I went back into the restaurant, sat at the table and picked up the Armagnac. Tolya pulled a gold case out of his jacket and extracted two Havanas. “You want?”
“Sure.”
We sat late. We sat until the last customer left. Tolya made me take him through the case one step at a time. We finished the Armagnac.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, I should be working the case,” I said, but I was too stewed to get up. Stewed was how I felt. Stewed like fruit in brandy. Not drunk, mellow. Mindless.
“We have to figure this thing out with logic,” Tolya said.
“You think you can get logic on a case like this off a bottle of Armagnac and a plate of foie gras?”
He was a little drunk, too. The heavy, aromatic booze made his big face pink. “Is about keeping you alive, Artyom. Drink. Food. About keeping you alive.” He smiled. “Also, me.”
There was nothing much I could do this time of night except keep calling Martha Burnham, so I got back in the car with Tolya. It took us to my hotel where I changed, then Tolya’s hotel, where he put on a tux, which made him look very big, very regal.
“You like it?”
“I feel under-dressed.” I had on my best Hugo Boss suit that I bought at Century 21.
“I don’t blame you.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I followed him back into the car.
“This is wonderful place, Artyom. Paris. Wonderful. You can find anything here.” He waved his hand in the general direction of the city. “Anything.”
Tolya moves around, he makes money, he minds other people’s business. Sometimes it takes a while. It usually involves prowling some city, New York, Hong Kong, Moscow, in the middle of the night.
I said, “Listen, Tolya, are we going somewhere that’s going to help me on Lily? Because I’m not really up for hanging out. I’m in a hurry.”
“Maybe this will help, and anyway, what else are you going to do at midnight, Monday, in Paris? What?” Then he said suddenly, “So the guy is dead and alive at the same time.”
“What guy?”
“Your Mr Levesque,” he said as we turned a corner and pulled up in front of a club.
I checked the street sign. Sixteenth Arrondissement. The street looked rich, cold, sleek and sober. A man in a quilted jacket walked a couple of expensive poodles; a woman, heavy fur coat hanging open, pearls showing, ducked into a taxi.
“I’ll tell you what I think, Toi, OK?”
“Tell me.”
“I think it’s all bullshit, you know. I think someone’s putting me on is what I think. Someone who knows the case I’m working and wants to fake me out.”
“Maybe.” Tolya climbed out of the car and I followed.
There was a wrought-iron grille in which stylized black birds and flowers were trapped in gilded iron leaves. From inside, subtle lights shone through the opaque glass doors that were etched with Art Deco patterns.
The doorman recognized Tolya and pulled open the gates for us. Inside, the smell of rich people enveloped me; there was chatter in French, English, Russian, Japanese.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
Tolya smiled. “Looking for Monsieur Levesque.”
The emerald in Tolya’s ear flashed. We sat at a table in a corner. People, men mostly, sauntered up to him, shook his hand, hugged him, addressed him in French, English, Russian, even once in Chinese. He beamed. The diamonds in his cufflinks were big as marbles. He pulled out the cigarette case so people could admire the ruby on it. He ordered magnums of Cristal. I held one of his Havanas in my hand, sat and watched. The women were spectacular.
It was like something out of a James Bond movie. From the next room, I could hear the sounds of gambling, the click of the roulette ball, the dice, the chips. I looked up. There was a painted ceiling; the moldings were covered in gold leaf. The high French windows were draped with white brocade. The waiters, in white tie and tail, moved between the tables with bottles of wine and trays of caviar. Maybe because I was still a little boozed up, I wanted to laugh out loud.
The women were young and there were dozens of them, some at the tables, some on a tiny dance floor at the far end of the room. All of them wore evening clothes, and when my eyes adjusted to the low light and the flicker of candles, I thought they seemed to be acting.
This was a set. The director would appear any minute and call for a cut, and the extras would squat by the wall for a smoke and a cup of coffee.
A second wave of guys came at Tolya, again hugging him, exchanging business cards, whispering in his ear and when this wave ebbed and we were alone for a minute, I said, “So tell me.”
“What’s that, Artyom?”
“What is this place? It’s fucking ridiculous.”
“Sure.”
“You know it’s ridiculous.”
“Sure, I know.”
“You putting me on, man?” I was getting restless.
“What are we doing here?”
“I’m looking for information.”
“Come off it, Toi. I’m going back to the hotel. I got stuff to do.”
“You think I don’t want for Lily an answer to the shit they did? I also got stuff. Same stuff as you.”
He tossed back a glass of Champagne. His eyes suddenly swam with excitement, lids flickering. I followed his gaze. He was watching two women make their way towards us, one black, one white. There were beads of sweat on his forehead now.
The girls arrived at our table. He introduced them as Ivoire and Ebene, and I thought: gimme a fucking break here. But they sat down, one on each of Tolya’s knees, and he poured Champagne for them. The white one was Russian, a Super Natasha with greedy eyes. The black girl had a lilting Caribbean accent. Martinique, she said in French. “Je suis Martiniquaise.”
