Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “Don’t,” she said, her gaze locked on mine.

  “What if I want an encore?”

  I backed toward the bed, gripping her towel tightly. She followed stiff-legged, as if ready to bolt. I kissed her as we reached the bed and she kissed me back, tentatively at first and then more firmly. She untwined my fingers from the towel and pressed my palm to her chest. Her heart beat furiously beneath the rough cloth.

  “I trust you, Peter,” she said. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I said, consumed by desire.

  She unwrapped the towel and let it drop.

  The air-conditioning kicked on sometime later, the breeze cool on my exposed shoulders and chest. Katya lay snugged against me, one arm and one leg draped over my body. I shivered as perspiration evaporated from my skin.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m great,” I said reassuringly. “How are you?”

  “Kind of overwhelmed, but happy. I’ve got to get going, though.”

  My hand wandered below her waist.

  “Stop.” She laughed, squirming away from me. “I have a meeting.” She sat up on the bed. Raven hair and dusky nipples contrasted with marble skin, fine blue veins chasing her breasts. “What about you? Are you busy this morning?”

  “Nothing Tigger can’t cover.”

  “You’re lucky to have him.”

  “Most of the time. Tigger’s like family, which is good and bad. He won’t keep his nose out of my business, and he’s always got an opinion.”

  “Are you going to tell him about us?”

  “Not right away,” I said carefully.

  “Does he know that you and Jenna are splitting up?”

  “I haven’t had my coffee yet, Katya,” I said, uneasy about where the conversation was heading. “Maybe we could meet for a drink later.”

  She hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “I’ll check my schedule and give you a call.” She kissed me and got out of bed, lifting her towel from the floor. “I have to get cleaned up again.”

  Her hand was on the bathroom door when my cell phone rang. The phone was on top of the desk, immediately to her left. She picked it up and glanced at the display.

  “It’s Jenna,” she said, looking stricken.

  The ring was piercing in the quiet room. Katya tossed the phone to me underhand and I fumbled at the controls on the side, trying to mute it. The resulting silence seemed very loud.

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally.

  “Don’t be. I needed a wake-up call.” She wound the towel around her body again and came back to sit down on the edge of the bed. “Later isn’t good enough, Peter. I need to know exactly what’s going on between you and Jenna.”

  “Irreconcilable differences,” I said, pretending a composure I didn’t feel. “Isn’t that the phrase?”

  She held my gaze for a long moment.

  “You’re moving out?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we haven’t got it all figured out yet.” I sat up against the headboard, trying to tug the bedclothes high enough to cover myself. The blanket was pinned by her weight.

  “You said you were separating.”

  “Give me a break here, Katya,” I said edgily. “I told you last night that I was confused.”

  “Not about Jenna,” she replied instantly. “You said it was over between you.”

  “It is,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “We just haven’t talked it all out yet.”

  I reached out to touch her leg. She caught my hand by the wrist and held it.

  “Answer a question. What will you do if Jenna asks you to stay?”

  “She won’t.”

  Katya’s grip tightened.

  “But if she does?”

  I didn’t know the truth and couldn’t brave a lie. Much as I wanted Katya, it was impossible to imagine turning my back on an appeal from Jenna. Long seconds ticked past. Katya lifted my hand from her leg and pushed it away.

  “Let me tell you what I think,” she said, her voice shaky. “Jenna’s angry and you’re hurt, so you took me to bed to punish her and to make yourself feel better.”

  “You’re wrong,” I insisted. “I’ll figure things out with Jenna tonight and call you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “This is an argument about nothing,” I said pleadingly, reaching toward her again. “Jenna isn’t going to ask me to stay.”

  She slapped my hand away hard and stood up, her face contorted with anger.

  “How flattering. You’re desperate to be with me, but you need to check that your wife’s done with you first. Well let me tell you something, Peter: I’ve never been anyone’s second choice for anything, and I’m not about to start now. I trusted you, and you lied to me. I don’t want you to call, and I don’t want you to come around. You’ve hurt me enough already.”

