Londongrad

by Reggie Nadelson

  “I’m going back to the city,” I said, but Bobo didn’t answer; he was already on the phone, already tracking Tito Dravic.

  In my car, I studied the picture of Masha I had with me, I stared at it hard as if it would give up some secret, and without warning a faint finger of panic crawled up my neck. The thing I hadn’t seen, the thing I didn’t want to see.

  But I had to look. And I looked, and the face stared back at me.

  If some creep had snatched Masha Panchuk, and Masha had worked at Tolya’s bar, was it Masha the creep really wanted? Was it a mistake? Were they looking for someone else? Somebody connected to me? Somebody who scared Tito Dravic bad?

  Masha Panchuk, in the picture I held, was tall with short platinum hair. It had been taken the month before.

  The face looked back at me, and in it, there was the resemblance. To Val. She looked like Val. Val’s hair had been short and blonde, too. Only recently had she let it grow out; only recently had she let it go back to her dark red.

  Had I missed this? How? Did I fail to see it because I didn’t want to see it?

  I started the car, I drove like crazy back to Brighton Beach, to Val’s office, and when I got there she was gone. I called her. Val? Val? Answer the phone!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Val?

  All the way home, I called, I put my phone on redial, and when I got to my block I barely noticed that Roy Pettus was leaning against the wall of the Korean grocery on the corner. Holding a bottle of Coke, he saw me pull up. I put my phone away.

  “Hello, Art.”

  “Roy. You following me?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “Nope, just hoping you might be coming home before I have to go back to New Jersey,” Roy said who was wearing a suit, the jacket too big, the collar of his shirt too tight. “You give my offer some thought?” he said. “You okay, Artie? You look shook up.”

  “What offer?”

  “Coming in with us.”

  “No thanks. I’m helping out on a homicide. I’m busy.”

  “The Russian girl, right? I could give you some stuff on this, help you finish it up.”

  “What kind?”

  Leaning forward, his head jutting out of his tight shirt collar, he reacted fast, and said, voice low, “This personal with you at all, Artie? You have a stake in this case?” He stuck his finger into his collar like he was suffocating. “God, I feel like a horse’s ass, suit and tie, haven’t been in a get-up like this for years since I left the city.” He adjusted the jacket. “It’s too damn hot for this.”

  “You want to come up to my place?” All the time we were talking, I strained to hear my cellphone. Call, I thought. Val?

  “Thanks. That would be fine,” Pettus said. “I won’t stay long. Just need to cool off.”

  Upstairs at my place, Pettus removed his jacket carefully, folded it neatly on a kitchen stool, sat down on another one and asked if he could smoke. I said sure and got him a cold Coke, which he asked for, confessing he was addicted to the stuff.

  I put a glass and an ashtray in front of him, then checked my messages and my e-mails, while he watched me, guessing how frantic I was, that I was waiting to hear from somebody.

  He concentrated on his drink, but I knew he was looking around, watching me, taking a good look, appraising my place, me, how I lived. It was what he had wanted, maybe even why he had been waiting for me on the street in front of my building.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  I got a beer from the fridge, sat opposite him and said, “Thank you.” And waited.

  “Tough living in the city these days. Expensive.”

  “Roy, let’s skip the small talk.”

  “Just wanting to help.”

  “Spit it out, Roy, you’re still wanting me to go to London, spy on the Russians there, get involved, is that it? If so, please don’t follow me around and bug my friends, it doesn’t make me feel comfortable at all.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry about that,” said Roy. “We’re in trouble,” he said, as the phone rang, and I bolted from the kitchen to answer it. It wasn’t Val.

  “Not the call you’ve been waiting for?” Pettus added mildly.

  I didn’t answer, just said, “What makes you so sure I’d be good at this stuff, this whatever you call it? Intelligence. Isn’t that the polite term, Roy? Isn’t that what Bush calls it every time he wants some more money to bug our phones? It’s all just bluster, it’s just the fucking Russians rattling their missiles and stamping their feet.”

