by Mike Nappa
Viktor Kostiuk reaches over and pats my chest. It’s almost affectionate, which seems kind of weird to me, considering the situation.
It wasn’t quite midnight last night when they knocked on my door.
“Pizza delivery,” one of them said. I think it was Pavlo.
Now, I didn’t order any pizza. Sure, I know that. But the blue-collar folks here in the Boulevard Home Apartments order pizza anytime, day or night, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. And sometimes delivery drivers make mistakes. When they make mistakes late at night here in Atlanta’s Old Fourth Ward, well, sometimes they just cut their losses. So I was kinda hoping to get a free pizza out of the deal—at least then I’d have something to eat for breakfast.
“Pizza!” the voice on the other side of the door said again. Then I did what every stupid blackmailer does.
I opened the door.
They had me shirtless and my legs bound to one of my three kitchen chairs before I even knew who they were. Only after they’d gagged me and cuffed my hands behind me did I start to piece things together.
They all stood around me for a minute, the heavy Ukrainian breathing hard and giggling in little hiccups. Then Viktor nodded and Pavlo let me have it, right in the solar plexus. It felt like a hammer, and I wasn’t really prepared for it. They all laughed while I struggled to breathe. Pavlo pulled back for another shot, but this time Scholarship stepped between us.
“You know why we’re here, kid?” he said, leaning down close to my face. He was almost smiling. I think he liked this part.
I shook my head as an answer to his question. I was still gagged, not breathing, and not able to form words anyway.
“Because you have something that doesn’t belong to you.” He pulled away and leaned against the table, grinning. He started wrapping a leather strap, like a makeshift glove, around the knuckles on his left hand.
Yeah, he was definitely enjoying himself.
This is bad, I thought. I knew what he was talking about. Bad. Bad. Bad.
“You have something . . . personal . . . that belongs to Mr. Maksym Romanenko. And for some reason, you thought Mr. Roman should pay you ten thousand dollars just to get back what was already his in the first place. What have you got to say about that?” He snatched the gag out of my mouth.
“Well, technically,” I gasped out, “the two women who were naked with Councilman Roman in those pictures could also claim copyright ownership of that property. Unless they signed model releases or something. But I’m guessing they didn’t sign anything. Probably didn’t even know they were being photographed. That right, Scholarship?”
Yeah, nobody likes a smart guy. Thanks, Pops.
He hit me so fast I thought my right eye had popped out of its socket. When the black spots in my vision finally faded, all three goons were still standing around me. So no, it wasn’t just a bad dream. And nobody was laughing now.
Viktor spoke into the silence. “I hear you’re some kind of magician,” he said.
“Deception specialist,” I said automatically.
It was stupid, I know, but I heard myself say it before I thought it, so I guess my mouth was working without my brain attached again. This seems to happen regularly with me. It’s just that, a few years back, I heard the great Apollo Robbins call himself that, and I realized immediately that “deception specialist” sounded a lot better than “magician.” I decided to be like my hero and started telling anyone and everyone I was a deception specialist too, not just a lowly magician. Apparently my subconscious thought this was an important point to make at this moment, right when I was about to get my first truly professional beating.
Viktor nodded amiably toward me. “All right,” he said, “how did a deception specialist come to acquire Max Roman’s private . . . art photography?”
No sense in lying at this point. Here goes nothing.
“A week ago last Saturday, I was working down at Piedmont Park, doing street magic for a few extra bucks.”
“This is where I see you!” Pavlo said suddenly. “You mister magic guy, The Raven! I do not recognize you without purple cape and little black eye mask.” He turned to his fellow goons. “This khlopchyk the real deal. He make stuff disappear—poof! Gone! Read your mind too. Crazy.” He patted me on the back enthusiastically.
“Well, um, thanks?” I said. “Always nice to meet a fan. Anyway, Councilman Roman and his girlfriends—”
“Personal assistants,” Scholarship interrupted.
