The Family Hightower

by Brian Francis Slattery

  The explosion that follows is so big and so fast that he doesn’t feel it. He just sees a hint of the flash, and then it takes him apart. But two minutes later, the driver sees the aftermath, the huge fire, the thick smoke rising into the sky, passing through the branches of the trees in the garden. The neighbors are coming out of their gates, walking down the boulevard to see it. The fire engines are coming down the road; the driver can hear the sirens, see the flashing lights. He drifts by the place to get a good look. The Hightower place is gone, and nobody’s coming out. Then he speeds up, lets the fire trucks through. He’s gone before the police arrive. He tries to reach the Wolf. But nobody picks up the phone.

  That’s because it all happens at once. As Pocketknife is being driven through Cleveland, Feodor meets with the Wolf. It’s that time of night when it’s either very early or very late, and almost everything in the center of Kiev is closed. The hardest partyers are going home; the earliest risers are just getting up. Cabdrivers are sleeping in their cabs, waiting to take someone to the airport, to the edge of town. The single coffee shop that’s open has three people in it, a man in a leather jacket who just sits there smoking, looking angry, and a couple in the corner, smoking more than he is. They stop taking drags on their cigarettes just long enough to kiss each other, make out a little. There’s a shout from a side street, a whistle; then almost no noise on the wide boulevards, except for the bass still thumping out of the casinos with tinted windows, the ones with the Mercedes-Benzes parked in a slanted row on the sidewalk in front.

  The Wolf’s own car is a silver Bentley, a little inspiration he had a couple years ago when he decided he wanted to set himself apart from everyone else. He’s been pleased at the way the news has spread; everyone who works for him and a few of his rivals all know that it’s his car, though almost none of them have ever seen the man in the backseat. Now and again he has his driver take it for a lap around the city without him, just so people can see it and think he’s always out there, in two places at once, like the KGB used to be. Like he owns this town.

  The Bentley is gliding down the highway the Soviets built that runs right along the shore of the Dneiper. They pass under the bridge to the Hidropark, fly by the hill where there’s still enough of the old city for Kiev to remember what it was like before World War II, before Stalin ever showed up and Ukraine’s dreams of being its own country were postponed for a hundred years. Then he’s in front of an older Soviet apartment block that looks almost identical to the ten other blocks around it.

  “This is the place?” the Wolf asks.

  “That’s what Feodor’s man told me.”

  They’ve agreed on a neutral spot, a vacant unit in a building neither of them owns. The driver parks the Bentley, leads the Wolf into the building, up the stairs. Knocks on the door, makes a show of putting himself between his boss and whoever opens it.

  “Right on time,” the man who answers the door says. He’s in a neat black suit with a crisp white shirt, his hands clasped in front of him. He steps aside. “Come in.”

  There’s no furniture in the place, but Feodor had the presence of mind to bring a little nightstand and a table lamp, a bronze thing with a cloth shade and tassels. It makes it all seem intimate, like they’re here to fuck. Feodor’s smiling.

  “It has taken us a very long time to meet,” Feodor says, and holds out his hand. The Wolf shakes it.

  “It would have been better to meet when circumstances were more calm,” the Wolf says.

  “And when was the last time they were calm?” Feodor says.

  Everyone in the room—the Wolf and his driver, Feodor and his two men, in identical suits and shirts—gets a good laugh out of that. They’re all old enough to have been in a lot of trouble for a long time, even before the Soviet Union fell. They’ve always been capitalists, always been criminals, and it’s impossible for them to separate the two. They don’t see why they should. The laws got in their way back when capitalism itself was a crime, and they still get in their way now; they’re just easier to avoid.

  “Let’s talk about our mutual problem,” the Wolf says.

  “The White Lady,” Feodor says.

  “Yes. She has done a great deal of damage to my operation, and while it’s nothing I can’t rebuild, I am not happy about it.”

  “What’s the extent of the damage?” Feodor says. The Wolf explains. He lowballs it, though not as much as Feodor thought he would. The lowball is natural, Feodor thinks; it’s what everyone does when they’re trying to sell something. Though the essence of what the Wolf says is true. He’s not trying to hide his hurt, and that makes Feodor stop and think. He wonders if the Wolf is more or less sticking to the truth because he knows that Feodor knows already. Maybe the Wolf knows that Feodor’s the White Lady’s accomplice, that he shares some of the responsibility for what happened to the Wolf’s organization, which scares Feodor, because it means that there’s an excellent chance he won’t make it out of this apartment alive. Though there’s also the chance that the Wolf is being honest because he respects Feodor, doesn’t think Feodor’s an idiot. Maybe the Wolf figures that Feodor will find out how bad the damage is anyway if they merge their operations, so he has a lot less to lose by being up front about it now. Either way, it’s forcing Feodor to reevaluate the man. He saw the Wolf as cunning, ruthless, lucky; turns out he’s just savvy, and not afraid to take a risk. Not afraid to fall down and get back up again. Not afraid to get really dirty. He frightens me, Feodor thinks, but he’d be a good partner. Someone to make a lot of money with. He thinks again about how much the Wolf has offered him. About the Caspian Sea and Western Europe. The second life he could have, the family. It’s right there in front of him, and all he has to do is reach out and take it.

