Last to Fold

by David Duffy

  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised—if she’d been hanging out with Ratko, he would have taught her a trick or two. From the way Eva worked her away around UnderTable.com, she’d learned her lessons well.

  “Move it, snoop. You’re gonna make me late.”

  I was tempted to point out that under the circumstances, his tardiness was the least of his employer’s problems. I went back to the entryway, where I’d left the case I’d brought from the office. Five-by-Five limped behind. Four-room apartment—he wasn’t letting me out of his sight. I took an Apple laptop and FireWire cable from the case and plugged the latter into Eva’s computer. I shut down the machine, started it again, and began the transfer of its contents.

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” Five-by-Five said. I ignored him on the grounds he had no idea what I was doing.

  A big left hand reached for the laptop. I caught the wrist and twisted counterclockwise until I’d turned his body half around and he grunted with pain. His breath wreaked of tobacco.

  “We work for the same guy,” I said. “Call him.”

  I let go of the wrist and handed him the phone. He ignored it, took a cell phone from his pocket, and went out to the hall. He came back and handed it to me.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Lachlan tells me you’re doing something with Eva’s computer,” Mulholland said.

  “Copying the contents of its hard drive.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Lachlan and I can stay here all afternoon while I do a manual search. Or I can take the contents back to my office, where I have software that’ll do it in an hour. I’m working on the assumption time’s of the essence.”

  There was a pause before he said, “Lachlan can be overprotective, but he means well.” I doubted that, at least toward me. “If you put him back on the line, I’ll tell him to stay out of your way.”

  “Did you call your wife?”

  Another pause. “We’ll discuss that when you get here.”

  I handed the phone back to Five-by-Five. He returned to the hall. When I finished, he was waiting by the front door, slit-eyes narrower than before, pulled-back lips curled in a sneer. The odds on bonding didn’t look good.

  Neither of us said anything as he locked up and we rode the elevator to the lobby. Outside, he didn’t offer me a lift. He lighted a cigarette and blew smoke in my direction.

  “We had a fookin’ snoop in the village I come from. One day he woke up with his balls in the blender—while they was still attached.”

  “Hammett was right.”

  He looked me up and down. “What the fook does that mean, snoop? Who’s Hammett?”

  “‘The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.’”

  He looked me up and down again. “Who you callin’ crook? Who’s this fookin’ Hammett?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  He looked me over one more time, blew more smoke, and dropped the butt at my feet. He climbed into the limousine and pulled away. I exhaled slowly when the car turned into Seventy-first Street. I checked the office for messages. Nothing. As I put away the phone, the Maybach swung back into the driveway from Seventieth Street and drove slowly past. Five-by-Five watched me through the open window. Time to go. The poststorm heat was suffocating. Despite that, I shivered and headed back to Sixty-eighth Street.

  * * *

  She called as I walked through the cool corridors under Rockefeller Center after another slow subway ride across town. The subterranean halls always seem like they belong in some other city, not New York, where life is on the street—four seasons a year—today, however, they were full of commuters, tourists, and others just escaping the heat. Where had she got my number? I was going to have to talk to Bernie.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said.

  “Following your husband’s instructions, for the moment. I haven’t told him about you yet. Have you informed him about me?”

  “I told him I don’t want you anywhere near my family. I’m telling you the same thing. Stay the fuck away from me. Stay away from Eva. Stay away from him. You’ve done enough damage.”

  I’d done damage? I almost told her all the things Ratko had phished off her computer, but there would be a more productive time for that. Instead, I said, “I got Eva out of a nasty situation last night. I could have handed her over to the police. I could have left her for Lachko to find. I’d accept a thank-you, but I’m unlikely to get one. Your husband called me today, when she ran from the hospital. He asked me to find her. I’m on my way to see him now. I’ll just pick up my fee and tell him you said beat it, if that’s what you want. Have a nice day.”

  “Wait! How bad?”

  “How bad what?”

  “How bad a situation—where you found Eva.”

  “I’ve already told Bernie it’s best if I keep that to myself.”

  “Goddammit, Turbo—she’s my daughter.”

  “That might have meant something, once.”

  “Bastard. Liar.”

  “I’m not the one pretending to be someone she isn’t.”

  “Hah! You—the biggest deceiver of all.”

  We’d had this argument many times before—at higher decibel levels and with more vitriol. Try as I might, I couldn’t refute the accuracy of what she said. Still, I made my usual lame attempt.

  “My passport was clean. You know that.”

  “You got the aparat to say that. You got the aparat to say you had no past. You were a zek, Turbo. A lying zek. You always will be. How bad, dammit?”

  “Bad as could be. Drugs, gun, corpse. Glad you asked?”

  “The doctors said Rohypnol.”

  “They didn’t know about the gun. Or the corpse.”

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m telling you straight. I took care of them. You despise me. I understand that. But I don’t necessarily live down to your expectations.”

  Silence. “Turbo, I…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been upset. It’s been a hard few weeks. I appreciate what you’ve done. It’s just…” Her voice was wound tighter than a bale of tin wire—she was trying hard. I should’ve given her credit, but old wounds, cut deep, still bleed.