He held on to them. He looked at the cleavages, first one, then the other. He put his hand delicately on the white girl’s breasts and smiled. The black girl took his other hand and put it on her breast. He was like a giant baby.
It’s Tolya’s weakness. He’s crazy about strip clubs, lap dancing, all kinds of titty shows. I tell him all the time it’s only pussy for hire, no matter how fancy, but he gets red in the face; it makes him furious. He likes to think it’s the real goods.
“You want to dance with one of the girls, Artyom?” he said.
I shook my head and he took both women onto the dance floor, where the girls knew the moves and Tolya wiggled his fat ass a lot to “Brown Sugar”.
“May I sit down?” The voice came from behind me. “Your friend asked me to keep you company.”
I got up.
She was very pretty. Short black hair with bangs.
Simple black dress cut high in front, low in back. She had on sunglasses and her voice, in English, was completely neutral. Then she sat down and slipped off the glasses and the accent. It was Katya Slobodkin.
She touched the hair. “You like it? Is wig.”
“I like it. Are you following me?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, I’m harmless.”
I switched to Russian. “You come here often?”
“Why not? Speak English, OK.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be identified as Russian whore. Can I have Diet Coke, please?”
“Diet Coke?”
“I love Diet Coke. I am crazy for Diet Coke. I have friend, she says this is Jewish Champagne.”
“You’re Jewish also?”
“All Russians are Jewish also, don’t you know, Artemy.” She was tipsy. “I’m Katherine in here.”
“Pretty name.”
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.”
“Would you like to dance?”
I shook my head. It scared me, being close to her. She was flirtatious and smart, vivid, funny and whole. Outside it was dark and cold, and Lily, beaten up and broken, lay in a hospital bed.
I said, “This is a coincidence. You and me, we just happen to be
in the same dub at the same time?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“Is not coincidence.”
“Tolya fixed this?”
She shrugged. “What’s difference, allow me one secret.”
“Momo knows where you are?”
She said softly, speaking her mix of Russian and English, “Yes. He knows I am working. We don’t discuss details. I think you’re in trouble.” She leaned her head back against her chair; I could feel her hair against my cheek.
“So you came to help me?”
“You think I can’t help you? Your girlfriend, how she is?”
“She’s conscious.”
“Good.”
“She doesn’t know who the hell I am,” I blurted out.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“I’ve been thinking about this thing,” Katya said. “I can take you to meet more whores, if you want. This is easy part,” she said. “But this is not what you want.”
“I don’t want the whores. I want whoever beat up Lily.”
She looked closely at my face. “Not someone who tries to hurt you in Pigalle?”
“How do you know?”
“I hear things.”
“All I want is the guy who hurt Lily. That’s all. That’s all I want.”
In her seductive way, she was pumping me; this was an interrogation, a test. Katya wanted something from me.
She said, “Many of pimps have signatures when they punish girls. They think is cool, as you say. Sniper rifles. Car bombs. AKs. Knives. Hammer.”
“Go on.”
“There’s all kinds, you know? I knew of Serb pimp who prefers Muslim girls because this gives him religious high, keeps war going. Add to thrill.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Everything in name of Jesus Christ.”
“It’s like all the crap from the whole goddamn Soviet Empire is leaking into the rest of the world, like some kind of bloodletting.”
“Bloodletting, I don’t understand,” Katya said and polished off her Diet Coke as soon as the waiter put it on the table. Around us was the buzz and chatter of people talking, laughing, drinking. The music played.
I explained and she said, “Yes. Bloodletting. Maybe take the infection eventually with it. Maybe not.”
She stiffened suddenly. A quartet of ghouls in tuxedos had arrived. Katya said, “Dance with me. I don’t want these creeps to see me. Dance with me, OK? I won’t eat you.”
The band had changed. A trio played slow music now, Gershwin, Porter. On the dance floor I could feel her tight against me, her face buried in my shoulder.
A few feet away, one of the thugs caught my eye. He was a short, squat man with sloping shoulders and thin blonde hair. He put his arms around a girl in a transparent chiffon dress cut to her naval. Absently, as if it were a little animal, he petted one of her breasts. He had on sunglasses; these guys always lived out the stereotypes.
My skin crawled. I had seen him before. It was the creep who slapped me like I was a woman in the bar near the Place Clichy.
Suddenly, Katya saw his face. She pushed me off the dance floor towards a dark alcove at the back of the candlelit room and I was aware of her body. I tried not to think about it or who she was or why she was here with me.
Her voice was frightened. “Look at him.”
“I’m looking.”
“You know him?”
“No.”
“You saw him, Artemy, you recognized him.”
“OK. I saw him once somewhere. Who the fuck is he?”
“He is this guy they are calling Zhaba or Zhabo. Some corruption of word, but he is corruption of human being who likes hurting women. Who likes picking up desperate girls when they are crossing border.”
“You’ve seen him before?”
“Yes.” She pulled herself further into the corner; she made herself small.
