by Mike Nappa
Then, too soon, it was time to go. I stood to walk Natalie back to the escalator and loved the feeling of my arm encircling her waist as we walked.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” I said. Her eyes were distant, like she was already thinking about how much homework she had to complete over the weekend.
“Yes,” she said at last.
“Dinner?” I said. “I’m off tomorrow night. How about I take you to dinner and a movie? Do you have enough time, or is Dr. Van Eck demanding more ensemble practice to get ready for competition?”
“No,” she said, but I wasn’t sure which question she was answering. “Let’s get breakfast. Meet me at Alvin’s Café on campus? Seven-thirty-ish?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
She stopped before we reached the escalator and gave me a kiss, a nice kiss. Soft and deliberate. One that tasted faintly of sweet-tea lip gloss, and that lingered just a second or two longer than usual. When I opened my eyes, she was looking at me, searching my face. Then she pulled away.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
She closed the gap to the escalator, and something inside me began to crumble. I felt my heart start to pound and my breath turn choppy.
“Natalie, wait,” I said. She was at the top of the escalator, ready to step on the first revolving stair.
I saw it in her eyes then and felt like a fool. Her eyes had been saying it all along, all during lunch, every time they strayed from my mother and sneaked another look at me. She’d been too kind to let her mouth say the words her eyes had formed, not in front of my mother. She was too classy for that.
“Natalie . . .”
I wanted to step to her, to wrap her in my arms, to hold her long enough to let her know all the reasons why we were together. To make her smile again, that natural, effortless smile she had when I first delivered pizza to her dorm room, the one she used to treat me to regularly when we first started hanging out after that.
She waited.
My feet were frozen, iced to the floor. A lame instrumental version of “It’s Not Over” played on the mall speakers overhead. I hated that song. It was the soundtrack for my life at that moment, so I hated it even more.
“Natalie,” I said slowly, “that . . . felt like goodbye.”
She didn’t say anything at first, just let her eyes drop to the floor. Her toes, with nails painted a cheerful sunshine color that matched her dress, were clenched inside her sandals. Then she said, “You always could read my mind.” She sighed, eyes still glued to the floor. “Yes. Goodbye.”
“Natalie.”
“I was going to tell you at breakfast tomorrow. I’m sorry.” She looked at me, searching.
There was a thick silence between us, filled only with a hateful saxophone chorus trying to imitate Chris Daughtry’s rock vocals.
“Ah, don’t go, Nat. Whatever it is, we can fix it. I can fix it.”
“No.”
That was all she said, just “no.” She tried to smile, but I could see it hurt her, and she didn’t let it last long. In my mind I ran through all the reasons why she might leave me, why she could leave me. In my mind, there were too many reasons. A sharp pain lanced through my head, just behind my eyes.
She turned and stepped onto the escalator. I watched her descend, hoping she might look back at me, knowing that if she did I’d go running after her. I’d beg her to stay, I’d become a better person, a better man. I’d make sure she never regretted that one last look back. But she never turned. And then she was gone.
I don’t remember walking back to the food court, but I do remember my mother smiling at me and saying, “That Natalie is a delightful young woman! You hang on to her because I want to see her again, okay?”
“Come on, Mom,” I said. “Let’s get you to your doctor’s appointment.”
Lying on my couch in Little Five Points, I feel that sharp pain lancing through my head again and piercing into my beating heart. I must have dreamed of Natalie, and of Mom, I think. I like to punish myself, I guess.
I force my eyes open and stare for a moment at the dirty ceiling of my stale apartment. I know it must be late. The shadows and darkness that surround me are testament to that. I know I’ve lost more than just time. I was supposed to meet Trudi at seven-thirty. It was going to be the beginning of happily-ever-after, a second chance at the life I missed when I let Natalie walk away from me four and a half years ago.
I’m sorry, Trudi. In my mind, I think of all the reasons Trudi is better off without me, why it’s a good thing I left her waiting alone at Eclipse di Luna restaurant.
Mom was in a good mood during the drive to her doctor’s office, despite the fact that she had to ride in my beat-up 2000 Ford Mustang. Chatty. Happy. Making plans for the future.
“Why don’t you come by on Sunday for lunch? I’ll make beef stroganoff, just like you like it.”
“Sure, Mom. Sounds good.”
“If you want to come by early, you could go with me to hear your dad preach. He’s on a series about Jesus’s parables. Really interesting. You might like it.”
I remember that the mention of my father’s sermon made me feel annoyed. Hadn’t I heard enough of his lectures already? Pretty much every day of my life until I graduated from high school was a sermon from my dad telling me how to do better at this, how to make up for that, how to find what he’d found in God. He wasn’t happy when I told him I didn’t really believe in his God anymore, at least not the way he did. He didn’t get angry, though, I’ll give him that much. He just seemed disappointed. And he kept preaching at me until I moved out and took a job delivering pizzas for Domino’s to pay my part of the rent on a tiny apartment shared with four other guys.
“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” I said to my mother, figuring it’d just be easier to give her false hope than to explain I never intended to go back to my pop’s old church and hear him preach another sermon at me again. I was sure I’d hear a recap of the message over beef stroganoff anyway. But it was a small price to pay for free food and Mom’s cooking again, wasn’t it?
