“I clocked you going 70. How could you possibly get up to 70 on this street?”
He kept turning, flooring the Civic, braking hard, turning, and flooring it again until the only sign of the SUV was not the headlights themselves, but the beam of headlights before they turned after him.
A parking spot appeared. Unbelievable, a parking spot on the street. Someone leaving for the morning shift, taillights up the street. Lazlo turned off his lights and whipped in, nudging the car ahead. He pulled the overcoat from the passenger seat over him and lay across the console. He heard the SUV round the corner and roar past, going after the taillights of the morning shift worker.
Starbucks on West Division opened early. Changing from his torn jacket into the overcoat from the passenger seat, Lazlo ran through several yards, alleys, and an empty lot in which he fell. He climbed a fence and finally arrived for his red-eye. Inside, he went directly to the men’s room, locked the door, and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red, but not as red as the blood on his neck. He opened his phone but it would not go on. He’d also lost the pepper spray from his pocket.
Lazlo materialized at dawn, standing at the passenger side with two paper coffee cups. He told her to start driving as soon as he got in. He put the cups in the holders. When he put on his belt she saw he was wearing an overcoat and saw him dab blood from his neck where he held the shoulder strap away.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“No, I already peed in the street. What happened?”
“A not very nice fellow tried to drag me out of the car; jacket zipper got me.”
“Should I stop at an emergency room?”
“It’s can’t be bad. I held napkins on it and Starbuck’s served me. I hung out in the men’s room to make sure I wasn’t followed. I washed there and would have called but my phone’s busted and I lost my pepper spray. You were supposed to leave. But I knew you’d still be here.”
Chapter 23
Daylight brought headwinds, the Class C like a sailboat wrangling its way forward. Janos and Mariya took turns driving. Even if they uncovered the conspiracy that killed Doctor Marta, could Janos ever hope to confront men a half-world away who broke Sonia’s neck and threw her down the stairs?
Janos and Lazlo planned their rendezvous in Hungarian while Mariya drove. Lazlo on Niki’s phone, explaining he busted his. As usual Hungarian and shared knowledge would confuse anyone listening. They agreed on an Illinois location where boxes on wheels overnighted. The location had two words. First, a past tense verb for the fate of Ukrainians due to Stalin. Next, second part of a compound adjective for a music genre played at a specific Kiev club. To anyone listening, even a fluent Hungarian, it would have been confusing. To Janos and Lazlo it was obvious. They’d meet at Starved Rock State Park in Illinois.
At the last stop, while the Class C drank its share of Earth’s fossil fuel, Mariya purchased sandwiches and a Coke six-pack. When Mariya placed two Cokes in the cup holders while climbing into the passenger seat, she showed a tight-lipped smile. Coke was Sonia’s favorite.
Janos looked ahead out the windshield. “I hope we can trace men saving hair to something, or someone. Men saving each other’s hair seems unlikely. Something tragic happened.”
“Saving locks of hair is universal.”
“I agree,” said Janos. “Young men at a camp, hair saved…Vengeance?”
“A woman,” said Mariya. “It must be the reason, a woman murdered.”
According to legend, around 1770 a Native American tribe pursued by two other tribes sought refuge on the sandstone butte along the Illinois River and eventually starved to death. After coming down from the well-worn rock, Niki and Lazlo went to the lodge bar. A wall of black and white photographs gave the lodge’s history. In the 1930s CCC men built the place, with its great hall and huge fireplace.
“I wonder where these young men were from,” said Niki, staring at the photographs. “Living near water was Dad’s heritage. Detroit’s Greek community and Henry Ford’s five-dollar day wage lures his family and he ends up in Utah. Even though the Green River was nearby, it was surrounded by rock and dust.
“When I was a girl he said most, like him, were from cities and not accustomed to the remote location. One time he said there were occurrences he’d never forget. Not the work or the heat…occurrences. A couple times he brought out the camp pictorial along with a photo album. Inside the album was an envelope with strands of hair. Reddish-brown hair held together with yellowed cellophane tape. He said it belonged to someone special, someone who should have been taken care of the way he took care of Mom and promised to take care of me.”