“Right,” I said. And I flinched because I thought he was going to thump me again. But he didn’t, at least not that time. “Right, right. Well, Mr. Roman and his personal assistants stopped for the Permission to Pickpocket show.”
Viktor tapped a finger on the table, getting impatient.
“That’s the one where I steal your stuff while you’re watching,” I explained quickly. “I lift your watch, your wallet, your scarf, even the hat off your head if you’re wearing one. You’re watching me the whole time, but the laws of deception dictate that you can’t keep track of everything I’m doing. So I end up with your stuff. Then I return it all, we have a good laugh, and you leave me a good tip.”
“Except?”
Viktor knew what happened next. He just wanted me to say it out loud.
Fine, I’ll admit it.
“Well, Councilman Roman thought the show would be entertaining for his girlfr—assistants. So I did the pickpocket spiel. When I discovered he had two wallets, I thought maybe I’d keep the smaller one, just to see if I could score a few extra dollars before turning it in to the police as a lost-and-found. I thought it was a cash wallet—I didn’t know the second one was actually a photo wallet. And I didn’t know Mr. Roman kept those kinds of pictures in there.”
Viktor nodded and wandered into the tiny, shabby living room of my apartment, absently checking out the fold-out couch as if deciding whether or not it carried any infectious diseases before he would take a seat.
“I looked him up online,” I continued, “and saw he’s a city councilman and a big-time real estate developer here in the Atlanta metro. Also saw he’s running for mayor this year. And that he’s married. So I figured, why not take a shot? Ten thousand dollars in blackmail money wouldn’t mean much to a big shot like that, but it’d sure make a difference for a small-timer like me.”
I was hoping the whole small-timer self-deprecating shtick would make me seem more likeable, just a poor, good-natured-but-stupid guy trying to make ends meet. Somebody kind of like them, only making a little mistake here and there. Apparently that was too subtle for these guys.
“Where’s the wallet?” Scholarship said, flexing his fingers to stretch out the leather strap.
At first I was tempted to hold back on him, but I was still seeing spots in my right eye, and that made me think twice about things. I decided to be like a pizza delivery guy. Cut my losses and move on. “Taped to the back of the toilet,” I said.
Pavlo went and got the dirty pictures. He came back flipping through the images, wearing a look of hungry admiration. Then he saw the way Viktor was frowning, apparently not approving of the fact that he was skimming Maksym Romanenko’s private property. Pavlo slapped the wallet closed and tossed it over to his boss.
“It all there, Vicky,” he said.
I sighed, relieved. I thought that was going to be the end of things. Shows how much I know.
Now it’s eleven hours later, and Viktor Kostiuk is giving me a look of grudging approval. “You’ve done well,” he says. Again I can’t help but notice how easily the English language rolls off his tongue, especially when compared to Pavlo. “All night long. What, fifty or sixty tries? And you were only struck five or six times.”
Feels like more than that to me, mainly because Scholarship loosened my fillings with his last left hook. But that number seems about right, not counting the preliminary action before the game started.
“That’s close to a ninety-percent success rate,” he continues. “Imp
ressive for a young man in a stressful situation. Nervy staly. Nerves of steel. That’s good.”
“I got ’im four times myself, Vicky,” Pavlo pipes up. “Pretty good, huh?”
Viktor ignores him. But yeah, the dumpy Ukrainian was actually a challenge for me.
The game had been Pavlo’s idea, after they got the picture wallet back. I think he just wanted an excuse to hit me again. It was a variation on the This Is You Lying game he’d seen me do at the park. In that trick, I ask the mark to tell me three lies—something like “I am a ninety-six-year-old woman. I’m currently in Zimbabwe. I’m wearing Bart Simpson underwear.” While they’re fibbing to me, I get a read on their unconscious lying habits, their bluffing “tells,” so to speak.
Next I have them pick a card from the deck and then reshuffle it back in. After that, I separate the deck into four stacks, face up, and make them tell me, “No, my card’s not in that stack” until I see them lying. I keep making smaller stacks and narrowing it down until there’s only one card left that I know they’re lying about. That, of course, is their card. Then I get a nice tip and everybody goes home happy.
