by Kelly Oliver
“Keeping secrets bad for health.” Vanya said in broken English, playing with his Porsche titanium lighter, flipping the lid open and shut. Click, Click, Click.
“I’m not in the mood for games. Just get to the point.”
“Little birdie told us you give teacher friend something that belongs to the Pope.” Vanya continued in English. He grinned and stamped out another cigarette. “The Pope wants them pictures. You better give him pictures if you know what’s good for you.” Vanya may be his cousin and just an errand boy for Bratva, but that didn’t make him less dangerous. If anything, it made him more unpredictable. He had something to prove. Little honey badgers were known to attack big lions.
Dmitry put both hands on the steering wheel to steady himself. The smoke was making his eyes burn. “If you cared about my health, you’d quit smoking so much.”
“Just friendly warning, chuvak.” Vanya’s smile had disappeared. “For now, Pope needs you. Not always.” He opened the van door, stepped out, and then ducked his head back inside. Slowly the corners of his mouth turned up. “Pope needs you,” he said with a sly smile, “but he don’t need your bigmouthed teacher.” With that, he flicked his lit cigarette at Dmitry and slammed the van door shut.
What did the Pope know about the paintings? Dmitry would have to head into the lion’s den, but first, he needed to warn the professor. He thought of what his mother always said whenever he cut himself, “Dimka, scars are time’s alphabet.” If so, his body was covered in poetry and his soul contained an entire encyclopedia of pain and loss. Now that Bratva had finally found him, the writing was on the wall. It was only a matter of time before they snuffed him out the way they had his brother.
Chapter Three
Gasping for air, Jessica burst out of her advisor’s fetid bathroom and into his dirty office. Tears blurred her vision and something sharp attacked her left thigh. She’d run into the edge of the desk. Grabbing her bruised thigh, she bent over to keep from passing out. Queasy and panting, she melted onto the office floor behind the professor’s desk. She let the warm tears run down her cheeks.
Jack’s face was white as parchment as he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. He led Amber out of the bathroom with the other. He crouched down next to Jessica, pulling his girlfriend down after him. “What the hell? Schmutzig’s dead?”
“We should call the police,” Amber said, reeling in the gigantic purse she’d left in the corner with the half-eaten chocolate bar. She fished around inside it with both hands then pulled out a cell phone.
“What are you doing? We can’t call the cops.” Jessica snatched the phone. “How are we going to explain why we’re in here?”
Jessica heard footfall on the stairs. Oh crap! Not again. The security guard was coming back. Peeking around the desk, she shuddered when she saw a large shadow through the opaque glass of the office door. She clasped both hands over her mouth again, trying to remember the calming breathing techniques she’d learned in yoga. Make your out-breath longer than your in-breath. It wasn’t working. She was suffocating. She huddled closer to her friends. What if they had to spend the night squatting behind this desk only a few feet away from her advisor’s rotting corpse?
More noise from the hall kicked her into full panic mode and she scurried under the desk. If she could have chewed off her paw to escape, she would have.
“Professor Schmutzig, you there?”
Jessica recognized the strong Russian accent. It was the janitor, Dmitry Durchenko. His voice reminded her of Chekov from Star Trek.
Keys jangled, then a click in the doorknob, but the door didn’t open. The shadow on the other side of the opaque glass vanished and footfall receded down the hall. More jangling and another door opened. Dmitry must be in the janitor’s closet. She thought he’d left almost an hour ago. Why was he back?
The phone ringing startled her. She reared back out from under the desk and fell on top of Amber, who yelped and scrambled even further into the corner. Jack reached up and lifted the handset off the receiver, then dropped it again.
Jessica mouthed, “What are you doing?” The sound of footsteps was getting closer again, approaching the office door. More clattering, another knock on the door, and then in the same thick accent, “Professor. It’s me, Dmitry.” The janitor’s large silhouette was smashed up against the glass. Hands on either side of a darkened face, the shadow turned into a giant bear’s, then disappeared again.
