Old times . . . good times.
“Spinelski, darling!” Madame said, trying to get outta her chair. She’d put on about twenty extra pounds since my last tumbling run.
“Madame,” I said with a little bow, bussin’ both her cheeks. “I don’t have much time, least of all not for gab. I need your help. Tell me, are the ventilation systems on both sides of the Prospekt still connected in that funny all-together, the-State-will-decide-when-you-need-to-be-warm kinda way?”
“Da,” she said. “The new government promised us everything new when they took over. We would have our own heat and air. But that was thirty years ago and we still smell the piroshki frying from the café next door.”
“And when Club Prokofiev turns on its coolers ’round one AM ’cause everyone is sweatin’ to ‘Super Trooper,’ you guys still freeze over here?” I asked.
“I have had to cancel midnight practice, it gets so cold. In summertime, like now, is not so bad. But winter . . . it makes me cry,” she said.
“That’s all I needed to know. All right, I need a room where I can change. And I need your word there won’t be any flappin’ gums about why I’m here.”
“I still don’t know why you’re here,” she said. “Besides, Spinelski, I am an old woman . . . who would I tell?”
“C’mon, don’t kid a kidder,” I said. “We both know you were workin’ both sides of the KGB back in the day. You had your own apartment, a car, and a swell, cushy job turnin’ out funnymen for the State Circus. And I remember you always had meat during the week and more vodka than a person could drink in a lifetime. Nobody had things like that years ago unless they were kissin’ up . . . or down, as it were. It’s all jake, Madame. It’s just that if the wrong person finds out I’m here, word could travel fast, and two of my friends just might find themselves heads-down in the Volga, see? Just gimme your word on this . . . for old times’ sake?”
She looked at me from under those Brezhnev eyebrows and smiled like she’d just discovered the beauty of Capitalism.
“You’ll do a master class before you leave?”
I sighed. She had me over a barrel . . . or rather, in it.
“Yeah. Yeah, all right. I give the kids a few pointers.”
“Including . . .” She was zeroing in, and I saw it comin’ a mile away. “. . . the Chicken Toss?”
“Aw, jeez,” I said. “C’mon, not my signature act! Leave a little somthin’ for history.”
“I’m sorry, but the Chicken Toss was too great a trick for just one man to take the secret with him to his grave. Teach my students the Chicken Toss and I won’t call President Putin and tell him that there is an American spy hiding in my school.”
“Aw, what the hell,” I said after a moment. “I’m not clownin’ much these days, anyways. Okay, I’ll show ’em.”
“Then I have never seen you. I don’t know you’re here and even if I did, I would think you were, possibly, the new janitor.”
“Thanks, Madame. Now pass me the vodka and show me where I can change.”
That time of year, in that part of the world, the sun was settin’ late. Late late. So late as to be early. I wanted to get the show on the road right away, but Madame made me see otherwise: It would be a few hours until dark, and that’s when Club Prokofiev would be in full swing, music blastin’ out into the street. I needed to get my game face on, but with all that time, Madame finally got what she wanted: a nice long chat. I told her what I could about Olivia and Johnny, ’bout them comin’ over to adopt a few kids. And I told her about Ant’ny and his dirty trick. She was onto the mob, understood that there was new blood comin’ into the neighborhood. Had seen some unfamiliar muscle across the street. She knew the name Zacchara and she was glad I was gonna try to take the Mob Prince back Stateside. I told her about the gumshoe racket and she told me about a few Cirque clowns she’d trained for Vegas . . . her greatest achievements after me . . . all the while givin’ me guff for quittin’ my true calling at the top of my career. The more vodka, the more guff. I took it with a smile.
“You still are having the dreams, Spinelski?”
I got real quiet.
“Come . . . tell me,” she said.
“Only a few times a week now,” I said.
“It is the same thing?”
“Always,” I answered her. “I’m in my grandma’s kitchen. She’s handin’ me a plate of cookies . . . snickerdoodles. She goes to grab the milk pitcher . . . the one with the clown face on it . . . but it falls out of her hand and comes flying toward me. That horrible face . . . it’s like it’s gonna . . . swallow me whole.”
