The Deal

by Adam Gittlin

  “In Russia. My father said no. That’s when she threatened she’d even use you.”

  “Your...Stan? Impossible. That’s impossible!”

  “He was the anonymous buyer in 1979. He bid on it for Galina. First she used Alexander, then Stan, now you. She used you all to get the eggs she needs to stay true to ‘her own.’ Whatever that means.”

  Andreu shook his head.

  “You’re just trying to rattle me.”

  “I’m trying to get to the truth, Andreu. I’m trying to fit the pieces—”

  “No!”

  His eyes began to well up. His whole body began trembling. That was the moment I realized, whether Andreu knew it or not, he no longer believed I was fucking with him. He was hoping that I was fucking with him.

  “Our A.”

  Our Andreu.

  “Holy shit,” I slowly pushed out. “You didn’t know.”

  “This isn’t working for you, Jonah. I’m way ahead of you and this was the best you could come up with.”

  “Stan was your father, Andreu. When Galina and Alexander—”

  “Enough!”

  Andreu pulled out a gun and pointed it at me.

  “No more, Jonah!”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Andreu, but it doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “I mean it, Jonah! Another word gets you killed!”

  Andreu was coming undone. I could see the flying thoughts behind his fixed eyes and knew, all too well, an inadvertent squeeze of the trigger wasn’t out of the question. I said nothing.

  “I should end you for implying such a thing.”

  A tear fell from his eye. Gun still extended, Andreu dropped his head into his free hand.

  Scared for my life I jumped forward. I grabbed the outstretched gun with both my hands and tried to pry it from him. He shook it loose and cracked me across the jaw with the gun’s butt. Absorbing the blow I fell to my right, catching myself with my hands. Blood began rushing to, then through, the wound. I saw one of my teeth on the black rug of the car. My tongue was mostly numb but I used it anyway to search for the gap.

  I got on my knees. Andreu’s eyes were full of surprise, both at what he had done and how quickly I pushed myself through it. My mouth filled with blood again. I sprayed it in his face and jumped back in my seat.

  He dragged his sleeve across his eyes. Baffled, infuriated, he lunged at me. I kicked him in the chest forcing him back on his ass. He propped himself on the edge of his seat and drew the gun again. His fingers shifted as he searched for the perfect grip.

  “I knew it all along. Nothing but a desperate ploy. Where’s the egg?”

  “Put the gun away, Andreu. Don’t make another mistake.”

  “Where’s the egg?” he repeated.

  “You kill me, you’ll never know.”

  He pounced like a Bengal. His knee in my chest, he pinned me to the seat. He stuck the gun dead-center in my forehead.

  “I think you’ve forgotten who’s running this deal.”

  I didn’t respond, just swallowed.

  “You keep playing with me, Jonah, I’ll blow your head off. This is the last time I’ll say it. I want that fucking egg.”

  He was desperate. So was I.

  “Now!”

  I slowly raised my right arm, parking it idly in midair.

  “Keys—” I wheezed. “I can’t get to them with you on top of me.”

  Andreu, using his knee and gun, drove me one last time into the cushion. Then he backed off, retaking his seat.

  I sat back up. I pulled out my keys and held them up.

  “It’s in my father’s townhouse,” I lied.

  Figuring the rotating cop out front would buy me some time I opened the key ring, pulled two silver keys off and chucked them at him, missing. He never moved. He let them hit the leather back of the seat and fall to the bench. I closed my key ring and put it back in my pocket.

  Andreu barked orders to the driver. We changed course. Soon we turned onto my father’s street.

  No cop.

  When the car pulled up to the townhouse, Andreu stepped out. My stomach went with him. I didn’t exit right away. His face reappeared in the doorway to urge me.

  There was a crack in the window of opportunity.

  I jacked Andreu Zhamovsky in the face with my foot. He fell backward. I pulled the door shut, locked it, and pulled the gun from my briefcase. Andreu quickly regrouped. I could hear him tugging at the door handle. I pushed my upper torso through the divider and put my gun to the driver’s temple.

