There was, a dangerous one that would put both magnificent women in considerable danger, but I was increasingly certain they could both handle it. I came back to the moment and looked at Rachel.
“Okay. So where did I leave off?” I asked her.
“You hadn’t started, dammit.”
“Right.” So I told her about the limo and Natalia. Then I mentioned what Natalia had said about Xen being dead.
“WHAT?” Rachel cried. “Xen’s dead?” She looked horrified.
“No, no, no,” I said, holding up my hands. “It’s okay. Xen’s alive,” I added quickly.
“Alive?” Rachel’s voice filled with joy. “But you said—”
“She thinks he’s dead. So does everyone else, and we have to keep it that way, okay?”
“Of course,” she assured me.
“I got an email from him. After the Natalia said they found his remains in that vat. Xen’s no dummy. Whatever happened, he saw it coming. I’m betting he faked the whole thing himself to keep from getting killed. I may just give him my job. It seems I still have a best friend. Well, best guy friend,” I corrected. “You’re my best friend,” I added, winking at her.
I swear she almost blushed.
“Let’s go get some lunch,” I said, interrupting what little of the story I’d started. I got up and walked towards the back door.
“Are you serious?” Rachel asked in disbelief, but she followed along.
“Yeah. I’m hungry.” I opened the back door onto an alley where she’d parked her Porsche up against the wall.
“But what happened next? Damn it!” she fumed. I’m always doing this to her.
“I’m too hungry to finish,” I said, smiling. I got a thoughtful look. “Chinese or burgers?”
“Bastard,” she said quietly, convinced that I wouldn’t continue until I got food in my stomach.
“Do you read Russian?” I asked as we got into the car.
“No, only French, Spanish, and Latin,” she replied with a just a trace of venom. “I’m still mad at you.” She hated when I left her hanging. I had what she considered a filthy habit of dragging stories out simply for the tease value. She called it taleus interruptus, and she considered it to be almost as bad as the coitus kind, with a significantly lower possibility of lung cancer.
“Don’t worry, I’m gonna keep talking while we’re in the car, I promise. But before we get lunch, I need to see a busker downtown.”
“What the hell is a busker?” she asked.
“Street musician.” I gave her a look like she should already know that sort of thing. Then I winked at her and smiled. “In this case a Russian busker … Head for the six-hundred block of South Fairfax. Got a piece of paper and a pen in here?” I asked.
“You don’t have one in your coat? You have everything else in there.” She smiled sarcastically.
“I had an accident,” I mumbled a bit sullenly. The pen and paper had been in my front coat pocket rather than one of the inner ones when I hit the swimming pool. Believe me, it makes a difference. Both my $200 fountain pen and the notebook became … inoperable.
“In my pocketbook,” she said finally, enjoying a rare victory as she started up the car. As I turned my body to grab her purse, she revved the engine and dropped the clutch, squealing down the alley. My head bounced off the headrest as I struggled to get my hand on the pocketbook.
Without looking at me she said smugly, “You had that coming, you know.”
“Yes, I did.” I nodded, and we both laughed. I finally got my hand on the bag, opened it, sifted through the short list of items within—including a small Berretta—and easily came up with a small spiral notebook and a ballpoint. Rachel always keeps a tidy purse, I thought. I flipped open the notebook and scrawled some Cyrillic characters on it. I held it up so she could see.
“What does it say?” she asked.
“I don’t know … that’s why we’re going to see the busker.”
“Where did you see it?”
“I was just getting to that.”
So I told her everything that had happened right up until after Xen’s house got remodeled by the Italians and I texted her.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked as she pulled away from a stoplight in downtown L.A.
“Didn’t need to. I knew we’d have this conversation eventually, and as long as you knew I was safe, you wouldn’t worry.”
“That’s something, at least … jerk,” she added and hit my thigh, but she had a smile on her face. She nodded in the direction of the street ahead of us. “There’s six-hundred south.”
I scanned the block quickly, looking for someone. “Turn right here,” I said. She did as instructed, and we drove slowly down the block as I continued searching.
