The Flower Man Read online

  Grabbing the two already loaded magazines also duct-taped to the underside of the kitchen sink, I load one into the grip of the semi-automatic and store the other in my jacket pocket. Shoving the barrel of the pistol into my pant waist, I leave the houseboat, careful to lock the door behind me.

  I feel like I’m living in a fishbowl on the short walk back to my car. Like I’m being watched. I look over one shoulder, then the other across the vast plain of parking lot that once upon a time would have been filled with vehicles of all varieties. The vehicles would have belonged to the men who worked the big ships docked here for a time before sailing on to the Saint Lawrence Seaway or down to New York City. Big men with powerful chests, arms, and legs. The docks are mostly abandoned aside from a few tin-sided buildings. My friend and fellow member of Detective Miller’s gang of Professionals, Dick Moonlight, lives in one those abandoned buildings, which he’s converted into both an office and studio apartment. We both pretty much keep to ourselves, but sometimes I’ll knock on his door with a six pack which we’ll polish off on the dock, the sound of the river waves lapping up against the old pier and the caw-cawing of seagulls swooping down into the river for fish that rise to the surface.

  Terry’s been shot!

  It hits me like I hadn’t really understood it when I answered the phone. I get inside the car, fire her up, speed across the lot toward Broadway, my eyes shifting from the road to the rearview, always conscious that I’m being watched. The questions speed through my brain like electric pulses. Has Janice called 911? She must have called 911. I didn’t tell her to call 911, but do I fucking need to remind her of something so simple, so basic, so necessary?

  Or maybe he’s not badly hit. Oh Christ, I just need to get there. If Miller finds out I wasn’t on site like I was supposed to be when Terry took a bullet it will be my ass that pays the price. But then, Miller knows I’m not on site. I just spoke with him a few minutes ago, after all.

  One thing is for certain, the Russian mobster means business. Death threats and rose heads are not the only things he’s using as an intimidation tactic. Now he’s using real bullets. Now’s the time when things will get their most dangerous. Now’s a time when people could very well start dying. And to think it’s all attributable to Terry McGovern’s itchy dick.

  The first thing I notice when I pull up to the McGovern residence is that no cop cars or EMT vans occupy the driveway, the neighborhood road, or the lawn. So, that answers my question. I guess the only way someone is going to call 911 is if I tell them to call 911. Maybe Janice has had one too many 76ers. Jesus, why the hell did Terry call Miller in on this thing in the first place if he can’t trust in the police?

  I park not in the drive, but out on the street, just in case the cops and the emergency service professionals have in fact been alerted and just haven’t yet arrived.

  Killing the engine, I grab my computer, get out, listen for the sound of sirens. I hear nothing. I go to the front door, ring the doorbell, knock. Impatient, I try the opener. It’s not locked. What the fuck? These people have been threatened with their lives, Mr. TV is supposedly shot, and the fucking front door is unlocked.

  I step into the vestibule, my hard-soled shoes clop on the rough wood planking like a cowboy-booted cowpoke who’s just entered a saloon after a long trip on the dusty trail.

  “Janice!” I call out. “Terry!”

  I listen for a response. When I don’t get one right away, I feel my mouth go dry, my pulse picks up speed. But then, a voice.

  “Jobz, is that you?” It’s Janice. “We’re in here.”

  Immediately, I make my way across the vestibule along the narrow corridor that connects to the big kitchen. To the right-hand side, beyond the kitchen is a family room. There’s a big couch set up in front of a gas-powered fireplace with a big HD TV mounted on the wall above it. The local FOX news is on, but the sound has been muted.

  Terry is seated on the couch, and Janice is sitting close beside him. She’s doing something to his left arm.

  “What’s this about Terry being shot?” I say, setting my computer onto the kitchen table. “Why aren’t the police here? The EMTs? Maybe I should call in Detective Miller.”

  “No more fucking cops!” Terry barks.

  His reaction takes me by complete surprise because I didn’t think Mr. TV was capable of snapping or showing anger of any kind. He’s always on, so to speak. You know, always on camera. He was always Terry “Good evening and here’s tonight’s news” McGovern. He’s a rock. A pillar of the community. The voice of calm in a turbulent hurricane of stabbings, rapes, suicides, car wrecks, snowstorms, and homicides. He never took sides in political firestorms, and he always closed out his nightly news broadcast with a bit of “Terry’s good news.” Like the birth of a baby panda at the local zoo, for instance. Or a handicapped child who could walk for the first time with the use of a brand-new pair of braces donated by the VFW. Or a soldier who arrived home on Christmas Eve unannounced from a tour in Afghanistan only to surprise his wife and infant son. And only after the good news would Terry stare directly into the camera, and therefore into tens of thousands of viewer’s eyes and declare, “And that’s the way it is.” It wasn’t quite Cronkite, but then, it wasn’t Howdy Doody either. Like St. Peter, Terry McGovern was the rock of knowledge we all relied on. Now, the cathedral he’d built in Albany was about to come crumbling down.

  “What the hell is happening here?” I say, entering the big white kitchen. I get a good look at Terry’s arm. “That’s what you call a bullet wound?”

