by David Duffy
No point in arguing. I nodded assent.
“Good. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you always seem to be. This is from Vasily.”
Sergei hit me once more, this time in the gut. I collapsed to my knees, heaving, then vomited, finally, without control. I couldn’t breathe—but I could puke. Sometime during my seizure, Lachko left. Sergei waited until I was heaving dry, then grabbed the collar of my coat and dragged me down the hall and the stairs out into the courtyard. He and another guy dumped me into the open trunk of a car.
I hit my head and passed out again.
CHAPTER 27
I’ll never know how I got home.
I came to next to some trash cans, reeking of vomit. The thick night air held the stench. That made me want to throw up again, but there was nothing left. I managed to sit up and, after a while, take off my jacket and pull off my sticky, stinking T-shirt. I threw it as far as I could. I rolled on the grass like a wounded animal—precisely what I was. That helped, at least with the smell.
I was lying in a block of neat brick houses. A few lights. Parked cars, both sides of the street. I pulled my jacket back on and tried standing. To my surprise, I could. More lights a hundred yards behind me, so I stumbled that way. I came to a wide boulevard. The sign above me read OCEAN AVENUE. The other read AVENUE K. I had the vague notion that a subway line ran under Ocean Avenue, so I turned right and stumbled in the direction of Manhattan. I came to a station after a long block. I still had my wallet and my MetroCard.
One of the great features of the New York subway, unlike the Moscow Metro or just about any other system—it runs all night. The city that never sleeps. Get beat up and still get home, whatever the hour. The platform was empty, good thing for me. A train came, and I fell into the car. I had to change at Atlantic Avenue, where I figured I’d certainly be stopped by the cops, but another thing about New York, whatever the hour—if you’re moving under your own steam, however erratically, however smelly, and you don’t look like a Middle Eastern terrorist, everyone, including the police, leaves you alone. I caught a 3 train to Wall Street and had just enough strength to stagger the last few blocks to my building.
Lots of things I should have done. Check messages. Call Victoria. Go to the emergency room. No strength for any of that. I managed to strip and park myself under the shower, sitting on the tile floor, rubbing my skin with soap when I worked up enough strength to do so. After a while I stopped stinking. Toothpaste and mouthwash got the bile out of my mouth. I fell onto my bed and passed out one more time before I was fully horizontal.
* * *
The phone pulled me from a netherworld of vixens and violence. Victoria and Polina cavorted half-clothed and just out of reach as Lachko and Vasily chased me with clubs. Iakov floated above it all, thin and ghostly, laughing. I was the one in the wheelchair, in Lachko’s replica palace, looking for something I wanted to steal, floating somehow from room to room, the women staying just ahead, the men behind but sometimes getting close enough to hit me or the chair, either one sending a jolt of pain through my body.
The phone was still ringing when I regained enough consciousness to realize where I was. I reached for it and froze as the agony shot through every muscle. My eyes watered and everything started to sweat. The events of last night came into hazy focus. The phone stopped, then started again. Ever so slowly, all the nerve endings screeching, I rolled toward the sound, grasping for the receiver. I couldn’t get there.
The ringing stopped. The silence felt good—as did the need not to move. I drifted off into another netherworld, this one an amalgam of Moscow Metro stations, all empty, devoid of life, no trains, no people, just Stalin’s silent sculptures honoring the peasants, the soldiers, and the proletariat. The phone pulled me out of that world, too.
I looked at the blurred black object and imagined it was Victoria. She purred over my pain and offered to come right over and soothe my wounds. I floated in the luxury of that until the ringing stopped again.
* * *
I awoke, on my own this time, at 10:30 P.M. I was thirsty and hungry and could move a little if I did so slowly. I turned on the light and made it to the bathroom to survey the damage, but one glance in the mirror told me I’d be better off waiting. Getting to the kitchen took time. Anything more than a step or two required support. My reward when I made it was a glass of chilled vodka, which burned beautifully on the way down and washed around my empty, bruised stomach like liquid fire. I took another swallow, and the alcohol began to prevail on the nerve endings to calm down. A third swallow, and I was able to make some toast. Not good to drink on an empty stomach. I sipped more vodka and felt moderately better until I stood and the room spun and the sweat returned. Not ready for prime time. Not ready for anything.
