Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

  “What did you think of that painting?” he asked.

  “It’s Dmitry’s Kandinsky,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Who’s Dmitry?” he asked, weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars right and left.

  “Dmitry’s the janitor at Brentano Hall,” she said. “He’s obsessed with that particular Kandinsky composition. He paints it over and over.”

  “So you could tell it’s a forgery?” he said. “Good eye, Miss James.”

  “It’s not a forgery,” she said. “It’s one of Dmitry’s paintings. I bet it’s the one missing from Schmutzig’s office.”

  “I’m not following,” he said. “The janitor paints Kandinskys to decorate the offices at Brentano Hall?” He swerved into the right-hand lane and exited the freeway. “I want to meet this artist janitor. Where can we find him?”

  “He’s staying at The Residence Inn north of here in Wilmette,” she said. “Why?”

  He asked Siri for directions to The Residence Inn and headed towards Edens Expressway.

  “We’re going right now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” she asked. “What if they’re in bed? Why do we have to go now?”

  Nick didn’t respond; he was listening to Siri.

  “What’s going on? Maybe we should call Detective Cormier and tell him Vladimir has the missing painting,” she said. “The one from Schumtzig’s office. I’m telling you, that was the painting Dmitry gave to Wolf. It has the same frame and everything.”

  “Who’s Detective Cormier?” he asked.

  “The detective who saved me from Kurt-the-rapist. The officer who questioned me,” she said, “Twice.”

  “You mean I have competition? I thought I saved you from Kurt the rapist,” he said. “I’m worried about that jock’s obsession with you.”

  She regretted mentioning Kurt-the-rapist. She didn’t want to explain she’d drunk the poisonous punch, passed out, and landed in the hospital. It had only been just last night, but it seemed like a week ago. She pulled her phone out of her book bag.

  “Are you calling the detective?” He sounded alarmed.

  “No, I’m texting Lolita,” she said. “Dmitry’s her dad.”

  “Lolita the Poker Tsarina?” he asked. “Her father’s the fake Kandinsky?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Before Dmitry could stop her, his daughter had opened the door to whoever was knocking this late at night. He recognized her friend Jessica. She stepped inside the apartment and grabbed his daughter’s arm. “We found your dad’s painting,” she said. She wasn’t alone. There was a man with her. Trouble always travels with a companion.

  Dmitry joined his daughter at the door. “Miss Jessica, what are you doing here?” he asked. He stared over her shoulder at the stranger standing behind her. “You found my paintings? Where did you find them?” he asked.

  Dmitry was tired. He’d been waiting up for Vanya to get back from walking Bunin and then planned to go to bed, and was wearing his bathrobe and slippers. He was embarrassed to see Jessica outside of Brentano Hall, especially in his nightclothes. Judging from the color of her cheeks, she felt the same way. He didn’t like late night visitors. He tightened the tie on his robe and stepped further into the doorway, pushing the visitors out into the hallway. And he didn’t want them to disturb Sabina.

  He was worried about his wife. She had yet to recover from the fire and still seemed shaken. The worst of it was the night terrors, when she’d wake up screaming. He knew how she felt.

  But his trauma wasn’t the result of one horrific event, but a childhood filled with horrors beyond words at the Hospital. Beautiful Sabina. He wanted to shield her and Lolita from that kind of unspeakable pain. He didn’t know what he would have done if Bunin hadn’t dragged Sabina out of the burning house. Without her, he never could have left Russia or his mother. Without her, he never would have gotten on that train to escape the harsh life of his father and Bratva.

  “The fat man at Pavlov’s Pork Chop has the painting,” Jessica said, talking fast and waving her hands.

  “You mean Pavlov’s Banquet,” Lolita said.

  “That’s what I said!”

  Dmitry shrunk. She’d only found his copy and not the original. He was still staring at the handsome man who had both arms around Miss Jessica. She must have noticed because she apologized and introduced them. As the man released Jessica and stepped around to shake his hand, Dmitry took stock of the stranger as if they were about to enter the ring. He wondered about this man dressed in all black with goofy purple shoes.