I said, “What do they call him in English?”
“They call him Toad,” she whispered in my ear.
“This is man who has for signature to break girls’ fingers.
Rape. Kill.”
“Lily?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s he doing here?”
She shivered. “I don’t know.” She felt me pull away.
“Stay with me.”
“You expected him? You came here because you knew he was coming?”
“No!” Her breathing was shallow with anxiety. “You think I want to be in the room with this thing?”
“Tell me how you know him.”
In the alcove, using me as a shield, Katya leaned against the velvet-covered wall, her eyes always on Zhaba.
“You have some light?”
There was a plastic lighter in my pocket. I got it out, flicked it on. Katya put her right hand up close to my face. The fingers were crooked.
“God.”
“I don’t think God is interested.”
“It was him?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why Momo sent me to you?”
“Yes. But he says this is my decision to tell you or not.”
“Where does Zhaba live?”
“He doesn’t live. He moves around.”
“You were surprised to see him here?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t his normal turf?”
“No.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Hole in ground. Hole in hell.”
We stood in the dark against the wall, watching the flickering scene, the couples, the low light, the music, the money.
I said, “This club, you come here, you’ve been here before?”
“Don’t change the subject. Sure I been here before.”
In my mind, Katya was the subject. She was a hooker in love with a cop; she recognized the man who probably attacked Lily.
I said, “The girls here go to bed with the customers?”
“Do you see beds?”
“What do you want, Ykaterina Vladimirovna?”
Her arms around me, Katya said into my ear, “Kill him for me. For Lily. Then is all over.”
Over her shoulder, I looked at him. I thought of him working Lily over. I memorized the face as best I could. He stood in a tight group of men. Women in their gorgeous bright dresses circled behind them, watching, waiting. One woman put her arms around Zhaba from behind. Another offered the man beside him a drink. Mostly they stayed back, though, while the men did their business. It was like some tribal dance.
It would be easy. Katya could lure him into a car. I could find a dark empty place, under a bridge, in an alley. I could find a soft spot under his chin. Get a knife. Use the gun. I had the gun.
It would be finished. It would be over. I could do it. I could do it, and I imagined the squat body, saw it crumple, saw him die. Maybe I would take my time.
When I turned around, I saw Katya’s beautiful, complicated face. Who the hell was she? What did she want? How did I know this Zhaba really was the thug who hurt Lily, and if I went for him, how would I get out of France and take Lily home and care for her?
I said, “Not here.”
“Yes. Anywhere. Please.” She whispered in my ear. She reminded me what he did to Lily.
I started to move out of the alcove.
The band was playing “Autumn in New York”. Katya felt me pull away, but she held on to me. Then she let go and whispered again, in Russian this time, “Kill him.”
14
“Where is he?” Katya was frantic.
Did he feel the danger? Did his cronies tighten the circle and move him out of the club?
He was gone. I’d hesitated. I’d lost him.
Did he see us? It didn’t matter. I knew his face. I knew what he looked like. I threaded my way through the crowded club, tripping over one man who swore at me, bumping into couples on the dance floor. Without a coat, I ran into the street.
It was late. Cold. The guys at the door shook their heads. They d
idn’t see anyone, they said, and I didn’t know if they were lying. Maybe he paid them off and got in a waiting car.
I scoured the streets around the club until I was shaking from the cold, but he was gone.
“Katya, listen, I’ll get him,” I said when I got back inside the club. “I swear.”
She saw I was cold. She put her arms around me and we moved back onto the dance floor. She held onto me so I would feel the heat from her; you had to be dead not to feel it.
Over her head, I saw Tolya, who had left the room earlier. Now he came in through the double doors at the far end of the room. The two women were with him. Other couples came and went the same way. A man in a fancy tux strolled through the door, one hand going instinctively to his fly.
Katya followed my glance. “You understand?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re American, so you disapprove?”
“I don’t know. It looks like a bad movie. How do the girls feel about it?”
She smiled. “They feel this is for money. And make-believe.”
“What?”
“You’re looking for someone?”
“I thought he might come back.”
“He won’t come back.” She put her head on my shoulder for an instant and said softly, “Anyone else?”
I thought about Levesque. “I’m not sure.”
“There is no one else.” She moved closer, reached up and kissed me. “Come with me.”
“No. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“It could be interesting.”
She smelled wonderful. We were walking across the room and through the double doors. We were in the elevator. It had tufted-silk walls, little gold mirrors, a padded bench. We were alone in the confined space, and Katya was very good with her mouth. By the time we reached the third floor, I was panting.
*
The brocaded room had a big bed, candles, a TV, stacks of videos, a sound system, flowers, Champagne in a bucket. I tried to think about Lily. I fixed the Toad’s face in my memory some more. I tried to make myself laugh at the whole set-up, but Katya laughed with me. I concentrated hard on the carpet, but she unzipped her dress, let it fall on the floor, stepped out of it. She was naked.
I fumbled in my pockets for cigarettes, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t.”
Skin Trade Page 13
