by Sheena Kamal
Under the kitchen sink there’s a bucket and some cleaning supplies. In the bucket there’s a knotted-off plastic bag with some used paper towels, an empty bottle of whiskey, and a manila envelope. It’s one of Stevie Warsame’s steadfast rules. If in doubt, look through the trash. Inelegant, but I can’t question his instincts. Especially now.
I close the door of the bathroom while I use it, by force of habit, and when I come out there is a man lounging on the bed.
“Now don’t go yelling and screaming just yet,” says the man on the bed, who sits up with a slow, easy motion. He’s got the manila envelope from under the sink in his hand. “I’m Fred Halpern’s PI. He told me to meet you over here because you’re looking for Russo. Fred has been waiting for years for that asshole to slip up so that we can put him behind bars.”
“For Gloria’s sake.” I look toward the front door of the apartment. It was closed and Halpern’s keys are still in my pocket. So this man must have his own set.
“He loves the hell out of that woman. I’m Jeff Samson. You can just call me Samson, if you want. Most people do.”
“Nora.” We don’t shake hands and he doesn’t attempt to reach out to me. I like a man who respects a woman’s personal space. I lean against the wall for some emotional support. It’s got none to offer. I must be desperate. Samson and I eye each other for a moment. A mild showdown that gives me enough time to get a good look at him. He looks as world-weary as any detective out of an old Hollywood noir film, with all the grace of an exhausted Sidney Poitier.
“What you got on Russo, Nora?” he asks, getting straight to the point.
“Not a hell of a lot.” I tell him what I know so far. He has a trusting face and, since the wall isn’t doing what I’d hoped, I’ve got to find my support from somewhere else.
“Sounds just like him,” Samson says, when I’m done spreading my confusion and unfounded allegations around.
“Yeah?”
“I owe Judge Halpern a favor or two from back in the day and the only way the man asked me to repay him is to keep an eye on this guy. I’ve been on Russo for a long time. Ever since Freddie found out about him from Gloria. Russo’s unpredictable as all get-out, except in one way. He’s a gambler. Sometimes it’s money and sometimes it’s other things. Digs himself into a hole, gets desperate, and lies his way out of it again. That’s the pattern of his life. At the beginning, I looked into Beirut. Don’t have my files with me, but I can get them to you if you want.”
“I’d be okay if you just tell me what you remember,” I say, trying not to let my excitement show.
“Not planning to stick around for long, huh? I understand that. What I remember is sitting with him at a blackjack table for a couple hours straight, watching him pretend he wasn’t a morphine junkie while he lost what I made in six months. Told him I was a vet and I’d served in Vietnam. Wasn’t a lie. He told me about when he was in Beirut. Started talking about all the crazy shit that went down in that country. How everyone turned on each other all the time. How a man could get a little side cash if he had the right kind of information.”
“He was a spy?” I ask, again remembering what Kovaks and Dubois seemed to both be obsessed with.
“He was an asshole. No kind of real intelligence operative would have opened his mouth like that. I got this feeling that I couldn’t shake. I’ve known bullshitters like him my whole life. I think he got in trouble and somebody had something on him. Used it as leverage to get a favor or two out of him, maybe. I don’t know how long this lasted, but I do know that for a while in Beirut the Soviets used to use a foreign flag cover to recruit people. Recruiters would pretend to be from other countries or lead unwitting agents to think they were working for the American government sometimes. If you’re looking for excitement, you’d be an easy mark. Add a debt owed and, boom, you got yourself an agent.”
“A debt . . . like from gambling.”
“Seems the likeliest story to me, Nora. Been on domestics for longer than I can remember and if a husband ain’t cheating or doping, he’s gambling.”
“That’s sexist.”
“It’s the truth. It’s a curse. An addiction. But the thing with Russo is he likes to think he’s smooth as shit, but he really ain’t. I think if he got mixed up in something, it didn’t go over well. He started talking all kinds of smack about the Arabs down there in Beirut. I knew he was injured when a car bomb went off near him, but I got the feeling this was something else. Something personal.”
