled over and took hold of the mangled mess of steel and bone. With one blow, his giant fist drove the stubborn blade clear through the finger. The severed digit dropped to the ground.

  Rabidoso let go of Daniel, pushing him away and then stepping back quickly as if he was releasing something wild and dangerous and wasn’t sure whether the beast would run off into the underbrush or turn and attack.

  Daniel brought his arm around, cradling the maimed hand like it was something delicate in need of nurturing. “What the fuck!” His wide eyes focused accusingly on the Russian who held the severed finger, considering it curiously. The sheer outrageousness of the act far exceeded the excruciating pain it caused or the fear it should have inspired. “What the fuck!” His
finger. They had taken his finger. “What the fuck!”

  “Don’t be so upset,” Filat advised, pointedly looking at the front of Daniel’s suit pants. “It could be much, much worse.”

  The big man tossed Daniel a bar towel as casually as if a spilled drink had made a little mess in front of him that he might want to wipe up. Daniel wrapped the cloth around his hand as tightly as he could, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. “What the fuck!” Given what had just happened it seemed worth repeating.

  “Now,” Preezrakevich said, ignoring Daniel’s cries of outrage and holding up his hard-won prize, “I will keep this here until you get back.” Then he casually dropped the finger into his drink like it was his garnish of choice and suavely swirled the glass to mix the blood with the vodka like he’d just discovered the hip cocktail du jour. “But if you try to fuck me again.” He stared into Daniel’s eyes, now wide with shock, and then took a deep drink. “You’re dead man.”

  “We’re going to do this nice and simple.” Moog’s voice carried a soft assurance that all of Daniel’s problems could be worked out with just a little cooperation. But his onyx eyes contained the stone-cold promise the problems would just be beginning if there was any confusion.

  Daniel understood and nodded. Without a word, he stood between his two mismatched chaperones, concentrating on nothing more than controlling the bleeding from the stump on his left hand. There were two bar towels wrapped tightly around his hand and another wrapped around them to conceal the blood that had leaked through.

  The three men rode the elevator down to the lobby, silent and with all eyes forward. The car stopped only once. At the forty-third floor, two potbellied conventioneers and two women who were almost certainly not their wives tried to get on.

  As soon as the doors slid open, Rabidoso was there to stop them. “Elevator’s full.” He leered at the more attractive of the working girls. “But I got something you can ride up and down, chica.” He dissolved into hysterical laughter.

  Whether the two men actually saw the pistol tucked in his low-riding jeans or simply had a self-preservation reaction to the inner maniac twinkling in his eyes, they both avoided getting all chivalrous and challenging the little man. Without a word, they pulled their “dates” back from the open door. “We’ll take the next car.”

  The trio rode the rest of the way without any other interruptions.

  Before the doors opened on the lobby, Rabidoso took a knife from his pocket, snapped it open, and pressed it against Daniel’s throat. He expertly used just enough pressure to cause discomfort without actually cutting the tender flesh. “Don’t think you’ll be safe in the crowd,” he warned. “If you try anything out there, I will cut your heart right out of your chest like a tlatoani and hold it over my head for everyone to see.”

  “Hey,” Moog interrupted angrily. “Put that away. I already talked to him.”

  The crazy eyes burned with defiance. “Yeah? Well, I’m talking to him now.”

  “You’re talking to the whole damn world.” Moog pointed to the security camera mounted in a mirrored ball on the roof of the elevator car. “Put the toys away, fool.”

  The tone of Moog’s voice was disrespectful enough that had it been any other man, Rabidoso would have cut him from ear to ear. He wanted to slice the big man too, but he held his blade. He’d been given his orders. And he could wait.

  Before the situation could ferment further, the elevator doors slid open and there were a thousand people milling about the hotel’s lobby and main gaming floor. It seemed surreal to Daniel to be back among the living, and he envied every one of them.

  Moog put a hand on Daniel’s shoulder and steered him forward. “Let’s go.”

  Together the three men headed toward the du Monde’s main doors. It was middle-of-the-day bright along the walk-through corridors and Daniel squinted against the glare. It was painfully loud too. Jackpot bells rang here and sirens sounded over there; winners celebrated their moment of good fortune with cheers and losers groaned as money they couldn’t afford to lose disappeared into the house’s coffers.

  Even for a Saturday night the floor was crowded. High rollers and low riders. Those with money to burn and some with nothing left to lose. They all roamed the carpet looking for luck. And the big man cut a path right through them.

  They’d almost made it to the doors when a voice called out. “Dan! Dan!”

  “Keep walking,” Moog insisted.