“I still say it is good you have this dream,” Madame said. “This is what drives you to Russia, to this school, in the first place. You look this fear straight in the face! You still do. And you do not forget!”
Five hours later, after Madame and I had thrown back a few shots, and as the last of the light dimmed outside the frosted-glass windows of the school, the backbeat of “Knowing Me, Knowing You” started rattlin’ the pipes. I tipped my hand to Madame and slipped below the sub-flooring and down into the ventilation ducts. My black Lycra bodysuit . . .
“Hang on,” I said, holding up my hands. “I just visualized that . . . and I need a minute. I’m having a little trouble re-focusing . . .”
“My darling Maximista reacts the same way when I don said article of clothing for her . . .”
“Yeah . . . not the same reaction, I can almost guarantee,” I replied, forcing myself to think of Max, then a plate of nachos, and then a glass of Scotch. Then all three together. “Okay, I’m good. Go on.”
. . . provided just the right amount of slip ’n’ slide, so even though the ducts were narrow and slow going, my package stayed fit for delivery, if you know what I mean.
“And now I need a drink,” I said. “Does this diner have a bar? And if you’re curious, I have never been so serious about anything in my life.”
“I believe that alcoholic libations are not to be purchased in this establishment,” Spinelli said.
“Then it’s a good thing I brought my own,” I said, producing my hip flask from my . . . hip . . . and opening the top. “Ah . . . here we go. It was a heavy court day, not a lot of opportunity for a nip. Should still be pretty full. Just a moment . . . and . . . right as rain. Continue.”
I was right under the middle of the Nevskiy Prospekt; all the traffic above was shakin’ me like a paint mixer, when “Fernando” started playin’ and I heard whoops and shouts from the other end. It was a good night at the club.
I hit the end and saw legs above me. I was gonna come up into one corner of the dance floor. I only needed about ten seconds to loose the ventilation grate, slip up, and roll into the shadows. I got the grate off all right, hoisted myself into a basic Martha Graham ball position, and started to roll. I was almost to the wall, the bodysuit makin’ me damn near invisible under the black light and disco ball, when suddenly a stiletto heel comes down right in the center of my left hand . . . and I knew what Jesus went through, poor guy. Without thinkin’, I screamed. Fortunately, it was during the four-part harmony of “Lay All Your Love on Me,” so no one was the wiser.
I clung to the black wall and took a quick look around. I saw two dames comin’ out of a little room, laughin’ and puttin’ their lipsticks back into their bags. That musta been the bathroom that Olivia had talked about. Right next to it was another door . . . with a big torpedo standin’ guard. I skirted the dance floor as I took out my short billy club from my utility belt . . .
“I thought you said the duct was narrow,” I said. “How did you manage a utility belt?”
“I have miniature versions of all necessary tools.”
“Oh . . . well . . . sure. Where’s my flask?”
The guy didn’t know what hit him, literally. I slumped the lug against the wall so’s he looked like he was sleepin’, see? Then I tried the door handle. Not locked. I eased my way down some stairs and into a hallway that looked more like
a blown-out bomb shelter. One overhead bulb and three doors: one to my right, one down a ways to my left, and one at the end.
Suddenly, I heard chatter from the room on my right. Door’s open so I snuck a peek: three mooks playing cards in their undershirts. I figured Olivia’s in one of the other rooms, but it’ll take a bit more to get those doors open, so outta my belt I took a hairpin and a safety pin. The safety pin I tossed across the first room and it made a little “bang” as it hit the floor; nothing real loud and suspicious, but enough of a sound to make the mooks take a look. That’s when I slipped past. I grabbed hold of my billy just in case one of them decided to take a walk, but the next minute I heard them yappin’ away and throwin’ down cards.
The hairpin worked on the second door and Olivia was lyin’ on a cot at one end of the room. I motioned for her to be quiet before she could scream, and whipped off my black head mask. Her shoulders sagged a little bit, then she started with the tears but, smart broad, she kept quiet. She got off the cot and threw her arms around me, real tight. Johnny was a lucky man.
“Where is he?” I mouthed to her.
“Who? Oh! Johnny! I think he’s somewhere that way,” she mouthed back, pointin’ in the direction of the end of the hall. “I’ve heard the most terrible things, Spinelli.”
