Rubbed Out

by Barbara Block

  “I have read about them,” I replied carefully.

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Your reporters make them out to be idiots. That is a mistake. People who know them are respectful.” He took a puff of his cigar and knocked the ash off into an ashtray. “Do you know why?” he asked and then answered his own question. “They are smart and they are not sentimental. Now the Italians are a sentimental people. The Russians are not. Someone he owes an Italian money and he does not pay. The Italian warn and warn and warn. The Italian gives lots of chances. Then if the customer does not pay, they kill him. Big deal. Now it is over for this man. He does not have to worry anymore. But the Russian, he is not like this.” And he waved a finger in the air. “He is very different.

  “The Russian, he only give one warning and the man, if he does not pay, he does not kill him. He kills first his children and then his wife. And if still the man is not paying, he kills the mother and the father. The man that owes, he has more . . .” He searched around for the word. “How you say . . . he has more incentive to pay back the money that way. And the Russians, they are not caught because they always make it seem someone else is doing it. Either that or these people, they just disappear. No one ever find them. They become . . . like in your McDonald’s hamburgers.”

  Suddenly veggie burgers began to have a greater appeal.

  “Russian mob people know how to do things like this. They are good. This is because many Russian Mafia, they are ex-KGB. They are efficient. They know how to run things. I think this is interesting, don’t you?”

  “Very.” I stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray. I almost would have liked it better if he had threatened me. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me. May I speak frankly?”

  The man nodded.

  “My friend was stupid. He handled things badly, so badly that the person he was interested in stepped in front of a bus.”

  “Da,” the older man said. “We know this.”

  “Then you must also know that I don’t have anything to do with this situation.” I picked my next words carefully. “I can understand your being upset at your loss, but sometimes, as a businessman, these things occur, and when they do one has to take a write-off.”

  The older man took a sip of his brandy, savored it for a few seconds, then swallowed and blotted his lips with a napkin. “This is true. But one does not take this write-off until one has explored every avenue for getting one’s money back. We think you are smarter than your friend.”

  “My friend was a professional. I was just helping him out.”

  “Then perhaps you will do us the favor of helping us out as well.”

  “Of course I would like to, but unfortunately I have a business to run.”

  “People buy these snakes and things that you sell?”

  “How do you know what I sell?”

  “Good businessmen do their research.” He toyed with his glass for a second before taking another sip. “I have a problem finding good help. Do you?”

  “Everyone does,” I replied cautiously, wondering where the conversation was going. “It’s the nature of the times.”

  “It is especially frustrating when you find someone good and they disappear.”

  “Disappear?”

  The older man nodded. “It happens.”

  I was about to reply when a phone rang. The younger man on his left reached over and picked up the cell phone lying on the table next to his drink. He spoke for a minute in Russian, then handed the phone to the man I’d been talking to.

  “Please excuse me,” he said to me and then switched to Russian. A minute or so later, he handed me the phone. “For you,” he said. “Go on,” he prompted.

  I took a deep breath and lifted it to my ear.

  “Robin,” Manuel said. Then there was a click and nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The older man took the phone out of my hand and slipped it into his pocket.

  “As I was saying,” he said to me. “Good help is hard to find. It would be a pity if you lost yours.”

  “If anything happens to Manuel. . .”

  The man put his hand on my shoulder and patted it reassuringly. I flinched and the man smiled.

  “Nothing will happen as long as you do what you are supposed to,” he told me.

  “And if I can’t?”

  The man removed his hand and studied his fingernails. They were square and clean and looked as if they’d seen the attentions of a manicurist recently. “I hope you will.” And he got up and began putting his coat on. The other men rose as well.

  “Come,” the older man said to me. “I will walk you out of the bar.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  The older man shrugged. “Go and check. But don’t spend too much time doing it.”

  George was chatting with the bartender as we walked by. The older Russian paused at the door and nodded back toward him.

  “I met a black American once in Moscow. He was big too. The Africans that came to study at our university in Moscow were a smaller people. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I read somewhere that it is because you Americans bred them that way when they were slaves.” The man began buttoning his black leather trench coat. “So I’m hoping the next time I talk to you, you will have good news for us.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Today is Wednesday. You will hear from us on Sunday.”

  “What if I come up with something before then?”

  This time when the man smiled, I realized he was wearing an upper plate. “You Americans are an impatient people.” And he slipped on his gloves and turned up the collar of his coat.

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Everyone has a name.” He paused while he thought. “You may call me Ivan. To Americans all Russians are called this, no? So you may call me this too.” He reached over and shook my hand. “It has been very nice talking to such an attractive lady. I am sincerely hoping that our business will come to a pleasant end. It would be a pity if it did not.” Then he nodded to the man on the left, who moved forward and opened the door for him.

  As soon as the door closed, George got up and hurried after them. He came back a moment later.

  “I got the first two letters of their license plate,” he said. “I couldn’t see the rest. A car pulled in front of them.”