  Pettus crushed out his smoke, got up, loped across my loft, admired some photographs on the wall, looked at my books, picked one out and examined it. I couldn’t see the title. From one of the big industrial windows that faced the street, he looked at the building opposite mine. He turned to me.

  “I am really sorry for not coming to you straight,” he said. “I don’t know what got hold of me. I need your help. We need you bad. It’s that simple. I can’t think of anyone else I can ask, or trust.”

  Climbing back on the stool, he put his elbows on the counter, asked if he could have another Coke and smiled, as if at his own pathetic addiction to the soda.

  “You’d be attached to Scotland Yard along with a few other NYPD detectives.”

  “For real? Or as a cover?”

  “You’d be working normal terrorism stuff, of course, but it’s obvious you’d hang out with some of the new Russians, being a Russian yourself.”

  “You’re figuring if I’m in London I’m spending time at Tolya Sverdloff’s London club. With Russians.”

  “It’s where they go.”

  “I can’t do that. I’d be lousy at it.”

  “You’ve been undercover from time to time in New York, right? Even doing your homicide cases, you specialize in getting people to tell you things. Right? This isn’t any different.” Roy turned the pale brown eyes on me. “You have the gift,” he added.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Your dad, wasn’t he an agent? Didn’t he work for the KGB back when? I read he was the best, subtle, he could charm anything out of anybody.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “When the Soviet Union collapsed, for a time we were on good terms with their people, they let us read a lot of their stuff.”

  “A long time ago, Roy. It’s not genetic.”

  “People tell us it’s like a family, KGB, FSB as it’s become. They only trust their own. Your family was in the business, you’re part of it, it’s dynastic.”

  I saw now what Pettus wanted. He wanted somebody ex-KGB guys would trust, maybe even current FSB guys.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Your job here, I could clear you on that. There’s plenty of detectives could take your place for a while.”

  “You already checked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, there’s a whole lot of Russians in New York, cops, too, I’m sure you can buy a couple. People who speak the lingo better than me.”

  “We want somebody who looks and sounds American.”

  “Well, you could always pay somebody.”

  “We don’t want people we can buy. We need people who do it for America. Don’t you owe this country?” said Pettus softly. He didn’t harangue, he didn’t yell, just asked. “Isn’t that what your father did in his day, for his country?”

  Putting his jacket on, Pettus fished in the pocket, put a card on the counter.

  “I’ve put all my numbers on this,” said Pettus. “I’ll be in the New York area for three more days. Please call me, Artie.”

  *

  Rattled by Pettus. I drank a shot of Scotch. Then I called Sonny Lippert.

  “Go on, man.”

  “He told me we owe our friends in London, Pettus said they need to watch out for the Russkis?”

  “He’s right, man, about that, at least. I’m guessing he wants you to move into some kind of intel work, and why not? You got the brains, man. I mean, like you could
be a spy man, James Bond, George Smiley, whatever,” said Sonny. “Joseph Conrad.”

  “But why the snooping around?”

  “Fuck knows, man. Obviously he wanted you to know he was at it, maybe put you off guard, maybe let you know he knows where your friends are, what do I know, maybe Roy Pettus has turned into J. Edgar Hoover in his old age, or maybe he just likes spying on people.”

  “You know him at all?”

  “Some. Years ago. Always seemed like a straight arrow, far as it goes. You want me to ask around?”

  “Yeah. Could you, Sonny?”

  “You told him to work it up his ass, man?”

  “I was polite.”

  “Good. Cause these days they can snatch anyone they feel like, and they say it’s under the roof of Homeland Security which we all know is a pile of doggy do, man, right, to mix a couple metaphors, right?” Sonny laughed, but it was a bleak cackle.

  Val?

  From the yellow envelope I got at the house in Brighton Beach, the envelope I figured Tito Dravic had left me, I took the DVD. I put it in the machine.

  On the screen a bunch of kids in their twenties were dancing at Dacha. People around the floor watched, yelling, singing.