Amber’s nightgown was moving on the floor. Must be the whiskey kicking in. Maybe it was the Wolf’s ghost come back to haunt them from his bathtub grave. The janitor pushed something under the door. She held her breath for a full three minutes of eerie silence.
Finally, Jessica heard footsteps descending the stairs. She listened, muscles taut, ready to bolt. When the office phone started ringing again, she stood at attention behind the desk and stared down at it. Who was calling Wolf in the middle of the night? This time Jessica picked up the receiver and put it back down.
The footsteps stopped, followed by another long silence. Jessica froze in place, holding her breath again. After another few seconds, the clomping on the hardwood stairs started up again, then the footfalls faded until she heard the front door squeak open and then slam shut. She fell back against the radiator in relief, and blew at her bangs. “Whew.”
Jack crawled across the office floor and over to the window, then peeked up over the ledge. “Dmitry’s crossing the lawn towards the street. He’s getting into his minivan.” His nervous laughter came out high-pitched. “That was close, dude. I think I wet myself.”
“Let’s skedaddle NOW,” Jessica whisper-yelled. As she tossed Amber her nightgown, the envelope Dmitry had slid under the door went flying too. She picked up the envelope and then turned on her cellphone light to find her way out through the disaster area. That’s when she saw it: her master’s thesis in its brand new blue binder sitting on top of a pile of papers.
“What the…” Jessica stood staring at the binder. That liar! Wolf said he’d read it over the summer, but he didn’t even take it with him. He’d had her thesis for over two months already but still hadn’t read it. So why had Wolf left her thesis behind?
Last week when she’d asked him for feedback on her thesis, all he’d said was, “In that yoga outfit, you’d tempt even Francis of Assisi.” And all she’d said was, “Have you been drinking your lunch again, professor?” She knew full well Wolf was a teetotaler.
She picked up the binder and grasped the cover of her thesis between her thumb and forefinger. She opened it as if it might bite her. Tucked inside was a letter addressed to her, typed on university stationery. As she read it, her mouth dropped open. Sputtering, she glanced up at Jack.
“What is it?” he asked, scooting to her side.
“What’s the matter?” Amber echoed. The three of them huddled around the binder while she slowly read the letter out loud.
Dear Miss James,
I have read your thesis, and I regret to inform you that I find it lacking. Given that you have not been able to write a thesis that meets my standards, I am sorry that I will not be able to continue as your advisor. I suggest that you leave the Ph.D. program. Hopefully another life will suit you better than the life of a scholar.
Sincerely,
Baldrick Wolfgang Schmutzig
Distinguished Professor of Philosophy
“What the hell?” Jack grabbed the binder. “It’s dated three months from now!”
She felt the blood drain from her face. She felt like she might barf. She doubled over, holding onto her knees for support. It was June, so why was the letter was post-dated September 15th?
Chapter Four
As Dmitry turned onto Gross Point Road, the fine hair on his arms tingled like antennae signaling danger. On another day, the colorful banners fluttering in the streetlights in Skokie might have lifted his spirits, but today, the blocky Russian letters only shackled him to a family drama he hadn’t chosen.
> He parked his van across the street from the restaurant. As he strode up to the front door, he gripped his keys so tightly they dug into his calloused palm.
Vladimir “the Pope” Popov leased Pavlov’s Banquet and lived in the penthouse above the restaurant. Outside, the place was an ugly rectangular brick warehouse on an even uglier block, but inside it was a Russian fun-house crammed with bezdelushki nesting dolls, silver samovars, Gzhel ceramic teapots, and paneled icons with dazzling Madonnas. One particularly haunting icon depicted a decapitated Christ’s head with dreadlocks, a fumanchu mustache, and beady eyes that followed Dmitry across the room as the bodyguards escorted him to the back where The Pope was just finishing a late dinner in his private dining room. Decorative Zhostovo platters piled with succulent meat and tender vegetables reminded Dmitry that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. His stomach growled.
“Vodka, Dima?” the Pope asked through a mouthful of Syrniki smothered in applesauce. “Or do you prefer tea?” He gestured to one of his bodyguards. “Pour the man some tea.” With a greasy swollen finger he pointed to the platter of fried curd fritters, “Help yourself to Syrniki. They’re delicious.”