“Stay here,” I mouthed. “I’ll be back.”
The hallway was still deserted and in two seconds I was usin’ the hairpin on the door at the far end. Turns out, I didn’t need it.
Door was already unlocked.
The room was big and ugly. Looked like it might have been used for some painful hijinks during the cold war . . . or maybe a bit more recently. Rings on the walls, big pile of . . . ashes . . . coulda been . . . on the floor and a single wooden chair underneath a burned-out bulb. Suddenly, I was aware that there’s light comin’ from somewhere else in the room. I turned around and whammo! I’m in Shangri-La.
Johnny Z was havin’ a bit of a lie-down himself, as the Limeys say, only he was on a wood-and-marble number that looked like it came right out of a czar’s bedroom. Lots of feather pillows. Candles. They had him dressed in some sorta red silk smoking jacket, there was a hookah on the nightstand, and . . . I’ll be damned . . . a broad lyin’ across his legs wearin’ nothing but lipstick and a toe ring. Daddy was takin’ good care of his little boy.
I woke up Johnny and, real polite . . . even though I was slightly ticked off at the broad bein’ there ’cause I happen to like Olivia . . . I told him that it was time to go. Johnny got this crazy look in his eye . . . like he was gonna protest too much, or somethin’. Like maybe he’d decided that he liked borscht and cabbage and nudies with toe rings. Like maybe he was thinkin’ about stayin’. So I introduce him to Billy . . . club . . . and he got real . . . unconscious.
I flipped him onto my shoulder . . . glad I spent those months totin’ two, sometimes three rail ties at once for the Bangor & Aroostook RR . . . and got him back to Olivia’s room. She smothered him with kisses and I felt as if I was gonna bring up what was left of the in-flight meal. The guy didn’t deserve the dame. But maybe, just maybe, he was so hopped up on hookah smoke and whatever else his pop’s flunkies had pumped into him that . . . maybe . . . he didn’t know what he was doin’ . . . or had done. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt until I was sure . . . then I’d brain him again, if he needed it . . . just for grins.
Then I got an idea.
“Olivia,” I said, twirlin’ the club. “Call them. Tell them you’re sick or somethin’. See if you can get one of them in here.”
Olivia nodded.
“Igor!” she called. “Igor, I’m not feeling very well. Can I have a glass of water please?”
“You know their names?” I asked.
“I’ve spent almost four days here, by my count. I passed the time. I made nice.”
“How nice?” Johnny slurred.
“Shaddup, you,” I whispered, shovin’ him onto the cot. “Olivia, with me, back behind the door.”
The door opened slowly, not because Igor suspected that anybody else was in the room, but because the maroon was carryin’ not one but two shot glasses.
“Water is no good for upset, pretty lady,” he said stepping into the room. “I bring you vodka.”
Then he took a look at Johnny, sittin’ on the cot with a dopey, doped-up grin on his face. Igor opened his mouth to yell but Billy stifled him, and how. I nodded to Olivia and suddenly, the whole operation became a Keystone Kops flicker . . . or an Arbuckle short, when Fatty was funny, before that cheesy starlet incident.
“Ivan?” Olivia called, real sweet. “Can I see you for a moment?”
There was laughter from down the hall, and someone cleared his throat and pushed back a chair. Five seconds later:
Ka-POW-ski!
“Nikolai?” Olivia purrs, like she’s the motor of a ’57 Chevy. “Let’s make it a party! All three of us, how’s that sound?”
BLAMMO!
I piled up the torpedos in the corner of the room and whacked them each once more where I knew it wouldn’t kill ’em, just keep ’em dreamin’ for a while. Olivia and I dragged Johnny out into the hallway and I grabbed a chair from the other room and wedged it against the door.
We got Johnny up the stairs. Then I opened the door to the disco real slow. We got the chorus of “Does Your Mother Know?” right in the eardrums, but it was still black as a bookie’s plus column. I slipped out first, then Olivia . . . who, fortunately, was wearing dark blue . . . and I dragged out Johnny and propped him between us like he’d had too much Stoli, and headed for the door. Just then, I saw a couple of suits, non-disco types, comin’ in from the street. We wheeled Johnny away from the door and out onto the dance floor. The suits stayed by the door, but I knew it was only a matter of time before they discovered Johnny Z had taken a powder. Our one chance was the ventilation duct. We danced over to it and I nodded my head. Olivia went all white and started to back away, but I grabbed her, gentle-like, by the arm and leaned in real close.
