The Flower Man

by Vincent Zandri

  The more Anatoly cuts, the more she laughs. It’s like he’s tickling her.

  “Daddy!” Natalia shouts. “Stops this nonsense at once.”

  Then, something heavy drops to the floor. Megan’s head. It goes thunk when the bone and brain come into contact with the carpeted floor. Then, like a bowling ball, it slowly rolls into the office corner.

  “Oh dear,” Megan says. “Would someone mind giving me a hand? I seem to have lost my head.”

  “Right away, dear,” Janice says, making her way to the office corner, bending at the knees, picking the head up with both her hands, setting the head on the desk beside the now still body. In fact, her eyes are now level with mine.

  “That’s better,” Megan says. “Thanks, Janice. You know, I always liked you. Or maybe I just felt sorry for you. It must really suck living with Terry. I mean, look at what just happened to me. I warned him. I said, Terry, as your lawyer, take my advice. That penis of yours is going to get you into trouble one day.”

  “Trust me, I’ve seen it,” Natalia says. “It’s not very impressive.”

  “Mind your own business,” Janice barks. “It might not be impressive and might be the cause of our trouble, but it’s still my man’s dick.” She laughs bitterly. “Your father is not packing heat either if you know what I mean.”

  “Silence, Janice!” Anatoly snips.

  “Now, Jobz here has one major johnson,” Megan says, not without a sly smile. “For a guy who’s not very big, the good lord gave him quite the schlong.”

  “I suspected as much,” Janice says, approaching me, setting her hand on my shoulder, then massaging the back of my neck. “I’m gonna get me some of that, aren’t I Jobz?”

  I try to speak, but it’s one of those dreams where my mouth is permanently sealed or clamped shut. Or maybe I don’t even have a mouth.

  “Can we please not have this conversation?” Terry finally breaks in. Then, “Oh Megan, you did rescind the lawsuit against Natalia before you went and lost your head?”

  “Yes, Terry,” she says. “I was going to do it with you or without you.” Rolling her eyes around in their sockets. “Now, if no one minds, I’m going to die now.”

  “About time,” Anatoly grunts.

  “Guess this means I don’t have to pay the bill,” Terry says with a smile. “Happy days.”

  “Look at the mess, Daddy,” Natalia says.

  “Take me away from all this, Jobz,” Janice says.

  I suddenly feel the overwhelming need to run away. Since this is a dream, maybe I can just jump out the window. I get up, turn to face the door. It opens. In walks my mother dressed in her nightgown. The same one she’s always wearing when I visit her at the nursing facility.

  “Steven,” she says, “why don’t you visit me anymore?”

  I wake up with a start. How long have I been asleep? Emotions. The dream about Megan’s beheading and her laughing in the face of it, if you’ll excuse the expression, has me horrified. But then to top it all off with a surprise visit from my mother. What the fuck? It dawns on me that something might have gone wrong with her at the elderly facility where she lives—The Anne Lee Home. A You Tubed episode of In Search Of comes to mind. Leonard Nimoy narrating a story about an Asian Indian man who would dream about a person either just before or immediately after his or her death.

  My stomach twists itself into knots.

  I grab my cell phone, speed-dial the number for the Anne Lee Home for the Elderly and Infirmed. Wait for a pickup.

  “Somebody pick up,” I whisper into the phone.

  Someone does.

  “I’m calling about my mother, Mrs. Jobz,” I say to the operator. I also tell her I’m just checking up on her. She asks me what wing my mother has been assigned to. I tell her.

  “One moment while I switch you to that wing,” she adds before placing me on hold.

  When the line picks up again, I’m connected with one of the nurses. After revealing my identity, I ask her about my mother to see if everything is okay. She tells me she believes everything is fine.

  Then I hear, “Hey, Steph, what’s Mrs. Jobz doing right now?”

  I hear a hand muffling the mouthpiece and a sort of semi-muted conversation that sounds garbled and indecipherable. Until the hand is slipped off the mouthpiece.

  “She’s fine, Mr. Jobz,” she says happily. “She’s watching TV with the gang right now in the living room.”

  Relief washes over me. I swear, the older I get, the more nervous I become. It’s crazy. You’d think I wouldn’t give a shit about something as silly as dreams at this point in my life.

  “Thanks very much,” I say.

  I’m about to hang up the phone when the nurse says, “Oh and Mr. Jobz, will we be seeing you anytime soon? We haven’t seen you in a while. Your poor mother stares out the window and tells us you are on your way.”

  Your poor mother . . .

  Kick a guilty man in the gut why don’t you?

  “Works been hell lately,” I say. The old standby excuse.

  “I understand, Mr. Jobz,” she says. “Maybe you can make some time. She is your mom, after all.”

  “I will for sure. This week.”

  She hangs up. But I want to hang myself.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I recall the video that Kate sent over. But I need another pick me up first. I go to the bar in the kitchen, make coffee out of one of those little pods you stick inside the black plastic machine and add a generous amount of Jameson to it. Taking my coffee with me back to the bed, I open Kate’s text and thumb the link.