According to the rule my new buddies added, though, every time I got the card wrong . . . well, I got beat up a little.
Viktor was pretty easy to read. His left eye twitched whenever he told a lie. It wasn’t a big deal, but I saw it right away and, thankfully, he never laid a hand on me all night.
Scholarship wasn’t too difficult, although at one point he figured out I was reading the way he clenched his fists when he lied. He suckered me twice before I understood that he’d corrected that tell. After that, I was more attentive.
Pavlo, though, was unpredictable, unreliable, like he never knew himself whether he was lying or telling the truth. I had to try and read him fresh every time, which was fine early on but took its toll once it got past four in the morning. This violent little game has gone on until late this morning. By now, we are all a little exhausted.
“Yeah, he did well,” Scholarship mutters to nobody in particular. “I almost feel sorry for what the kid’s got coming next.”
I see that the clock in my kitchen now reads 11:31 a.m. Time has kept ticking on, in spite of everything. The room falls eerily silent, so much so that I can track Pavlo’s labored breathing behind me. Seems like everybody’s waiting, but I’m not sure what for.
Almost like it’s happening in slow motion, I watch Scholarship take another bite of his sandwich.
And then I hear a knock on my apartment door.
3
Bliss
Atlanta, GA
Little Five Points Neighborhood
Friday, March 17, 11:11 a.m.
28 days to Nevermore
Bliss June Monroe saw the silver Ford GT sports car and knew it was coming for her. She held it in her gaze when it stopped at the red light where Mansfield Avenue North crossed Moreland Avenue—but just for a moment. Just long enough to make sure.
She patted the worn picture in her left breast pocket and suddenly felt like crying all over again. She didn’t, of course. She was long past that weepy, weak woman she once was. But still, seeing that GT made her think it was a nice gesture that he’d come today to pay his respects. That he, at least, hadn’t forgotten.
She adjusted her wheelchair to face the parking lot a little better, opening her posture to be more welcoming. People, in general, knew not to interrupt Bliss while she was painting a portrait in the backroom office of her retail store. But when she spread her oils and canvas on the sidewalk, out in front here, well, that meant she was in a mood for company.
When she’d opened this place—what, forty-four years ago now?—she’d named it Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash. At first it was just a little shop with all the funky, junky, fun stuff Bliss could find at local auctions and estate sales. But people liked it, and they kept coming back, and after a time, it even became sort of a popular tourist destination here in the Little Five Points corner of Atlanta. Today it was a ten-thousand-square-foot superstore of unique and unusual items imported from all over the world. In here, rock stars, actors, and everyday folks found one-of-a-kind swan dresses, priceless stage costumes from the Roaring Twenties, worthless junk jewelry, Batman toasters and Joker wigs, antique books and magazines, vaudeville posters, collector cards, funky hats from model runways, and even bejeweled combat boots for underground dance clubs. If it was retro or out of the ordinary, if it was an outfit no other store could even imagine—if it was a gift you couldn’t find anywhere else—it would be at Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash.
Of course, no one called her “Sister” anymore. Some things came with being seventy-one years old, and one of them was losing the name Sister. But she was okay with that.
“Mornin’, Mama Bliss,” a young woman said on her way into the store.
She was a pretty little thing. Honey-colored skin and dark eyes that glittered. Bliss liked her, liked seeing her visit every so often. Didn’t like that new thug boyfriend with her today, though—some guy wearing the orange Nike basketball shoes that represented the Kipo gangs from down south. Riverdale maybe, or maybe one of the starter sets in East Point. Wherever he was from, he didn’t belong here in Little Five Points; none of the “Knights in pimp orange” did. Mama Bliss knew it, and he did too—she could tell, by the way he ducked his head at the sight of her and barely mumbled his greeting before disappearing into the store. The girl, though, paused long enough to say a kind word. Mama always appreciated a little southern hospitality in the younger generations.