  The t-shirt sleeve on his left upper arm has been punctured, and spots of blood stain it. The skin beneath it looks like it’s been badly scratched. Like he rubbed it against a piece of glass or aluminum.

  “Bullet grazed me,” he says. “Another inch and I’d be bleeding out.”

  Janice pats the wound with a thick chunk of cotton that’s been dabbed in alcohol. That is, judging by the brown bottle of alcohol on the coffee table.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Janice looks up at me. “After you left, we reconvened in the living room. We poured a couple more 76ers. Suddenly, a black sedan pulled up outside the house. It made us nervous enough that Terry got up, went to the window. That’s when the passenger side window on the sedan went down, and gunshots rang out. The window shattered, and a bullet grazed Terry’s arm.” She begins to tear up. “I thought he was shot in the chest, he screamed so loudly.”

  “Now, now, Janice,” Terry says, as though trying to calm her down, “I didn’t scream. I was just startled is all, and my arm felt like a cat had clawed it. A very big cat.”

  The black sedan. It must have headed directly back here after personally delivering me the decapitated rose head message. I immediately relay the news to my new employers.

  “A rose head?” Terry says, touching his wound with his fingers. “Why would they do something like that?”

  “It’s a message,” Janice says. “A warning.”

  I pull out the rose head, hold it in the palm of my hand for all to see.

  “Exactly,” I say, thumbing the now loose, velvety petals. “I told Miller about it, and he said the same thing. Some Russian mobsters use a severed rose head to intimidate their enemies.”

  Terry is wincing at the touch of his fingers against the wound.

  “You’d better get a dressing on that, Terry,” I say. Then, staring at the broken window. “And a repairman for the glass.”

  “Glass man is on his way,” Terry says.

  “Come on, patient,” Janice says. “Let’s go back into the family room.”

  We head back through the kitchen and down the single step into the family room. Terry seats himself on the couch while Janice places gauze onto the wound which she secures with two long strips of surgical tape.

  “Let me ask you both something,” I say. “I had the plates on the sedan traced. My contact tells me it belongs to a florist or series of florist shops apparently owned by a Russian
immigrant. Does any of that ring a bell to you two?”

  Janice and Terry gaze at one another. Their locked eyes tell me the mention of a Russian florist most definitely rings a bell if not a series of bells. Deafening bells.

  “I’d better pour another drink,” Janice says.

  “Make that two,” Terry says.

  “What the hell,” I say. “Make it three.”

  Janice mixes a second batch of 76ers, and we take them with us into the kitchen. Terry and I sit at the kitchen table while Janice prepares a late lunch of grilled salmon over fresh mashed potatoes. You know, something simple.

  “Here’s the short of it,” Terry says. “Janice, as you can tell, is into her horticulture. She likes to provide the flowers for all the country club and bridge club events.”

  “I also grow my own flowers,” she interjects while placing the fish onto the seering skillet. “I have a wonderful arboretum out back. You must take a look after lunch, Steve.”

  Gee whiz, an arboretum. And to think I initially assumed Janice had nothing going on upstairs in that pretty head of hers.

  “Looking forward,” I say, taking a quick sip of my drink. Then, eyes back on Terry. “So, what’s a Russian florist got to do with someone taking a pop at you today?”

  “Like I said, Janice is big into her flowers. She’s been buying exclusively from a man named Anatoly who owns a chain of shops located in several strip malls across Albany County. He also has a stand-alone shop off Central Ave. in the heart of the city.”

  “The Flower Man,” Janice interjects, while setting a plate of fish in front of me, and then another in front of Terry.

  “The Flower Man,” I say.

  “Big, gruff, barrel-chested man, always dresses in black. Speaks perfect English but heavily accented. His whole family, at least the ones who immigrated to the US, work in the business. You’ve probably seen their trucks coming and going, but never took much notice.”

  “The Flower Man is the name of their business,” Janice says, setting down her own plate, seating herself in front of it. “Anatoly had been very good to me. Offering me major discounts, even allowing me access to their workshop to create wonderful bouquets and floral arrangements. Sometimes, he would offer free products.” Shaking her head, picking off a small piece of salmon and mashed potatoes, popping it into her mouth. “It had been a wonderful relationship.”

  “You’re using a lot of past tense had beens,” I point out. “So, what happened?”

  She sets down her fork in a manner that suggests the gesture in itself is a statement.

  “My wonderful husband here,” she says, eyes not on her husband, but tearing into him like two heated lasers, “the most trusted man in all of Albany, sent a text picture of his erect penis to Anatoly’s daughter.”

  I stare at my fish. It reminds me of an old Italian saying about sleeping with the fishes. My eyes shift to Terry. Suddenly his face goes from anxious and in pain to bright and ready-for-prime-time-TV.

  “Well, that’s never been proven, darling,” he announces like a headline. “Which is why I’ve engaged in a lawsuit with Natalia so that she might retract her accusation.”

  I recall Kate informing me that the commercial plates on the black sedan belonged to Tsvesty Enterprises. My guess is Tsvesty is the name of The Flower Man’s parent company, which means he likely owns several different types of businesses. Flowers are not what concern me right now, however.

