by Marc Strange
In the beginning, before they had begun tearing it apart, the crucifix held forty-eight diamonds, all roughly two carats, twenty-three pearls, exceptional ones, all the same size and colour, and four extravagant sapphires, deep blue, more than five carats each. The cross and chain could be melted and sold for weight. Grova said he would handle that part of the operation. They decided not to take so drastic a step unless and until it was absolutely necessary.
The big question was what to do with the Ember. Vassili and Viktor didn’t trust each other, and neither one trusted Louie enough to let him hold it. And at some point during the endless arguing they agreed that Anya should carry it until a decision was reached. And while they were arguing about diamonds and sapphires and gold, she made it disappear. “It is hidden away,” she told them. “It is safe, and you cannot find it, and I will not tell you where it is. It is too well known for you to sell. It would be your death warrant. Its only value is as insurance. If someone catches up to me, if they find me, I want something to bargain for my life with. You and Vassili have all the other stones. They are worth more than the two of you put together, unless you are so stupid you lose them, or give them away like the last ones.”
“Nobody gave anything away.”
“Yes? How much money do you have in your pocket?”
And Grova? What were you doing that night, you troll? Sitting in your dark corner, surrounded by your mountains of junk, quietly planning how to separate Viktor and Vassili from their treasure. Wondering where I’d hidden the big prize.
She took the pearls to a jeweller in Winnipeg. Pearls are perfect; they’re anonymous. She told the gem merchant a sad story of her great-grandmother. He might have believed her. It didn’t matter. He brokered them for her, took twenty percent. She got enough to keep her alive for a while. She didn’t tell Viktor or Vassili where she was going. They had the sapphires and all the diamonds big and small to sell. They had each other to keep an eye on. She didn’t want to be near them.
Adele’s apartment was as welcoming as ever: nothing edible in the refrigerator, a sink full of dishes, the new Vanity Fair she’d bought for the trip still sitting on the sideboard under her coffee cup and Pop Tart crumbs. Home sweet home. She put the bag full of Paulie’s crap in the breakfast nook like an unwelcome guest. “Sure you don’t want some coffee, Paulie? Fix you some really shitty instant. No trouble.”
Sole beneficiary, was she? Well he damn well wasn’t her sole frickin’ beneficiary, that’s for sure. Her sister’s name was on that line of the form; a replacement for her mother’s name, once there, grudgingly, because it was too much trouble to think of anyone else. Finally got around to removing it a year and a half after the bitter old woman died. But here she was, Paul Delisle’s sole beneficiary, of pension, insurance . . .
Okay, enough dicking around, open it. She didn’t feel like messing with the goddamn staples. She sawed the top open with her mother’s breadknife, spread the contents across the table. Christ, look at this. Clothes, shoes, shampoo, tweezers, floss, combs, hair goop — “Paulie, you are such a dude.” More beauty products than she had in her bathroom — Italian loafers, stinky Adidas, notebooks, mini-cassette recorder, pens, watch, phone book, business cards, wallet, keys, pictures of his daughter, baby pictures, birthday pictures, school pictures, “Danielle soccer” and the date, last year, what is she? Fourteen? Birthday in October. He always got her something. The only person he gives a shit about. Gave a shit about.
Stuffed inside a sneaker in an envelope marked “DELLA,” she found a mini-cassette for the recorder. He was the only one who called her that. As far as she could remember he was the only person who’d ever given her a nickname.
“Hey, Della. If you’re listening to this . . . well, you know what happened, or maybe you don’t, hell, maybe I don’t, but whatever the specifics . . . I’ve checked out, right?”
She swatted the machine. Made it shut up. Shit! Her knees unlocked and her back slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, wishing she had a drink, wishing she was still in Jamaica.
“Well, how do you start a thing like this?” It was the voice she remembered from nights of stakeouts and waiting: familiar, conversational, intimate. “All the stuff, you know, pension, insurance, car and whatever, I’ve got to let you deal with it. Sorry. Don’t have anybody else I can count on to take care of things. You’ll have to handle it however you think best. If I know you, you’re probably already worried about Danielle. I just never got around to organizing a fund or any of that stuff. She’s still a kid, and I don’t trust her mother not to make a grab at it. Anyway, when you have the time, get a lawyer to work out some system so Danielle can get some of it, for school, or leaving home, I don’t care. Whatever you think makes sense.”
She heard a chair scrape. Where was he? Probably at home. She heard a siren far off. Middle of the night. Sitting in the dark, giving her his last will and testament.
“Don’t do yourself in the eye, all right? Executors are entitled to a percentage. Should that be executrixes? Whatever. You’re stuck with the job, Stretch (another nickname), like who else can I trust? Right? So make sure you get the full share coming to you. And for sure keep the car, it’s a great car, and any of my stuff you want, got a great TV, fantastic sound system, and my blues record collection you lust after, I know you do.”
