Becoming Rain (Burying Water 2)

“Talk to you later.” Rust pulls away without waiting for a response. It isn’t until we’re back on the main road that the Russian slurs escape from under his breath. “Count that. Make sure that shithead didn’t undercut us.”

“You think he would?”

“Vlad was just a pimply-faced little brat when I first met him. Now, look at him. Thinks he’s something special.”

I guess that means yes. “How much should there—”

“Four hundred K.”

I let out a low whistle as I begin thumbing through a stack of hundreds and thousands.

“Andrei gets paid by the buyers on the other side, but Vlad gives me my half up front because my work is done. It’s supposed to be a partnership. But they’ve started shortchanging me, claiming an extra five percent for all the red tape. I think they’re pocketing it.” He scowls. “They’d never try that if Viktor was still in the picture.”

“How well do you know Andrei?”

“He’s been our overseas contact for five years, but he was always Viktor’s contact. A month after Viktor died, he reached out to me, wanting to keep it going.”

“Why didn’t he go to Albert? Aren’t they all—” Do I say it out loud? I settle on, “connected?” Albert was Viktor’s right-hand man, after all. The two of them were attached at the hip. I never sat at a table with Viktor without Albert sitting right next to him.

I sense Rust studying me out of the corner of my eye. Did he really think I hadn’t figured out who they are? “Because this is my network. I’ve spent years building a smart organization. Besides, Albert has his skills, but dealing on the American side . . . this is what I’m good at. All those guys do is bully and threaten, and that doesn’t build solid business relationships.”

“But Vlad doesn’t trust me.” It’s not a question.

“Vlad doesn’t trust anyone.” He sighs. “I just surprised him tonight, is all. Normally it’s Miller and Vlad who exchange the money.”

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Miller’s part of this?”

“Has been for a long time. But you don’t know that. Understand? Not a word about it.”

“You actually trust him to deal with a guy like Vlad? And with this kind of money?” I can’t see Miller and Vlad working well together.

“Yeah, I do, actually, and you’re going to have to bury whatever beef the two of you have and learn to trust him too. You’ll be swapping roles with him when you’re ready, taking over the payday with Vlad while Miller handles your fences. Vlad tends to push Miller around, and I know you’ll be better at handling him.”

I don’t see how that’s possible, but I don’t argue. “How’s Miller feel about this?”

“Miller doesn’t have a choice if he wants to keep making money.” He pauses, as if deciding whether to say more. “He’s got some personal stuff going on. Stuff that motivates him to stick with me and make money. You want Miller on your side, trust me. He’s a good worker and he’s loyal. Another good lesson—keep your doors open but hidden. You never know when someone’s going to prove useful in the future. ”

Jeez. How many hidden doors does Rust have open? Are Tabbs and Zeke in on this? “Look, if I’m in, then you need to fill me in on a few more things. I can’t look like the idiot that Vlad already thinks I am.”

Rust slouches back into his seat, like he’s getting ready for a long drive and a long talk. “What is it that you feel you need to know?”

Where do I start? “How does this all work? How do you get the orders? Who do you phone? What do they do with the cars?”

“Not happy without the whole picture.” Rust grins. “Your deda always said that about me, growing up.”

Question after question begins spinning into my head. I struggle to ground myself on one, to begin. “What was the other delivery you were talking about?”

“A few Lexuses. An Audi. Some Escalades.”

“Chopped?”

Rust’s snort fills the interior. “A forty-thousand-dollar Lexus here will go for almost two hundred thousand dollars in Thailand. And Andrei can sell a sixty-thousand-dollar Mercedes in Moscow like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“Where are you getting them from?”

“Different places.”

“Like . . .”

“Insurance scams. People want out of their leases or they need a chunk of cash. But they’re mostly coming from parking lots and driveways. I put in an order for what I need and down the chain it goes. Depends on the car, really. Something high-end requires some skill and specialty tools. Old-model Civics and whatnot . . . any eighteen-year-old kid will lift it from a driveway for five hundred cash.”

“And the people . . .”

“Bought theft insurance if they’re smart,” he fires back quickly, seemingly unbothered by the same moral twinge pricking the very back of my conscience. “And if they’re driving an eighty-thousand-dollar car and not locking it up in a garage, they’re just asking for it.”

I guess . . .

“It’s the insurance companies that end up paying in the end, and fuck them. I deal with them all the time at RTM. They’re already robbing the general public.”

But insurance companies just pass on the increased costs to the consumers, so, no matter what, it’s the people who pay. I’m sure he must see the hole in his logic. I don’t say that out loud, though. There’s something more important that I need to clear up. “They’re not hurting people to get these cars, are they?” I can’t believe that Rust would have anything to do with that, but . . . I pulled a car seat and stuffed bear out of the extended cab in that red Ford truck back at the storage warehouse. It’s been bothering me ever since.