by David Duffy
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said.
“Just relaying the message,” Foos said.
“I need some help from the Dick,” I said. Victoria shot me a look. “Somebody followed Track and Field from Jersey City to Greene Street Wednesday morning. Blue Chevy Impala. No plate number, sorry.”
Victoria said, “Who the hell are Track and Field?”
Foos said, “Turbo, do you have any idea how many Chevy Impalas—”
“Could be a rental.”
“Do you have any idea how many rental cars—”
“Look at it as a challenge for the Basilisk?”
“What’s the Basilisk?” Victoria said.
“The beast that keeps track of you—whenever I ask it to,” Foos said. “Have a nice day, Victoria. I’ll be watching.”
“Listen, goddammit—”
A click and the dial tone as he hung up.
“I don’t know which of you is the bigger pain in the ass. If you take my advice, you’ll stay right where you are—all day. But I might as well tell your friend to act like … oh, never mind. Why bother?”
“Foos would tell you that you’ve reached the inevitable logical conclusion.”
She didn’t respond as she took the cups to the sink and rinsed them.
“Why didn’t you tell me your first wife is married to Mulholland?”
“Didn’t seem relevant.”
“Hiding out, living under a different name?”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with Mulholland. He doesn’t know who she used to be. He thinks she’s a real estate broker from Queens.”
“What’s she hiding from?”
“Don’t know. Lachko, maybe. That’s what she says. I’m not sure I believe her, but that means I have to believe Lachko. She had a lover, while she was married to Lachko. They were all in business together. Iakov claims she and the lover stole six hundred million dollars from the lover’s bank—and maybe Lachko. Lachko says that never happened. That could be pride talking, but I doubt that, too. Besides, if she had all that money, why did she try that silly fake kidnap scheme on her husband? So I think it’s something else, which I intend to ask her.”
“Not today, though, right?”
I didn’t respond.
“How long were you married?”
“How about I tell you the whole sordid tale over dinner—right here? I’ll cook something. We ex-socialist small businessmen can’t afford a steady Trastevere diet.”
She smiled a big smile. “Deal.”
She came around the counter and gave me a kiss on the lips that was much more than a peck. Then she was out the door without looking back.
I sat for a moment sipping coffee and thinking about how good it felt, for the first time in a long time, to have someone who cared what happened to me. Even if she was threatening to toss my ass in jail if I didn’t change my ways. Maybe that was part of what made it fun.
I could have—and should have—followed her advice and spent a quiet day in bed, mentally replaying her kiss. She was giving me every incentive to get well soon. However, patience was not among Lachko’s virtues, and I’d already blown more than two days. That was his fault, of course, but he wouldn’t see it that way.
Using the counter for support (I could tell Victoria I was trying to take it easy), I made it back to the living room, where I’d left my computer, and logged on to Ibansk.com. I wasn’t surprised to see Ivanov had been busy. Three new postings, Saturday, Monday, and this morning. The first focused on the Barsukovs’ growing anxiety over setbacks to their money laundry and speculated about whether Ratko had disappeared with “the detergent that makes the washing machines run.” The second reported the surprise demise of Risly. The third detailed the shooting at CPS headquarters.
OUT OF CONTROL
The Cheka has never been known for restraint. But not since the days of Beria has it felt so emboldened. Ibanskians happening to pass the building housing the CPS in Ulica Otradnaja will see a shattered window on the second floor. The result, Ivanov is reliably informed, of a bungled assassination attempt Saturday morning.
Hard to believe? Not for Ivanov. There’s not much the Cheka is afraid to try in its Ibanskian playground these days. The only difference from Beria’s era is that now there’s nothing—or no one—to rein in their instincts. What intrigues Ivanov more than the brazenness of the act is that the Cheka found it necessary. What would cause them to put an assassin’s bullet through the window of a junior CPS officer?
Ivanov has been making inquiries. The answer appears to lie in the murky swamp of Cheka history, where one wades with great caution. Snakes, eels, crocodiles, and a host of other sharp-toothed reptiles all guard their secrets with deathly closeness. Two other CPS officers have died this year—one poisoned, the other gunned down in the street. Ivanov isn’t ready to tell yet, but it’s clear the Cheka is hiding a mortal secret—deadly to those who own it, deadly to those who find out about it. It’s prepared to go to any length to make sure it’s never dredged up. That’s the message of a shattered window in Ulica Otradnaja.
Three things were clear to me.
Petrovin was spoon-feeding Ivanov.
Ivanov was baiting the Badgers.
Both of them were chasing a lot more than Lachko’s laundry.
CHAPTER 31
I made two Politburo-level decisions. At least they felt that way. The first was not to call ahead. The second, forgo the subway for a cab. That way, I could tell Victoria I was taking care of myself.
I returned to the bedroom, removed my robe, and, ignoring her advice, checked myself over in the full-length mirror. A Francis Bacon nightmare stared back, a hunched, stretched, distorted mass of colors—reds, blacks, blues, purples, and yellows—none of which looked natural, much less healthy. The stitches on my face and jaw gave a certain Frankenstein’s monster appearance—if the good doctor had been drinking while he worked. I wondered idly what Victoria could possibly see in me and concluded there’s no accounting for taste. The only possible benefit was maybe Polina would be so shocked that she’d take pity and explain what was really going on.