  “Move.”

  The driver froze.

  “Now!”

  A gunshot came screaming through the rear passenger window, shattering it. The driver put the pedal to the floor. Using my free hand, I braced myself grabbing the divider’s frame. After a few seconds of keeping my head low I swung it around. Out the rear window I could see Andreu Zhamovsky standing alone.

  Chapter 50

  I walked briskly into my apartment building, never breaking stride as I went straight for the elevator.

  “No one rings up for me, Damon.”

  Damon is doorman Parker’s first name.

  “No one! If anyone asks, I’m not in the building.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  He grabbed some dry cleaning and came running up behind me.

  “This was just delivered a few minutes ago. Let me bring it upstairs for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it for now, Damon. I’m—”

  “Please,” he cut me off, stepping in the elevator behind me. “Not a problem.”

  The New York City doorman. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. The service, the attention, the extra set of hands. It’s one of those things you don’t realize how much you’d miss until it’s gone.

  Once moving, Damon noticed the blood coming from my mouth.

  “You all right?” he asked, concerned. “Anything I can do?”

  “I got into it with some guy over a cab. Looks worse than it is.”

  “Only in this city. Only in this ridiculous city.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I looked at the elevator buttons. My mind was barreling ahead full throttle.

  My cell rang. I looked at the caller ID. It was Detective Morante. He had called earlier when I was at L’s, but I had ignored it. To keep ducking him was not to my advantage. I also figured it couldn’t hurt to get a jump start on why he was looking for me, as opposed to being surprised again.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Damon looking at me. He was curious why I was just staring at the little screen while the phone continued to whine.

  “Jonah Gray,” I answered.

  “Detective Morante. How are you today, Jonah?”

  “I’ve been better, detective.”

  “I tried you earlier.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I was surprised not to see you this morning.”

  “Detective, I’m in a hurry. What is it that I can do for you?”

  “You’re at the Chrysler Center. Right?”

  “Actually I’m at my apartment building.”

  “Better, even closer.”

  “Closer to what?”

  “I’m going to swing by for a few minutes. I just have a couple of questions.”

  “About?”

  “Your father’s basement. The tool chest, the weight set. I hate to bother you again with this nonsense, but I’m just looking to cross all the ‘T’s.’ Standard procedure.”

  The missing items from the basement finally made sense. Mattheau must have used the tools for God knows what, and the weights, unsuccessfully, to hold the body below the water’s surface. Fuck, I thought. He knew. There was no way he could know exactly what had gone on, but he knew. He knew—something. Because he was on the inside, dealing with an aggressive homicide, it was a no-brainer. He wanted the scoop on the body found
in the river. When he got it, the tools, the weights of the same brand missing from my set, the connection became apparent.

  “You know, I hate to do this to you detective, but—”

  “It will only take a minute, Jonah. I promise.”

  “I’m on my way out.”

  “Just wait there for five minutes. You’re breaking up, so I’m going to lose you—”

  He was lying. He was as clear as when I had first picked up. Nonetheless, he was gone.

  The elevator reached the penthouse and we got out. I opened my door and walked inside, heading for the kitchen. Neo was next door playing with his friends. Damon walked in behind me.

  “I’m just going to put these over here.”

  As I placed my briefcase on the kitchen counter, I realized something. This was the part where I usually went back to the door, grabbed my steamed, pressed hanging clothes and handed Damon a tip. He had never before entered my apartment.

  I heard a feathery crash. I turned around. My clothes were on the floor in a plastic covered ball. Damon, average, unassuming, was pointing a gun at me.

  “Fuck,” I exhaled. “Does everyone walk around with a fucking gun?”

  “Sorry, Jonah. I just need you to sit tight.”

  “Damon, what the hell are you doing?”

  “It’s nothing personal. Some guy just—”

  Damon paused then changed directions.

