Bloody London by Reggie Nadelson

“You’re thinking if she didn’t set him up, it was the other way around. He sees the ad, invites her for a chat. It’s her they intend to kill. They get him by mistake?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I thought about the creep in the stairwell. “You think her being Russian’s an issue?”
    He laughed. “You and me, we always think being Russian’s an issue, man, but she wasn’t that kind.”
    For a few minutes, facing forward, walking his tread-mill again, Sonny Lippert ranted freeform. “I resent this, Art, I want it finished. Some teabag asshole named Thomas Pascoe had connections at Gracie Mansion. The Mayor’s office says, Get Sonny Lippert. I tell them I’m busy, I got the Russian mob in Brighton Beach lubricating property deals in the boroughs, I got Russian hoods moving into Manhattan too, investing with Paine Webber, buying art galleries and real estate, the money disappears into the system, it’s legit, we’re fucked. They got white shoe lawyers now, Art, the Russians. And I have to worry about some goddamn Brit gets offed. Any luck with that list of wannabes?”
    â€œI’m working on it.”
    I watched him dry his face, then Sonny drew breath and said, “We got Halloween coming up also. There’s a million people coming into the city in costumes. We’re looking at chaos. I want this stitched up before, otherwise it’s dead. Stay with the program, Artie, OK?”
    â€œYou have enough on your plate, man, you don’t have to take on Halloween,” I said.
    â€œWe’re all taking on Halloween, Art. Every single law enforcement officer in or out of uniform in this town is working it. Me included.” Sonny climbed off his treadmill and threw me a towel. I got off mine and wiped my face.
    â€œThis ain’t just the Russian. Is it? Sonny? What else you looking for from me?”
    Sometimes Sonny Lippert catches me off guard and the old antagonisms get me like heartburn. The obligation, the requirements, the dues – he makes me feel I still owe him. When Sonny was a federal investigator in the Eastern District, he was in charge of nailing the Russian mob; he’s still obsessed.
    After I got to New York – we left Moscow when I was sixteen, spent a few years in Israel – I tried to make a buck as an interpreter, I ended up in Sonny’s office. He helped me get my Green Card, then my citizenship, and a place in the academy. I was a kid, twenty-one, twenty-two. Sonny helped me, so I did stuff for him. He needed a cop who could speak languages; I can do Russian, Hebrew, some French. Everyone in my family’s real nimble at languages, but it’s just a knack, a gimmick.
    So I was Sonny’s cop and we went a lot of rounds over the years, even after he left Brooklyn. For years I figured his ambition ate him from the inside like cancer and left a corrupted shell. But I had been wrong, and after the Chinatown job, we became friends. Still, I see Sonny Lippert wants something, I get a tight feeling in my chest.
    I hung over Sonny; I’m a lot taller. “There’s something else.”
    He said, “You saw the widow.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œShow her your baby blues, man, OK? Show them rich folk your dimples is what I want. It was always yourthing, looking good, talking nice. You don’t hold your utensils like they’re weapons, you got nice suits, you read books. Help me out here, and I’ll see you get paid good.”
    It was a job. I’d do the work, cash the check and walk away. Maybe find the asshole that tried to beat me up for a bonus.
    â€œI don’t do back-room stuff, Sonny. You know that. I don’t con bank clerks into telling me about their clients, I don’t break open people’s mail. I don’t listen in or wear a wire, or use computers, I don’t do your regular PI ruse, you know that, and I’m not going to start.” I felt