  The picture zoomed in on Masha Panchuk’s back, and she was wearing a silky pink dress. She danced like a pro. Her partner was older. A rough older man, stubble on his face, coarse black hair. After a second or two, she was gone, disappeared into the crowd.

  Crouched on the floor, I put my face up against the screen, close as I could, played it again. Even from the back, Masha looked enough like Val for somebody to get it wrong. A thug for hire, who didn’t ask for ID, could have confused them.

  Slung around Masha was a tiny purse, a small golden envelope on a long silk cord, best I could see. It looked expensive. So did her shoes. High-heeled sandals made of some skin, something silver.

  I called Val again but there was no answer. I got in the shower, got out, sat in front of the TV, wrapped in a towel, waited for Val to call. I watched the news again without seeing it. Put on some music I didn’t hear. Pettus had left his cigarettes behind and I lit up.

  If Pettus wanted me bad enough, he’d fix it. If he could make a case for me working the Russians out of London, it would happen. The department would agree. You said the words Homeland Security these days, and it trumped everything else. If you didn’t salute back and say, yessir, they could figure out a way. If you were a cop, like me, they could transfer you wherever they wanted.

  Could they? Could Roy Pettus lean on them hard enough? I’d quit. I could hook up with Tolya Sverdloff, I could become a businessman, or a bartender. All I knew was New York City. It was all I ever cared about.

  I got up and put on Ella Fitzgerald and listened to some Rodgers and Hart tracks, including “Manhattan”. For once, it didn’t divert me. Didn’t make me happy. I shut off my stereo.

  I was feeling messed up, waiting for Val, worrying about the connection between her and the dead girl, Masha and Tito Dravic, and Masha and Val. What was Masha doing with a bag that looked like one of Val’s, and expensive shoes?

  After a few minutes, I got dressed, put on a new linen shirt. I felt like a fool dressing up for dinner with Val as if it were a date, as if I were in love with her, and got the hell out, and as I was getting in my car, she called me back.

  “Ten is what I said, Artie, I said I’d meet you at ten, at Beatrice’s, okay, at the wine bar, it’s only nine, right? I gave you the address? Look, I’ll be there, I promise.”

  “You said nine or ten.”

  “God, you’re so literal,” she said. “Between you and my dad I’m going nuts, you call, he calls, you leave messages, what’s going on? I’m fine. Daddy’s fine, he’s in Scotland or someplace playing golf, he stopped off, I mean, please, Artie, darling, go solve a crime or something, and I’ll see you in an hour. Honest to God, I’m fine!”

  At nine-thirty, I was on East 2nd Street, sitting at the bar of Il Posto Acconto, drinking a glass of red, watching a game on the TV, and waiting for Valentina.

  At ten she hadn’t arrived. Half an hour later I was on the street, leaning against the side of the building, watching a guy with tattoos tinker with a Harley. At the curb was Beatrice’s vintage yellow Caddy. I had parked my own car just behind it.

  People were out, drinking wine, strolling, calling out, happy, and I tried not to let it get to me. Val was always late. Maybe she’d stayed in the office in Brooklyn. I was making myself crazy.

  Beatrice, who owned the Caddy and wine bar, pushed back her streaky blonde hair, pinned it up with a pink plastic hair clip, adjusted her tomato-red skirt, poured me a shot of tequila which she considered a cure-all, and went and got me a bowl of spaghetti carbonara. She asked about Tolya. They had a special thing going and there were times they sat together and discussed the merits of a tomato or a white truffle or some herb from Puglia you couldn’t get anywhere else.

  I wasn’t hungry. The kind of dread you get on a bad case had enveloped me. Across the street, an argument started, there was the sound of somebody falling on the sidewalk. I didn’t go over. I was glued to the seat where I sat.

  By midnight, I knew Val wasn’t coming. She had forgotten. She had gone dancing. She was with somebody who called at the last minute.

  “I’m a bad girl,” she always says, laughing at me.