I left everything where it was and weaved back to the bedroom, thankful for the numbing effect of the vodka even if it complicated trying to walk. I found the bed and rolled back in, wondering what netherworld I would encounter on this visit and if it could be any worse than the one I was in.
* * *
I emerged from the next netherworld at noon on Sunday. A prison this time—an underground labyrinth of rusty iron doors set in damp stone walls. The jailer was Ratko Risly. He led me down long halls, skipping from side to side to dodge the streams of dirty water dripping from the ceiling. Seemingly leading the way, or perhaps just along for the tour, far ahead of us and almost out of sight, was Eva Mulholland. Voices called from behind the doors, pleading. I recognized them from my childhood. I tried to answer, but I couldn’t speak. Ratko carried a big ring of old-fashioned keys that jingled as we walked. I wanted to ask him where we were going, but no words came. I had the idea that until they did, we’d keep walking, perhaps forever. This maze had no center, no destination.
After a time, I realized I was in my own bed, surrounded by Sheetrock and sunlight. Was Ratko sending me a message from the underworld? What was he trying to say? The fact that I was thinking presaged a return to normalcy, or so I assumed until I tried to move. The pain was now a perpetual ache rather than searing jabs, a big improvement, but pain, like everything else, is relative. I made it to the bathroom, no stopping for support, took a deep breath, and looked in the mirror. A victim of serial train wrecks stared back. My face looked like Quasimodo—after fifteen rounds with Joe Frazier. Black eye, blue cheek, yellow nose, yellow neck, puffed purplish lips. A carpet of dried blood over my left eye. Probably should have had stitches. The colors would ripen more before they started to fade. My body was a mass of yellow-blue-purple skin, darkest where Sergei had hit me, but discolored and tender to the touch everywhere. I should have been lying in a tub full of ice, a prospect painful just to think about. Yesterday was a blur, and Friday night seemed like the distant past, but not so far distant that it wasn’t real. I’d lost twenty-four hours plus to unconsciousness.
First things first. Terror and the need to know equally balanced. I found the paper with Petrovin’s number. I hobbled back to the phone, punched in the digits, and got voice mail.
“Turbo. Something I need to know. Call anytime.”
I made it back to the kitchen. The dishes were where I had left them, as was the vodka bottle. Too early for a drink—medicinal? I put the bottle back in the freezer. The answering machine blinked. Four messages. I hit PLAY.
Three from Victoria, early and less early Saturday morning, then one later in the day. The essence was the same, panic level rising. Wishful thinking?
“Turbo, are you there? What the hell was that all about? You okay? Call me.”
“Turbo, where are you? Call me, dammit.”
“Turbo, if you don’t call me, I’m goin’ back to Brighton Beach with a legion of FBI. Call me.”
The last message was Foos, Saturday night.
“That attorney dame called here looking for you. Sounded worried. Thought you’d want to know.” Typical Foos—note the concern, pass along the message, but think to do something about it? That was one connection his circu
itry didn’t make.
Maybe it wasn’t too early. I retrieved the vodka from the freezer and poured two fingers. Lukewarm still, but the fire felt good.
I tried to bring Friday night back into focus. Lachko must’ve worked his way through the list of New York hospitals until he found Eva. He sent his men to get her, but somehow she escaped. Having found her, it was a short step to Polina.
The beating Friday night wasn’t about them though. He told me to stay away—sure—but that was hatred talking, his perpetual knee-jerk response to me and my past. He didn’t care about them—he as much as admitted he had written Polina off in 1999 back in Moscow—but she was still terrified of him. Why? Lachko cared about his laundry. He was convinced I had the missing piece. That was what the beating was about. Or was it? Iakov’s lesson about a million shades of gray floated into my consciousness.