“Pull in wherever you can,” I suggested, seeing that the metered spots along the street were all full.
“Okay.” She turned quickly into a pay lot.
“C’mon,” I said as she pulled into the closest spot. We got out and headed for the pay-board. “The guy’s name is Yvgenny Gershovich.” We stepped up to the pay-board, and I slid a folded ten-dollar-bill into the slot for our parking spot. “You’ll like him,” I added with a broad smile. “He gives me all kinds of shit.”
“Really?” she asked, her face brightening into an eager smile. She was clearly interested in meeting anyone who gave me a taste of my own medicine.
***
Second Hand Lion
“Over there.” I pointed at a group of about ten people standing around something in front of a Russian teahouse. The sound of a violin drifted over us, and I quickly identified the song as the opening to Fiddler on the Roof.
We crossed the street, pausing briefly as a black Audi with opaque black windows passed by. It drove by a bit too slowly, as if someone was scoping us out, so I looked for the plate number as it went by. It had a temp tag in the back window, barely visible through the tinted glass. I could make out a big white three—March expiration—but the rest of the tag was too small for me to read. The car did have one small patch of red paint on the lower left-hand portion of the front bumper. That was something, at least.
We stepped up onto the curb and walked directly up to a crowd gathered around an old man sitting in a blue, nylon camp chair. He was the one playing the violin as he smoked a long Meerschaums pipe carved in the shape of a lion’s head. He’d placed an old, ragged hat on the ground in front of him that had a sizable pile of money in it, mostly ones, but with a few fives and tens scattered throughout.
“That’s him … with the violin,” I said. “He plays beautifully, but he can never get his gerunds right.”
Rachel stepped closer and moved to the side of the crowd to get a better look at him. Yvgenny looked to be around sixty with a thick shock of long, wild, white and gray hair. A thick, scraggly beard with the same coloring covered his face, and his weathered, grizzly features looked like they’d seen decades of harsh sun. He was burly, like a wrestler, and I knew none of it had turned to fat. His eyes were closed as he played. The old-timer wore patched blue jeans that bagged around ancient, tan work-boots. He also had on a dingy gray t-shirt mostly covered by a faded and threadbare blue work shirt that had the sleeves rolled up on his thick, muscular forearms. His arms were covered an assortment of blue-black tattoos, most of them utilizing Cyrillic characters on, in, or around them.
We all stood enthralled as the he effortlessly made his violin sing to us. Few people get to hear a violinist of such talent, and the emotion he poured into the instrument almost brought tears to my eyes. I actually saw a little moisture welling in the corners of Rachel’s. Yvgenny brought the song to a close with a flourish of the bow and bowed deeply from his chair as everyone applauded and cheered.
“Thank you all, my friends,” he said in a deep, scratchy voice, thick with the sounds of Russia. “You honoring me with your accolades.” The grizzled face looked up and, scanning the crowd, spotted me. He smiled with all the joviality of Santa Cla
us as I winked at him. “And with that, I must ending show. These old bones are weak, and I am seeming tired. Thank you.” He bowed his head graciously.
The crowd started to disperse, most of them dropping a one or five-dollar-bill into the now overflowing hat. When the last of them walked away, he bent over, placed his violin into an open case, and then closed and latched it. He picked up the hat, scooping up the bills that were still on the concrete.
“Not a bad morning,” he muttered, talking mostly to himself.
“You sure can work that Stradivarius,” I offered. “I never tire of listening to you, old man.”
Yvgenny mashed the bills into the hat and pulled the hat tightly over his head. His wiry hair stuck out from underneath it, and the wad of cash made the hat ride too high on his skull, making him look a bit ridiculous. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rachel cover her mouth to keep from laughing and, after a few seconds of momentous struggle, managed to force herself to look more serious.
“Ahh … Justin Case. Such a nice boy. Do you having on your rubber underpants?”
“No, Yvgenny,” I replied with an understanding tone. “No underpants at all, in fact,” I added, chuckling.
