Crime fiction Friday: The Promised Land Part 3 (preview/full story Patreon only)

That’s  right–on Fridays I’ll feature crime FICTION written by Yours Truly or  by other guests, but inspired by true events. In this case… pleased to  introduce Kaspars the Latvian official/detective–a somewhat jaded ex-cop  just two days on the job who stumbles, literally, into a human  trafficking case against the background never ending spy games on the  border with Russia.

As if it were that simple.

[Note:  This was first published under the title “Corruption Verite” in the  Fractus Europa European crime anthology published by Dunn Books,  although this version has the author’s (as in Yours Truly’s) preferred  ending. For more stories, check out the full anthology, available on  Amazon through Kindle.]

***

The Promised Land (Part 3)

Other title: Corruption Verite

***

Ojars hit the A8 talking a mile a minute. Kaspars swigged from a flask, utterly failing to hold off both a migraine and fatigue—and astounded by the clerk’s aggressive driving and questions to match.

“You knew his head of security, didn’t you? A famous detective like you, I could see it.”

A sip of vodka. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Then he lied to you. Said he’d never met you before.”

“I told you I’m not so sure. Lots of Igors in this world.”

“Igors. Yes, yes, many Igors.” Ojars eyes were as wide as his lenses were thick. The way he arched his spindly frame over the wheel left Kaspars wondering whether the clerk could see anything at all. “Yes, definitely too many Igors for my taste. Do you know how many stateless we have now?”

Lord, thought Kaspars. An egghead racist. All he needed in a chauffeur.

“Do you mean stateless persons or Russian stateless in Latvia?”

“Russians in Latvia, what did you think? What do I care about Africans or raghead terrorists?”

Another swig of vodka. Great. Nothing to do but go along. “Approximately four-hundred thousand.”

Ojars was incredulous. “Phenomenal! I did not expect you to know that. But can you imagine? Four-hundred thousand ethnic Russians without a Latvian or Russian passport in this tiny, impoverished country. Four-hundred thousand without any nationality at all. Rather hard to believe, no?”

A third swig of vodka. His holster and pistol uncomfortable and unnecessary and poking against his kidney. Kaspars leaned forward, lowered a gimpy shoulder and in the morbid aches and pains of premature aging removed both pistol and holster, shoving both into the glove compartment. Ojars either did not care or was not inclined to cut the babble if he did. Kaspars considered that for most of his life he had waited for people to surprise him, and they oh-so-rarely did. Yet here he was, the unsurprisingly racist, academic Ojars swerving out of the city, banging Kaspars’ bad shoulder into the side door as he plunged the fifteen-year-old Mercedes into yet another endless forest.

Ojars babbled on. Latvia and the Corruption Index. Number forty, but not so bad. Just ahead of Rwanda—only fifty-eight percent of Latvians seeing police and customs as corrupt. On the straightaway Kaspars put his forehead to the passenger side window, wondered if maybe God would save him and allow Ojars to strike a moose—then remembered Russian mafia collectors beating and cajoling witnesses in Riga; how these were invariably stateless Russians, a minority far more abused by fellow gang members than by “the system” or police.

“I believe it,” said Kaspars.

Ojars had gone geek-escatic. “Wait—what do you mean? Do you mean what I said about highway corruption? Tenders?”

“Stateless Russians. I stopped listening after that.”

“Ah! Aha! Do you agree? Do you indeed? And such a cynical voice! You’ve seen much, my friend. Oh yes, you’ve lived the real life. No doubt about that.”

No doubt about that. Kaspars remembered his wife. Make that his ex-wife. His daughters Anna and Inese. What were they now? Anna was fifteen. But Inese? Nine or ten? Kaspars rubbed his temples. He was tempted to drink the rest of the flask in one gulp.

And despite himself, he said: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh don’t play coy, detective. We’re all friends here. And everyone talks about it. You and the bank. How many millions passed through it, and suddenly out of nowhere there you are. Some unknown cop, right smack dab in the middle of the case.”

Kaspars came slowly off the window to give Ojars the most menacing grimace of his life.

Entirely nonplussed, Ojars waved a spindly finger in the air. “Do you want to know corruption? I can tell you about corruption.”

The menace drained out of Kaspars. In truth, he thought: Oh no.

Thus began an hour-long prattle of scams, schemes and the murky tide where business met state interests. The bait and switch turned into VAT flips. Fake trash disposal and returns on everything from meat to vodka. Accounting anomalies and fake payroll scams. Fake printing ink scams that should be kept in mind for the coming audit. As much as he hated to admit it, Kaspars was impressed.

He was also near catatonic. By the time they hit the first factory, his heart beat arrhythmic, a far more worrying anomaly that he attempted to cure with the flask and cigarettes. Otherwise, it was standard drills. Sign in at the factory gates. Obligatory vodka with the branch CEO and a tour of the grounds while Ojars went to work.

“Windshield wiper fluid,” Ojars whispered. “Great opportunity for bootleg alcohol mafias, VAT flippers and label makers.” He paused wistfully. “Danger, danger, danger.”

With that, he scuttled off. Kaspars did the ministry official thing, sitting on a fake leather coach in the secretary’s office until he lolled his head back and fell asleep.

The second “audit” was forty more kilometers north. Kaspars did not even try to hide his exhaustion, and after the second obligatory shot of vodka of the day, he found a second, near identical couch and passed out shamelessly with a newspaper over his face.

Three, two, one... And he was falling. This was not sleep, but the steep drop into the void, complete with the swirling, falling sensation brought on by a good drunk.

Hands. Feet. Legs of bone and gristle protruding from a bank of snow and mud.

[...]

For the full tale, check out the Patreon site here: https://www.patreon.com/TheCornerswithPrestonSmith