  36

  I TURN LEFT at a second sign for the East Hampton Airport and begin driving slowly north along a dark, winding, snow-covered lane. The road bumps over a railroad crossing and dead-ends opposite a service entrance to the airport. The gates to the airport are chained, the buildings beyond the fence dark. An ice-encrusted sign identifies the narrow perimeter street as Industrial Way. According to the directions Mr. Rozier printed for me, Andrei’s rental property is just down the street to the right. Dimly lit low-rise structures are visible through sickly stands of scrub pines as I creep eastward, looking for street numbers. I spot Andrei’s and pull to the curb.

  This is a dangerous place for me to be. A wealthy, under-populated resort town like East Hampton is bound to be overpoliced by bored cops, and simply being here at this hour makes me appear suspicious. I’d consider spending the night elsewhere and coming back in the morning if I could figure out where I’d be safe. Easing forward a few feet to get a better look down Andrei’s driveway, I see fresh tire tracks in the snow. Indecision vanished, I pull into the parking lot in front of the building, leaving the car in a dark corner.

  Trudging back to the driveway, I kneel to examine the tracks with the penlight I used in Andrei’s apartment. I can’t tell if they were made by a vehicle coming or leaving. Turning the light off, I move toward the building, a long, sparsely windowed sheet-metal structure, and pause fifty feet from a loading door on the far end to take stock. There’s no sound save the wind whistling through the trees. I step forward tentatively. A bell clangs in the distance and I see red lights flashing a few hundred yards off. Heart in my throat, I spin toward the car, realizing even as I turn that it’s only the railroad crossing gates signaling an oncoming train.

  My relief is short-lived. There’s a man standing right behind me. I jump backward, off balance, and lose my footing, falling heavily on my injured side. A hoarse groan escapes my lips. The figure above me is ghostly in gray-white camouflage, monocular night-vision goggles strapped to his face. He’s holding an automatic rifle, which is pointed at my chest.

  “Get up,” he says in guttural, accented English, motioning with the gun.

  “I’m a friend of Andrei’s,” I say, trying to sound calm as I struggle to a seated position.

  “Get up,” he says again, prodding me with his boot. “Now.”

  A train whistle sounds in the distance and he turns his head toward it. The penlight is still in my hand. There’s a chance that this guy works for Andrei, but that’s no reason to put myself at his mercy. I turn the light on as he looks back to me, pointing the beam directly into the lens of his goggles. He recoils immediately, blinded by the glare, and I roll to my right, simultaneously kicking out hard with my left leg. My instep connects solidly with his knee and he collapses sideways, shouting with pain. I lunge for his gun one-handed as he falls. A sharp blow makes impact at the base of my spine, sprawling me facedown in the snow. Another blow finds my kidney. Curled up in anguish, I see a second camouflage-clad man standing above me, an upended rifle in his hands. He
lifts the gun again, the butt aimed toward my head, and it occurs to me that I might be about to die. Light spills from a door in the side of the warehouse before he can strike, and a voice shouts something incomprehensible. The man standing over me lowers his rifle with a furious expression and drags me to my feet. He manhandles me toward the warehouse, agony hunching me like a geriatric. Looking up as we approach the door, I see a big guy in blue coveralls framed by the light. Vladimir. Shit.

  The train roars past just before we reach the door, a few warm, sleepy passengers visible through brightly lit windows. None looks my way. Vladimir grabs my shoulder and jerks me into the building, using my momentum to spin me face-first into the adjacent wall. The sound of the train fades in the distance as I lean heavily against the wall, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “No moving,” Vladimir says, reaching from behind to unbutton my coat and strip it off roughly. He searches my clothing and then grabs me by the collar, dragging me backward into a folding chair.

  “Sit,” he commands.