  It’s a video produced by the local Fox News affiliate, WNYT. The date is from seventeen years ago. There’s a younger, darker-haired Terry McGovern dressed in pressed blue jeans and a button-down shirt walking in a garden filled with fresh wildflowers along with a much younger Natalia Brezinski. In fact, by the looks of her, she can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. The voice-over is provided by Mr. TV himself.

  “Only a few weeks ago, this young woman, born and raised in the poor suburbs of Moscow, found herself living the life of a common prostitute in order to survive in the wake of the collapse of the Soviet empire and along with it, the collapse of the Soviet economy.”

  Natalia is wearing a white dress, with some of those wildflowers decorating her long blonde hair. It’s as if a professional dressed her like this on purpose. To make her look purer. Rather, purified of her prostitute past.

  “But these days,” the Terry McGovern voice-over continues, “Natalia’s life is entirely different, now that she and her father, Anatoly, have successfully immigrated to the United States of America where they have started their own flower shop, aptly called, The Flower Man.”

  The video cuts to a husky man wearing blue jeans and a denim work-shirt. He’s hefting palates of flowers onto the bed of a second or third-hand pickup truck. The truck is white. Painted on the side panels is a bouquet of colorful flowers, the words The Flower Man printed below them in big black letters. The man’s face is covered with a gray/black beard, his head of hair dark with hints of gray. He is Anatoly.

  There’s a woman helping him. She’s a far younger version of Janice. She looks positively hot in her mini skirt and tank top, her hair shoulder-length and clean. She’s also assisting in loading the truck. She’s wearing gardening gloves, and she’s smiling brightly for the cameras. Behind her, two little boys run around in the yard. They can’t be more than two or three years old. They are the McGovern boys, Terry Junior and Jan. Maybe Jan should be considered a junior too since he’s clearly named after his mother.

  It all looks like an idyllic setting.

  Flowers, a beautiful yard on a beautiful summer’s day, a beautiful if not innocent Russian girl dressed in white, two happy little boys, a robust Russian immigrant who went from poverty to starting his own business in the land of opportunity, Mr. TV, and his gorgeous wife. The only thing missing are the unicorns.

  The voiceover continues.

  “Along
with your generous contributions, my wife Janice and I helped make the relocation of the Brezinski family to Upstate New York possible. We are also sponsoring their path to citizenship. We are a nation of immigrants after all, and I am only too proud to have played such a humble role in the Brezinski’s immigration and assimilation success.”

  The camera then cuts back to Terry and Natalia. They are both standing before the camera. Terry with one hand holding a microphone, the other slowly raised as he places his arm around Natalia’s shoulder. But when he tries to pull her into him, as though embracing her like the daughter he never had, she resists, pushing away. At the same time, she averts her eyes from the camera, choosing instead to stare at the tops of her feet.

  Quickly removing his arms, Terry shoves his hand into his jeans pocket.

  “Reporting for Fox News, this is Terry McGovern.”

  The video ends. I take a long sip of my now cooled coffee.

  “They’ve known one another for almost twenty years,” I say aloud.

  But then, I guess I knew that since I’ve already seen the newspaper picture with the McGovern’s and the Brezinski’s standing side by side moments after the Russian transplants officially received their US citizenship. That said, it never really hit me until now just how close the two families are.

  The phone call log I happened to catch on the kitchen desk comes to mind. All those times Janice, and maybe even Terry, have been in touch with Anatoly since all the trouble began at the news station between him and Natalia. The relationship between the two families might have started out innocently enough, but it’s most definitely become tarnished with possible collusion to sell illicit drugs and now, murder. Brutal, cold-blooded murder.

  In my head, I see Terry wrapping his arm around the very young Natalia. See him pulling her in tightly for the cameras. See her resisting his touch. No, that’s not right, she’s not only resisting his touch, she’s almost ashamed of it. Like it’s something that shouldn’t be seen in public. I recall Natalia’s statement about his having groped just about every woman at the station. How disgusted she was with him.

  But then, I recall something else.

  During our lunch yesterday, Janice drunkenly spoke of having warned Terry that he was going to get himself into trouble with Natalia if he didn’t stop what he was doing. All those films he shot of that poor child. Super 8 films. Like it was the nineteen sixties or something. But that was when Terry took hold of her arm like he was shutting her up.

  I take another drink of my coffee, but its warmth does nothing to stop the shot of ice cold that shoots up and down my back bone. I find myself sitting up straight.

  “Did Terry touch Natalia when she was just a kid?” I ask myself aloud. “Did he rape her? Did he make films of her?”

  I jump out of bed, quickly change back to my normal blue trousers, matching jacket, button-down shirt, and shoes. I throw my phone in my pocket, head out the cottage door, looking one way and then the other.

  Is Terry home like he’s supposed to be?

