Foreign Exchange (The Tony Cassella Mysteries) by Beinhart Larry

Author:Beinhart, Larry [Beinhart, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781453259276
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 2012-06-11T22:00:00+00:00

THE THIRD MAN

I HAD LIED.

The alarm at Hiroshi Tanaka’s office was very simple. There was no number code. The key turned it off. It was a good lie. It did two things for me. If the disc was in the office, I would be alone when I found it, in control of its destiny and value. If it was not there, Mike Hayakawa still owed me one, for being the guy who went in while he stayed safe at the hotel, in the bar, drinking Scotch. He wanted to wait downstairs. I convinced him that it might draw the cops.

I arrived at the office a little after six. I stood in the street and watched the lights go out and saw Helga exit between the stone lesbians who supported the portico. Then I telephoned from the booth on the corner. No one answered. It’s not foolproof. Sometimes switchboards are shut even if someone is in the office. But it’s one more sign.

I went upstairs. I looked, I listened. It was quiet. It was dark. I opened the office door with the set of keys from Tanaka’s apartment in St. Anton, then turned the alarm off. I was inside.

Then the cops grabbed me.

Two of them came through the door. They had flashlights. They had guns. I put my hands up. One shone a light in my face. The other went behind me. He pulled my arms down and put plastic ties around my wrists. They were tight enough to be uncomfortable. Once they were secure, the one in front punched me in the solar plexus. It knocked the wind out of me and I went to my knees, gasping. Then the one behind me kicked me in the ass, knocking me down to the floor. I managed to land on my shoulder instead of my face. They kicked me several more times. But not in the kidneys, testicles, or head. They didn’t want to harm or mar me, just hurt me.

When they stopped, a third man was standing there. He didn’t wear a uniform. He was a big man, heavy, about sixty, and leaned on a cane. “You are a pain in the ass, Cassella,” he said. In English. “You’re smart. I can use that. But you’re stupid, and that’s going to get you hurt.” American English.

“I’m too old for this shit. I’m a father.”

“Take him away. Throw him in the jail,” the third man said in German. His hair was cropped short and shot with gray. It was a tough gray. He knew it.

The two Polizei stood me up.

“What do you want?” I asked him.

“What is it you want, Cassella?”

“What do I want? I want some snow. I want to make a little bread from my Laundromats, without bothering anyone. I want to teach my daughter how to ski. I maybe want to have another baby.”

“Bad answer,” he said.

One of the Polizei whacked me across the back of the thigh with his flashlight. It was four D cells long and at least that heavy.

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