“Do you recall him speaking of threats?”
“I remember news in the local Greek paper. Not an article, a letter someone sent in. I was learning Greek at the time. The letter said something about a purple gang. I remember, being a little girl, thinking that was cute. Thing is, when I asked Dad, he didn’t think it was cute. Later, in high school, I learned about Jewish Mafia working in Detroit back in the 1920s and 30s named the Purple Gang. I asked Dad again. It was one of the few times I’d seen him angry. He said Mafias were devils put on Earth to make things miserable for people in Detroit, especially coloreds. Most people his age used the term coloreds. Anyway, being a teenager, I mentioned the color purple again. When I did, something else snuck out. He became morose and told me non-purple Mafias made life miserable in the CCCs…
“That’s the last time I remember seeing the hair in the envelope. He’d had enough ouzo, dragged out the album, and what he said while fingering the hair was a simple phrase I’ll never forget. ‘Poor little Rose.’ When I asked what he meant he tried to make light of it. He said, ‘You know, like the flower. Like flowers folks put between book pages.’ Then he went quiet.”
It was dark in the bedroom, not because it was night, but because the thick curtains were closed. He’d lost Horvath and Gianakos. He’d lost his edge.
“Vera, I need sleep?”
“We all need sleep, Tony. The girls sleep poorly when you’re on the road. To make things somewhat normal I’ve signed them up for preschool.”
“Jesus Christ, Vera! I’ve been up 36 hours! Give it a rest!”
Guzzo held his phone beneath the blanket. He’d recently texted Pescatore. He was on call, as requested. He could sleep holding the phone, but not with Vera at him.
The evening went better. The girls were glad to see him, they ordered pizza, he and Vera sat through The Lion King, several trips to the espresso machine keeping him awake. They played a kid’s version of Scrabble, during which he and Vera smiled conspiratorially, allowing the girls to win. With the girls finally in bed, he and Vera had sex and he felt at peace. Not once after his outburst had Vera called him Tony.
But it didn’t last. At the edge of sleep his phone hummed. Pescatore’s text said he’d get new instructions in the morning, most likely involving another flight, perhaps back to Rock Springs.
When Guzzo checked Vera, he could tell by her breathing she was asleep. He wondered how Pescatore received information sending him back to the Wyoming-Utah border so soon. Who the hell else was watching? Would he ever get a chance to follow the money? When he finally slept, it was fitful with strange nightmares taking him back to patrols along the Arizona-Mexico border. An old man, not with a Mexican accent, but with an Eastern European accent. He awoke in a sweat. After The Lion King, drinking espresso, and playing Scrabble, he’d watched the evening news. There’d been politicians complaining about the border. Politicians speaking of building a wall. A lesson learned. Do not watch news before bed.
It was three in the morning. He washed his face, took a Valium, and returned to bed. For a few hours he’d forget the outside world. Repeating this mantra to himself, he slept.
Outside Cleveland, Janos took over driving.
“No one following,” said Mariya from the back b
ed.
“Get some sleep,” said Janos. “I did while you drove.”
Janos had gotten a text from Lazlo, new phone, same number. He called, but it immediately went to voicemail. He left a message in Hungarian—he’d text at 100 miles out.
Because of the time difference, Janos decided it would be a good time to contact Kiev. When Boris Chudin’s phone went to voice mail, Janos asked, “Anything new about our friend named after cheap vodka? If so, call this number. My phone is off and on, be sure to leave a message.”
The Class C pounded down the highway, amplifying expansion joints. It was like driving on the chest of someone in panic. Like listening to Sonia’s heartbeat before she’s thrown down the stairs.
Niki parked at a campground restroom/shower building, backed in with a view of the reserved campsite. Lazlo checked his new phone for messages.
“They’ll be here in two or three hours.”