  “I’m still a lying zek.”

  “FUCK YOU! Get the fuck out of my life!”

  “Tell me something first. Eva left a note in her apartment. ‘You should have left me with Lena.’”

  A long pause. “What?”

  “‘You should have left me with Lena.’ No salutation, no signature. Woman’s handwriting. I assume hers.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  I waited.

  “I don’t.”

  I almost believed her the first time. “I have to assume she left it for you. Maybe Mulholland will have an idea.”

  “No! I mean, I’m sure he won’t.”

  “Eva ever mention someone named Rad Rislyakov, possibly Ratko Risly?”

  Even on a cell phone, I could sense her tightening, ever so slightly. She didn’t recognize Rislyakov’s name, but she sensed danger.

  “No. Who’s he?”

  “Friend, perhaps. Lover, maybe. Pusher, I’m not sure. I do know he’s the man blackmailing you.”

  She took her time processing that. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”

  “There’s not much you don’t follow, Polya. Never has been.”

  “I go by Felix now.”

  “What’s Rislyakov have on you, other than the fact that you didn’t always go by Felix?”

  Silence.

  “He works for Lachko, Polya.”

  “SHIT! JESUS! WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU—”

  “I’ll call back.”

  I broke the connection. The phone buzzed as she tried calling me. I shut off the power. I shouldn’t have taken any pleasure, leaving her to stew in fear, but victories over Polina have been few and deserve some modicum of savoring.<
br />
  * * *

  FirstTrustBank’s logo, a three-dimensional, intertwined FTB, spun slowly on a granite pedestal outside its shiny, boring building on Sixth Avenue. The lobby was white and gray marble, and the best thing you could say about it was it was well air-conditioned.

  I announced my destination to the guard, who looked me over, looked me over again, and called upstairs. He probably didn’t think I was properly dressed for a meeting with the CEO. After a short wait, I was given a sticker for my jacket and told to wear it as long as I was in the building. I took a fast elevator to the fortieth floor, which was labeled, helpfully, EXECUTIVE OFFICES. The two floors above were marked EXECUTIVE DINING AND FITNESS and LIMERICK CLUB.

  An attractive woman of a certain age in a tight red dress met me at the elevator, introduced herself as Maude Connolly, and led me through the wide, hushed corridors. I alternated between admiring the machinery of her hips and reflecting on the silence of what was billed as a working office for a bank at risk of failure. Felt more like a mausoleum—maybe appropriate. At the end of the hall were a pair of glass doors with OFFICE OF THE CHAIRMAN stenciled on one. Maude Connolly put a plastic security card against a reader on the wall, which generated an electronic click. With a flick of the gluteus maximus, she pushed open the door and admitted me to the inner sanctum.

  A large reception room with a seating area furnished by Mies and Breuer, several secretaries’ desks occupied by several secretaries, and a half-dozen doors, all open, leading presumably to executives’ offices. Still no noise. Five-by-Five leaned back on a white Barcelona chair, looking like a slug on a tablecloth. Maude Connolly paused, eying him with distaste.

  I said, “You could’ve offered me a lift.”

  Five-by-Five hauled himself out of the deep, low seat. That took effort and exposed the gun in his armpit. A female friend once observed Barcelona chairs are like Ferraris—you don’t sit in either one unless you’re wearing pants.

  “I’ll be searchin’ you, snoop. Nobody sees the boss who ain’t clean.”

  Maybe it was the call from Polina, maybe it was Five-by-Five, or it could have been Mulholland himself, but I’d had enough of all of them. “No deal.”

  “Rules is rules.”

  I said to Maude Connolly, “Please tell Mr. Mulholland he can talk to me now, I can take his thug down, or I can just leave. He has thirty seconds.”

  She came back in twenty-seven, smiling. Five-by-Five glared at me the whole time but stayed by his chair.

  “This way, please,” she said. “Mr. Rory says everything’s fine, Lachlan.”

  Mr. Rory? I gave Five-by-Five a thumbs-up and followed her through the open door.

  The office was large and airy, with two walls of windows sporting views over the city to the north and west. One wall held bookshelves stuffed with good-citizen awards and Lucite-encased mementos. The fourth was covered with photographs of golf courses, mostly aerial views of individual holes. Mulholland was a golf nut—something else we lacked in common.

  He was seated in a group of upholstered chairs. “You took your time getting here.”

  “Perils of public transportation. And I had to stop to talk to your wife. What’d the market do today?”

  I don’t know whether it was the mention of Felix, a Marxist asking about the market, or the fact that the Dow had lost another four hundred points, but the question made his surly look more surly until he turned away. Maybe he didn’t like insolence that matched his own. I told myself to improve my mood and behavior, but I saw little reason to follow my instruction.

  “Sit down,” he snarled. He made a faint stab at courtesy. “Coffee, soda?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Lachlan says you found some kind of note.”

  “That’s right. ‘You should have left me with Lena.’ Your wife says she has no idea what that means. Do you?”

  “None,” he answered too quickly. “Did you find anything on her computer?”