  “Mr. Durchenko, your Kandinsky is uncanny,” the stranger said. “How did you do it?” Jessica’s boyfriend pushed past him and walked into the room as if he’d been invited. Dmitry hurried over to shut the bedroom door where his wife was sleeping. He had been doing all of the shopping and cooking to make sure she got as much rest as possible to recover from the smoke inhalation and a bad case of nerves.

  Things were stressful enough living out of a suitcase, their house and belongings gone, all their money turned to ash, the paintings missing, and now this bothersome stranger barging in in the middle of the night.

  “I asked you how you copied that Kandinsky so exactly,” the stranger said, “an unbelievable feat.”

  Dumfounded, Dmitry glanced from Jessica to Lolita. Who was this mudak? He walked across the hotel room and herded his guests into the kitchenette.

  Lolita intervened. “Would you like some vodka or tea?” she purred at Nick, then turned and winked at her friend, “Mr. Schilling, was it?” Dmitry wondered what was going on between his daughter and these people. Opposites must attract, because there was no other way to explain the friendship between Lolita and Jessica.

  “Both would be lovely,” Mr. Schilling replied.

  “Spoken like a true Russian,” Lolita said, laying on the charm.

  “You must be Lolita, the Poker Tsarina,” Schilling said.

  Dmitry awoke from his daze. “What did you call my daughter?” he asked.

  Both Jessica and Lolita glared at Mr. Schilling. Dmitry wondered and worried.

  “I asked if….” Mr. Schilling stuttered, “if she’s from Herzegovina.” He cleared his throat.

  Dmitry swore he’d heard something about poker and the Tsar. He didn’t trust this Mr. Schilling.

  “No,” Lolita said. “I’m from here. My parents are from Russia.” She ushered them to the table and gestured for them to sit down. If they weren’t Lolita’s friends, Dmitry would have thrown the intruders out on their ears.

  “What were you doing at Pavlov’s Banquet? And what’s this about my dad’s painting,” Lolita asked, looking over her shoulder at Dmitry.

  Lolita was up to something. Sometimes, he wondered how his daughter could afford tuition at Northwestern University, wear expensive designer clothes, and ride a fancy motorcycle. He knew the allowance he gave her didn’t buy all of that, but he’d learned not to ask her too many questions.

  When Lolita offered them seats at the tiny table, and the intruders pulled up chairs like they planned to stay. Lolita poured them frozen Stoli shots and he made a pot of strong Russian tea. By the looks of it, it was going to be a long night.

  “So you saw my painting at Pavlov’s Banquet?” Dmitry asked. “Is Vladimir the Pope trying to sell it?” He asked as he slumped back in his chair. “What did he tell you? That it’s an original Kandinsky?” He scoffed. “Only an idiot who knew nothing about art would fall for that.” He was exhausted and wanted to go to bed.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Durchenko,” Mr. Schilling said. “That’s the most impressive copy of any Kandinsky I’ve ever seen. It almost had me fooled.”

  “Are you a collector, Mr. Schilling?” he asked. “How did the Pope find you?”

  Mr. Schilling smiled. He did a shot of vodka and held up his glass for another. “How long have you been forging Kandinskys, Mr. Durchenko?”

  “Nick!” Jessica cut him off. “Dmitry isn’t a forger.”

  “Let�
�s hear from Mr. Durchenko, shall we?” Mr. Schilling said. “You don’t happen to have any scotch, do you?” This guy had some nerve, making accusations of forgery and then asking for whiskey. Dmitry wished Vanya would get back. He didn’t like this Mr. Schilling. Miss Jessica could do better. He imagined the pleasure Vanya would take in carving his initials into Mr. Schilling’s too beautiful face. He shivered.

  “Nick, it’s late. I think we should go,” Jessica said. She was tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket. He ignored her, but Dmitry agreed with Jessica. “Yes, you should go.”

  “Mr. Durchenko, I compliment you on your forgery,” Mr. Schilling said. “It’s truly the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Nick, please,” Jessica got up from the table. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Dmitry. “Lolita, I had no idea. Really, I’m sorry.” She blushed.