  “I don’t have the same choices as someone like you. It’s a different city out there once I leave this nice building.”

  “It is for me too, Damon. It is for me too.”

  It was the perfect, profoundly empty line to soften his guard. His eyes even glazed over with shame as if I had slapped him across the face. Composed, seemingly trusting, I casually moved toward my briefcase.

  “I have something I want to show you,” I started. “It’s something a good friend of mine once—”

  I could feel the doorman’s concentrating eyes on my briefcase. Before he had even a second to react, I was coming right back at him with a gun of my own. His expression was my answer. He knew I was far more prepared to use it than he was to use his.

  “Let me guess. The ‘some guy’ you refer to was a six foot tall piece of well-dressed Russian shit. How much did he offer you?”

  “Jonah, I—this whole—”

  “You disappoint me, Damon. You, Clarence, Cal—you three are one area of my life that has never come with any bullshit. Everything between us has always been simple. It’s been easy.”

  “I’m not exactly the guy you see downstairs every day kissing your ass, collecting your shit. How could I be to do this job?”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The guy showed up here looking for you a couple hours ago. Told me the last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt, which was exactly what was going to happen if he didn’t get to talk to you. Then he offered me cash to keep you here if you showed up. And this gun—”

  “How much did he offer you?”

  “He said I’d be helping you.”

  “How much?”

  “More money than I could ever hope—”

  I cut him off.

  “You make me sad, Damon. Not only are you a greedy fuck, but you’re an idiot. He doesn’t want me here to talk. He wants me here so he can kill me.”

  He didn’t answer me.

  “You’re involved in more than you bargained for. Just let it go before either of us gets hurt.”

  Gun still drawn, I grabbed my briefcase and started for the door. He took a step to his left, directly into my would-be path. His gun was still outstretched as well.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  I couldn’t hold it in. Against my will I found myself starting to boil. Looking back now I understand why. It was at this moment my new reality had gotten to a point I had feared. The point where I wasn’t even safe anymore in my own home.

  “You ungrateful little bastard. How fucking generous have I been? How respectful of you, of what you do for a living every day?”

  “Jonah, if you just wait and talk—”

  “And this is the thanks I get? You come into my own home and fuck with me? My own home?”

  I looked him up and down in disgust.

  “You pathetic fucking ingrate.”

  “Just listen to—”

  “Listen? Damon, I don’t think you get it! I have to leave. I’m not waiting for or listening to anyone. The only way you’re going to keep me here is by killing me.”

  Damon, perplexed, was out of his depths. I wanted to pity him, but I couldn’t. He had entered my home, my sanctuary, my safest haven. And blinded by greed he had threatened my life.

  “I could just double your current offer in order to not hurt you.” I thought out loud.

  His face glimmered with hope. His mouth hung open. His gun started to droop. He realized he had made a terrible mistake. I was about to offer him a way out plus a bonus for being such an asshole.

  Fuck that.

  “But fuck that. You coming in here like this, with simply no regard for my life, my territory, it’s unacceptable. In fact it’s up there with the most anyone has ever disrespected me. Trust me—with what’s happened in my life over the last couple of weeks that’s saying a lot.”

  The lobby intercom/buzzer rang. Someone was calling upstairs. I was puzzled.

  “If you’re up here—” I said.

  “Probably Gabriel,” Damon replied.

  Gabriel was one of the maintenance guys. He often covered the lobby if he noticed the doorman was away from his station, most likely assisting a tenant.

  “Answer it,” I said to Damon, waving him over to the intercom with my gun.

  He did as I said. Then he hit a button and spoke.

  Touching the intercom buttons activated a small, extremely high-resolution screen, which turned on. It was of the concierge desk area.

  “Yes, Gabriel?”

  “I have someone here to see Jonah.”

  I shuffled to my left in order to see the screen. Gabriel was standing with Andreu Zhamovsky.

  “Is he in?”