Niki touched his leg. “The van seats are folded away. We could move the luggage aside and nap.”
“You are very unruly.”
“Thank you.”
After their “nap” they took turns using the restroom. A park ranger drove past while Niki was gone. Seeing the insignia on the side of the state park pickup triggered a flashback.
Lazlo inside the Kiev Militia building, which smells like a public restroom. The Chernobyl disaster is in the not-so-distant past and fear of latent radioactivity lodged in scum and dirt looms. Rather than the floor being shiny and clean, it’s coated with years of scuffmarks from prisoners being dragged to interrogation rooms.
Niki opened the door and got in. “Are you okay?”
“A flashback to former life. I’m fine now.” He glanced at Niki and smiled, having caught sight of a motor home in the distance. “That could be them.”
The Class C with New Jersey plates paused at the reserved site. He and Niki waited to make certain the motor home was not followed. When Janos and Mariya emerged after parking the beast, Lazlo and Niki joined them. There were hugs, and more hugs.
“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Niki told Janos.
“And I’m sorry about your father,” said Janos.
“There are very few in the campground,” said Lazlo. “But still, we should go inside.”
“Our box on wheels is your box on wheels,” said Mariya. “We can cook onboard. I had Janos stop at a food market.”
Niki diced an onion and watched as Mariya boiled buckwheat. “What are we making?”
“Hrechanyky, fried wheat and meat patties. I’m using ground chicken. I bought mild sauce and a prepared salad.”
“In honor of our guests, we have Retsina,” said Janos.
“The wine of the gods,” said Niki.
Janos rubbed his rear end. “I also bought vodka to ease the pain of sitting in this thing as it tried to shake itself apart.”
During and after dinner the four compared notes. Janos and Mariya detailed research Sonia found on Doctor Marta’s computer regarding the deaths of her grandfather Bela Voronko, and her father, Bela Voronko Junior. Niki told about the death of her father Nick Gianakos and things he’d revealed while alive. Lazlo went into detail about the Minkus father, George Minkus, the two sons, one of whom was killed on his motorcycle, and the grandson traveling in Utah. Lazlo had tried calling numerous times but was unable to get through. The common threads? Bela Voronko, Nick Gianakos, and George Minkus served at the Manila, Utah, CCC camp in 1939; saved strands of hair; and died in so-called accidents. All went quiet after Mariya pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans. Strands of red hair Dr. Marta had in her jewelry box, the hair saved from 1939 by her grandfather, Bela Voronko.
Janos and Mariya insisted they sleep in the low-ceiling bed above the Class C cab. Lazlo and Niki slept in the back bedroom. During the night all four, at one time or another, in his or her unique style, snored. In the morning they sat in the booth behind the driver’s seat drinking coffee after having eaten sliced ham fried with a dozen eggs.
“That empties the refrigerator,” said Mariya.
Lazlo muttered something in Hungarian, making Janos laugh.
“I think I’ve heard that one before,” said Mariya. But what exactly does that mean?”
Lazlo smiled. “Literally it translates as ‘Bring on the Gypsies.’ It’s an idiom. It actually means, start the music, or start the celebration or party.”
“With you and Janos from Ukraine, why did your families speak Hungarian?” asked Niki.
“We’re from western Ukraine,” said Janos. “Before World War I it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, then part of Czechoslovakia, then in celebration of Hitler and Stalin becoming big hits, they carved off the part called the Carpatho-Ukraine. After World War II Stalin got it and it’s now Ukraine. Anyway, Lazlo and I, at different times, went to Kiev to make our fortunes in the Kiev Militia.”
“Doctor Marta’s grandfather grew up in the same region,” said Mariya. “He was born here and able to return with citizenship. Unfortunately, he was on the list of doomed CCC men.”
“As was my father,” said Niki.
Lazlo touched Niki’s hand. “We should be leaving.”
“I agree,” said Janos. “It’s a long drive.”
“Bring on the Gypsies,” said Niki.