  “Sit down,” Lolita commanded. “Calm down everyone. My father is not a forger. He paints as a hobby. He copies the masterworks like any other art student. So what? Forgers are criminals who dupe people into buying fakes for profit. My father is not a forger!”

  Dmitry sat staring at his hands in his lap. “Yes, Lolita is right,” he said, after an awkward silence. “It’s a hobby.” Maybe Schilling’s a cop. This was worse than the police interrogation.

  “Where did you study the original?” Schilling asked. “To paint something like this, you had to have sat for hours in front of the real thing.”

  “As a boy, I saw it on a field trip to Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow,” he said softly. He felt like he was back in grade school, being scolded by a teacher.

  “I’m sure you know Fragment number 2 for Composition VII has never been in Tretyakov Gallery.” Schilling took another vodka shot. “Perhaps you’re thinking of the full canvas for Composition VII?”

  “Nick! Please,” Jessica raised her voice.

  “Perhaps,” Dmitry said. He wished that this nightmare would end. “Why do you care? You know perfectly well the painting is not a real Kandinsky. No one is forcing him to buy it. In fact, it’s mine and it’s not for sale.”

  “Where is the original Fragment number 2?” Schilling asked.

  The walls were closing in and Dmitry was feeling claustrophobic. “How would I know?”

  Mr. Schilling leaned towards him. “It was sold at Tajan auction house in Paris twenty-five years ago to a Russian collector.” He downed another vodka and stared at Dmitry. “The only way you could have painted that picture is by sitting in front of it for weeks, months, even years. You know where it is, or was, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Dmitry said. Where the hell was Vanya and his switchblade when he needed him?

  “And I’m sure you do know,” Schilling said. He pulled a tiny pistol from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Do you know why I got this Colt 1911 New Agent?” he slurred. Obviously, Mr. Bigshot couldn’t handle his vodka and wasn’t man enough for a real gun.

  Jessica shot up from the table. “What the hell are you doing, Nick?” she yelled. She tripped on her untied shoelace and fell backwards, taking her chair with her. Lolita grabbed her under the arms from behind and lifted her to her feet.

  “Mr. Schilling, it’s not polite to wave your gun around in our hotel room,” Lolita said. “Even if it is just a toy.”

  “I assure you, Tsarina, it’s no toy,” Mr. Schilling said. “And I’m not waving it. I’m just making the point that collecting Russian art can be dangerous.” Calmer now, he took a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. Mr. Schilling offered cigarettes around the table. Lolita took one, and Miss Jessica took one, too. Dmitry waved the pack away. Mr. Schilling lit them one by one, starting with Jessica’s and finishing with his own. They were filterless Gauloises.

  Jessica almost inhaled but choked instead. Much to Dmitry’s dismay, Lolita smoked like she’d been doing it all her life.

  Mr. Schilling picked up the pistol. “I bought this gun because so much Russian art is handled by Bratva these days,” he said. “I learned the hard way.”

  Dmitry scoffed. “You’re going to need something bigger than that to deal with Bratva,” he said. “Big voyages require big ships.” What was this joker doing with that toy gun? He was going to get himself killed.

  “It may be small, but it’s deadly,” Schilling said with a smirk. “And I’m a damned good shot.”

  “An axe is no match for a chainsaw,” Dmitry said. “Pull that toy gun on any Krysha or Torpedo and they will show you what a real pistol looks like.”

  “Bratva? Krysha? What are you talking about?” Jessica asked.

  “Bratva is the Russian Brotherhood,” Lolita said, “Kryshi are their enforcers.”

  Mr. Schilling interrupted. “Do you know Mr. Durchenko, when Vassily Kandinsky first started painting, he signed his name in the bottom right corner of his work,” he said. “But after he met his wife Nina, he changed his signature to a large letter V with a smaller letter K inside.” He took an expensive pen from his inside pocket and drew it on a napkin to illustrate. “His initials, you see.”

  “Fascinating, Mr. Schilling,” Lolita said. “But what does this have to do with my father’s painting?” She stamped out her cigarette on the Residence Inn saucer.