  They did, but the voice grew louder and more insistent. “Dan! Dan!” Finally, it couldn’t be ignored any longer without drawing unwanted attention.

  The trio stopped in their tracks and Moog whispered, “Turn around slowly. Make it quick and don’t get cute.”

  “Or I will kill you,” Rabidoso inserted.

  Moog sighed. “I told you I got this.”

  “You don’t tell me noth—”

  Their squabbling was interrupted by a man in his late sixties who was stuffed into a tuxedo he must have purchased when lapels were wide, bowties were fat, and Reagan was president. On his arm was a woman of a similar age who was poured into her gown like a glass of wine into a shot glass: a terrible mess, with too much spilling over everywhere.

  “We thought you were going to walk out on us,” the man said, before exploding into laughter.

  Daniel had met the Ledons twenty-five years earlier, when his first song was just climbing the charts and Larry was already an established booking agent for second-tier talent. They’d never been friends exactly, but they weren’t bad people and they’d always seemed oddly sincere in the superficial cordialness. “I’m sorry, Larry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Larry gave Daniel’s back a hearty slap. “Helen hasn’t listened to me in thirty years.”

  She gave him an “Oh, you!” look and a loving slap on the arm as she joined his laughter—until she noticed the wad of towels wrapped around Daniel’s hand. “Are you all right?” There was genuine concern in her voice, like she planned to do something if he said he wasn’t.

  Daniel squeezed his hand, putting more pressure on the cloth he’d wrapped around it. It hurt. A lot. “I think I will be.”

  “Somebody’s claimed their pound of flesh?” Larry erupted in more laughter, trying in his own way to make the moment less awkward—but failing miserably.

  “Nothing like that.” Daniel was growing afraid he might pass out.

  “I know, I know,” Larry sputtered. He had a last laugh anyway and then abruptly changed the topic. “So, what have you been up to lately?”

  “About sixty-five stories.” Daniel couldn’t resist the line, but it only heightened Moog’s uneasiness and he instantly regretted it.

  The couple stared back blankly, unsure what their response should be. Larry remembered the rumors that had swirled about Daniel’s suicide attempt and understandably thought the comment was referencing the night’s other disaster. “I heard your pilot didn’t sell.” It was an overly kind way of acknowledging that no one at the North American Syndicated Television Trade Show (the “Nasties,” as they were known for good reason) was interested in a sloppy and depressing pilot that had necessarily been retooled as Rock and Roll Relapse. “But there’s no sense in taking the bridge just yet, there’s still the foreign rights.” He offered his best “Keep your chin up, champ!” smile.

  Daniel wondered if there was anything—short of a sixty-five-story drop or an impromptu finger amputation—that hurt as much as well-intentioned pity. “Sure.”

  “We gotta go,” Moog whispered into Daniel’s ear. “Now.”

  Daniel was quick to pass it on to the Ledons. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  “Aw, just one drink,” Larry pleaded. “It’s still dark out.” Another big laugh.

  The guffaws were interrupted by Rabidoso. “Hey, pendejo, why don’t you and the puta stagger back to whatever burdel you snatched her ancient ass from. Esse here has to take a ride with us right now.” When he was finished, his small, gn
arled nose was just six inches from Larry’s bulbous red one.

  The Ledons were, at their core, just a nice couple from Calabasas. They’d never encountered anyone even remotely like Rabidoso before, and so they just stood there, completely unsure of what to do next.

  Daniel offered, “I’m sorry.”

  But before he could say more, the mean little man had given him a sharp push and an even sharper, “Get going or I’ll make you sorry.”

  There was no choice but to turn and walk away, but Daniel looked over his shoulder as he left. The Ledons were still standing there, statue still and mouths agape. With every step he took, Daniel realized he was moving further and further away from the life he’d known before. It made him sad. A little.

  And scared him. A lot.

  “Was that necessary?” Daniel demanded, even though he knew the question would cost him.

  “I’ll tell you what’s necessary,” Rabidoso hissed as he moved for his blade.

  Moog moved even faster and put his big paw on the little man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to tell you again.” He looked up at the security cameras providing complete coverage of every activity on the floor.

  “You’re not going to tell me anything, esse.”

  Without breaking his stride, the man mountain said simply, “Oh, I’m going to tell you this. If Mr. P. doesn’t get his money because you stuck the Music Man here, you’re the one that’s going to get dropped off that balcony.” He looked down at his unwanted partner. “And you can call me Air Moog, ’cause I’m the one that’s gonna slam-dunk your ass down those sixty stories, got it?”

  Rabidoso took his hand from the knife but maintained his defiant posture.

  Moog let him have that.

  At the valet stand, Moog told Daniel, “Have ’em pull your car up.”