“Mornin’, sugar,” Mama said. She was sometimes bad at remembering names, but nobody seemed to mind being called sugar. “Where’s that sweetie pie of yours?”
“Grandma’s watching Baby Girl this morning. Got birthday money to spend today, and this way I don’t have to share it!” The girl giggled with a genuineness that made Bliss’s heart ache. Davis could’ve done well by this one.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bliss saw the GT ease through the stoplight at Mansfield and swing right into the parking lot. It was crowded today; he was going to have to park down by the dry cleaner and walk his way up to see her, but he didn’t know that yet. He drove slowly past where she was sitting, found nothing open, and then circled back to where he’d come from before finding a space near the front of the Redi-Dry, at the end of the lot. She saw him exit his sports car and pause to stretch his cramped muscles beside the door before slamming it shut.
He was still a handsome man, Bliss decided—still in good shape for a guy who had to be, what, thirty-four or thirty-five years old now? Apparently his CIA cover in Army Special Forces had taught him to stay lean and active into his middle age. His skin was lighter than most in this neighborhood but held enough sunlight in it to confirm he spent a lot of time outdoors. His dark hair was sensibly short—a man who liked to look good but didn’t like the hassle of gel and blow-dry after a shower. He wore denim jeans and a tan suit coat over a blue, collarless shirt that favored his muscled torso. Comfortable black boots finished his outfit. He looked ready for either business or pleasure, and Bliss wondered which of those was on his mind this morning.
She turned her attention away from the man and back to the girl at her side. “Well, happy birthday, sugar,” Bliss said. “You go on inside and tell ’em that Mama Bliss said you get the birthday discount. They’ll treat you right.”
“Thanks, Mama!” The girl leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek and got a good look at the painting in front of Bliss’s wheelchair. “Oh, that’s so pretty,” she said, pointing to the canvas. “You’re so talented, Mama Bliss.”
Bliss tilted her head to the side in mock disapproval. “Oh, go on now, honey. You already got your discount. No need to butter up the old crippled woman anymore.”
The girl laughed again, a hopeful, honest sound. “No, Mama, I’d never do that. It really is beautiful. When will it be done?”
Bliss saw the man nearing them now and figured it was okay to make him wait. “
I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe never. Just something to keep myself busy on the long days.”
The girl looked up and saw the man waiting, saw her time was done. She was suddenly shy and uncomfortable. “Okay, well, thanks. I’ll show you what I come up with when I’m done shopping.” She smiled, avoiding eye contact with the man.
“You do that, sugar. Have fun, and happy birthday.”
Bliss reached for her paintbrush while the girl went into the store. She began adding color to a particularly troublesome corner of her creation, leaning forward in her wheelchair until her face was only inches away from the canvas. The man waited, not speaking, while she tackled her work.
Always a gentleman, she thought. I do like that about him. Still, she made him stand in silence a full minute before she spoke.
“Samuel Eric Douglas Hill,” she said to her painting. “What brings a fine, upstanding detective like you into our humble little circumstances?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve missed you too, Mama Bliss. How’re you doing this beautiful day?”
She set down the paintbrush and turned her chair to face him. She didn’t smile. “I think you know how I’m doing, Samuel,” she said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
Samuel’s face lost its mirth. He nodded and said nothing. His eyes were lost in hers, and she felt the familiar sadness again. She saw that he was holding a small bouquet of tulips and a tall cup of what looked like lemonade.
“Those for me?” she said at last. He nodded. “Well, hand ’em over, honey. And go tell Darrent to get you a folding chair so you can come sit by me for a bit, like when you and old Truck used to come by together.”
“Okay, Mama,” he said. He set the lemonade near the easel holding the painting and put the flowers in her lap. He tapped a short kiss on her forehead in the process, and she patted the back of his neck at the same time. The tulips really were pretty, she decided, an assortment of reds, yellows, and deep purples.
Across the street, a man eating an early lunch at the table on the patio outside of Planet Bombay aimed his dark sunglasses in her direction.