Rachel blurted out a laugh she simply couldn’t hold back any more.
“Pity. Should you wet yourself as usual, everyone will be knowing it.” Yvgenny chuckled. “Embarrassing, no?” he added, laughing even harder. My old friend finally noticed that Rachel had not left with the rest of the crowd and deduced that she was with me. He looked her up and down, puffing on his pipe and leering like a dirty old man not ashamed to admit it. I knew with perfect certainty that he was just too old and too ornery to care. “And who is being this delightful creature with you? Is she your baby-sitting today?” Rachel got a sparkle in her eye, and I could tell she liked Yvgenny already.
“Yvgenny, this is Rachel Devereaux.” I turned to Rachel and said, “Rachel, may I present one Yvgenny Gershovich.”
She offered her hand. The old man clasped her hand and drew it to his face. He inhaled deeply, sniffing her perfume as he kissed her knuckles lightly. He held the kiss perhaps a tad bit too long to be entirely gentlemanly and then sighed as he released her hand.
“You are having lovely perfume, miss. It is pleasing me to meeting you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mister Gershovich,” she said and bowed her head slightly.
“Call me Yvgenny. It is also pleasing me if you do.”
“Thank you. I like anyone who can dish grief out to Justin as good as he dishes it to others.”
“I’m having boots older than this child, Miss Devereaux. I should putting him over my knee and spanking him. Why do you consorting with such an infant?”
She smiled and looked me up and down like she was inspecting a side of beef. “I’m not sure, Yvgenny. That’s a damn good question.”
“So, boy,” he asked, taking his eyes off Rachel. “What is bringing you to see me this time? It’s been quite a while.”
I pulled out the piece of paper I had scrawled the Cyrillic characters on and handed it to him. “What’s it say?”
“Hmmm …” Yvgenny looked at it briefly, clearly recognizing the words. He handed the sheet back to me.
“In tourist translating book it is saying Church is the house of God.” Yvgenny let out a low, rumbling almost evil laugh.
“What does it say in your book, Yvgenny?” I asked pointedly.
“Heh … it says Prison is the house of thieves.”
“Are you sure?”
The old man turned to Rachel with a look of utter disbelief on his face. “He doubts me, Miss Rachel. Such a foolish boy,” he added, shaking his head. Yvgenny turned back to me, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his work shirt. His eyes never left mine. He reached up with both hands and pulled down the collar of his t-shirt, exposing the very same Cyrillic characters tattooed on his chest in a curve over the top of three castle towers. “I was having mine when I was fourteen years old in Moscow. My first, and in the organization, one is never forgetting. We are all having them, Justin … well, most.”
“Does anyone ever leave the mob?” I asked, fairly certain of the answer.
“No. No one does … at least not breathing. Not even poor old men playing music on street.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the thick stack of hundreds I’d separated from what Victor had given me in the limousine. I folded it and slid it into Yvgenny’s front shirt pocket. “For the kids. Compliments of SolCon.”
“You’re a good boy, Justin.…” and then Yvgenny smiled wickedly as he added, “No matter what people saying about you!” Yvgenny and Rachel laughed heartily at my expense while I smiled as tiredly as I could. Yvgenny finally stopped laughing and looked first at me then Rachel. “Come, you are having lunch here, no?”
“Well, we were thinking about Chinese or burgers,” I said.
“You insult me!” Yvgenny accused.
“He was thinking about Chinese or burgers,” Rachel corrected. “I’ve never had Russian cuisine before.”
“Please. Come. It is being on me,” he said, patting the wad of money in his shirt. “I insist. I am recommending borscht.”
“Yvgenny, you know I can’t stand that shit.”
“I am knowing this, Justin. You should still eat it. You are scrawny child. It will making you grow up big and strong. Just like me,” He tapped his chest with bravado. “Please,” he added sincerely.
“We’d be delighted,” Rachel said, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the front door of the teahouse.
“Alright, Yvgenny,” I said, realizing I was out-manned and out-gunned. “Thank you. I’m not having the borscht, though.”