“No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.” Dmitry wouldn’t share food with this man, but he didn’t turn down the cup of tea poured from a silver samovar by a burly bodyguard. Maybe the strong Russian tea would help him focus.
“It’s been too long. I haven’t seen you since you were a scrawny teenager. You’ve grown into a fine looking man, and I hear you have a beautiful wife and lovely daughter.” The Pope wiped his mouth on an embroidered napkin and grinned.
Dmitry flinched.
“This reunion calls for a celebration. Sasha, bring us some champagne.” The Pope snapped his fat fingers.
The waiter returned with a bottle of Abrau Durso Brut, a label Dmitry hadn’t seen since he’d left Russia. He’d always found it amusing that Stalin had reopened the vineyard with the slogan “Sovetskoye Shampanskoye,” “Champagne for every citizen.” Only in Russia would the state decree that there be wine for everyone--the world’s worst wine.
“To what do we owe the honor of a visit from the son of the Oxford Don?” The Pope’s mouth widened into a yellowed counterfeit smile, and with great ceremony, he lifted his champagne glass and took a sip.
Dmitry winced at the mention of his father. His father’s henchmen called him “the Oxford Don” because he had gotten a degree in economics from there; his father was a regular Nobel Laureate of crime.
Palms sweating, Dmitry twisted a fancy napkin under the table, took another sip of bitter tea, then cleared his throat. “I had a visit from that smoke-stack errand boy of yours this afternoon. He was using my van as an ashtray.”
“Yes, he leaves his dirty butts everywhere.” The Pope’s belly shook like jeleinyi tort when he laughed.
“I want to know why,” Dmitry said with more force than he felt.
“You do, do you?” The fat man laughed again. “You want something from me. I want something from you.”
The Pope snapped his fingers. “Bring out the dessert tray.” A man with biceps the size of melons brought out a tray of dainty pastries. “Have some sweets, Dima.” He gestured towards the tray with his sweaty head.
“Maybe you should put your cur on a leash. I don’t want him coming around threatening me anymore.” Dmitry forced himself to make eye contact then, glancing around, took note of the nearest exit and any potential weapons within reach.
“Maybe you’re the one who needs the leash.” The Pope carefully picked out several pastries and put them on his dainty rose-rimmed china plate. He licked each of his bejeweled fingers. “We’ve heard that you’ve given your professor friend the Oxford Don’s missing paintings, the ones you stole. Is that true?”
“I didn’t steal any paintings.” It was true; his mother had stolen them. Dmitry put his hands on the table, ready to make a break for it. “The professor has nothing to do with this. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Maybe you’re too smart for your own good. Hanging around that university makes you think you’re a wise guy.” He threw his napkin on the table and stopped eating. “What if your professor is a stoolpigeon? Or maybe you’re the rat.”
“Look Vladimir, calm down. No one is a rat. The professor is clueless.”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s clueless. Too much book learning, like your old man. Me, I’ve got street smarts. It’s time to teach you a lesson, one you can’t learn in school.” He took a slow sip from a dainty teacup. “You’re going to tell us why you gave the professor that painting. And then you’re going to tell us where to find the other one. Otherwise, we’ll donate your body to the Old Country. In installments.”
“I told you, the professor has nothing to do with this.”
The Pope’s massive body shook with rage. “Where are those paintings? Or would you prefer I tell your father I’ve found his thieving son and his priceless paintings?” He threw his napkin on the table. “I’m going to get those paintings one way or another. Then we’ll see who’s got brains.” He signaled to his snarling bodyguards.
The two thugs charged and Dmitry’s reflexes kicked in. He barely slipped out of their grasp. He headed for the nearest exit, flinging himself through the swinging metal doors so hard pots and pans rattled as he burst into the kitchen. Running full force, he bounced off the cupboards. He threw himself through another set of doors on the other side of the room. The bulls were still on his heels, breathing down his neck.