“Bring Natalie!” she said suddenly. “I’ll make a special dessert for her. Does she like cherry cobbler?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure she’ll eat whatever,” I said. But inside I knew better.
Natalie was never coming back. She’d never have a nice dinner at my Mom’s house, never hear my dad explain some obscure theological point, never make fun of the fact that I still kept a few hundred worthless comic books stored in my parents’ basement.
We rode in silence for a minute or two, Mom chirping along to a song on the radio. When we arrived at the doctor’s office, I pulled up to the door to drop her off. She looked surprised.
“You’re not coming in to wait?” she said. “It’s just a checkup. I’ll only be thirty or forty minutes.”
“No, you go ahead,” I said. “I have to run a quick errand. I’ll be right back.”
She looked dubious. “You’ll be right back?”
“Sure. Promise.”
She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Okay, baby. I’ll see you in half an hour.” She opened her door and started to get out.
“Oh, hey, Mom.” I tried to sound casual and spontaneous. “I just remembered I have to work Sunday afternoon. Rodney asked me to work extra because they’re getting a lot of football orders on Sundays and they’re having trouble keeping up.”
I saw disappointment fall like rain in her eyes. She pursed her lips.
“Sorry,” I said. “But maybe Nat and I can come by another day.”
“Okay, baby.” She sighed. I could tell she didn’t believe me any more than I did, but she didn’t want to argue about it. She patted my hand on the gearshift. “You and your father, you’ll work this out. You know that, right?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“He still loves you very much. He tells you that every time he sees you.”
“Sure.” He tells me that because he has to, not because he means it. “Sure, I know.
We’re fine. I just have to work on Sunday. That’s all.”
She nodded and climbed out of my beat-up old Ford Mustang. “I’ll see you in half an hour,” she said before closing the door. “Please don’t be late.”
I nodded and waved, but in my head all I could think was I need a drink.
Throbbing spreads through me, pulling me away from my memories. It arcs across my chest, down through my arm, with such intensity I find it hard to breathe for a second.
My left arm.
Isn’t this what a heart attack feels like? But no, my heart is pumping fine.
Still, my hand, my left hand is on fire. At least that’s what it feels like. I hear a groan and know it’s me. A siren drones in the distance outside, faint and faraway. My stomach clenches, reminding me of the jolting hollowness that burns inside me. And in spite of my best efforts, I remember why I’m lying here on my couch, why I don’t want to wake up, even when my dreams are unpleasant.
I know what my nightmare really was.
I wasn’t dreaming of Natalie, or even my mom. I was just wishing. Longing for the power to go back in time, to change one moment in my life and, in doing that, change everything.
Everything.
I should have run after you, Natalie, I tell myself. I should never have let you walk away from me without a fight.
A thick wad of gauze is wrapped and taped over the empty spot where my little finger used to be. It’s stained a deep, dirty red. Just looking at the blood-soaked rag makes my entire arm tingle with shock.
I sit up on the couch, feel dry heaves shudder through my torso but, thankfully, nothing spews out of my mouth.
There’s a note scribbled on a yellow pad, left for me on the coffee table.
Change the bandage and clean the wound every four hours for the first day. After that, change and clean as needed. Take Tylenol for pain. We’ll be back in a week to collect your next payment.
Sincerely,
—S
21
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
Buckhead Neighborhood
Friday, March 24, 9:06 p.m.
21 days to Nevermore
“Would you mind if I joined you?”
Trudi didn’t say anything at first, and the Ukrainian took that as an invitation. He set one glass of wine in front of her and then slid comfortably into the open seat across the table, balancing the second glass between three fingers.
“We’ve never been properly introduced,” he continued. “I am Viktor, Viktor Kostiuk.”
She pushed the wineglass away from her, sliding it across the table until it stopped in front of him. “Trudi Coffey,” she said.
He eyed the rejected glass of wine, then shrugged. He set his glass next to hers and left them both untouched.
“I know who you are. Trudi Coffey, private investigator,” he said. “Owner of Coffey & Hill Investigations. You’re not on the internet, but your office is over in West Midtown, on Howell Mill Road. By that Arby’s, right?”
Trudi heard an echo of a Ukrainian prostitute’s voice in Viktor Kostiuk’s words. It gave her a sour feeling in her stomach, but she tried not to let it show on her face.
“But I have to admit,” he continued, “you caught me by surprise when we last met.”
“Yeah, I was a little surprised to walk in on a crime scene too, so I guess we’re even.”
“Oh no,” he said, and his left eye twitched involuntarily, “you misunderstand. We were just doing the boy a favor. No real crime going on.”
Trudi snorted. “A favor? Like what, removing his spleen for half-price surgery?”
Viktor smiled, and Trudi felt like he was genuinely amused by her accusation.
“The boy, The Raven, he is a little thief. You knew this already. But he’s a good boy. Talented. Much potential. We caught him in a petty theft. We thought that instead of turning him over to the police, we’d give him a little homespun lesson in ethics. Maybe we could keep him from going down a bad road, you know?”