Right.
I showered gingerly and dressed with equal care. That took twice as long as usual, but I was pleased to feel no sudden shots of pain. Quick healer. I walked the two blocks to the office, which took almost ten minutes, and I felt wiped when I got there. Maybe not so quick. Then again, the temperature hadn’t dropped a degree while I’d been out of commission.
Pig Pen took one look and winced. I didn’t know parrots could wince.
“Russky. Ouch. Three car pile-up.”
“That’s right, Pig Pen. Three cars, they all hit me.”
“L-I-E?”
“No, not L-I-E.”
“Cross Bronx?”
“Not there either. Brighton Beach.” That caused him to lose interest. Brighton Beach isn’t mentioned often—if at all—on traffic reports, so he had no context. Not that he knows where the Long Island or Cross Bronx expressway is either, but I might be selling him short. The sight upset him sufficiently that he didn’t even ask about pizza.
Foos looked up at me leaning against his doorjamb, breathing harder than I should and sweating.
“You up and around already?”
“Don’t start. One minder is plenty.”
“So, how many Chevy Impalas are there in metro New York?”
I shook my head.
“Two hundred thirty-eight thousand three hundred twelve. None registered to anyone we know, best as I can tell.”
“Rentals?”
“Sixteen thousand five hundred sixty-one.”
“Okay—lots of data. Rental Impalas?”
“Varies. Right now, five hundred four.”
“And?” He wouldn’t have started this if he didn’t have the answer.
“Three of those belong to an independent outfit on East Eighty-eighth Street—Yorkville Car Rental. One of those three was rented last Tuesday afternoon at 3:52
P.M. and returned Wednesday at 12:36 P.M.”
“By?”
“Gentleman named Lachlan Malloy.”
Five-by-Five. He was limping on Thursday. “Remember when you pointed out I’d been taken for a ride?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You didn’t know the half of it.”
* * *
I dialed Victoria’s office. She got on right away.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Bullshit. Where are you?”
“Telecommuting,” I lied.
“More bullshit. You’re at your office.”
“Doctor said get exercise. I’m taking it easy.”
“Are all Russians really this pigheaded?”
“National trait. I need a favor.”
“What?”
“Hospitals have to report gunshot wounds. I’m looking for a guy named Malloy, Lachlan Malloy, with a bullet in the right leg, late last Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. You must have contacts with NYPD.”
“Who’s Malloy?”
“Nasty SOB, built like a panel truck, with bad intentions toward me. Also Mulholland’s driver.”
“Where’d he get the bullet wound?”
“Rislyakov’s loft. Wednesday night. After he shot Ratko.”
“He killed Rislyakov?”
“Looks that way. Felix Mulholland put him on me, I put him onto Ratko’s associates, and he followed them to Greene Street. Ratko wasn’t there, but Malloy went back when he was. Shot him and Iakov. Was probably trying to get to Eva Mulholland, maybe to get her home, I don’t know, when she shot him through the door.”
“Tell me you’re not going to see her.”
“Good a time as any to get reacquainted.”
“Turbo…”
“I’m not looking forward to it.”
“I’m not either. Watch out for Malloy.”
“He’s not half as dangerous as she is.”
* * *
I limped into the lobby of 998 Fifth to the usual impassive greeting. If Christ himself descended from on high, mother in tow, and levitated through those doors, he’d receive the same bland response. We went through the routine of name asking and calling upstairs, and the elevator man drove me to the ninth floor.
The man in the silver tie opened the door. When I told him who I wanted to see, he took me to the library. The room was cool and dark, lighted by the same lamps as last week. I stopped by the desk to glance at the computer screen. Mostly red. FTB was trading in single digits.
I sat in a chair by the giant fireplace and took out my cell phone.
“This is Gina.”
“How soon can you get uptown, Fifth and Eighty-second?”
“Half an hour.”
“Good. Park yourself on the steps of the Met. You’ll have a clear view of this building, nine-nine-eight Fifth. I’m expecting a woman, blond, forty-something version of Greene Street Girl, to come out later today. I want to know where she goes and what she does.”
“You got it.”
“You’re the best.”
“Put that sentiment into cash.”
“The best mercenary, that is.”
Victoria called as soon as we disconnected. “Where are you?”
“Lion’s den.”
“You mean lioness.”
“You’re becoming very protective.”
“You’re getting no less obnoxious. Lachlan Malloy was treated and released by Beth Israel late Wednesday night. Superficial gunshot wound, right thigh.”
“I owe you.”
“Then get out of there.”
“As soon as I’ve tamed the lioness.”
“Turbo…”
“Gotta run.”
Raised voices, one male, one female, outside. I was about to move closer to the door when it opened and Mulholland came in, dressed in one of his Savile Row suits. It was hard to tell in dim light, but he looked as though he’d aged several years since our last meeting. I wondered what he’d make of my appearance.