Dmitry went careening down several flights of stairs before he realized he was clueless. He’d eaten in the restaurant before, but he’d never come up through the back stairs. Echoes of several sets of shoes ricocheted through the stairwell. The Pope’s enforcers were on his heels. Nowhere else to go, he kept heading down. Taking a gamble on another unfamiliar door, he exited the stairwell. He didn’t want to get trapped in the basement, cornered by the Pope’s Kryshi. He stumbled through the door into a hallway but still didn’t recognize anything. In the few seconds it took to get his bearings, the thugs came crashing through the door and lunged at him. He dove for the floor. Bad move. Both bulls tackled him.
The thugs dragged him back upstairs by his legs. He tried to catch hold of something--the railing, their pants, his pants--but he couldn’t get any leverage. Every time he reared up to try to grab hold of something, the force of his exertion doubled on the way back down. His head bounced hard on each concrete stair, and by the time they reached the dining room again, he was nearly unconscious. An enforcer presented him to the Pope like a pet cat bringing back a live mouse for its master. The blows to his head must be making him hallucinate because the professor’s favorite student was sitting with the Pope at the table. The last thing he heard before he passed out was the Pope yelling, “Get him out of here. He’s bleeding all over my favorite rug.”
Chapter Five
Sitting cross-legged on the attic desk, Jessica could hear birds singing through their early morning ablutions. The shock of Wolfgang Schmutzig’s corpse had sobered her up some, but the booze was making it hard to concentrate as she drifted in and out of a tingly haze. The smell of death mingling with weed still burned her nostrils. She’d been up for almost twenty-four hours and more than anything her body craved sleep, but needles of anxiety pricked at her skin, making sleep impossible. She’d just seen a dead body for the first time and she couldn’t tell anyone. Breaking and entering, illegal drugs… Talk about self-incrimination! She slid her hands under her tailbone to keep them from trembling.
She was nauseous thinking of the Wolf, fully clothed, lying downstairs dead in his bathtub. And her thesis was in his office with a post-dated letter in effect kicking her out of graduate school. If anyone found that damning letter…. Oh crap! She’d left the letter in the office. She had to go back down and get it. She slid off the desk, tiptoed out of the attic, and headed back down the stairs towards 24B.
Standing in front of the door, she took a deep breath a
nd turned the doorknob. It was locked. She turned and ran back upstairs to fetch her wallet. Rummaging around in her backpack, she found her bi-fold containing the “emergency” credit card. Her mom reminded her repeatedly that it was only for “dire emergencies.” Saving her graduate career counted as dire.
She ran back downstairs, and hands shaking, struggled to pull the card from the slot in the wallet. Holding the wallet between her teeth, she slid the card between the door and its frame. The card struck something and wouldn’t budge. She pulled it out and pushed it back into another spot between the lock and doorframe. No luck. She angled the card and pressed it against the locking mechanism as hard as she could. It was no use. She couldn’t get the door open. She stuffed her card back into its slot and clomped back upstairs to her attic hovel.
Shutting herself into the dark and musty alcove, she climbed back on top of the desk, pulling a navy cardigan along with her, and curled up into a fetal position. Tears streamed down both sides of her face, soaking into the dirty sweater she was using as a pillow. She should have listened to Michael when he said, “Your advisor is supposed to keep you afloat, not sink you.”
The tear-soaked cardigan belonged to him. When his spicy mossy scent appeared as if on cue, it overwhelmed her with longing. She wanted him to hold her, comfort her, and tell her everything would be okay. Since the break-up three days ago, she’d been trying not to think about Michael. He’d opened up a whole new world for her, one that took her far from the one she’d known as a naïve Montana girl who’d never even seen a foreign film or eaten Thai food before, not to mention sex.
She got up from the desk, tipped the trashcan upside down, and sorted through the candy wrappers and used Kleenex until she found the discarded photograph. Staring into Michael’s beautiful lopsided face, for the millionth time she chastised herself. If only she hadn’t read his journal, they might still be together. Of course, if she hadn’t read his journal, she would never have known he was cheating on her with an actress from his community theater. She crawled back onto the desk, buried her face in his sweater, and cried herself to sleep.
