Theaella

19

The useful thing about TV stations, if you’re a money-laundering murderous thug requiring headquarters, is that they are generally enclosed. The cluster of drab concrete structures—offices, studios, a cafeteria—was protected by barbed-wired chain-link that, like the buildings themselves, had seen better days.

The neighborhood at the edge of Little Armenia was not a nice one. Matthew had plenty of time to absorb it, spending six-plus hours in the seat of his Chevy Malibu. He’d observed the buildings from enough vantages that he could have rendered each in a cubist painting.

The disused property showed signs of having been recently overtaken. Chicken wire sutured up slashes in the rusting fence, and shiny new chains and padlocks secured the access points. A rolling gate protected the driveway and a rear entrance.

Vincent had arrived about an hour ago, tossing a laden Dickensian key ring to a neck-challenged bouncer type at the rear gate. Over the following ten minutes, Vincent’s three compatriots had appeared, easily identifiable in their German sedans and aura of ill-gotten privilege. Matthew had studied them in the Vault and knew well the ugliness that lay beneath the designer suits. The four principals had retired to the front office building, leaving a dozen hired men in charge of operations. The men seemed to be readying the cafeteria for a big event.

It looked like tonight was fight night.

Sure enough, the next hour saw a stream of gamblers pour through the choke points, all men exuding a cagey excitement. Anticipation electrified the air, the promise of blood spilled and money won.

Matthew moved the car once again, sidling up to the curb several blocks distant, the grille angled for a quick getaway. Across the street a group of boys played basketball with a frayed soccer ball and a shopping cart hung on a dumpster as a hoop. A spray-painted tag on the dumpster’s side read AXP, the Armenian Power tag.

These were the streets that Vincent had graduated from.

Matthew got out. An old man with skin the color of mahogany sat in a weather-beaten recliner on his porch, smoking a pipe, a Chihuahua nestled in his lap blanket. As Matthew passed through a sweet drift of tobacco, the man removed the pipe from his mouth and tilted it toward him in greeting. Matthew nodded back.

Nearing the former station, he joined a band of young men crossing the street. Redolent of beer and liberally applied cologne, they chattered excitedly. “—best motherfucking fighters in L.A.—”

“—taking the over-under on Tiger going a full minute—”

They logjammed at the rear entrance, the bouncer types eyeing everyone and shooing them all quickly inside toward the cafeteria. The young men around Matthew held up their cell phones with e-mailed invitations, but the bouncers barely checked them.

Matthew brought up the photo of Ida’s necklace and waved it past the nose of the nearest bouncer, timing it when the man’s attention was split between two other gamblers.

He was ushered through.

As he passed, he brushed up against the bouncer, bump-frisking him. No gun, which confirmed Matthew’s suspicion that they were low-level rented muscle.

A few more bouncers were positioned along the walkway, herding people toward the cafeteria. Matthew could hear a buzz of voices inside, the crowd preparing for the fight.

He walked past the open doors, catching a glimpse of the space. Stacked bleachers framed what looked to be a sunken court in the center. The flooring had been torn up, an arena dug into the earth itself, a street-fighting competition that was literally underground. From the doorway Matthew couldn’t see the bottom of the pit. The bleachers were about a third filled. The rest of the attendants mobbed a betting station formed of folding tables.

Matthew kept on past the open door, turning the corner sharply and backing to the wall when he heard someone approaching. One of the bouncers swept past, carrying a shrink-wrapped block of hundred-dollar bills. That helped fill in the picture of how Vincent generated the huge amounts of cash he’d been laundering.

Once the bouncer’s footsteps faded, Matthew stole to the front office building, where Vincent and his three lieutenants had holed up, conveniently segregated from the others.

There was no guard out front. The door was unlocked. Here in his domain, Vincent the Terror was confident.

As Matthew eased inside, he heard voices in the back. He breezed through the lobby.

In a glass-walled conference room, the four men sat in a row behind a table. An expansive one-way mirror of a window overlooked a concrete path and the cafeteria beyond. Before each man was an old-fashioned phone and an open ledger. They were all on calls, receivers pressed to their faces, scribbling notes, their sleeves cuffed up to display the patterned scars beneath.

The big bets, coming in telephonically.

Before the men, steam misted from comically delicate espresso demitasses. The man on the right end, Raffi, sipped beer from a green bottle.

As Matthew strode through the door, none of them looked up.

Vincent called out, “Are my fighters ready?”

Matthew said, “I’m not sure.”

In concert the four men lifted their heads. In another context the coordinated reaction might have been funny, a disruption at ye olde-fashioned switchboard. Vincent moved the phone slowly away from his face, the person on the other end squawking until he cradled the receiver.

The others followed suit.

Vincent crossed his arms, the cuffed sleeves bulging over his ribboned forearms. “I thought you were my boy Big Papa.”

Matthew said, “He couldn’t make it.”

The phones started up again, ringing at uneven intervals.

Raffi took a slug of Stella Artois. He was the largest of the men, barrel-chested and tall. “Ah. He’s somewhere having his fun? Big Papa’s a dirty dog. Out there humping legs.”

To his left, Serj said, “Or women.”

Yeznig chimed in, “Same difference.”

They chuckled.

But Vincent did not smile. His mouth pouched, wrinkling his lips.

The phones kept on, an unnerving cacophony. In the background a faint rumble came on, the roar of the crowd warming up.

Vincent said, “You here for the fight?”

Matthew said, “Not that fight.”

Vincent’s hand moved beneath the table. The Kydex holster felt cool pressing against Matthew’s appendix through his gray undershirt. His Woolrich button-up hung just loosely enough that no one would be able to tell if he was carrying.