  “Haven’t checked yet,” I said, which was half true. “Your wife pretty much told me not to bother. She’d prefer—make that, she insists—I stay away from all of you.”

  The snarl turned to a frown. “You said she called.”

  “Half an hour ago. I told her you asked me to help find Eva. She said cease and desist. Perhaps you two should talk.”

  The frown deepened. “She indicated you know each other.”

  “Another time, another place. We were two very different people.” I didn’t add that was literally true in her case. “Hardly seems relevant now. She can explain if she wants to. I’ll take payment for the kidnappers. You and she can decide what you want to do about Eva.”

  “Bernie said you dealt with them, but he wouldn’t say how. What happened?”

  “They were some unsavory guys, but fortunately for us, stupid unsavory guys. I took care of them. They won’t bother you again.”

  “You seem very confident.”

  “I guarantee it—or your money back.”

  “I’ll need an invoice.”

  “Of course,” I said. I picked up a pad of lined paper from the coffee table and wrote “Vlost and Found” at the top, “For services rendered … $700,000” underneath, and signed my name below that. I added my taxpayer ID number at the bottom. Whatever the system, the government wants its piece of the action.

  “This includes expenses. They ran high.”

  Mulholland looked at the page and frowned again. “This is somewhat unorthodox. I would assume that—”

  “I don’t use letterhead. Keeps costs down. And I don’t think a more detailed description of my services is in anyone’s interest.”

  Still frowning, he went to his desk and took out a big checkbook and a gold pen. He scribbled for a minute and returned holding a check for $700,000, drawn on his account at FTB. I didn’t ask about Bernie’s bankruptcy petition. I was tempted to inquire about the bank’s solvency but minded my admonition to behave. Still, I intended to make a deposit as soon as I got out of here.

  Mulholland was looking me over, trying to decide something. He stood behind his chair, his hands on the back. He dropped his eyes to the floor and brought them back up to meet mine. “Eva was part of the so-called kidnapping, wasn’t she?”

  He wasn’t as obtuse as I gave him credit for. Yet he didn’t know the half of it—and I didn’t want to be the one to tell him. “She could have been. She’s been hanging out with some bad people, criminal people.”

  He nodded, as if I’d confirmed his hypothesis. “She’s always been a troubled child.” He sat in his chair, and the frown began to ease. After a minute or two, he just looked glum. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Mr. Vlost?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion. Bernie speaks highly, and I‘ve never found reason to fault his judgment.”

  “A good nonanswer. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve spent much of the last few days staring into an abyss. My business, family … I learned years ago you can only fight so many fights at one time. You have to prioritize or be overwhelmed. You have to know when to ask for help.”

  He stopped long enough to take a breath and collect his thoughts. This couldn’t be easy. He’d probably never asked for help in his life.

  “I have to attend to my legal problems. I haven’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean I can be lax in my own defense. I have to save my bank. I owe it to our depositors and shareholders. That leaves Eva, where, I’ll be honest, I’m at a loss about what to do.”

  He put his head in his hands.

  “That fight Eva had with her mother the last time we saw her, the one I mentioned when we met before,” he said, looking at the floor. “I heard things no one should ever say to someone else, especially family.” He freed his head and looked up. “Maybe that’s what some families are all about. I’m not sure I’d know.”

  “What did they fight about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “What didn’t they fight about? Life, each oth
er, me, the past, the future … No perceived sin or offense omitted.”

  Sounded like Polina. “This a common occurrence?”

  “I’ve witnessed three or four. There may have been others. What they lack in frequency they more than make up for in intensity.”

  “What set this one off?”

  “You know, I’m not really sure. Some little thing. You don’t see it coming. Then, all of a sudden, it’s like each of them puts a match to her own gas can of resentment and anger, and … boom!”

  He shook his head and put it back in his hands.

  “Are you sure you don’t know what Eva meant by that note?”

  He looked up. The black eyes had lost their hardness. They were needy, almost desperate. “She said it that Sunday, the same thing. ‘You should have left me with Lena.’ Screamed it at Felix, right before she ran out.”

  “But you don’t know who this Lena is?”

  He shook his head again. “Eva had some major trauma in her childhood—the full extent of which I do not know. Lena’s part of that, I think. She had no father until I attempted to fill the role. Her mother has—how shall I put this?—cared too much and tried too hard to overcome the other issues.”

  Mulholland kept his voice low and even. “Eva believes—believes very firmly—that she herself is responsible for much of the misfortune that has befallen her. I also believe she feels guilt for her mother, for reasons I don’t know. It’s clear this guilt eats away at her, that it’s responsible for her lack of self-esteem, her erratic behavior, her drug use, her animosity toward us. Even her stutter. I’m very afraid of what she might try to do. I appreciate your not wanting to get between Felix and me. I’ll talk to my wife. Right now, though, I need to know we are doing whatever we can to help Eva. So I’m asking you to find her. If it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay whatever you ask. Will you help me?”

  I couldn’t picture the man I’d met last week saying what he’d just said. Perhaps looking into the abyss does change a person.

  “I’ll do what I can. But even if I find her, I can’t guarantee she won’t take off again.”