by Julie Beard
“Honey,” she said, “don’t go near that man. He’s dangerous.”
“I know,” I said in a monotone, oddly calm inside. “I predict this is the job that will finally do me in. But I have to do it, because if I don’t try to do what’s right for those girls, no one will. I cannot stand by and let children be bought and sold.”
“Don’t make me do this, Angel. I’m scared.”
“You owe me, Lola. If you do this for me, I’ll forget about that whole adoption thing. I’ll never mention it again.”
She blinked with touching hope. “You mean that, honey?” When I nodded, she added, “Why?”
“It’s not often that we get a chance for redemption. I have a lot of regrets. Not so much for what I’ve done, but for what I haven’t done. I just have this feeling that if we help these girls, we can both start over.”
This was starting to sound like a snake oil salesman’s version of the Buddha’s Noble Eight Fold Path. In reality I didn’t know squat about redemption. But it wasn’t like they offered a course on it at the local community college, so it was time to take some risks.
“I just know I have to do this,” I said in conclusion.
Lola clutched my hand and looked into my eyes deeper than she ever had before. “Angel, baby, are you willing to die for those girls?”
“I’m willing to die trying to get them home. Everybody should be able to go home.”
Lola slowly drew back, nodding with resignation. Then she smiled contentedly. “All right, honey. I’ll call Vlad. You’re doing the right thing, Angel. You always do.”
Yes, irony sucks, but sometimes in a delicious way. Lola arranged a meeting between me and the head of the R.M.O. at Rick’s Café Americain. Lola said Gorky had been to Rick’s before. When I expressed concern about meeting so close to my two-flat, she waved me off impatiently.
“Honey,” she said, “if Vlad wants to find out where you live, nothin’ will stop him. He probably already does know. And if he’d wanted me back after my escape, I’d be gone by now.”
We made a few last arrangements then went to bed. I woke early for a light workout, breakfast and then I took Lin to Evanston for safekeeping with Sydney. Lola was highly put out that I trusted my foster mother’s care-giving more than hers, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. Even if Lola had been Mary Poppins when it came to child care, I didn’t want Lin caught in Gorky’s net if he decided to scoop up Lola, his errant soothsayer.
By the time I arrived at Rick’s in the early evening, I was feeling downright fatalistic. While Gorky was dangerous, he was also a quasi-public figure and would not risk his reputation by killing me in public. He would let his minions do that at another time and place. It was too hot to wear my millifine steel suit anyway, so instead of dressing in a defensive mode I decided to try to look tough.
I wore short, pale blue shorts, a jeweled aluminum bra top and an easy-stick spiderweb tattoo that covered my cleavage and spread over my bare abdomen down to the low-cut line of my shorts. I heavily lined my eyes, generously colored my lips, slicked my hair back and donned my black stiletto ankle boots.
When I walked into Rick’s at six, the place was already crowded. Dinner was served in the north end of the building. The bar area was filled with tourists and locals, plus the usual dozen or so compubots. Ilsa Laszlo was powdering her nose, as usual, at a table in the corner while Victor, her husband, talked to the refugee about escaping French-occupied Morocco. They sat at the bar, pretending to barter over a ring.
Through the distance, which was hazy with pungent, unfiltered cigarette smoke, I saw Rick in a white tux ordering a drink at the bar. He caught my eye and did a double take. I smiled and waved. He nodded and raised his glass in a private toast. I found myself waiting for his come-hither look, but remembered I’d stripped it from his program. He would never look at me like that again. From now on I’d only receive the wistful looks reserved for a fond former lover.
I looked around for Gorky but saw no sign of him, so I took a table on a dais in the back where I could see the whole room in relative privacy. I ordered champagne. I was about to give the most critical performance of my life and a slightly elevated mood might help. Gorky was no two-bit crook I could intimidate with the threat of bodily injury. It would be my vision of the world against his. And whatever happened tonight, I’d have to do a better job bluffing than I had with Tommy Drummond.
I’d had maybe two sips of the pink bubbly when Gorky walked in. He was tall with broad shoulders, more striking than handsome, with swarthy skin stretched tight over hard, Slavic features. Topping it all was a head of thick, distinguished-looking silver hair. He had to be at least seventy years old, but he had the body of a man thirty years younger and he could probably kill a man with a single punch to the heart.
Gorky spoke briefly and authoritatively to the Moroccan host, then strode confidently toward me in ivory slacks and a gray silk shirt. Heads turned his way and people milling between the tables parted instinctively to make way for him, in part because of his extraordinary presence and in part because many doubtlessly recognized him from news coverage.
“Ah, you must be Ms. Baker,” he said in a gravelly Russian accent when he climbed the single step to the dais and reached my table. He smiled broadly with oodles of charm. His icy-blue eyes twinkled and he held out his arms in a where-have-you-been-all-my-life? gesture, saying, “It is such a pleasure to meet you after all this time. Lola has told me so much about you.”
I stood and held out my hand. “How do you do, Mr. Gorky?”
He took my hand, undressed me with his eyes, and then kissed my knuckles with chivalry that took me aback. It reminded me of one of Lola’s old phrases about men: just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there isn’t a fire burning down below.
One kiss wasn’t enough. He clasped his enormous paws on my arms, kissing each cheek without permission and with no recognition of my stiff resistance. “In my country, we greet people as old friends, Ms. Baker, unless we know them to be enemies. If they’re enemies, then we make love to them.”
“You make love to men?” I inquired, pulling myself out of his grasp.
“No, we just kill the men. But why kill a woman you haven’t yet seduced?”
I pulled myself up, dignity restored, and motioned to the chair opposite mine. “You talk about your country?” I said, trying to steer the conversation away from sex. It was giving me the creeps. “That would be America, wouldn’t it? You are a naturalized citizen, I thought.”
“True. But in these wonderful days a person’s allegiance is not to the land of his birth, but to great ideas.”
Carl, the plump, white-haired, tuxedo-clad waiter, took Gorky’s order with attentiveness I’d never received, I noted with irritation.
“What would you like, Mr. Gorky?”
“Vodka.” The word was a burr in his throat. He pinned his powerful gaze on me. “For two.”
“No, I don’t drink vo—”
“Your very best,” Gorky added.
“Very good, sir.” Carl hurried off.
I realized with some pique that Vladimir Gorky was a man who didn’t listen to women. I doubt he’d heard anything I’d said so far.
“So, you are Lola Baker’s daughter.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his thick arms. I’d bet a paycheck he had started out as a street thug and had risen through the R.M.O. ranks by brute force, as well as cunning. His manly charm and large size had probably been part of the equation, as well.
“Yes, I am.”
He nodded approvingly. “You’re very beautiful.”
I took in a deep breath and felt self-conscious about the low cut of my metal bra. I was so supposed to be intimidating, not fetching. Men like Gorky prided themselves on finding everything a woman does sexy. It was a way to diminish any other platform from which a woman might assert herself. He was all about power and he’d gotten it by disregarding some basic rules of civilization, like
don’t kill, lie or maim.
“I’m not here to talk about me, Mr. Gorky.”
“Please,” he said with a cajoling smile, “call me Vladimir.”
“I know that you have eleven Chinese girls in your safekeeping,” I began diplomatically. “I trust they are in good health.”
He frowned. “Who told you that? Oh, yes, Lola was there. Where is she, by the way?”
I looked at him and took a sip of champagne.
“Don’t worry. I gave her to Cyclops to teach her a lesson. I think she has learned it. I would never hurt her, Angel moy.”
As I recalled from my encounters with the Sgarristas, moy was Russian for “my.” My Angel. What a presumptuous jerk.
Carl returned with two shots of vodka and a chilled bottle for refills. Gorky slid a glass toward me, then raised one in a toast.
“To the beautiful Angel Baker.” He tossed back the liquor and exhaled contentedly. “Please, Angel, drink. It is the best vodka my homeland has to offer.”
“What lesson did you want Lola to learn?” I said, ignoring his entreaty.
“That she should not play me for a fool.”
I chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t think anyone could play you for a fool.”
“Only when I let them.”
“Vladimir,” I said in conciliator tone, “I want you to give me those Chinese girls.”
He laughed as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “Just like that? They’re worth one hundred million dollars.” His inscrutable eyes hardened, then lit with curiosity. “What could you possibly want with them?”
“I want to return them to their rightful parents.”
His frown deepened. “Why do you care?”
I slowly turned the clear glass stem of my champagne flute. “Because I know what it’s like to be torn away from your parents. Because it’s wrong. Whatever you plan to do with them, it’s wrong. Children should not be bought and sold.”
He poured himself another shot, swilled it and put the glass on the table with a quiet thud. “So how long have you been working for Corleone Capone?”
“I do not work for the Mongolians,” I hissed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m a Certified Retribution Specialist.”
“I know what you are,” he shot back impatiently. “You do kung fu. You’re stubborn and independent.”
My jaw parted and I forced it shut. “Who told you that?”
He shrugged. “Why, Lola, of course.”
“How discreet of her,” I said tightly.
He raised a bushy gray eyebrow and looked at me pointedly over his large, arched nose. “There isn’t a discreet bone in that woman’s body.”
I wouldn’t deny that. “If you don’t hand over those girls, I’ll have to report them to the police. You’ll be put behind bars for slave trade, just like Capone was a few years ago.”
His mouth parted with a coughing chuckle. “That’s good, very good, Angel moy. You have an admirable sense of justice. But the police can’t touch me. I haven’t sold the girls, so I’m guilty of nothing. Capone is the one who kidnapped them. Besides, my people have been in Chicago a lot longer than Capone—the Mongolian Capone, that is. I have the police exactly where I want them.”
“You have untold wealth, Vladimir, from untold shady businesses. Why do you need to sell innocent girls? Surely you’re not that hard up for cash.”
That elicited a spark of anger from his steely blue eyes. “Don’t insult me. I have more money than the Illinois treasury. Of course I’m not doing it for the money. Leave that to the Mongolian bottom feeders.”
“Then why?”
He looked around the room, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. “I like it here. I’m a big Bogart fan. Did you ever see The Maltese Falcon?”
“Yes,” I said tersely. So we had one thing in common—we were both fans of Bogie. “But it’s not my favorite.”
“I suppose you like Casablanca. Women always do.”
“Yes,” I reluctantly admitted, “I do like it.”
“And The African Queen?” he inquired almost disparagingly as he tossed back another shot.
I refused to admit he’d nailed me again.
“I liked Bogart better when he was a character actor, before he wimped out as a romantic lead.”
“I want the girls,” I said through clenched teeth. “Why can’t you let them go? I have my own connections in the police force who won’t turn a blind eye on this.”
He really looked at me for the first time, blinking in surprise. He probably wasn’t used to women trying to direct the course of a conversation.
He poured another shot for himself. “I kidnapped the girls from Capone because he killed my cousin ten years ago. I have been waiting for a chance to pay him back. His organizatsia is not nearly as wealthy as mine. He needs the money. By keeping his girls, I can hurt him financially. But more than that, the Asians want to save face. You hear of this before?”
I nodded. Every now and then you’d see something in the news about a Japanese corporate executive who committed hara-kiri because his company went bankrupt. It was considered the honorable way to account for failure. In America, CEOs who bankrupted companies didn’t apologize for their shortcomings. They waltzed into the sunset with billion-dollar buyout packages.
“So,” Vladimir said, still showing no signs of affect from the alcohol, “I took these girls because Capone went to a fucking boatload of trouble to get them to market. He wanted to play the magnanimous godfather and sell them to the Chinese community here in Chicago to strengthen their bloodlines. So I’m going to make sure they end up with good boys from the motherland, just to embarrass him.”