The last time I made a list of things that didn’t make sense, it had led me back to Greene Street and eventually to getting thumped within an inch of my life. That had been a mental list. This time, I’d be smarter—I’d write the list down so I didn’t make another stupid mistake. I got some paper.
1. Lachko didn’t have the T.J. Maxx database. Who removed it—Ratko?
2. Neither Lachko nor Iakov had known about Polina/Felix, but Ratko did. He also knew to phish the Mulhollands four months ago.
3. Ratko dropped out of sight around that time.
4. Ratko needed money.
5. Iakov said Kosokov stole from his bank. Lachko said Kosokov was too incompetent to steal.
6. Iakov came to New York to see Ratko—without telling Lachko.
7. Ratko had just been in Moscow.
8. Eva Mulholland was terrified of her father and grandfather.
9. Polina wouldn’t/couldn’t tell Mulholland about being blackmailed.
10. Polina wouldn’t/couldn’t tell me about Ratko.
A neat list of ten facts. I drew a line under the bottom and tried to add them up. That didn’t work, so I poured another drink. Less burn this time. Something else was bothering me—something that needed to be added. I couldn’t quite grab it. The vodka wasn’t helping.
Petrovin hadn’t called back. How long had it been? I called again. No answer.
I reread the list, considered eating something, and drank some more vodka instead. I thought about calling Victoria.
The glass was empty. I refilled it, staring at the page, waiting for things to clarify. They didn’t. Eventually I decided to try getting dressed. The room spun when I stood. I waited, and the spinning slowed. I could make it to the bedroom. Wrong. Three steps, and dizziness swept down my body, starting at the top. I remember the nausea and hitting my face on the corner of the coffee table as I fell, the same side Sergei worked over. I don’t remember throwing up again or passing out on the rug.
That’s where they said they found me.
CHAPTER 28
Americans put a high value on efficiency, and the medical industry, with dubious justification, prides itself on leading the way.
The first thing the youngish lady doctor said was “You’ve been thoroughly examined and treated. Two cracked ribs, concussion, six stitches on your face, twelve more along the jaw. Various contusions and lacerations. You can go home as soon as you feel ready.”
To that I could add a nasty hangover that was fighting a war of supremacy with some powerful painkillers. Hard to tell which was winning. I wasn’t even in a position to process her diagnosis.
I lay in a curtained-off space in a room that smelled like a hospital. Noises all around, bad sounds. People in pain, groans, cries, the occasional scream. I felt just like they did. The lady doctor asked how I’d acquired my injuries. I told her I’d fallen, twice. She asked how much I drank on a regular basis. I shrugged and replied not too much, for a Russian. She looked skeptical and repeated I could go home anytime. I think she was using the word “could” in the sense of “free to” rather than “able to,” because I could barely move. My left side felt paralyzed. My head pounded as the battle raged. The rest of me just ached, until I tried to reposition something—then whatever it was shrieked with pain. On the other hand, I had no desire to stay here any longer than necessary, so I gave her my best smile and hoped she’d go away so I’d have time to think.
She did. Not long after, the curtain parted, and Foos and Victoria stared at me with a mixture of concern, annoyance, and—on Foos’s part—bemusement.
“You are some kind of mess,” Victoria said.
Foos held up a foam cup. “Coffee. They say it’s okay to drink if you feel like it.”
It took me a minute to grasp that they were there.
“What…”
“Don’t try to talk too much, sugar,” Victoria said. “Doctor says it’s bad for the stitches.”
Foos just grinned his lopsided grin and held out the cup. I took it, gingerly, after he peeled back the opening in the plastic top. The coffee was hot and tasted remarkably good.
“Where am I?”
“NYU Hospital,” Victoria said. “You remember the ambulance or the emergency room?”
I shook my head. The painkillers were winning the war, for now.
“You remember our date? You stood me up.”
I shook my head, more slowly this time.
“This morning, eight thirty, at your office. Identity theft tutorial.”
