Red Shirt

by A. J. Stewart

  “What did he look like?”

  “Who? The Russian?”

  I was going to correct him on the Russian thing but it felt like a waste of breath. “Yes,” I said.

  “He was a big guy. Not tall but big. Fat, I suppose. Thicker than he was high.”

  The round guy from Nurlan’s warehouse.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Two men, I think. One that pulled me into the car and one that was driving.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Brett said. “You think it’s okay? This is your fault. You brought that Italian into this, and now they want to kill me.”

  “Brett, let’s be very clear now. I am not responsible for your current predicament. You signed up for this when you tried to pull a Ponzi scheme on a mobster. You got that? They were going to come for you soon enough. So let’s stop with the deflecting of blame onto everyone around you. This is all on you. All of it. And you are not going to get past this until you suck it up and admit that to yourself.”

  He pulled his head in the way a turtle does when under attack. I wasn’t feeling much contrition in him. I thought he needed another good slap but I didn’t give it to him because deep down, I knew some of what he said was true. I had gotten Sally involved, and his involvement had complicated things. But complicating was not the same as causing, so I wasn’t letting Brett off the hook completely.

  “What do we do?” asked Ellen.

  As she spoke, Brett’s phone rang. He didn’t immediately seem to hear it, or he was trying to ignore it, but we both stared at him, making it hard to ignore.

  “Answer it,” said Ellen. “It might be about a job.”

  Brett answered. He looked at the number and then shook his head like he wanted to smash the phone, but then resigned himself and put it to his ear.

  “Pickering,” he said.

  He listened for a moment.

  “Yes, Mr. Kalajian. Of course, it’s secure. I’m working on it right now. No, that won’t be necessary. Listen, Mr. Kalajian, I’m in a meeting about the project right now. I’ll need to call you back. Good day.” He killed the call before whoever was on the line was able to get another word in.

  “Who was that?”

  “He’s a Russian investor.”

  “Another Russian? What is it with you and Russians? Are you sure he’s Russian? Kalajian doesn’t sound all that Russian.”

  “Whatever,” said Brett.

  “Is he a debt on your books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he actually on the books or off them?”

  “On.”

  “And why is he calling now?”

  “He says he’s heard some troubling things. He wants to pull his money out.”

  “He’ll be the first of many. We have to move fast.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Ellen.

  “You keep doing what you’re doing. Liquidate. You’re going to need every penny you can raise.”

  “What about Brett?”

  I glanced at him. He was pale and sweating. He looked like he had the plague.

  “Keep making calls about work. The sooner you get a job, the better.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “I’m going to get a final number, so we know exactly what we’re dealing with. Then I’m going to try and solve our little Italian problem.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I found Sally putting files away into the broken filing cabinet in Brett Pickering’s office. He was quite the enigma. He was the one who had broken the cabinet open in the first place, and it would never cross his mind to either fix it or replace it. His position was simply that the man should have done the right thing and let him into it when he had his chance. But then he had removed all the files, gone through them methodically and written down all the things worth recording on his ledger. It would never occur to him to not put those files away where he found them once he was done. