Last to Fold by David Duffy

thought. I wedged the melting ice bag against the headrest and leaned against it. The cold felt good. I turned on my laptop, took out my cell phone, and dialed Bernie’s number. He answered on the first ring.
    “Turbo! Where are you?”
    “Hotel parking lot. We had a little scuffle, but everything’s okay now.”
    “What? Are you all right? Have you got Eva? What about the money?”
    At least he asked about me first. “I’m okay. Bump on the head, that’s all. No Eva. Not here. Never was. I searched the whole hotel. I should know about the money in a minute.”
    “What should I tell Rory? And Felix?”
    “I wouldn’t tell them anything yet. Bear with me.” I put down the phone and picked up the laptop. A few clicks of the cursor and a map filled the screen. An arrow pointed to a block in Jersey City, not far from the Holland Tunnel. I picked up the phone.
    “Looks like they didn’t go far. Jersey City. I’m on my way. I’ll call later, but it could be a while.”
    I closed the phone before he could argue, pulled out of the lot, and found my way onto I-78 East. When I was through the tolls and climbing the ramp onto the Pulaski Skyway, I made two more calls. The first was to Foos, with the Jersey City address. I woke him up, but he’s used to that. The second was to Gayeff, a former Soviet Olympic discus thrower. He and his twin brother, Maks, who competed in the shot put, did contract work for the Cheka after they retired from athletics. They now run a numbers operation in Brighton Beach and moonlight as muscle for hire, mainly, I think, because they enjoy it. Gayeff was awake, but I probably interrupted something—he didn’t sound happy to hear from me. He agreed to round up Maks and meet me in an hour.
    When I got to Jersey City, I found a parking place, adjusted what was left of the ice in the bag, and settled in to wait. It was going to be a long night. Not least for the men holed up at 145 Montgomery Street.

 
    CHAPTER 9
    Montgomery Street was in the process of gentrification. About half the three-story brick row houses in the block containing 145 looked like they’d had significant money put into them. The other half did not. Number 145 was in the latter group.
    I’d been there ten minutes when Foos called. “Three apartments. Two tenants have lived there several years—Sanchez and Rodriguez. Third place is empty, or rented off the books, Apartment 1A. Need anything else?”
    “Don’t know yet. I’m waiting for reinforcements.”
    “Track and Field?” His nickname for Gayeff and Maks. He thinks it’s hilarious. “Don’t let those boys get out of hand. I’m going for pizza. Back in twenty.” Foos likes to smoke a little dope from time to time, which invariably gives him the munchies.
    I rested my head against the melting ice, which was having a generally therapeutic effect. At twelve fifty-five, a green Econoline van rolled down the street and pulled into a parking space across from mine. Reinforcements had arrived.
    Gayeff came around to my passenger side and got in. He was a large muscular man who looked every inch a large muscular man. The years away from professional competition hadn’t added any fat. He had a square face, round nose, small eyes, and a buzz cut. When he grinned, as he did now in greeting, pencil-thin lips extended a half inch at either end in a flat line.
    “What’s the deal?” he said.
    “Take a pass by 145. We want apartment 1A, ground floor.”
    “Huh.” He shut the door quietly and walked down the block. A minute later he returned on the other side of the street and climbed back in the car.
    “Can’t tell much. Bars on the windows and air conditioners. Double door, double locked on the front. Apartment’s in the back, on the right. We can do it, but they’ll know we’re coming.”
    “Let’s wait. Anyone comes out who doesn’t look Hispanic, grab him.”
    “Huh.” He went back to the van.
    We didn’t have to wait long. The door opened fifteen