Two men waiting at a Denver airport gate. One wore a short sleeve shirt with parrots, the other a Chicago Cubs tee shirt. Their bags were on the seat between them. The man in the Cubs tee shirt turned to his partner who was fiddling with his iPhone.
“I hate layovers.”
The iPhone man slipped it into his parrot shirt pocket. “At least you’ll get your Charger at the other end.”
“That’s what they said last time and I got a Suburban.”
“We’ll have time to complain. Our mark isn’t due for a while.”
“How do they know when he’ll land?”
The man in the parrot shirt shrugged. “Internet.”
“They’re following our mark on the web?”
“They discover things that lead to other things.” He pulled the iPhone back out of his pocket. “It’s called research.”
“While you’re on that thing, look up the specs for the new Charger on Edmunds.”
Etta Pratt turned 90, no longer drove, but still volunteered at the Sweetwater County Historical Museum. Depending who was working, she’d get a ride in from her home south of the river for the 10 a.m. opening, and in the mid-afternoon get a ride back from her daughter, Patti, who taught at the Green River High School. Sometimes Etta helped out in the gift shop, but gave up operating the cash register. These days she straightened shelves or helped out if the curator needed assistance with a visitor or a researcher, which meant watching like a hawk to make certain nothing in the permanent archive was disturbed.
Etta’s personal donation to the museum decades earlier had been her extensive collection of Green River newspapers. Although the curator tried to convince her to digitize them, Etta always found room somewhere in the building for the boxes.
“It’s not the same online,” said Etta. “Part of history is the feel and smell of the paper. It’s like a book in your hands rather than one of those Kindle things. I like the color of old newspapers. Some turn yellow, and some turn pink. I wonder how that happens. Don’t worry. I’ll find a place for my newspapers in the basement if I have to.”
That afternoon, as her daughter drove her home, Etta thought back to the 1930s when they drove past the building that used to be the movie house, but was now a tavern.
“I remember so many movies that played there, Patti. It seems whenever I watch a Paul Muni or Jimmy Cagney or Jimmy Stewart movie on TCM I take a trip back in time. Why in the world they made the movie house into a tavern is beyond me. We didn’t have a tavern in Green River when I was a girl. Over in Rock Springs they had the Arr
owhead Bar. I’ve got bad memories of that place.”
“You’re right about taverns and bars, Mom. Maybe the country should have stayed dry like towns down in Utah. But if so, the movie house would probably have become one of those adult theaters, then a video store.”
“Some legacy that would have been,” said Etta. “The world’s turning into casinos and bars. Young people with their breweries and wine tasting and now whiskey tasting in those hillbilly states. And the dancing. Instead of holding hands they’re holding onto themselves.”
“So, Mom, are you sure you’re sticking with TCM? Seems you might be watching other things?”
“Maybe a little. Anyway, I’m sure glad to have TCM and my newspaper collection. You’ll make sure they don’t burn it when I pass.”
“I said I would, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“A lot of memories in those papers, some good, some bad.”
Driving all day and into the evening put the Class C and the Caravan in a KOA in Laramie, Wyoming. They’d stopped at a food store. Dinner that night: pan-fried tilapia with lemon and capers, tomato fritters, and salad.
“If we keep eating like this we’ll need two motor homes,” said Lazlo.
In bed, he whispered to Niki, “You make me happy to be alive.”
“Stay that way,” said Niki, kissing him.
Janos bumped his head on the low Class C bunk ceiling. “Enough. Gypsies are asleep.”
Outside, at the campsite next door, a man and woman at their campfire smiled to one another listening to the laughter inside the motor home.
“Ain’t this the life?” said the man, the flames of the fire flickering in his glasses.
“It sure is,” said the woman. “Look at all those stars.”
Next morning, as the Learjet 45XR climbed through thin clouds over Chicago’s south side, Guzzo made strong samovar-like tea using the microwave and several bags at the refreshment center. Explaining to Pescatore details of pursuing Lazlo Horvath from his apartment and being intercepted by men in an SUV had been pointless.
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