  I felt like throwing up.

  “I don’t believe this.”

  George looked at me carefully and put his hands on my shoulders. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” he asked. “You have a funny expression on your face.”

  “They have Manuel,” I said. “I heard his voice on the phone.”

  We went through the motions of checking Manuel’s whereabouts even though in my gut I knew it would be a waste of time. We went to Noah’s Ark first because that was where Manuel was supposed to be. The place was locked up. The lights were off. There was a white rectangle on the door. When we got closer I could see it was a note.

  “Don’t touch it,” George said.

  “I wasn’t going to.” I read it aloud with George looking over my shoulder. “Dear Robin,” it said. “I’m sorry I have to go off and leave you like this, but I have personal business I have to take care of. Love, Manuel.”

  “Manuel’s handwriting?” George asked.

  I nodded. He’d never signed anything else he’d sent me, “Love.”

  “These Russians are good,” George said. “I’m impressed.”

  I could see George’s breath dissipate in the night air. The branches of the tree in front of the store glistened under the street lamp.

  I read the note again, somehow hoping there was some secret information imbedded in it I could decode. I was reading it for a third time when I heard scratching on the other side of the door. I looked through. It was Zsa Zsa. She must have been sleeping in the back and heard our voices. I don’t know how I could have forgotten about
her. She rushed out when I opened the door and ran around my legs in an ecstasy of welcome.

  “Poor thing,” I said as I knelt down and embraced her. Thank God they’d left her alone. Finally she quieted down and I went inside.

  The first thing I noticed was that the cash drawer was open and the money gone. Whoever had kidnapped Manuel had tried to make it look as if he’d taken off with the day’s earnings. Other than that, everything else was in place. Manuel had gone without a fight. I pictured it.

  A man coming in. Manuel asking what he wanted. “This,” the man says, drawing a gun from his jacket and aiming it at Manuel. Manuel saying, “Take what you want.” The man shaking his head, telling Manuel to get a pencil and paper. Making Manuel write the note. Manuel watching him emptying the drawer. Then marching Manuel outside to the waiting car.

  “Come on.” George tapped me gently on the shoulder. I noticed he had Manuel’s note in one of the plastic bags I used for crickets. “Not that there’s going to be anything on here we can use,” he said, indicating the bag with his chin. “But you never know.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  George squeezed my shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

  “Yes, we will.” I took a deep breath to stave off the fear that was growing in my stomach. Fear was the enemy, I told myself. Get too afraid and you can’t think.

  On the way home, I called Manuel’s mother’s house. No one was home. Then I remembered. The family had gone to a funeral in Puerto Rico. I just hoped George and I found Manuel before they got home. I couldn’t imagine telling Manuel’s mother that he’d been kidnapped and was being held hostage.

  I called his friends next. No one had heard from Manuel today. I called people he did business with. They all said he hadn’t been around since yesterday.

  “What do you think?” George asked as we pulled into my driveway.

  “What I thought before. That they have him.”

  As I opened the car door for Zsa Zsa, the front door of my house flew open and Bethany stepped out. She had her hands on her hips and an aggrieved expression on her face. Dressed in jeans and one of Manuel’s old shirts, her face devoid of makeup, she looked about twelve.

  “Do you know where Manuel is?” she demanded as George and I walked inside. “I’ve been waiting here for two hours. We were supposed to go to the movies.”

  George and I looked at each other. He took off his jacket and carefully hung it in the closet. I did the same. Neither of us wanted to be the one to tell her. Bethany scanned our faces. Her expression changed as she realized something was wrong.

  “What happened?” she asked. She put her hands up to her mouth. “Tell me,” she demanded. “Was Manuel in an accident? Is he dead?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “Then what? Did he go off with another girl? Has he got himself arrested?”

  I shook my head and told her what had happened. Her face crumpled. She began to sob.

  “It’s not fair,” she kept repeating. “It’s just not fair. He’s the only person that was ever nice to me.”

  I took her in my arms and held her and stroked her hair as she burrowed her face in my shoulder. Soon my sweater was damp with her tears.

  “We’ll find him and bring him back,” I murmured. “You’ll see. We will. I promise.” And for a few seconds I almost believed myself.

  Finally, when Bethany’s sobs had subsided, I went into the kitchen and got her a glass of water and a damp paper towel for her eyes. Then I led her to the sofa.

  “Here,” I said, giving her the towel. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

  “I don’t care about my eyes,” Bethany said, pushing it away. “I don’t care about anything.” But she took small sips of water from the glass I handed her.

  George sat down on the coffee table across from her and leaned forward, his arms dangling between his knees, his face soft with sympathy. For a couple of moments he just sat. Finally he spoke.

  “Bethany, I know this is hard, but I want you to take a minute and collect yourself and see if you can think of anything that can help us find Manuel. Any little fact. Anything at all,” he said.

  Bethany took another sip of water, then sat clasping the glass in her hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything,” Bethany whispered.