  Damon and I were in a stare down.

  “Don’t do it!” I whispered sharply.

  Damon was hesitant.

  “Damon? Is Jonah in?”

  “I need to walk out of here,” I continued, my voice low.

  Damon thought for another second before pushing the button.

  “He’s in, Gabriel. Send his guest up.”

  Before he was finished I had grabbed my briefcase and headed out through the other side of the kitchen, into the dining room. I walked straight through the dining area and into the living room to my left. Having come around, almost in a circle, I could see Damon again. He had stepped out of the kitchen back into the foyer. He was guarding the door.

  His gun was still drawn. I came through the living room and made a right turn down the hallway, walking away from him.

  “You’re killing me, Damon! You have no idea what you’re doing to me!”

  “I’m sorry to do this, Jonah,” he called to me, his voice fading as I moved further away. “He just wants to talk to you—”

  In a near run, I blew into my bedroom, into my closet, and grabbed a small, nimble Polo gym bag. I grabbed a couple of suits, ties, underwear, and socks and stuffed them in. I zipped it up, threw the strap over my shoulder, grabbed my briefcase, and headed back toward the front door.

  “I’ll ask one last time.” I said as I came storming around the corner, gun drawn.

  I wasn’t kidding. Every second had become crucial. Andreu Zhamovsky was on his way upstairs. Detective Morante was probably around the corner.

  “You going to let me walk out of my own home?”

  Damon was startled by my return. He perked up, gun still out. I was coming at him, at the door, full speed.

  “I...uh...”

  I was done dicking around with my d
oorman. I had given him his chance and he blew it. I was simply out of time. I moved the point of the gun slightly left and fired, hitting the wall no more than six inches from his face. He jumped, gasped. He looked at the bullet hole then turned back to me. I was still coming, gun poised.

  “The next one doesn’t miss.”

  Chapter 51

  Damon threw his gun down and stepped aside. My front door slammed behind me. I hadn’t yet taken two steps before I could see an elevator opening. Just as I got a glimpse of Andreu, and he of me, I ducked into the stairwell. Briefcase in hand, gym bag slung over my shoulder, I bounded down the stairs—three, four, five at a time—like I was in a video game. I was listening for the stairwell door to open again, and was surprised when it didn’t.

  I kept going as if Andreu was right on my heels. I reached the basement and ran through the door leading to the garage. When I reached my car I dropped the briefcase and gym bag and peeled back the gray tarp. I wrestled the canvas sheet into the backseat and threw both bags into the passenger seat. Then I fired her up.

  Once at street level, I inched up to the curb. The garage exited on the side street as opposed to Park, which was a good thing since the building’s main entrance was on the avenue. The only problem was that the side street was a one way that flowed west, or back in the direction of the front of the building. I would have gone against the grain but there was a steady, single-file row of oncoming traffic. The light was green. I figured my best bet was to fly through the intersection and make a left on Park, heading downtown. I jumped into line. But just as I did, and was almost at the intersection, the light turned yellow then red. I was the second car back. To my right I could see around the corner toward the area in front of my building. I could see Andreu out front looking for me, no more than a hundred feet away.

  My eyes bounced back and forth between the traffic light and Andreu. For the fifth time I looked at the hanging red circle. Then I looked again at the slippery Russian, who was now looking at me dead-on. Our eyes locked. He started in the direction of the car. As he walked toward the Porsche, a greasy smile dripped onto his face. He pulled out his gun and kept coming. At about fifty feet he fired his first shot.

  People walking on the sidewalks scattered immediately. Some hit the ground while others jumped into the first building they could. The light was still red, which by this point it seemed to have been for twenty minutes. Still slumped down I looked to my right over the top of the passenger door. Andreu was still coming. He was getting closer. As he did, realizing he needed me alive, he lowered his gun and fired for a second time. The bullet bored into the side of the car letting out a sharp ping. Andreu was aiming for my tires.