before
one. It was a simple storefront boxed in by a credit union and a discount
linens store. A painting of a young peasant girl, presumably the guajira of the restaurant’s name, was propped in the window.
A tall, slim Cuban guy in a white guayabera and tan slacks
stood outside the restaurant, talking on a cell phone. As Biff approached he
snapped it shut and said, “You must be Andromeda.” He stuck his hand out.
“Hector Hernandez.”
They shook hands, then walked into the tiny storefront.
“Doesn’t look like much, but the food’s better than my mother makes,” Hector
said. “Just don’t tell her that.”
“My lips are sealed,” Biff said. “Until it’s time to eat.”
They ordered platters of ropa vieja and fried
plantains. Biff got a can of Jupina pineapple soda from the cooler, and a Tazo
iced tea for Hector. When they were sitting at a table in the back, waiting for
the food to arrive, Hector said, “So how do you come to be interested in Kiril
Ovetschkin?”
“His wife Douschka ordered some boudoir photos from my
client,” Biff said. “A photographer named Sveta Pshkov. Kiril didn’t like the
pictures, so he came to Sveta demanding the files. Only someone had stolen
them. Sveta hired me to recover them.”
“Douschka,” Hector said, shaking his head. “You know what
she looks like?”
“Haven’t seen the pictures. And I haven’t been able to get
in touch with her.”
The waitress delivered the plates of food and walked away.
Hector inhaled deeply and sighed. “Douschka is beautiful. Any woman in the room
looks like nothing next to her. And she’s not even my type. Honey blonde hair,
skin like peaches and cream, built like a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“I’ve seen Ovetschkin,” Biff said. “He’s a frog, she’s a
princess?”
Hector laughed. “You could say that.” He took a forkful of
beef. “He’s very jealous of her. Imported her from some peasant town in
Russia.”
Biff decided that Hector knew his Cuban food. La Guajira did
a better job than a lot of places he’d eaten in Havana, back in the day. “You
know a guy named Igor Laskin?” he asked, between devouring the tender beef and
the soft, sweet plantains. “I think he works for Ovetschkin.”
“Yeah, he’s Kiril’s go-to guy when anything needs muscle
power. Early thirties, bodybuilder, born in Russia but raised here. Kind of a
loose cannon—he’s heavy into steroids so he gets that roid rage sometimes. He’s
beat up a couple of guys, but we can never get anyone to testify against him.”
“Ambitious?” Biff asked.
“You bet. I don’t think he has the brains to be a boss,
though. He’s strictly muscle, in my opinion. What do you know about him?”
“I think he stole the digital originals of the photos. I’m
trying to figure out why. You think maybe he has a thing for Douschka?”
“Haven’t seen it,” Hector said, shaking his head. He speared
a rogue plantain that tried to jump off his plate. “That’s all this is about?
Stolen pictures?”
“I was tracking the pictures last night and I overheard a
conversation. At the Marouschka in Hallandale Beach.” He paused. “About a shipment
of AK-47s coming in through Customs in Miami.”
Hector put his fork down. “And you heard what, exactly?”
Biff repeated the conversation. “Sound familiar to you?”
“It’s another piece of the puzzle,” Hector said. “One of the
Customs guys is named Fiorentino, and he had a heart attack yesterday. From
what you’re saying it sounds like he might be on Ovetschkin’s payroll.”
He pulled out a pad and made a couple of notes. “Thanks for
the tip,” he said, when he was finished. “And for lunch.” He smiled.
“My pleasure.”
Hector pushed his empty plate away from him and drained the
last iced tea from the bottle.
“I’m inclined to think Douschka didn’t order those photos
to give to Kiril. And that’s why he’s so eager to get the originals and destroy
them.”
“She
one. It was a simple storefront boxed in by a credit union and a discount
linens store. A painting of a young peasant girl, presumably the guajira of the restaurant’s name, was propped in the window.
A tall, slim Cuban guy in a white guayabera and tan slacks
stood outside the restaurant, talking on a cell phone. As Biff approached he
snapped it shut and said, “You must be Andromeda.” He stuck his hand out.
“Hector Hernandez.”
They shook hands, then walked into the tiny storefront.
“Doesn’t look like much, but the food’s better than my mother makes,” Hector
said. “Just don’t tell her that.”
“My lips are sealed,” Biff said. “Until it’s time to eat.”
They ordered platters of ropa vieja and fried
plantains. Biff got a can of Jupina pineapple soda from the cooler, and a Tazo
iced tea for Hector. When they were sitting at a table in the back, waiting for
the food to arrive, Hector said, “So how do you come to be interested in Kiril
Ovetschkin?”
“His wife Douschka ordered some boudoir photos from my
client,” Biff said. “A photographer named Sveta Pshkov. Kiril didn’t like the
pictures, so he came to Sveta demanding the files. Only someone had stolen
them. Sveta hired me to recover them.”
“Douschka,” Hector said, shaking his head. “You know what
she looks like?”
“Haven’t seen the pictures. And I haven’t been able to get
in touch with her.”
The waitress delivered the plates of food and walked away.
Hector inhaled deeply and sighed. “Douschka is beautiful. Any woman in the room
looks like nothing next to her. And she’s not even my type. Honey blonde hair,
skin like peaches and cream, built like a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“I’ve seen Ovetschkin,” Biff said. “He’s a frog, she’s a
princess?”
Hector laughed. “You could say that.” He took a forkful of
beef. “He’s very jealous of her. Imported her from some peasant town in
Russia.”
Biff decided that Hector knew his Cuban food. La Guajira did
a better job than a lot of places he’d eaten in Havana, back in the day. “You
know a guy named Igor Laskin?” he asked, between devouring the tender beef and
the soft, sweet plantains. “I think he works for Ovetschkin.”
“Yeah, he’s Kiril’s go-to guy when anything needs muscle
power. Early thirties, bodybuilder, born in Russia but raised here. Kind of a
loose cannon—he’s heavy into steroids so he gets that roid rage sometimes. He’s
beat up a couple of guys, but we can never get anyone to testify against him.”
“Ambitious?” Biff asked.
“You bet. I don’t think he has the brains to be a boss,
though. He’s strictly muscle, in my opinion. What do you know about him?”
“I think he stole the digital originals of the photos. I’m
trying to figure out why. You think maybe he has a thing for Douschka?”
“Haven’t seen it,” Hector said, shaking his head. He speared
a rogue plantain that tried to jump off his plate. “That’s all this is about?
Stolen pictures?”
“I was tracking the pictures last night and I overheard a
conversation. At the Marouschka in Hallandale Beach.” He paused. “About a shipment
of AK-47s coming in through Customs in Miami.”
Hector put his fork down. “And you heard what, exactly?”
Biff repeated the conversation. “Sound familiar to you?”
“It’s another piece of the puzzle,” Hector said. “One of the
Customs guys is named Fiorentino, and he had a heart attack yesterday. From
what you’re saying it sounds like he might be on Ovetschkin’s payroll.”
He pulled out a pad and made a couple of notes. “Thanks for
the tip,” he said, when he was finished. “And for lunch.” He smiled.
“My pleasure.”
Hector pushed his empty plate away from him and drained the
last iced tea from the bottle.
“I’m inclined to think Douschka didn’t order those photos
to give to Kiril. And that’s why he’s so eager to get the originals and destroy
them.”
“She
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