Chasing a Blond Moon(24)
Service wondered how much high-test vodka it would take to be over the legal point-one blood alcohol level. “What did your father do in Chicago?”
“I never knew my old man. I grew up on the street with a bunch of Croatians. I was born a wanderer and I ain’t bitchin’.”
Service tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the olive oil.
“I had a consignment for one of the Kunashir animals, but the fuckin’ Russkies got tipped and they play the game rough. By the time all the fingers were gone I figured I’d better make a deal, so I bought my way out. I like the Russians: They got black fucking hearts, but peel the black back and it’s pure green. Which reminds me, information ain’t cheap.”
“Mr. Scaffidi said to remind you that you’re not supposed to shake me down.”
Shatun/Sager laughed. “You’re right, Service. Mr. Scaffidi says it’s on the house, it’s on the house.” He shrugged to let Service know it wasn’t a problem.
“Why are we here?” Service asked, wondering once again what sort of clout Ralph Scaffidi had.
The man held up his hands. “Hey, crossing the border ain’t no picnic these days.”
“You can’t come? Or you choose not to?”
“We’re here, let’s leave it at that.”
Service nodded.
“It’s been said that maybe you’re finding some . . . weird shit among your bear population, am I right?”
“What exactly can you do for me?”
“Who knows? God, maybe. I’m just a retired stiff on a fixed income, but maybe I can give you a name.”
“Telephone books are filled with names.”
“Let’s not joust, Service. I went to Kunashir for a chink named Mao Chan Dung. He’s a major parts dealer on the Siberian–Mongol border. He sent me to the island, said it was a sweet deal, and then the cocksucker set me up.” He held up his hand. “I keep score, know what I mean? You don’t keep score, people take more than some fuckin’ fingers.”
Shatun/Sager took another swig of vodka and popped an olive in his mouth. “I give you a name, maybe you take somebody down, and I get a little payback.”
“We scratch each other’s backs.”
The man held up his glass of vodka. “You tell me what shit’s been going down and we’ll see where a little talk leads us.”
The man was an enigma and Service was having a hard time getting a feel for whether he was real or full of shit. “Last year one of our bear guides found an animal shot, its gall removed. The rest was left to rot.”
“They take a paw?”
“No.”
“When these people take a gall, they usually take a paw with it—to prove freshness. This sells well in Asia,” the man said. “What else you got?”
“We’ve had at least one bear released from a barrel trap and there seem to be rising tensions among some of our less-than-kosher guides who run hounds.” He made a mental note to call the Ketchums on his way to visit with Griff Stinson.
“You got more?”
“A professor from one of our universities was found poisoned by cyanide. The poison was in figs, but we also found two galls in the fig container. The professor was Korean.”
“Born here or an immigrant?”
“Immigrant.”
“Name?”
“Pung Juju Kang.”
“Okay,” he said, pouring more vodka into Service’s glass. “You believe all this stuff is connected?”
“I don’t have any evidence; it’s just a possibility.”
“Right, and the common denominator is bear. Usually you don’t hear shit about bears. They keep to themselves and suddenly people who got interest in bears start some funny business.”
Service nodded.
The man drained his glass in one long swallow and wiped his lips with his napkin. “A man’s gotta honor his hunches. If the money mavens understood just how much stiffs like you and me operated on intuition and hunches, they’d ignore us and hire witches and warlocks.”
“I wasn’t really at the stage where I was looking for help,” Service said. “I have these things, but no evidence.”
“Are you a musician?” the man asked.
“I like music, but I can’t read it.”
“When I was young I loved jazz. I was a tapyor. That’s Russian for tickler.” The man arched his good hand and tapped on the table as if it were a piano. “Hey, I had no talent to play even when I had all my fingers, but jazz took my soul, ya know? You dig jazz?”
“Some of it,” Service said. What the fuck was he talking about and why all this Russian shit? “I thought you were from Chicago.”