  I go around to the garage. His car is missing. Behind me, the APD cop cruiser is parked at the bottom of the drive. I jog past my Mustang on my way over to it, knock on the driver’s side windshield.

  The cop is busy texting something into his smartphone. The rap on the glass startles him, and he shoots me an annoyed look. The window is electronically rolled down.

  “What is it, Jobz?” He smirks, his round freshly shaven face full of contempt since I interrupted his texting. Or maybe he was sexting with someone other than his wife. Seems to be the common thread of the life I’ve been living for the past few days.

  “You seen Mr. McGovern around?” I ask.

  He works up a smile that’s not really a smile.

  “You mean, Mr. TV?”

  “Just answer the question please.”

  “He took off a couple hours ago.”

  A start in my heart.

  “He say where he was going, Officer? You’re supposed to be watching over them. They’re not supposed to leave the house, especially after what happened last night.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me, pal,” he says. “Besides, I thought it was your job to keep an eye on them. I’m just the backup plan.”

  He’s got a point, and he knows it.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “I’m heading out. Make sure Mrs. McGovern doesn’t leave the house.”

  “You mean Mrs. TV,” he snorts. “She’s kinda hot for an older broad.”

  “Cops,” I whisper as I turn away, start walking back up the drive to the Mustang.

  I slip behind the wheel, readjust the fucking fucked up seat, fire her up.

  In my head, the many thoughts spin a nasty web. If Terry raped Natalia as a little girl, does he now fear that she’s about to go public with it? Is that why he didn’t want the police involved when he was shot at? Is that why he wanted to drop the lawsuit? Maybe he and Janice knew all along that suing her was way too risky after everything he’d done to Natalia the teenager. It was certainly risky if what Miller says is true and they are up to their necks in Anatoly’s drug racket. But somehow, the rape of a teenage immigrant sounds a hell of a lot worse than selling some drugs on the side for some much needed cash. That said, is it possible Terry feels he has no choice but to silence Natalia?

  Backing out, I turn on the heat. For now, the air is cold, like my heart.

  I drive as fast as I can without risking a pullover by the Albany cops. It takes me only ten minutes to get to Fox News WNYT broadcast headquarters. Pulling up to the curb, I get out, head inside. That same middle-aged woman is behind the reception counter. I ask for Natalia Brezinski.

  She smiles, her round face pleasant and eager to please.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “but Natalia called in sick today. Would you like me to leave a message for her?”

  I bite down on my bottom lip.

  “Do you happen to know where she might be? Is she at home?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Naturally, I’m not at liberty to reveal Natalia’s personal information.”

  “Not even if her life might be in danger?”

  The smile melts. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Someone might be out to harm her.”

  “Oh my,” she gasps. “Who did you say you were with again?”

  “The Albany Police Department.” I pull out my ID, show it to her. “In full disclosure, my ID is from the New York State Department of Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency, but on occasion, I work for the APD.”

  She stares at the ID for a long couple of beats. Until I retrieve it, shove it back in my jacket pocket.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It could cost me my job if I do the wrong thing.”

  “It might also cost Natalia her life.” Out the corner of my eye, I see a pad of paper set on her desk. Reaching over the counter, I take hold of it.

  “Excuse me,” she says, somewhat startled.

  “Can I borrow a pen, ma’am?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She hands me a pen. I write down Miller’s full professional title and name, along with his cell phone number.

  “This man will vouch for me,” I say. “He’s as high as one can go at the APD before becoming the chief. Satisfied?”

  She takes hold of the paper, stares at it. She nods, reluctantly.

  “Ok,” she says. She types something into her computer. Then, using the same pen and notepad that I used, jots something down, hands it to me. I give it a look. It’s Natalia’s home address. Dutch Village Apartments in North Albany. I know the place well since I’ve dated a couple of women who lived there before they ditched me, got their shit together, and married someone else.

  “Thanks,” I say, shoving the paper in my pocket. “Remember, if you have any concerns whatsoever, call Detective Miller.”

  I go for the door.

  “What kind of trouble is Natalia in?” she begs. “Is somebody trying to hurt her?”

 
; I glance at the big HDTV broadcasting the lunchtime news. A field reporter is talking into a microphone outside a home that’s on fire across the river in Troy.

  “It’s quite possible,” I say. “But then it’s also possible I’m wrong.”

  “I hope so,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say.

  Back behind the wheel of the Mustang, I speed-dial Miller. First, I tell him about the receptionist at WNYT, how she might be calling him to verify my ID. Then, I explain my theory about Terry. That this isn’t just about selling drugs for much-needed cash. That this is about something that goes much deeper. Something much more insidious and downright evil. And how now, Terry might be desperate enough to hurt Natalia over what she might end up revealing to the public about their past relationship. Namely that he might have raped her back when she was a teenager.

  Miller hesitates. I can hear him breathing. But I can feel the anger oozing over the line. Like he himself should have seen through the trees earlier.

  “You got proof of this?” he asks. “We need proof, or this is only speculation, Jobz, and potentially wild and damning speculation at that.”