“Maybe,” Lucas said. “I haven’t heard much myself, but a couple of Minneapolis vice cops went on television and claimed that Russian women were turning up as high-end escorts. So there’s that. That’s about all I know about it.”
“Where there’s escorts, there’s fire,” Sherwood said.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, held up a finger to a passing waiter who had not yet mastered the passing waiter’s skill of not seeing fingers, and when he stopped, Lucas said, “We’re gonna need dessert menus.”
When the waiter had gone to get them, he explained to Sherwood that Capslock’s job was to hang out. In that capacity, he knew and was friendly with much of the Minnesota lowlife. “If there are Russian criminals here, he would probably know about it. He might even know them.”
“Thebratvacan be an extension of the Russian intelligence services,” Sherwood said. “They take the money back home, or to Eastern Europe, and they need connections to do that. They do favors. Like round up cars.”
“All right,” Lucas said, looking around. “Where’s that waiter?”
“Could you give Del a call?” Sherwood asked. “I mean, before dessert?”
“I guess.”
“Go do that. I’ll get you a crème brûlée,” Weather said. “Say hello to Del for me.”
• • •
Lucas called DelCapslock, who was sitting in a shithole bar called the Territorial. “Do you know anything about Russians?”
“Well, they’re having a war with the Ukrainians,” Capslock said.
“I mean here in the Cities.”
“I heard one got shot, or shot at, or something like that. You know I don’t do TV.”
“I’m thinking of the guys who might be involved in running hookers, or dope, or doing extortion, that kind of thing. Crooks. Criminals. Assholes. Bratwursts.”
“We don’t allow extortion, but, yeah, there are some Russians involved in the escort business. We’ve talked to some of the escorts and they haven’t been trafficked. They’re here to make some money.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Pretty sure, yeah. These are high-end girls. They’re not locked up in whorehouses. We, I mean, you know, the Minneapolis vice guys, talked to some of the girls privately, told them that there wouldn’t be any come-backs,” Capslock said. “They’ve all got their own bank accounts and they gave up names of former escorts who left the game and moved out to LA or Miami. The vice guys checked with the California CBI, and they took a look. Said the girls were clean. Some of them had straight jobs in the industry. Fairly straight.”
“If we put a pipe wrench on the neck of one of these Russians, you’re saying they wouldn’t have much to give up.”
“Oh…there are some stories about loan-sharking. They might have a finger in that—banking, not street sales. You need to put some pressure?”
“Yeah. The guy who got shot at, that you didn’t see on TV. He’s being hunted by a Russian hit team. They’ve already killed a woman, and we think the local Russians have been cooperating.”
“Let me get a name or two. I’ll call you before you go to bed, if you’re still staying up late.”
“I am.”
• • •
When Lucas gotback to the table, Weather had eaten a slice of his crème brûlée and she and Sherwood were talking about Letty.
“I was telling John that Letty doesn’t want to be in the CIA,” Weather said. She pushed the crème brûlée dish toward him. “I ate one third of your dessert. Maybe a little more than a third. You didn’t need the extra calories anyway.”
Lucas asked Sherwood, “When you got your last divorce, was it because your wife ate your desserts?”
“No, no. She was sleeping with a defensive end for the Washington Redskins,” Sherwood said. “Started when I was in Afghanistan. Guy was a brute. Six-seven, two-thirty. Did the forty in four-six. He could pull the arms off the Statue of Liberty.”
“Eat the dessert,” Weather said to Lucas. “What did Del say?”
“He was at the Territorial,” Lucas said. To Sherwood: “A dive bar. He’ll get me a name or two of the connected Russkis, call me tonight.”