  “Honey, don’t drive like that,” said Beatrice, offering to take me home, drop me off. “You shouldn’t do that, okay? Senti, please, my little adorable Artie?”

  I said I’d be fine. I got my car. I drove around for a while, my phone on redial. When it finally rang, it was a wrong number.

  I was tired. The heaviness that crept up behind my teeth, the kind that seemed to infect my jaw, came over me. I went home, took a cold shower, changed my clothes, and made instant espresso.

  If I called it in to the cops and Val was only out on a date, she’d kill me. She’d say I was a jealous old man.

  I’d give it a couple more hours. I drove around. I went back to the playground in Brooklyn, I talked to a uniform watching the place. I was going nuts.

  Outside was a sad little shrine, a few votive candles in glass jars, a bunch of roses from a bodega, already wilting, a photocopy of Masha, a little icon next to it.

  “Dravic’s alibi checks out,” said Bobo out of breath as he arrived at the playground in Brooklyn. I had called him and he came as fast as he could, he said.

  “Go on.”

  “I called Dravic’s mother up in Kingston to check he was there when he said he was, when Masha died, and she confirmed, and she gave me the name of a couple of people who also saw him at a bar up there. I asked where he is now, and she said he’d left.”

  “For where?”

  “Relatives in Belgrade, the mother said. She said he had planned it, but I could tell she was scared, Artie. He didn’t kill Masha, but he got scared by someone. Maybe like you said, because he promised you Masha’s resume.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “This morning.”

  “Belgrade, Jesus.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What about the clothes?” I said, looking around the playground where I found Masha on the swing. It was dark and empty except for a couple of patrolmen.

  “What about the clothes, Bobo?”

  “I’m on it. I got people picking over every leaf in a ten block area around here.”

  “Good.”

  My phone rang and I answered it. Wrong number. I tried Val and I knew Bobo was listening, but I didn’t care.

  “I’m going to need you,” I said, and stared out over the playground.

  “Of course. Anything. Should I come with you now?”

  “Not now. I’m going back to the city, just keep your cell phone on, okay?”

  “Yes, Artemy,” he said. I got out my car keys, dove into my car, and drove like crazy to my apartment, got the keys to Tolya’s place – I remembered he had given me spares – in the Me
at Market district. You don’t smell blood anymore around the Meat Market. There are only fancy restaurants now.

  On my way to the yellow brick building where Tolya had his loft and Val had her apartment, I went past loading docks where once, in the morning, huge carcasses had been rolled into storage facilities, cold dark spaces that smelled of meat and bone. All gone now.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Val? Val, darling? Are you there?” I unlocked the door to the Sverdloff place. “Val?” My voice echoed, cheerful, brittle, too loud as I went inside.

  It was dawn, Monday morning, the sun coming up, the light coming in through fourteen windows, each ten feet high.

  “Val?”

  From the top floor-Tolya owned the building and lived on the top floor-you could see the city in every direction, the river, the Empire State, the downtown skyline.

  I went through the living room to the door of Valentina’s apartment which Tolya had created for her. It had its own entrance to the hall where the elevator and stairs were, but I had come in through her father’s place.

  Once, she had planned to get an apartment of her own in the East Village, but Tolya said, don’t, please, darling, I don’t like this area in East Village, I’ll make you an apartment here. Don’t go yet. She gave in.

  Her door was locked. I went back into the hallway and tried the other door to her apartment. I banged on it and began yelling and when I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, instinctively I put my hand on my gun. It was only Bobo.

  We didn’t speak. Bobo had heard me on the phone earlier, trying to reach Val, had seen how frantic I was and he had come here without my asking.

  I gestured for him to come up, and he followed me. I had to ask him to unlock Val’s door. I didn’t want Val thinking I had smashed into her place in case she suddenly appeared. I just hoped he was better at picking locks than me. I was half out of my mind. I didn’t want to go inside.

  “I should go inside first,” said Bobo Leven who put his hand lightly on my arm. “It’s okay like that?” He reached for the antique brass doorknob Valentina had found in a thrift shop on Madison Avenue.