I know whatever happened in Beirut must have been personal—or else he wouldn’t have spent all this time looking for my mother. “He didn’t strike you as competent, huh?”
Samson laughs. “Not even close. I think he’s the kind of idiot who goes around scaring women and acting reckless to show people he’s some kind of big man, because deep down he can’t control himself and never could.”
“Harsh.”
He acknowledges this with a smile. “But true. That kind of attitude don’t change with age, which is why I’m here talking to you. You can’t change a reckless man.” He gets up and hands me the envelope. “Things start to heat up and guys like Russo come unhinged. I’ve seen it a thousand times.”
Me, too. I have seen enough people crack to know that it only takes that extra little push.
“When I was sitting with him at that table, he got pretty close to unhinged. Gloria said he’d tried on and off to kick the morphine habit. Looking at him I could tell he was jonesing because when he started losing, it hit him hard. Went off about how he was working for the CIA. I said yeah, sure, buddy, and let him keep going. Didn’t believe a word of it. He got worked up like that with a stranger. Don’t want to imagine what he’d do with someone he knew well. Maybe I don’t have to imagine, because of what Freddie told me about him and Gloria. I know Freddie wants him to mess up somehow so that we can put that bastard behind bars for good, but I wouldn’t want a nice lady like you to get caught up in the crossfire.”
Seems like this so-called nice lady is already caught up. But I don’t say that. “I appreciate that. But you don’t actually think he worked with the CIA?”
“Not a chance. And I don’t think he believed it, either. But it was pretty clear he was working for someone. You take care now, Nora.” He goes to the door. I see now why I had no idea he’d come in. He could teach a course to a cat burglar on how to move silently. Maybe he already had at some point in his past. He’s that good. Before I know it, he’s gone, leaving behind no trace that he’d ever been here at all.
When I get back to the car, Halpern is listening to classical music with his eyes closed. He’s drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the tune. I have the feeling that he already knew the apartment was mostly a dead end. He showed it to me to reveal what, exactly? I don’t ask him outright because I don’t trust his smiles. They remind me of Sanchez. Brazuca, too. They belong to men who know what it’s like to wield power.
I have no experience with that.
We are mostly silent on the drive to the bus station. He doesn’t mention a thing about Samson. Chopin plays in the background. I only know it’s Chopin because Seb used to have some classical music on his computer that he listened to when he thought I was asleep. Chopin was Leo’s favorite.
Halpern pulls up in front of the terminal. He nods to the manila envelope. “Samson showed me that already. Do you know what’s in there?”
“Lab results of some kind.” I’d taken a peek before Samson showed up.
“That’s right. We’ve already made copies and I had a doctor friend I play golf with take a look.”
“And?” I ask, playing along.
“What it shows is that over time, his creatinine levels are high. Dangerously so. And so is his potassium.”
A smile crosses his face. The Chopin dies away. I sense he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m not in the mood to play his games anymore. So I return his little smile and keep quiet. He can’t help but fill the silence,
because this is why he’s brought me here. To show me Russo’s little crash pad—and be his captive audience. We’ve come too far for him to stop now.
“Which means that his kidneys are failing and he needs to be on dialysis immediately. Three hours a day, three times a week for the rest of his life.” His smile turns satisfied. “He thinks he can just terrorize my wife for years and that he won’t get what’s coming to him? Well, life has a different idea about justice. May not be in the courts, so little justice is served there—and I’d know—but things have a way of coming ’round. He spent years in recovery after the bomb in Beirut. Years. And he didn’t learn his lesson. So guess what? He’s going to spend the rest of his life in excruciating pain.”
And Halpern’s going to enjoy it. Hell, he seems to be loving it already because he’s still smiling.
I nod, to show him that I’ve heard all this. I’m about to say good-bye to him, but the look on his face tells me there’s no point. He’s somewhere else. Maybe he’s still thinking about how much he’s going to love watching Russo die painfully—whatever it is, he’s already forgotten me.