She remembered one night after work when she was in his place for a beer, both on their way to some department nonsense, never made it, spent all night listening to his collection: Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, Robert Johnson, he had them all. Sitting in the dark across from him, watching him handling his precious LPs with the same dexterity he finessed a basketball, or a set of cuffs, sliding the platters in and out of their paper sleeves, lifting the tone arm on his vintage turntable, adjusting the volume on his precious McIntosh amp. She, slightly stoned, watching his hands dancing in the lamplight, hearing the passion in his voice as he introduced her to Sonny and Brownie.
“I mean, you and Danielle are the only two people I actually give a shit about, so you figure out the split and I’ll be fine with it.
“Okay, that’s it for my last will and testament. Feels weird saying this into a tape recorder. There’s some other stuff you need to know about, job-related, so I’ll maybe put that on a different cassette. You’ll need to play this one for the lawyer.”
There was a long moment’s pause. She could hear him breathing into the microphone. Finally, “Sorry to dump this on you, Stretch, I know you hate all this personal stuff. But hey, how do you think I feel?” And then his laugh, infectious, wicked. She smiled in spite of herself.
Bastard, she thought. Thanks a heap. Get a lawyer, work out some trust or something but make sure “ol’ itchy-pants” can’t touch it. Get rid of all his stuff. Fuck! That damn apartment of his is an antique shop. Crammed. All his crap and treasures and who knows what? Sort it, pack it, move it, store it, sell it. Thanks a fucking heap. You’re damn lucky you’re dead asshole or I’d fucking kill you! And then she started to weep, slumped on her kitchen floor, hiding her face in her hands and sobbing, deep uncontrollable waves of pain and grief.
A strong west wind was in her face. She stayed on the south side of the Danforth, walking the seven blocks from Main to Woodbine. Grova’s shop was on the north side, and she wanted to see it first from a distance, make certain of the street number, check the lane for fire stairs, back doors, hiding places, escape routes. The subway station was close. If she had to run, she wanted to know which way and how far.
“Grova’s Pawn, Jewellery and collectibles, bought and sold.” Peeling paint, sputtering neon, a gigantic dusty rubber tree that hadn’t moved since the last time she saw it, and a well-used “Closed” sign taped to the inside of the door pane. She crossed at the Woodbine intersection, counted the store fronts to his entrance — bank, thrift shop, smoke shop, pub and . . . five.
Grova would salivate the mi
nute he heard the word ruby. He wanted the Ember more than anything he’d ever lusted after, and he’d lusted after everything, all his life. Greed. That’s all he was. Need. Getting, holding, owning. Through his scummy window she could see what he valued most in the world. Things. The narrow store was crammed from floor to ceiling with things. They were all alike to him. Worth everything and worth nothing — guitars and socket wrenches, cameras and ski poles, pornographic video tapes and mismatched silver servers, some with bigger price tags — Grova knew the difference between a Rolex and a Timex — but the need to have them was just the same. And, as with all those who hungered and grabbed and hoarded, he never found the thing that would fill the hole in him. Until the Ember. It was the ultimate prize. The one thing truly worth having. But he only believed that because he didn’t have it.
The upper floor lights were on where the troll lived, sometimes with his wastrel stepson when the degenerate wasn’t in jail or on the run from people trying to collect money. Was there a wife these days? She left him years ago, but she could be back, or there could be a new one. Not likely. Likely he was up there all alone, sitting in his crowded room, counting his things.
It now cost fifty cents to make a call from a public telephone, if you could find a phone booth. And of course the Yellow Pages were missing. Grova’s phone number was on his window. She retraced her steps and then read it aloud a few times to memorize it.
In the smoke shop next door she bought a package of Players. The price had gone up again, overnight. Someone really wanted her to quit. At the rear of the store a fat man was methodically tearing open a wad of tiny pull-tab lottery tickets, one after the other, dropping them into the trash bin. Grova’s stepson. What was his name? David? Darryl. That was it. Almost didn’t recognize him; he had become a middle-aged, balding fat man, even less appealing than when he was in his twenties. Time continues to fly, she thought, and is not always kind. He was absorbed in losing his money and didn’t look up as she slipped out to the street.
The phone booth was on the opposite side of Danforth, with a view of the store and the second-floor windows. She whispered the numbers as she pressed the buttons. It rang five times before he answered.
“Yeah, what?” Familiar voice, thick-tongued, guttural, unfriendly.
“Charming as always, Louie.”
“Who is this?”
“Oh please, Louie, you know who it is. Have you heard from Viktor?”
“Viktor who?”
“Good boy. That is right. Viktor who. Your old business partner is not with us any longer, is he, Louie? He has gone the way of all the rest. Except you and me. And Sergei, of course. Sergei is still around, is he not? Perhaps he is upstairs with you as we speak.”
“What do you want?”
“The question is, what do you want, Louie? What is the one thing you really want.”
There was silence on his end except for audible breathing. She imagined him trying not to dribble. “You still have it?”
“Of course I have it. I have always had it.”
More silence. She smiled to herself. His mind is racing, he is assessing his position, counting his options, trying to figure out how to turn things to his advantage. “And what?” he said. “You want to sell it?”
“That is the trouble is it not, Louie? Who could afford it?”
“There are people.”