“So the beating you gave him was just tough love, is that it?”
“See, you do understand.” His smile grew wider. “A little preventative medicine. He who licks knives will soon cut his tongue, as they say.”
Who says that? Trudi wondered.
“So we were just trying to help the boy see the dangers of licking knives.” He shrugged. “Maybe my cousin got a little overexcited in giving the lesson, but I don’t think The Raven will be pickpocketing tourists again anytime soon. It was all meant for good.”
“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one,” she said. Then Trudi had a suspicious thought. “Where’s The Raven tonight?” she asked.
Viktor shrugged again. “I haven’t seen him since last week, when you and I met.”
She studied him, looking for signs of falsehood, but he was relaxed and his face was open. He seemed to be telling the truth.
Arianna breezed into their orbit. “Well, hello again,” she said to Viktor. “Would you like me to move your dinner to this table?”
“No,” Trudi said. “He’s leaving soon.”
The waitress took the cue. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll just leave your check at your other table.”
“I’ll pick up this check too,” Viktor said, motioning to Trudi’s plate and barely looking at Arianna.
The waitress glanced at Trudi, who gave her a short nod. “Okay, then. I’ll leave both at your table over there. Thank you for coming to Eclipse di Luna.”
Trudi watched Arianna walk away and wondered if she should be worried about her safety with Viktor here at her table. No, she decided after a moment. For starters, this place is packed with people. There’s nothing he can do that won’t get noticed. And second, I think I can take him. Or at least take that gun away from him, and that would be enough. For now.
“Well, Viktor, it’s been lovely meeting you, but I think I’d like to get back to my dinner. I might even order dessert now that I know it’s free.”
“Be my guest,” he said. “There’s plenty more where that came from too.”
That was unexpected. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, Ms. Coffey, I’d like to offer you a job.”
Trudi was at a loss. The Ukrainian Mafia is hiring private detectives now?
“I’ve done a little homework on you since our last meeting,” he said. “You’re very good at what you do. Your past clients recommend you highly. You have a good relationship with the Atlanta police department—”
“How would you know that?”
“My employer is a patron of local law enforcement. He made a few calls about you. Stellar reports all around.”
“I see.”
“And you have proven to me in person that you can handle yourself in stressful situations. I’m an admirer of your work. I’m hiring, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Maybe you should tell me what you do and who you work for.”
“I’m a political consultant. I was active in New York for a few years until I came to Georgia about five years ago. Right now, I’m in the employ of Councilman Max Roman. The future mayor of Atlanta.”
Trudi took a moment to let that name sink in. She’d heard of Max Roman, of course. He was a high-profile city councilman, and he was running for mayor. Came out of a family of real estate developers, if she remembered correctly. Multimillionaire philanthropist type. But what did Max Roman’s politics have to do with her?
“You realize the risk you’ve just taken,” she said. “I know about your, um, extracurricular activities at The Raven’s house last week. I witnessed them myself. And now you’ve just tied Max Roman to the Ukrainian Mafia in Atlanta. One phone call to the police or, better yet, to the media, and Max’s mayoral campaign is torched.”
Viktor reached inside his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He placed it on the table in front of Trudi.
“Make the call,” he said. “Call your ex-husband if you want, or th
e Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Or CNN. Whoever you want. We have nothing to fear.”
So he knows Samuel is a police detective. And apparently they’ve bought influence at both the police department and the news bureaus.
“We have nothing to fear,” he said again, “because we have nothing to hide. Max Roman is of Ukrainian origin, yes, but he has nothing to do with any Ukrainian Mafia. To suggest that he does smacks a bit of racism, if you don’t mind my saying it. His family has been in the United States for more than a century, and his record fighting against crime in Atlanta speaks for itself.”
“I think The Raven would feel differently about that.”
“Max Roman had nothing to do with that little lesson I was giving to The Raven last week,” he said, looking up to the ceiling in slight exasperation. “That was entirely my doing. I brought along my cousin and an old friend from college to make it seem convincing. Mr. Roman knew nothing about it—he’s never even met my cousin or The Raven. And as I said, we were just trying to help the boy, to keep him off a dangerous path. He was never in any real danger at all.”
She pushed the cell back to him. “Mm-hmm. Well, thanks for the offer, but I’m going to have to decline. And because I have nothing to fear either, I’ll tell you why. I don’t trust you, Mr. Kostiuk. I think you’re a liar and a crook, and now I think Max Roman must be one too. So, no thank you and good night.”
Viktor retrieved his phone but made no move to leave. “See, this is why you’re perfect for the job,” he said. His eyes took on a pleading look. “May I at least tell you about the job?”
Trudi hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s a free country, I guess.”
“Max Roman has nothing to hide, but he’s a politician. It’s a business of dirty tricks and smear campaigns. Right now, Mr. Roman’s political opponents are scouring the earth for anything they might be able to use against him in the campaign. You know, ‘Max Roman once yelled at a waitress’ or ‘Max Roman once got drunk at a party’ or anything they can use to drum up rumors about my boss.” He nodded in her direction. “Some, like you, have even tried to link him to organized crime. But as I said, he has nothing to hide.”