  “What do you think?” the Wolf says.

  “I think it’s a lot of damage,” Feodor says.

  “It is. And I think she’ll do the same thing to you, and soon, if we don’t get her first.”

  “And what makes you think she’ll do it to me, too?”

  “She’s in business, Feodor,” the Wolf says. “Just like us.”

  Feodor decides to push it. “Yes, but does it make sense to you, what she’s done?” he says. “It’s so expensive, beyond what she can ever hope to make back.”

  “But that’s just it,” the Wolf says. “She’s done it because, almost without a doubt, she could recoup her costs if she takes over my territory.”

  “In how much time?”

  “Five years. Maybe six.”

  “I see,” Feodor says. Five years? he thinks. That’s all? It’s enough to make him doubt that Sylvie was telling him the truth when she said that she was destroying her empire to do what she was doing, that her reasons had nothing to do with business and everything to do with family. That she wanted out. What if she’s lying? Feodor thinks. What if she’s just telling me a story? What if the Wolf is right that I’m next? The Wolf’s version makes a lot more sense to him. It follows the new order of things to the letter. To be willing to say anything, do anything—to leave a lot of people dead—if it makes you a buck. To not worry too much about those old questions of right and wrong, to pat them on their heads as if they’re stupid little puppies, because morality only applies to other people. For you, the profits you reap are the only validation you need. The money is the proof that what you’re doing is right. And Sylvie’s been so good at playing the new game. Why would she destroy herself now?

  But Feodor still has questions. “What would you say your territory is?” he says.

  “You’re worried about creating redundancies between my operations and yours,” the Wolf says.

  “That’s right,” Feodor says. He’s lying. He’s still trying to figure Sylvie out, to decide what to do.

  “There is some overlap,” the Wolf says, “in the area of money laundering, the control of police and political officials. But that can be worked
out. Perhaps our merged organization would pay them as much as they ever got when we were separate, as a sign of good faith. We can find some savings by letting a few people go, by . . . what is the English word?”

  “Downsizing,” Feodor says, in English.

  “Yes, downsizing. You speak English.”

  “Some.” Another lie: Feodor’s just about fluent. It gives him hope that the Wolf doesn’t know that. Maybe he can escape after all. Unless, of course, the Wolf is just screwing with him, playing his part; and now Feodor’s nervous all over again.

  “That will come in handy for several other areas of my business, areas that I don’t think you’re involved in now,” the Wolf says. “Things to do with people.”

  “The human trafficking,” Feodor says. “The organ harvesting.”

  “Those are the authorities’ words for them.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “Profitable. Very, very profitable. By some measures, the most profitable aspect of my entire operation. And you can share in it, provided that we remove the White Lady first.”

  That’s what Feodor realizes he was waiting to hear, because he knows, all at once, what he should do.

  “How do you propose we take her out?” he says.

  “I’ve already started,” the Wolf says. “I’ve sent a man after her and her family. If the White Lady survives it, she’ll at least get the message. But then we can use your contacts with her to finish the job, yes? I’m given to understand that she trusts you.”

  Feodor squints, frowns, trying to equivocate. “I believe she does,” he says.

  “It’s perfect, then,” the Wolf says. “All you have to do is let me know where she is, and I can send five more men to do the work.”

  “I will almost certainly be able to reach her,” Feodor says. “In fact, I’m supposed to call her after meeting with you.”

  “Perfect,” the Wolf says. He’s smiling now, nodding. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, we do,” Feodor says. He steps forward to shake the Wolf’s hand again, gives the Wolf’s driver a look that’s just big enough for him to catch. The Wolf misses it. His smile gets bigger and he takes a step forward himself. Their hands meet and clasp; Feodor brings up his other hand to give the Wolf’s a good pump, allows himself a little chuckle to mask the sound of the Wolf’s driver, his most trusted man, pulling out a pistol and leveling it at the left side of the Wolf’s head. He fires. The Wolf is still smiling as the right side of his skull pops open. Then he cringes, brings both hands up to his head, like he’s trying to keep it all together, though he’s already falling. It takes less than a second for his body to slap against the floor. The blood’s pooling out already. It looks thick, like there’s some meat in it.

  “Thank you for your service,” Feodor says to the driver. “I assume this means you already received your payment in full?”

  “Yes,” the driver says.

  “Excellent,” Feodor says. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” The next move—the last one—is maybe the easiest, because all it takes is for Feodor to knock the driver’s hand aside, for just a second, so he can come in close and slit the man’s belly open, from hip to hip, with a sharp knife he’s had in his hand the entire time. The driver drops the gun, the hands go to the wound, as if by instinct, and you should see the look on his face, reader, when his fingertips understand that they’re touching his own guts. He falls, too, no more than two steps from his former boss, and starts bleeding everywhere, fast. Feodor looks himself over, from the cuffs of his shirt to the tips of his shoes. Looks his two men over, too. Not a drop of blood on any of us, Feodor thinks with some satisfaction. He hasn’t killed anyone in a long time, and it’s nice that he still has that professional touch. The only thing that’s left is to close the loop on all that death. Feodor scrubs the handle of his knife with a handkerchief, puts it in the Wolf’s hand. The whole story’s going to line up, now: All the carnage in the Wolf’s organization is internal, all the money coming from the same set of accounts, using the names of a bunch of people from the United States, Western Europe, and the former Soviet Union who have no connection to each other at all, except for the fact that they’ve all died in the past three weeks. Nothing will lead the authorities to Feodor. If they dig deep enough, they’ll find Sylvie at the center of it, Feodor knows. But that’s her problem.

