The man sighed. “I’m from Chicago, sure. Other places, too. They got music in Chicago, right? To understand jazz is to understand investigation—the ability to see and feel what’s underneath the obvious. People who don’t appreciate jazz tend to hear the melody, but they never feel the underlying chords and discordant notes that drive the music, see? When you study jazz you begin to appreciate levels.”
Service understood, but had no interest in discussing the philosophies of investigation.
“You sound like an investigator,” Service said.
“Hey, you’re in a business, what separates the big boys from the jerk-offs? Competitive business intelligence, marketing research and such. We do the same shit, right? Do you know the word maskirovka?” the man asked.
“I think it’s Russian for camouflage,” Service said. He had learned this in the marines.
The man smiled benignly and shook his head slowly. “That’s a definition that equates to listening to the melody. Camouflage comes from the French camoufler, meaning to blind or to veil. Maskirovka is more encompassing. It means deception and entails concealing activities by means of deception, including camouflage, but also including misdirection and misinformation. Maskirovka was at the heart of Soviet defense during the Cold War—hiding from America not so much what they had, but that which they didn’t have. Follow?”
One minute the man sounded like a professor and the next like a chump. “Meaning that you have to listen to what you’re not hearing with as much interest as what you are hearing,” Service said.
Shatun Sager snapped the fingers of his right hand. “Bull’s-eye! You’re a smart guy—just like Mister S says. The people you’re looking for aren’t easy to see. The barest of clues is often all you got to go on—that and the feeling that claws at your guts and makes your balls burn. This is an ancient trade, well organized. You can’t know until you investigate further, but it’s not unusual for the organization to create turmoil as it moves into a new territory—to deflect the attention of competitors and the authorities from its activities. As for its own operations, these are usually quiet and efficient—damn near invisible. These people operate around the world and they’ve learned by trial and error what works and what doesn’t work.”
“Are you telling me there’s a Russian poaching operation here?”
“Russian, Chinese, Korean, fucking Martian—it don’t matter who, get it? They all use the same methods cause they work! Why reinvent the fucking wheel? All I am sayin’ is based on your wimpy evidence, you could have an operation in the early phases here, and it’s now you have the optimal opportunity to intercede. Wait too long and you lose.”
The man refilled his glass and swigged his vodka and pointed a crooked finger at Service. “You, my friend, gotta look at what you’re not seeing and hearing.”
“Feel the chords, not listen to the notes.”
The man held up his glass. “You understand.”
“You have a name for me?”
“There’s this asshole down in Grand Rapids. His name is Irvin Wan. He took the name of the great jigaboo roundball player and he’s known now as Magic Wan. He owns several clubs, is involved in drugs, numbers, skin, all that shit. Makes his dough off human weakness.”
“That’s not much.”
“Wan owns a lodge in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and he’s an avid hunter.”
Service’s logic told him this was unlikely to take him anywhere, but he had no evidence and no other options. “Where’s his camp?”
“Don’t know, but I can ask around if you’re interested.” The man suddenly held up his hands—“on the house for Mr. S, just so we’re clear on that, right?”
“Magic Wan.”
“That’s him. Sleazy little prick.”
“What’re the names of his clubs?”
“The main one is called the Nude Inn. It’s in a burg called Kalamazoo; can you fuckin’ believe that’s a real place and not just a fuckin’ song title from the brown shoe army days?”
“He lives in Grand Rapids, but has a club in Kalamazoo?”
“Right. Skin trade guys sometimes don’t like to stir shit where they live.”
“You obviously want Wan.”
“He works for Mao Chan Dung.”
“You know this or this is a hunch?”
“I make it a point to know shit I need to know.”
“What do you get out of this?”
“Dung likes to open new turf. Asia and Russia suck. Dung set me up and hey, all’s fair, right? But now maybe I get him back where it gets him most—in his bank account. Like Ralph said, it’s our duty as citizens.”