  Two more big, impassive-looking guys with flat Slavic features are in the room with us. They’re both wearing blue coveralls like Vladimir’s, and they’re both holding guns. I rest my good arm on my knees, attempting to catch my breath as Vladimir and the man who hit me head back out into the snow, most probably to attend to the guy I kicked. Looking around, I see that I’m in a small cinder-block office, the gray concrete floor littered with cigarette butts and the air heavy with smoke. A battered steel desk, a couple of folding chairs, and a small ceramic heater are the only furniture, and there’s a cardboard panel duct-taped across the sole exterior window. The door opens again and Vladimir reenters alone.

  “You’re a big fucking difficulty,” he says, shaking a cigarette loose from a pack on the desk. He strikes a match, the flame revealing indigo shadows under his eyes and several days’ stubble on his face. “My opinion is to shoot you.”

  “Have you shot Andrei?” I ask, affecting a calm I don’t feel.

  “You understand nothing,” he says dismissively.

  “I understand that Andrei’s missing and a couple of guys looking for him murdered my wife. Maybe you can tell me more.”

  “You know what this place is?” he asks. “What is to happen here?”

  “All I know is that Andrei’s paying the rent. Is he here?”

  Vladimir turns his head to one of the other men in the room, repeating the word rent. The other man responds with a single word of Russian.

  “Rent,” Vladimir says. “Yes. How do you know this?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I say, my voice shaking. “I want to talk to Andrei.”

  “E’b tvoju mat,” he growls, sitting on the desk. He runs one hand over his shaved scalp. “Who is knowing you are here?”

  “Where’s Andrei?”

  He takes a cell phone from his pocket and squints at the keypad, dialing with his thumb. I hear the faint tinny whisper of someone answering. He begins speaking in Russian, saying my name twice. My legs tremble as I wonder who he’s talking to and, more urgently, whether he’s seeking permission to act on his opinion and shoot me. He says “da” repeatedly and then hangs up.

  “You stay here tonight,” he says, dropping his cigarette on the floor and rising to crush it with a boot. “We are down one man because of you, so you will help with our doing. If you are a difficulty, you will be hurt. Tomorrow, I tell you where to go to see Andrei.”

  “Why should I trust you?” I ask suspiciously, relief at the prospect of living to see Andrei mixing with apprehension at the thought that Andrei and Vladimir might still be working together.

  “Because I am not shooting you,” he says irritably. “Which is a much easier doing.”

  I can’t fault his logic.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “Come,” he says, moving to the door. “I show you.”

  37

  THE DOOR OPENS into a vast hangarlike room with rust-streaked metal walls and blacked-out windows. Heat roars from exposed HVAC ducts overhead, making it difficult to hear. There are three step vans parked at the south end of the building, and four long A-frame racks constructed of light lumber extending toward the north. Each rack is at least fifty feet long, and all four are hung with paintings, like a low-budget art show at a National Guard armory. I have an oblique view of landscapes, still lifes, portraits, and religious scenes, some framed ornately, others frameless. A painting in the third rack from the left catches my eye. It’s a moderate-size oil of a seated woman wearing a white cloth cap. The Vermeer that was on the cover of the Time magazine I saw in Mr. Rozier’s office.

  “These are the Linz paintings,” I say wonderingly.

  Vladimir puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly toward the vans, not bothering to reply. I take a step toward the paintings and he jerks me back roughly by my good arm.

  “No tourism,” he says gruffly.

  Yet another man in blue coveralls emerges from the back of a truck, and Vladimir shouts a few sentences of Russian at him.

  “What’s going to happen here tonight?” I ask.

  “Something or nothing,” Vladimir says peremptorily as the man from the truck walks toward us. “No more questions. This is Lev. You do what he says or you have big fucking trouble.”

  Lev’s carrying two automatic weapons and a spare pair of coveralls. He hands the guns to Vladimir and then helps me slip the loose-fitting jumpsuit over my clothing, easing my bad arm through the sleeve with surprising gentleness after I wince. Vladimir removes the banana clip from one of the weapons and strips the bullets out, putting the loose shells in his pocket. He waits for Lev to zip me up before slinging the unloaded weapon over my head, lifting my bad arm to rest on the barrel.