  He calls her a few hours later from the kitchen of a restaurant in a town about a half hour from Kiev.

  “It’s finished,” Feodor says.

  “That’s wonderful news,” Sylvie says.

  “Yes. Wonderful. An amazing word to describe what you’ve just done.”

  “Now, now, Feodor. Don’t get sentimental on me.”

  “Another amazing word to describe this, considering why you’ve done it.”

  He regrets it as he’s saying it, because he thinks Sylvie’s going to be angry. But instead, she just laughs. He’s pretty sure that’s worse.

  “Where am I calling?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “You’re still in Cleveland.”

  “Why should I tell you where I am?”

  “You’re right,” he says. “You shouldn’t.” There’s a pause in the conversation, then, that neither of them knows how to fill.

  “Well,” she says, “thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Feodor says.

  “But I have to. It’s the only proper thing to do.”

  “Fine. If you must thank me,” he says, “you can do it by making sure that I never hear about you again, in any way, except as someone else’s memory. You can make sure that you really do what you say you’re going to do. To disappear, altogether, forever. Because if I learn where you are, or that you’re still in the business, at all, I will make sure you’re dead the next day. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Sylvie says.

  “I cannot have you alive.”

  “I understand.”

  “No hard feelings, then?”

  “Oh, Feodor,” she says. “With this much money on the line, every feeling is hard.”

  Muriel’s sleeping on the other side of the city next to her husband, in their colonial between the mansions on Edgewater Drive. Henry’s in a hotel room on the Upper East Side, awake, listening to the traffic on the avenue below, watching the curtains move in the yellow light from the street, in the breeze coming through the window. Jackie’s in the same room she’s been in for a decade, flipping between dreaming and waking; she’s not too sure anymore which is which. None of them know what’s happened yet. They don’t know that the house they grew up in is a blackened ruin, or that they’ll never see their sister Sylvie again. Or that they’re safe. And they are, dear reader, at last, for the first time in their lives.

  But Rufus and Peter aren’t. The Wolf’s last man, who goes by the name of Holliday, because he loves the old jazz singer so much, is already in Zambia, with no idea that his boss is lying dead. In his mind, Pocketknife has laid waste to Sylvie and all her family, and now the Wolf and everyone else are just waiting for him to get back so they can celebrate. It’s taken him no time at all to deduce where Rufus lives—where Peter must be—and he’s just waiting for the sun to set, and for night to come.

  In Rufus’s house, it’s getting darker. Peter watches his father walk to a cupboard he hasn’t opened since Peter got there, curl his fingers around the handle, and then turn and look at his son. A tired expression passes over his face, one Peter’s seen before. One that makes Peter realize just how many times Rufus has done this, enough that Peter knows what he’s going to say next.

  “It’s about time you went to bed, Peter,” Rufus says.

  When Peter was a kid, it worked every time. It even worked when he was a teenager, though he hated it then; he always thought he was because his father was treating him like a
baby. Now Peter knows the truth. So he takes a long breath and tells Rufus something part of him has been waiting years to say.

  “No, Dad,” he says. “I’m staying right here.”

  “No you’re not,” Rufus says. “Go to bed, son.” There’s no hurry in his voice, though it’s weaker than it used to be.

  “I’m not going,” Peter says. As if the strength Rufus lost has entered him. As if something’s being passed along from father to son at last, though neither of them know what it is, and neither of them know what to say now, because the game between them, the rules, the history, are over. So they say what they mean.

  “You think this is the first time I’ve done this?” Rufus says.

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” Peter says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Peter ignores the question. “When were the other times, Dad?”

  “A couple times in Nigeria and South Africa. One time in Egypt.”

  “Did you get paid for it?”

  “What the hell kind of a question is—”

  “Did you?”

  “No. Never. I only had to do it when something went wrong. Only when they were coming to hurt you.”

  “How am I supposed to believe you?”

  “Look,” Rufus says, “I’ve committed some real crimes, but not like your grandfather did. If any of them went to trial, I’d win.”

  “Maybe. But you made sure they never went to trial.”

  “Of course I did,” Rufus says. “I had to. Who would have taken care of you then?”

  “You call what you did taking care of me?”

  He can tell it hurts when he says it, but Rufus recovers fast. “We don’t have time for this, Peter, not now,” he says. “There’s a man coming to this house who’s going to try to kill us. I can’t have you anywhere near him, do you understand?” He wants Peter to interrupt him, but it doesn’t happen, so he keeps going. “I know how to do this. But you have to get out of here. Do you hear me? Do you?”