He came across the big carpet without stopping at the desk or looking toward the computer. His shoulders slumped forward, and his legs moved without purpose, as if they were directing themselves, unsure of where their owner wanted to go. I stood, and as he grew close, he raised his eyes to meet mine.
“Good morning, Mr. Vlost. It seems you were in an accident of some kind.”
“That’s one way of putting it. I look worse than I feel.” Not true, but it sounded good.
He nodded. “Do you have news of Eva?”
“I actually came to see your wife.”
He nodded. “Hicks told me. She’s … she’s not well. The accumulated stress—my difficulties, Eva—it’s taking a toll.”
“Is she here?”
“She’s resting. She … she had a bad night.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wake her.”
“Why? What for?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“I hardly think—”
“She can talk to me or talk to the cops. The topic is murder. She despises me, but I’m still likely to be more understanding than they are.”
He was tough, or tired, or both. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t show much reaction of any kind. “Murder? Whose murder? I don’t understand. What about Eva?”
“Get your wife and I’ll answer your questions.”
“Does this have anything to do with your … accident?”
“Tangentially.”
“Tell me this much. Is Eva all right?”
“She was when I saw her.”
“You saw her? When?”
“Friday.”
“Friday? Why haven’t you—”
“Get your wife.”
Thirty seconds or more passed before he stood. His legs seemed to find more intent as they traversed back across the rug.
He was gone almost twenty minutes. I spent most of the time debating whether to beat it while I had the chance, but I’d come with a purpose in mind. When he returned, Felix/Polina—I hadn’t worked out which way to think of her—was with him. She was dressed in a rose top and black slacks, no makeup or jewelry. She’d been crying. Sorrow—or anger—turned to surprise as she came close.
“You … What happened?”
“Lachko and I agreed to disagree. But it took some time to get to that point.”
“My God. Lachko did that?”
“He had help.” And I still had some pride.
She didn’t express sorrow for my pains. On the other hand, she didn’t say I deserved them. She and Mulholland sat across from me. He looked at her. She looked at me. I let them look until Mulholland started visibly losing patience.
I nodded toward him but kept my eyes on Polina. “How much have you told him about me?”
She shook her head.
“And Lachko?”
Another shake.
“You’re a piece of work, Polya.”
“Polya?” Mulholland said.
“Say what you came to say and get out,” Polina said.
“Felix, I—”
“I know you hired him to find Eva, but this man is not our friend,” she said. “He’s a born liar.”
“What about Eva, Mr. Vlost?” Mulholland asked. “You said you saw her. Where was she?”
“The W Hotel on Union Square. She had a room under a borrowed name. She’d borrowed the cash to pay for it, too.”
“Borrowed?”
“I was being polite. Stolen. The last time I checked, she’d removed almost eight thousand dollars from various people’s bank accounts, using information she bought on the Internet. She used her boyfriend’s account for that, but he won’t mind. He’s the one who was murdered.”
I was watching Polina. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t move her eyes from my stitched-up visage. I still remembered all too well what her cold shoulder felt like, and she’d added more than a few layers of ice since t
hen. Mulholland just looked lost. I felt sorry for him, but it was Polina’s armor I was trying to find a chink in.
Nobody spoke for a minute. Then Polina said, “Why didn’t you bring her home? That’s what we’re paying you to do.”
“She didn’t want to come, for one thing. She ran before I could change her mind, for another. She took off when I told her Rislyakov—that’s her late boyfriend—worked for Lachko. Why’s she so afraid of him?”
“Look in a mirror and ask that question again.”
“I’m not his daughter.”
“Who’s Lachko?” Mulholland asked. “You said that name before.”
“Your move,” I said to Polina.
“You should have died in the camps.” She spoke Russian. “They’re the only place you ever fit in.”
“You and Lachko agree on that much,” I replied in our native tongue, “but I think you just blew your cover with Hubby Number Three.”
“Eb tvoju mat’!” She stepped forward and slapped me once with the flat of her hand and again with the back side, setting my face afire. Her insult, a form of “fuck you” that translates literally as “I fucked your mother,” is one of the worst in the Russian language.
“Felix!” Mulholland shouted.
“Get him out of here. He makes me sick to my stomach,” she said, in English.
“If I leave here now, I go straight to the police.” I was watching her again. Despite the show of temper, the ice was still in place.
Mulholland spoke. “You said murder. Who’s this Rislyakov? What’s he have to do with Eva? What’s he have to do with us?”
“You want to tell him?” I said to Polina.
She stared back silently as she sat, sparks of hatred shooting through the indigo. I tried to feel some regret for what I was doing, but not very hard, and none came.
“Rad Rislyakov is—was—a computer whiz. He worked for a man named Lachko Barsukov, big-time mobster. I’ve known Lachko half my life, and there’s nothing good I can say about him. Maybe your wife has a kind word—she’s known him nearly as long as I have. I’ll let her fill in the details, or you can try Google. He probably has a Wikipedia entry. Rislyakov is the guy who phished you with that fake letter back in March.
“What? How do you—”
“For now, just accept that I know and what I know is fact. If anything I say is conjecture, I’ll flag it.”