“It’s now or never, kid. This is the only way. I’ll take the point. We’ll put the sleepin’ prince in between us. I’ll pull and you push. You gotta trust me on this, see? There’s only one main duct. You won’t get lost, I promise. I’ll slip in first, then you lower Johnny and climb down after.”
“I’m scared, Spinelli,” she said, her lower lip jigglin’ like it shoulda been in a go-go cage. “I hate small, confined spaces. It’s why I left Bensonhurst. Don’t make me . . . for God’s sake, don’t . . . !”
I hated smackin’ dames, but she gave me no choice. I saw it in her eye; two seconds later and she woulda been screamin’ loud enough to wake up Ivan, Igor, and Nikolai.
“I’m sorry, doll,” I said, as she clammed up and looked at me with the widest eyes I’d ever seen. “It was for your own good. Now, you keep your eyes closed if you have to, but you’re gonna get down in there and you’re gonna crawl and crawl fast. Okay, gimme some cover. Start dancin’ and don’t stop until Johnny’s spats have cleared the floor. Now, move!”
Olivia just stared at me, then she started movin’ like the game gal she was. Bensonhurst turned out a champ with this one.
Ten feet into the duct, Johnny was behind me, and I called out for Olivia.
“Right here,” she said. There were nerves in her voice, but she was doin’ her damnedest to hide ’em. “My eyes are closed, but I’m here.”
“Good girl.”
We shoved Johnny through the air duct like we was makin’ bratwurst. I heard Olivia start to weep a little when we were under the Prospekt and the vent was doin’ a rhumba.
“Keep moving, sister! Ain’t nothin’ comin’ down or cavin’ in. These ducts might be old, but you can’t beat Red engineering.”
An hour later, after pushin’ and pullin’ and squeezin’, I stuck my head back into the practice room at the annex for the State Circus school. Madame Blovotsky was there to help us all outta the duct. And she had a surprise waitin’.
After layin’ Johnny out on a tumbling mat and givin’ Olivia a bear hug, Madame gets this enormous grin on her face . . . which kinda gave me the willies.
“I have present for you,” she says to Olivia.
Then she walks over to the far side of the room, behind the trapeze rig, opens a door, and seven kids come runnin’ out and knock Olivia flat on her patootski, shoutin’ “Mama! Mama!” If Olivia had handpicked these midgets herself, she couldn’t have done a better job. Each one was prettier than the last, and Olivia looked like she was a kid in a candy store, each fist full of jelly-beans and a sucker in her pucker.
“How did you know?” she asked Madame.
“I might have told her why you were here,” I said.
“But how did you know we’d get out of there!?” she said.
“Because he is Spinelski,” Madame said, real plain . . . like yogurt. “I make a phone call to local orphanage. I ask them for a nice selection. You are happy, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Olivia said, rufflin’ one little boy’s hair. “YES!”
That woke Johnny up. I sat him in a chair and told him the whole story while Madame went to get vodka and milk and Olivia learned all the kids’ names. I was just gettin’ to the part about slippin’ down into the duct from the dance floor . . .
. . . when it hit me.
“Kee-rist! Olivia!”
“What?!”
“Did you replace the cover on the vent?”
“Huh?”
“When we got outta the club . . . did you make sure the vent cover was back in place?”
Her eyes went big again.
“N . . . no. Oh . . . God!”
I thought fast. How fast? NASA coulda used me to run a shuttle mission, that’s how fast.
“They’ll be comin’ . . . anytime now.”
Madame was right with me.
“We must hide the children . . . and Johnny and Olivia!” she said.
“No,” I said. “We ain’t gonna hide anybody. Kids? Can any of you tumble? Y’know, somersaults or cartwheels, that kinda thing?”
The older ones, maybe six to eight years old, answered me by doing perfect back-flips . . . in place. The younger ones did no-handed cartwheels . . . in place.
The Secret Life of Damian Spinelli Page 10