“What time…”
“Coming up on 4:00 P.M. Monday.”
Shit. I tried sitting up but didn’t get very far. I tried again with the same result. Sweat broke out on my forehead.
“You sure you’re up to this?” Foos said.
I had the hazy memory of a country song. A rabbit’s being chased by a dog, and the singer asks him if he’s going to make it. The rabbit states the obvious—“Got to.”
“Got to,” I said. There was a reason, too, if I could only remember what it was.
Aleksei. Petrovin.
“Phone,” I said to Foos.
He handed his over, and I called my machine. Sure enough, Petrovin had called back that morning. “I will be delighted to assist if I can. You can reach me at this number, as you know.” He didn’t leave the number, because I already had it. At my apartment.
I pushed my legs over the side of the bed and let gravity pull them toward the floor. The rest of me had no choice but to follow, although my ribs howled in protest. My entire upper body felt drenched. Foos no longer looked bemused, and Victoria looked frightened.
“I’m okay,” I lied. “Doctor said go home. Where are my clothes?”
“You weren’t wearing any when we found you. I brought these. You oughtta add some color to your wardrobe.” She put a shopping bag on the bed.
“You mean…”
“I’ve seen it all, shug. I’ll wait outside.”
It took time, sweat, and a lot of help from Foos to thread two legs into some trousers and two arms into a T-shirt. When Foos opened the curtains, Victoria was gone. I was happy to rest against the bed while we waited for her return. She came back scowling. “You’d think a goddamned hospital would have a goddamned wheelchair you could borrow.”
“Maybe you should launch an investigation into outpatient practices,” I said.
“Don’t think I ain’t gonna look into it. You sure you can make it?”
“Feel better already,” I lied again.
I took a step to prove it. Foos caught me before I fell.
“This is silly,” Victoria said.
“Let’s go,” I said to Foos. “I’ll explain later.”
Somehow they managed to carry me out of the hospital and pack me into a cab, Victoria issuing orders the entire way. The painkillers helped. Foos squeezed into the front, and Victoria sat beside me. The driver took off like the rabbit chased by the dog. I yelped when he hit the first bump, and Victoria shouted at him to slow down. He used his lack of English to ignore her. The name on his license was Slovakian. I said in his native tongue, “My friend here is with Immigr
ation. You don’t take it easy, I’ll make sure she has you on the first boat back to Bratislava.”
He dropped his speed by half. Victoria looked at me.
“What’d you tell him?”
“Used one of your lines. Slovaks scare easier than Russians.”
They got me upstairs to my apartment and tried to park me on the sofa, but I excused myself and hobbled to the bedroom to call Petrovin. This time he answered. I did my best to keep my voice low and level and pain-free.
“I need to track down a rumor. I’m told someone took a shot at CPS headquarters Saturday morning. The intended target was an officer named Tiron, Aleksei Tiron.”
A pause. “Why call me?”
“You’re CPS.”
“How—”
“Your cell phone. Calls to your office. Here in America, the land of the free can be an overstatement.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. You have access to some significant capabilities.”
“Will you check on Tiron?”
Another pause. “I know Tiron. I’m sure I would’ve heard if something happened to him.”
“That’s a relief. I’d still like to confirm he’s okay. I’d also appreciate knowing whether there was a shooting or the whole story is somebody’s idea of a bad joke.”
“A strange request, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I’ll explain when I see you next. It has to do with our friend Barsukov.”
“I see. How do you know Tiron? Shall I give him a message?”
“He’s … the son of a friend. No message.”
Victoria was on the sofa, and Foos was in the kitchen. The culprit vodka bottle was standing on the counter amid the dirty dishes. I swore I would lay off the sauce for a while, but I knew I was lying as I did so. Foos held it in my direction. I shook my head. He put it in the freezer and moved the dishes to the sink. I sat next to Victoria. Petrovin’s news had alleviated the worst of the pain, but I still hurt all over.
Victoria said, “I feel terrible about Saturday night. I didn’t want to leave. That man, he practically carried me out of there.”