  “That’s okay. That’s fine. Maybe you will later. When was the last time you spoke to Manuel?”

  Bethany thought. “About seven. We were going to a ten o’clock movie.”

  Tears started flowing down her cheeks. I watched them drip down her chin and onto her hands.

  “Anything else?” George asked as I sat down beside her.

  “No.”

  I took the water out of her hands and put it on the side table. “Maybe you should think about going home. It might be easier for you.”

  Bethany’s head shot up. Her eyes flashed.

  “No. I have to stay here. It’s okay, isn’t it?” she pleaded.

  I remembered sleeping in Murphy’s shirt for weeks after he died. Taking comfort in his smell. Trying to pretend nothing had happened. This was the same thing.

  “I’ll see what I can work out. But I’m going to have to call your parents and let them know where you are.”

  “Why bother? They don’t care.”

  “Be that as it may, I still have to phone them.”

  “And anyway,” Bethany said. “You need me to take care of Zsa Zsa.” And she reached over and clasped my hands in hers.

  George got up and put in a call to one of his friends who was still working with the Sheriff’s Department. He paced the living room as he talked, his expression getting grimmer and grimmer. Twenty minutes later, he hung up and put the cordless on the coffee table.

  “Phil will help unofficially,” he said. “But given the circumstances, there’s only so much he can do. I’ll go down tomorrow and file a missing-person report, just to have some paper.”

  Bethany started crying again. This time Zsa Zsa, who’d been sleeping on the rug behind the armchair, came over and started licking Bethany’s cheeks. Bethany tried pushing her away, but Zsa Zsa persisted and eventually, out of self-defense, Bethany stopped crying, at which point Zsa Zsa curled up next to her. Half an hour later, I looked over to see Bethany asleep with her head tipped back against the sofa and her mouth open.

  “We should get someone in to stay with her,” George said looking down at her. “So she won’t be alone.”

  I nodded.

  “I have a student I could ask.”

  “She’ll stay here?”

  “She will if I ask her to.” George bent over and picked up Bethany and carried her up the stairs. I went up behind him, and Zsa Zsa went behind me.

  I opened the door to Manuel’s bedroom. “Put her in here.”

  George gently laid her down on the bed. I took off her shoes and socks and covered her with the comforter. Zsa Zsa jumped up and gave Bethany a goodnight lick.

  “Poor kid,” George said as we went down the stairs.

  “Poor Manuel.”

  He’d warned me to stay out of their line of sight, and he was the one that was in it. God, what a mess. I went in the kitchen and called Bethany’s parents to let them know where she was. It was my bad luck that her father answered.

  “Robin, of course you’re free to do what you want, but I think it’s a mistake to let her stay with you,” her father told me. “She has to learn the consequences of her actions sometime.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that Manuel’s kidnapping had nothing to do with anything his daughter had done.

  “She thinks you won’t take her back.”

  “That’s not true. Not true at all. As I’ve repeatedly told her, she’s welcome to come home when she learns some responsibility.”

  “Which means?”

  “Going back to the school in Florida.”

  “But she doesn’t like it there.”

  “She should have thought of that before she ran away from home. I can’
t have her here disrupting our lives anymore. It’s too hard on her mother.”

  “So you’re suggesting I kick her out onto the street?”

  “I’m suggesting you do whatever falls within your comfort zone.” And he hung up.

  Sanctimonious ass. I placed the cordless back on its cradle. I’d choose Tiger Lily over Bethany’s father as a parent any day of the week. The scary thing was that this guy made his living giving other people advice on how to raise their children.

  I poured a double shot of Scotch for George and me, then brought the drinks and the bottle into the living room.

  George took a sip from his glass. “No matter how much I try, I’m never going to like this stuff. Although I’ll grant you, the color is pretty.” He began tapping his fingers on the glass. “I’d love to get my hands on Paul.”

  “I don’t think anyone is going to be doing that. I don’t think anyone is ever going to find him. He’s probably scattered all over the Northeast by now.”

  “But you don’t know for certain.”

  “No. I don’t,” I admitted. And I probably never would.

  George took another sip of his drink. As he put the glass on the coffee table, Zsa Zsa jumped up on the sofa, turned around three times, and snuggled up against George’s thigh. George gave her an absentminded pat. She wagged her tail, put her head between her paws, and closed her eyes.

  “These people don’t leave many loose ends around, do they?” George said as he scratched Zsa Zsa’s back.

  “Apparently not.” I thought about Paul calling them dumb. He had seriously underestimated them. So had Wilcox for that matter.

  “I’ll see what I can find out about the Russians. That can’t be too hard.”

  I got up and dropped the shades on the living room windows down. Suddenly I felt exposed, having people being able to look in.

  “Here’s my question,” I said, turning to face George. “Why Manuel? Why not someone else?”

  “Simple. Because you care about him. Because these guys know if they have him, you’ll do what they want to the absolute best of your ability.”