“You’re going to sell them to your own people?”
“Or give them away. I don’t know. But I want these girls to have children named Vladimir, Sergei and Natasha. And I’ll do it just to see Capone have a heart attack over it.”
Revenge. I was beginning to think it made the world go around. I took a long sip of my champagne. Every man had his price. What was Gorky’s? If I knew a little bit more about him, perhaps I could make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“So tell me, Vladimir, how did you and my mother get to know each other?”
He pressed his large hand over his heart. “She never told you? I’m crushed. She must be ashamed of me.”
“My mother and I don’t share secrets. She didn’t raise me after the age of seven, so I don’t know much about her.”
He shrugged. “Oh, we’ve known each other for years. When I was a younger man and still involved in street activities for the R.M.O., I was in charge of the Rogers Park operation. At that time the Cosa Nostra was still a player in the gangland scene. This old hit man named Jerry Manetto got a shot off on me outside of Lola’s parlor. I killed the bastard, but not before he plugged a wad of metal in my thigh.”
He stopped and I leaned forward. “Really?”
“Lola came down and pulled me into her building. She dug out the plug, sewed me up and nursed me back to health. I couldn’t go to the hospital or I’d be arrested.”
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Lola operated on you?”
“She dug around a bit,” he said, his eyes finally relaxing from the vodka. “Then she told me I was going to have a great future. I came back for more readings after that.”
I blinked in amazement. What more had my mother done that she hadn’t told me about?
“In fact, I say I owe all my success to Lola Baker. She has an uncanny ability to see the future and to advise me to make good decisions.”
My heart started pounding. I couldn’t believe how deep into this R.M.O. scene Lola had gotten herself. If Gorky really believed Lola’s readings had helped him, he had a helluva way of showing his gratitude. I’d hate to see how he treated his enemies.
“If you’re so grateful to Lola, why did you kidnap her? You slaughtered her cleaning lady, for God’s sake!”
“I am sorry about that, dorogaya moya.�
�� My dear. Another inappropriate endearment. “The woman wouldn’t cooperate and my Sgarristas got a little carried away.”
“Were they trying to kill my mother?”
He shook his head with a look of benign regret. “No, Angel moy, I would do nothing like that. Lola just made me mad. She had some information about something I hold very dear, something I lost. And she wouldn’t tell me where it was. You don’t want to make Vladimir Gorky mad.”
He poured another drink. The clear liquid glugged from the blue bottle. His hands were calloused and muscled, with tufts of gray hair curling on the fingers. He wore two rings. One was a pinky ring adorned with a diamond that was so big I wondered if he’d stolen it from the last tsar’s crown jewel collection. The other was a shiny, fat gold monstrosity on his ring finger. Simple in contrast, it was adorned with a three-dimensional silhouette of the symbol of Russia—the two-headed eagle.
I suddenly remembered Mike’s dream: the eagle soon comes for the blue dragon. Typical of my luck, it was now two heads against one.
I was beginning to glimpse the big picture here. Lola was hopelessly enmeshed in Gorky’s world, and if she didn’t somehow detach herself, she’d probably end up like the headless housekeeper.
I had to find a way to make Gorky lose interest in Lola the Soothsayer and at the same time give up a one-hundred-million-dollar investment that was guaranteed to satisfy his quest for revenge. What dark human motive was stronger than revenge? Perhaps greed, but I wasn’t in a position to buy him off.
Oh, if only I were Cosmo the Magnificent, I could just make Gorky disappear. Right now sleight of hand would be more useful than my psychic ability.
“What are you thinking about, Angel moy?” he said. “You are so serious. I hope I haven’t frightened you.”
Psychic. That was it! I could convince Gorky my mother was a fraud to make him lose interest in her, then find his lost treasure myself, thereby earning his gratitude, which I could then parlay into the release of the girls. I could kill two eagles with one stone.
“Vladimir,” I said, leaning forward and speaking in confidential tones, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Lola is a fraud.”