“Suit yourself … weakling,” Yvgenny smiled as he bent over and grabbed his Stradivarius. He stood up, towering over Rachel. He was well over six feet tall and built like a bear. Despite the baggy clothes hanging on him, it was clear that his sixty years hadn’t seemed to weaken him much, if at all. Yvgenny grabbed his camp chair, folded it and walked into the teahouse with us close behind.
The interior was done in dark wood and separated into three different sections. The right side had been dedicated to a teahouse with several small café tables, a long counter, some tall copper water heaters with levered spigots, and a high row of shelves with endless boxes, bags and jars of different teas. A young, pretty girl of maybe nineteen or twenty, with distinct Eastern Bloc features stood behind the counter, reading a book with Cyrillic characters on the spine. Several patrons sat at the café tables, drinking tea, chatting, or reading.
The left side of the place had a series of very comfortable looking easy chairs done in a clearly European style. Along that wall were jars and jars of different tobaccos. Old books, predominantly classics from around the world, lay scattered about on shelves and a few end tables. There were two older men, also with Eastern Bloc features, sitting in chairs in the far corner, talking quietly enough to not be heard by anyone else.
“How is business, vnoochka?” Yvgenny asked of the girl behind the counter. She looked up and smiled.
“Quiet, grandpa,” she said in perfect English.
Yvgenny said something is Russian.
“Still getting straight A’s,” she replied. “Don’t worry dedushka. Medical school is a shoe-in.”
“You make us proud, Alisa. Your father would be bursting with joy if he was here.”
“Thank you, dedushka,” she said and smiled.
Yvgenny motioned to Rachel and me. “Alisa, Justin you know. This beautiful creature is being Rachel Devereaux.”
“Hello Rachel,” Alisa said extending her hand. Rachel and Alisa shook hands. Alisa turned to me with a more-than-bright smile and added with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, “Hi Justin!” Nobody missed the crush Alisa clearly had on me.
Yvgenny frowned slightly.
“Hey, Alisa. It’s good to see you again,” I said quietly.
“Come, let us going to eat,” Yvgenny interrup
ted, looking suspiciously at me. I shrugged and looked as innocent as it’s possible for me to look … which, admittedly, isn’t that much.
“It was nice meeting you, Rachel,” Alisa said with a bit of disappointment in her voice as her grandfather walked towards the back of the house.
“It was nice meeting you, too, Alisa,” Rachel said warmly. “Good luck in school.”
“Luck is not a factor,” Alisa said confidently. “Bye, Justin!” she added cheerily.
“We’ll see you around, Alisa,” I said, smiling as I turned and followed Yvgenny. Rachel fell in step next to me as we walked towards the back portion of the teahouse.
Yvgenny pulled aside thick curtains hanging in the doorway to expose a nicely decorated dining area with eight tables in it. Six of them were occupied with couples of varying ages. At the back of the room ran a long counter separating us from kitchen. A single waitress, who appeared to be about the same age and appearance as Alisa, walked back into the kitchen. On the right-hand side of the room stretched a well-used flight of stairs going up to what I knew was a patio.
“Galina,” Yvgenny called to the retreating waitress.
“Yes, dedushka?” the girl replied as she stopped and turned.
“We will being upstairs, please.”
“Be, grandpa. ‘We will be upstairs,’” the girl corrected, smiling as she greeted us.
“Oh. Da. We will be upstairs,” Yvgenny repeated, bowing his head slightly to thank her. “Please come up when you have time. We will having lunch.” Galina shook her head, smiling at yet another in an endless line of gerund infractions, but she said nothing.
We walked up the stairs and stepped out into a beautiful, open patio with six tables surrounded by a garden of different flowering plants and shade trees, including several bearing fruit. A small fountain gurgled and splashed in the middle of the patio, and string lighting surrounded the entire area. To the left of the patio, a door broke up the wall of the next building over that I knew was the only entrance to Yvgenny’s home. The back of the patio dropped away to the alley, and the right-hand side opened up onto a parking lot below.
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