I leave the envelope behind when I get out of the car.
There’s a bus going back to Detroit in half an hour, so I buy my ticket and sit on a hard bench to wait for it to board.
This has been the strangest night.
Ryan Russo may be something of a mystery, but he’ll soon be a dead mystery. It explains the renewed interest in my family after all these years. Like Seb, Russo is getting his affairs in order because pretty soon he’ll have to deal with a debilitating illness, one where he’ll spend the rest of his life tied to a dialysis machine. So, naturally, he’s got to get all his stalking done now. Find the women he blames for his shitty life. Murder people like me who are getting a tad too close to some of his deep, dark secrets.
You know, the usual.
45
Some people hate hospitals for their smell. Some won’t go near them because they can’t stand the sight of blood. Or illness. Or death. Personally, I stay away because of the waiting. Like now, for example. Sitting by Nate’s side, waiting for him to wake up so that I can say good-bye. He is fast asleep, though, because recovery takes rest. This is what I hope. He has never lied to me and, even now, his silence leaves much to be desired on the subject of hope. He’s not promising anything he can’t deliver.
The room is filled with flowers from well-wishers. There’s a particularly large arrangement in the corner of the room. The name on the card leaves no doubt that this bluesman who goes to open mics for some pin money has connections that I would have only dreamed about back while I was trying to make it as a singer.
Scentless flowers in a riot of colors watch over us as I give him the update on my search for information about my father’s death. How it clearly wasn’t a suicide, but I can’t prove it. How my mother was involved.
Just as I’m nearing the end of my explanation, a doctor comes into the room. He looks at Nate. Then at me.
“Family?” he says somewhat doubtfully, taking a stab in the dark.
I do have one in the form of Whisper, if no one else, so I nod and try my best to look like someone’s fiancée or a long-lost cousin. “Yes. How’s he doing?”
He hesitates, assesses me for signs that I might not be able to handle the truth. Then he checks Nate’s vitals. “Too soon to tell. He lost a lot of blood, and he’s very weak. There’s a high risk of infection and he’s still bleeding internally. He’s scheduled for a second thoracotomy to suture the remaining blood vessels.”
He is about to leave when I hold up a hand. “Before you go. Just a quick question. I have a friend who served in Afghanistan. He was . . . a bomb went off and he had second- and third-degree burns to the right side of his body. What can I expect?”
“You can expect someone who is deeply traumatized. Someone who will be in a great deal of pain. Your friend will need all the support he can get because recovery will be a slippery road. Not just medical support to treat his burns, either. Burns like that can have an extreme effect on a person’s mental health, especially if it’s regarding explosives. He might be sensitive to fire, to loud noises. They may trigger something for him.”
“But do you think he can heal and be perfectly rational, pay his taxes, walk his dog, and tuck his kids into bed at night without us worrying about him having a break?”
The doctor smiles gently. “Yes, of course,” he lies.
I’m willing to let that one slide.
“Okay, but what if my friend was a little psychologically unstable to begin with. For example, if he liked to follow women around, that sort of thing?”
The doctor stops smiling. He edges away, using Nate’s chart as a shield. “In that case, you should probably find another friend. Have a good day.” Then he slips out the door.
I sit by Nate’s side for a long time, staring at the article about Ryan Russo on my phone. I don’t dare touch Nate, or look at him for too long. It’s too painful. Something Seb taught me is penetrating the fog of confusion in my brain. But what are they deliberately not saying? What are they dancing around? It’s here that you’ll find the truth.
I look at Nate. He has no answers. I want to tell him what singing with him has meant to me. What he has meant to me. In the end, all I can manage is a butterfly kiss on his lips and one above his brow. I don’t want to leave, but I know I have to. Seb is gone forever but Nate is still here. My presence isn’t going to help his chances for survival. The hospital isn’t a safe space for me. I think about calling Sanchez and telling him everything I know, confessing my sins and everyone else’s. Making my problems his for the moment, just to unburden myself.
