Last Dance by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-08-21T22:59:26+00:00

Chapter 21

“You disappeared,” says Lily.

“I told you where I was.”

“Yeah, for a day. It’s been four. Nothing.”

“I texted.”

“One text. One.”

Lily is midway through a set of curls. I drop my bag and head for the porch. She follows. She gives me a quick, joyless hug, sits beside me, sweating. I unfold the short version of my Brussels and South Sudan trip. Her anger cools. She wants to hear more about red-dust villages and tribesmen on motorcycles and children dancing around night fires beneath the stars.

“When I was a child, I had a picture book about lions and jungles,” she says. “It was paradise, you know, like Eden. I’d sit in bed at night staring at the pictures, seeing if I could find God hiding with the animals.”

She lingers on God and the funny things children think. She slides closer to me, leans back, and tells me about Jimmy Krause. He keeps a pattern, stays close to Burbank. No friends. He went for a head shave at a barbershop. He watches a lot of TV, walks to the grocery store, eats canned stuff and half gallons of ice cream. He pets passing dogs and keeps a night-light on in his bedroom. Twice, he met a well-dressed big guy with polished shoes at the Burbank bar and at a parking lot in Santa Monica.

“They met near the beach, both of them facing the water—Krause slid over to his passenger side—talking out windows, watching the waves. And the guy? Get this,” says Lily, as if she’d spotted a twenty blowing across a sidewalk, “the guy is Armando Torres. You know who that is? Orlov’s head of security at the studio. Former army captain. Tours in Iraq. Now, he’s in LA looking through tinted wraparounds and driving an Escalade. Beats shooting hajis, I guess.”

“Hajis?”

“Jesus, Carver. Hajis are what our guys over there called Iraqis.”

“That’s racist.”

“It was goddamn war.”

“What are you thinking about Krause?”

“He’s working off-the-books stuff for Torres. Which means he’s doing them for Orlov.”

“You think—”

“No,” she says. “Not his MO. He’s more of a fixer, bouncer type. I’m thinking he was the contact for the two Russian guys who showed up at Katrina’s loft and at the Cubano café in Echo Park to see Levon. Two Russians would need a local. Someone to get them where they need to go. These Russians disappeared, right?”

“Vapors. But why would Orlov bring Krause to his estate? He’d want to keep his distance. Krause is a small-time fence and car thief. Orlov’s a billionaire spy. Why get tangled with a guy like Krause?”

“Maybe Krause has history with Torres. They both did time in Iraq. Band of Brothers kind of shit. Who knows? Besides, Krause might be smarter than we think. Don’t look at me like that. People surprise you. You, if anyone, should know that. I’m liking Krause in this.”

“Too many maybes.”

“It’s something, Carver. A connection. Just like your Zhanna Smirnov.”

“Zhanna’s more Orlov’s league.”

She stands, stretches, tightens her laces.

“I’m going for a run. Coming?”

“I’m tired. Long flights. You go.

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