  I eat a piece of the salmon along with some of the mashed potatoes. The potatoes are real. Not like the boxed mixed-with-water ones my mother used to make. It’s very good. Janice can mix drinks, grow a forest, and cook. And like I said, she’s kind of hot for a middle-aged lady. A real cougar. What the hell is wrong with Terry? Why does he always feel the need to screw around?

  Something dawns on me. A legal issue. I’m not sure I should bring it up at the lunch table, but since we’re on the subject anyway.

  “Ummm, Terry,” I say, in as soft and non-threatening a voice I can muster, “why did you decide to sue only Natalia and not the entire TV station? After all, they’re the ones who placed you on probation and unpaid leave. Seems to me, if they supported you, then Natalia’s accusation would have been considered a whole bunch of hot air. And stinky air at that.”

  Of course, I knew the answer to my own question, but I wanted to hear what he had to say about it.

  “It’s not the station I’m concerned about,” he says, staring down into his still untouched food. “They’re not the ones who accused me, and I’m loyal to my employers.”

  I clear my throat, wipe my mouth with the cloth napkin set neatly in my lap.

  “Could it be because you really did send Natalia pictures of your, ummm, sex organ?”

  The entire house is suddenly draped in a black blanket of sorrow and silence. The only sound that can be heard is the refrigerator motor sparking on.

  “I already told you what he did,” Janice says. “Terry’s history with a camera goes a hell of a lot farther back before the introduction of the smartphone, doesn’t it dear? Remember your fondness for Super-8 film? You know, like the portable cameras from the 1960s.”

  Terry’s red face looks as if it’s about to explode like an overripe grape. He grabs hold of Janice’s arm. The gesture is meant not to shut her up. Rather, shut her the fuck up.

  “Whose side are you on, Mr. Jobz?” he questions, his wide eyes back on me.

  Janice’s eyes are filling again. A single tear streams down her cheek.

  “He’s on your side, you buffoon,” she says to her husband. “What he’s getting at is this: if you’d sued the TV station, they would have lawyered up and buried you. Why? Because you most certainly did send the pictures of your cock to that poor girl. And now we’re getting death threats from a man who used to be my friend. Christ, he’s shooting at us. Or his people are shooting at us anyway.”

  More weighted silence. Until Terry pushes his chair from the table, gets up.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” he says. “It’s been a long morning and early afternoon. I believe I need to take a nap.”

  Turning, he slowly walks out of the kitchen, into the Old West vestibule, and up the stairs to the second-floor bedrooms. The sound of his heavy footsteps on the treads remind me of a condemned man.

  “How do you like your fish, Steve?” Janice says after a few beats. She wipes her eyes, stares down at her plate.

  “It’s delicious,” I say. “I guess I ruined everyone’s appetite.”

  “Mine’s been gone for years,” she says, getting up from the table, carrying her plate to the counter and dropping it into the sink.

  The doorbell chimes.

  Instinct takes over. I pull my semi-automatic from my pant waist.

  “Where the hell did you get that?” Janice begs.

  “You want protection, don’t you?”

  “What if it’s a Jehovah’s Witness or the mailman?” she asks. “You gonna shoot them? Get us into even more trouble?”

  “You stay here,” I say. “I’ll get the door.”

  I head into the vestibule. A commotion from above. Terry. He appears at the top of the stairs, his face looking a little groggy from sleep or attempted sleep anyway.

  “Who’s there?” he asks.

  “I’m assuming it’s the glass man,” I say.

  “Is that a gun?”

  “It’s protection,” I say. “After what you’ve been through today, you should be happy to see it.”

  I glance through the little peephole embedded into the door to the right side of the opaque glass panel. I see a Ford extended van parked in the driveway with bold writing on the vehicle’s side panels. It reads, “Gary the Glass Man.” Poetic.

  The man at the door is short but built like a bulldog with husky shoulders, a barrel chest, and a face that hasn’t seen a razor in a few days. Hair thick and black. I peg him for maybe thirty-four or thirty-five, but the gray mechanic’s overalls he’s wearing somehow make him appear o
lder. Shoving the barrel of the piece in my waist and covering it with my jacket, I unlock the deadbolt. But before opening the door, I turn to Terry.

  “Get outta sight, Terry,” I insist. “Better I handle this on my own.”

  He nods, heads back to his bedroom.

  I open the door. “Can I help you?”

  “You called for glass repair?” he says in his husky voice. A voice perfectly suited for his body.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” I say. “Come on in.”

  He glances down at the ‘Go Away’ welcome mat.

  “Sure I’m welcome here?” he grins.

  “Somebody’s idea of a joke,” I say. “You can pick one up for yourself at Target.”

  He steps inside. “Jeeze,” he says, looking around. “Feel like I’m on the set of Bonanza.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, “it does have that ambiance doesn’t it, Little Joe?”

  “Good one,” he snickers, looking me up and down. “You’re not exactly a pro basketball player yourself.” Then, “So, where am I going?”

  “Follow me.”

  I lead him into the living room, bring him to the window. He takes a knee, feels around the golf ball-sized hole and the cracked glass that spider webs out of it as if he were a surgeon sizing up a man’s brain tumor.