  “Do you know how I could tell your painting was not authentic?” Mr. Schilling took a long drag of his cigarette. “The one thing that made all the difference?”

  “The tiger lily,” said Dmitry without thinking. He thought of his mother and their afternoon picking tiger lilies in the French countryside. Appropriate that her favorite flower was a tiger lily. He wondered if his mother still picked tiger lilies, if she was even still alive. What had happened to her after he escaped with the valise she’d stolen from his father?

  “Tiger lily?” Mr. Schilling asked, picking up his gun and then putting it back into his pocket. Dmitry waited. “No, Mr. Durchenko, the signature.”

  “Kandinsky didn’t sign his studies or fragments,” Dmitry said. He saw where Schilling was going and he didn’t like it.

  “Exactly. But you signed yours, didn’t you. Why?”

  “Why are you interrogating him, Nick?” Jessica asked, coming to Dmitry’s defense. “He’s not a criminal and you have no right to treat him like garbage.”

  “Why did you sign your painting with the initials V.K.?” He pointed at the mess he’d drawn on the napkin. “Odd that a forger would choose to copy an unsigned painting and then sign it.”

  “In that case,” Jessica said, “If he’d wanted to forge it, he would have left off the signature, right?” This girl had a very logical mind.

  “Strange that you would perfect Kandinsky’s Fragment, sign it, but get the signature wrong,” Schilling said. “You connected the V and K, instead of putting the K inside the V. Why’s that?” He drew another more legible symbol on the napkin, a W with an extra leg kicking out to the right. He may be a mudak, but he knew his Kandinsky.

  Lolita grabbed the napkin. “That’s the logo for VKontakte, the largest social network in Russia,” she said. “It’s like Facebook. VK is the equivalent of FB.” She stared at him. “What does it mean, Dad?”

  “What’s your game?” Schilling asked. “Why this symbol?” He pointed at the napkin again.

  “A goat will find garbage anywhere,” Dmitry said. He grabbed Schilling’s lit cigarette from the saucer where it was balanced and dropped it into his teacup. He stood up and took the cup to the sink. He took the Stolichnaya bottle from the freezer and poured himself another shot. He threw his head back, downed it, then slammed the shot glass onto the dinette table. “If you must know, Mr. Schilling,” he said, “it’s a message for my mother. Not that she’d ever see it. I opened a VK account in the name of Kandinsky. A desperate attempt to make covert contact. Are you happy now Mr. Schilling? I risked my life to send a message to my mother. I just want to know if she’s still alive.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  "Go back to bed, lyubimaya,” Dmitry said. The door to the bedro
om opened and a feverish Sabina staggered out in her nightgown. He glowered at Schilling. “Now you’ve woken my wife. It’s late Mr. Schilling. I think perhaps you should go.”

  “Please go, Nick,” Jessica pleaded.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Durchenko,” Mr. Schilling said to Sabina. He turned to Jessica and said, “Let’s go, Dolce.” He got up from the table and put his hand out to Jessica.

  “I’m staying,” Jessica said, voice shaking. Her face was flushed and tears were welling in shining blue eyes. Schilling put his hands on her shoulders and tried to caress her neck, but she flinched and shook off his touch.

  “Let me take you home, Jessica,” he said.

  “Lolita can take me home,” she said, moving further away from him.

  “Yes, Lolita can take Miss Jessica home,” Dmitry said, nodding at Lolita.

  “I’d like to take you home,” Schilling said to Jessica, and then leaned closer to whisper something in her ear.

  A banging on the door and a barking Bunin interrupted the negotiations. He loosened the chain and peered through the crack. Bunin was panting and so was Vanya. “Open up, Dima,” he said. As soon as Dmitry slid off the chain, his cousin barged into the room, holding a baggie, looked Schilling up and down, and then wrinkled his nose. Schilling was as full of shit as the baggie, and Vanya’s disgusted scowl suggested he thought so too.

  Schilling pushed past Vanya on his way to the door, then looked back at Jessica. “I’m leaving. Are you coming or not?”

  “You go without me,” she answered. “I’m staying.”

  Dmitry walked the arrogant ass to the door.