  “Good,” Vladimir says. “Now you are looking like Rambo.”

  His cell phone rings. Glancing at his watch, he hands Lev the loaded weapon and walks off a couple of steps to take the call.

  “Why the coveralls?” I ask Lev quietly. He looks at me with a baffled expression. I pinch the blue fabric at my chest and pull it away from my body. “Why?”

  “Ah,” he says. “To know who not to shoot.”

  “Will there be shooting?”

  Lev smiles enigmatically, looking distinctly less gentle. Vladimir hangs up the phone, unclips a walkie-talkie from his belt, and begins barking urgently in Russian.

  “Come,” Lev says, beckoning to me. “It is time.”

  ———

  Vladimir stands alone and unarmed on the ground floor as the loading door lifts, cold air rushing into the building. Lev and I are on a black metal catwalk suspended from the ceiling, ten feet above the floor. There are five of us spread along the catwalk, all with weapons held at port arms. More than enough to massacre whoever comes through the garage door, if that’s the intention. Lev’s just behind me, his tension palpable. A tractor-trailer backs slowly into the building. Lev flips the safety off his weapon. My heart’s pounding wildly and I realize I’m holding my breath. I gulp cold air as three men climb down from the truck’s cab. No one’s begun shooting yet. Vladimir touches a button on the wall and the loading door begins to close.

  Two of the men walk quickly to the rear of the truck, the third joining Vladimir. The man speaking to Vladimir is a big guy wearing jeans and a black sweater, his face hidden by a blue baseball cap. The air rushing from the HVAC system drowns their words, but the body language seems civil enough, a quick handshake preceding a discussion that seems to be about logistics, both men gesturing to various points in the building. The man in the cap looks up at the catwalk, his face clearly visible. I recoil instinctively into Lev as I recognize Earl.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” I whisper to Lev.

  “A trade,” he says, shoving me away with his gun butt. “Be quiet.”

  The catwalk’s well shadowed, and Earl’s gaze drifts past me without any show of recognition. Despite Earl and Vladimir’s outward amiability, Lev st
ill has his weapon in a ready position, trigger finger extended and resting against the guard. Two more men emerge from the rear of the truck. All four begin unloading equipment—chairs, tables, tripod-mounted spotlights, computer monitors, and an assortment of other gear—and assembling it next to their vehicle with Earl’s and Vladimir’s help. Cables snake everywhere. Snatches of conversation are audible over the roar of air handlers as the men call to one another, speaking in French. Lev and I patrol silently overhead.

  A Frenchman wearing a sleeveless sweater begins a slow tour of the racks, consulting a thick notebook as he examines individual canvases. He pauses in front of a large landscape, tucks his notebook under his arm, and claps loudly, attracting Earl’s attention. Earl and Vladimir walk to where he’s standing, unhook the landscape from the rack, and carry it to a table. Two of the other Frenchmen deftly remove the frame. One begins scraping delicately at an exposed edge of the canvas, collecting the shavings in a small dish, while the second maneuvers over a wheeled scanning device of some sort, taking direction from a third man seated in front of a computer monitor.

  It looks like the men with Earl are vetting the paintings, checking to make sure they’re genuine before they trade for them. I glance toward their truck. If this is a trade, I’m wondering what Earl’s brought as payment.

  Hours pass. The man with the notebook selects about one painting in ten for examination. Earl and Vladimir bubble-wrap the paintings he’s passed over and the paintings his colleagues have already examined, stacking them against the far wall of the warehouse, near the tractor-trailer. I’m exhausted, mentally and physically, and my body aches all over. I’ve pissed in a bucket at the far end of the catwalk twice, my urine red with blood.

  The racks are finally empty, all the paintings wrapped. Earl and Vladimir wait awkwardly at a remove while the Frenchmen confer quietly. Lev watches hawklike, his trigger finger tapping restlessly against the gun’s guard.