“I suppose there are, but I do not know any of them. Do you?”
Darryl was coming out of the smoke shop. “Your son is coming up,” she said. “Tell him to go out for a while. Give him some money for lottery tickets and beer. I will wait until I see him leaving.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m close by, but I will not be if I start feeling uncomfortable.”
“I’ll get rid of him.”
“You do that.”
People were exiting the thrift shop with huge plastic bags filled with things. She ducked around the corner and opened her package of very expensive cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply. From her vantage point she could keep an eye on Grova’s place. There was a dark shadow filling the upstairs window. He was trying to see where she was. Good luck. In her brown coat and brown wig she looked like any other bargain hunter.
Two cigarettes later, Darryl came outside. She was expecting him to duck into the pub next door, but he set off toward the subway station with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. She shadowed him from the opposite sidewalk until she saw him pay his fare and push his bulk through the turnstiles. Definitely going somewhere. Maybe Louie told him to get out of the neighbourhood for a while. Maybe he told him to go for help. If he was making a subway trip, he would be gone at least thirty minutes. Enough time. One way or another.
Into the lane, counting — bank, dollar store, smoke shop, pub . . . five. Grova’s shaky back stairway was an obstacle course flouting any known fire code. Descending in a hurry would demand fancy footwork. As she climbed she visualized the choreography, instinctively setting it to music. It’s Giselle, she thought, going mad and dashing through the square, only this time I’ll have to avoid the boxes, plastic cartons, machine parts, cans of paint and motor oil. She smiled, a piece of cake.
The landing at the top was impregnable; a troop of Cossacks couldn’t breach it, two mattresses, a wall of beer cases, a year of newspapers. The kitchen window was open. She pushed on the railing, testing it, straddling it, leaning across open space to reach the window sill. It could be done, which was good because she had reached the point where it must be done, there was no way back. Flucht nach vorn. No doubt about it, this was a day for leaping.
“Detective Crean? This is Anya Zubrovskaya. I’m letting you know that I’m going to go away for a little. I’m not sure how long.”
“Doesn’t say where, Chief.”
“Any ideas?” She had caught him with his mouth full.
“I’m not rolling in them. Hospital says I can talk to Lorna Ruth now. That’s top of my list.”
There were shortbread crumbs on his desk blotter. “Okay, Detective. You go talk to the good doctor, see if she has anything useful.” He shifted a piece of paper to hide them. “I don’t think we need to scour the town, she’s obviously not here. Sure would like to know where she went, though. Wouldn’t you?”
“Has she got a passport, Chief?”
“I don’t know. Possibly — she’s a citizen, as far as I know. It would be in her real name, Zubrovskaya.” He was surprised at how quickly her name came to his lips. “Anya Ivanova Zubrovskaya. She made me practice it.” There were a few stray crumbs clinging to his blue tie. Sure to be noticed. Oh what the hell, he was a grown man, if he wanted a cookie with his afternoon coffee, he was entitled. “She’s travelling light?”
“Yes sir, I think so. Didn’t take much.”
“Well I’m not calling out the fire department. She hasn’t done anything, she’s not a material witness, far as we know.”
“But maybe scared. Maybe running for her life.”
“See, Detective? That’s the part that’s worrying the heck out of me. There’s a lot of death and destruction connected with this thing. I’m going to have to tell someone. We could be sitting on a . . . an international incident, for all I know.”
“Or a steaming pile, sir. Not to put too fine a point on it.”
“Or, yes, Stacy, point taken, a big bunch of lies from a woman with a dubious record of sanity.” He held his tie away from his shirt front and brushed it. “You’ve still got the weekend. Might as well stay on it. If you’re so inclined.”
Stay on it. Stay on it? Stay on what? What’s left to stay on?
Lorna Ruth had a bandage on one side of her head. The right side. Hit from behind by a right-handed man, taller than her and not too particular about how badly he’d hurt her. Or if he’d killed her.
“Feeling better, Doctor?”
“Ye
s, somewhat.”
“Do you feel up to answering a few questions? I won’t stay long.”
“I don’t know how much I can tell you. I didn’t see who did it, he hit me from behind. I think he hit me from behind. There could have been two of them, someone in my office and another one behind me. But I can’t be sure.” She touched the side of her head with her fingertips. “There was one. I know that much.”
“Do you have any idea what he was after?”
“There’s nothing valuable in there. Everything is in boxes, anyway. How would they even know where to . . . ?”
“Anything relating to Anya Daniel? Whose real name is . . .” she checked her notebook, “. . . Zubrovskaya.” She looked up. “You knew that?”
“Yes, she told me her real name.”
“She’s missing.”
“Kidnapped?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Just the way you said it, Detective, ‘missing.’”
“I’m hoping she left town voluntarily. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“None.”
“Surely she talked about people, places, friends . . .”
“She didn’t have any friends.”
“Acquaintances then. People in the ballet world.”
“I don’t think she kept in touch with anyone.”
“Would there be anything in your office about her? I mean anything worthy of an assault and robbery?”
“I have notes, files, the usual records one keeps. You can’t look at them, of course.”