I leave the hospital. I’m not sure where to go, so I catch a ride share to town. The driver turns up the music when I get into the car, which suits my mood just fine. I have him take me to a casino in Greektown. The security guards eye me, but don’t move to bar my entry. They want everyone’s money—not just the people who can afford to give it up. I wander around the tables and watch people lose more money than I’ll ever have in my bank account. There are no windows in this place. No way to mark the passage of time if you refuse to look away from your cards.
A woman in a red dress walks by me and makes a beeline for a man seated at a blackjack table. She goes right up to him and slaps him hard. The man rubs his face. He tries to ignore her. She’s upsetting his concentration. She bursts into tears and pulls at his arm. He pushes her off. A security guard comes to take her away. She shouts at the man, screaming, pleading, but he has forgotten that she’s even in the room. Nobody else blinks an eye. They keep playing, pretending that the woman and her tears don’t exist.
What’s missing here is their humanity.
The article says Russo was badly injured by a car bomb on his way home to his apartment in West Beirut. But not that he’d also been kidnapped and robbed. It’s not the kind of detail that a reporter would leave out unless Russo chose to keep that little tidbit to himself. But him being something of a journalist himself . . . he would know the value of adding this to the story.
So it is clearly something that he wanted to keep under wraps.
A car bomb in Beirut during the civil war, and after, was an everyday tragedy. But a kidnapping suggested he was being targeted. For what, and by whom? And why didn’t he want anyone to know about it?
This is what’s been eluding me.
46
Brazuca waits for Lam to finish a conference call. The call is on speaker and the language spoken is rapid-fire Cantonese. Lam’s participation is minimal. Just a word here or there to fill in the gaps.
He’s in Lam’s study, taking in the fine furnishings while he tries to disguise his impatience. It has been a couple of days since he discovered that Nora is being targeted. He’s tried to reach every motel in Midtown Detroit and come up empty. Nora isn’t answering his calls and her phone seems to be switched off, for the most part. She’s never been easy to get in touch with
, so he’s not sure if she is just ignoring him or if there’s something else behind it.
“Sorry,” says Lam, as he disconnects the line. “My father’s on the warpath.”
“What did you do this time?”
Lam runs a hand through his thick dark hair and then rubs at the back of his neck. A platinum watch glints from his wrist. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me, thank God. He expects nothing from me now that I’ve married the woman he chose. He’s got great hopes for the grandkids, though.”
“Is your wife pregnant?” Brazuca doesn’t even know her name. Lam barely mentions her, or talks about why she’s never around. Where she is, this ghost wife, is something he doesn’t particularly want to get into.
Lam smiles grimly and shakes his head. “The only grandchild he’ll ever have died with Clem. Let him deal with that.”
Brazuca lets that go. Lam’s anger still overshadows all reason. Suddenly he’s tired of it all, and has especially had it with this man he’s given up his new leaf for. The only upside is the money, which isn’t holding the appeal that it once had. He reaches into his pocket and hands Lam a flash drive. “My report.” It had taken him two days to compile all his notes and extract the usable photos that he and Warsame had taken. The links that made up the supply chain. The Triple 9s at the Lala Lair. Curtis Parnell at the port. The Three Phoenix connection in Hong Kong—the mysterious players that have some bizarre interest in Nora Watts.
Lam opens the file on his laptop and reads it through. After he’s done, he steps away from the screen and pours a drink. He pours one for Brazuca as well, remembering to include Brazuca this time, but forgetting that he’s an alcoholic. “Last year, when your friend came to that conference at the chalet up north . . . she was looking for a missing girl. She thought Ray Zhang, one of my father’s colleagues, had something to do with it.”
Brazuca is startled by Lam’s sudden shift to Nora, who has been on his mind almost nonstop these past few days. When Lam had met Nora during her search for Bonnie, he had been thrown off by being in the presence of a woman who wasn’t in love with his money.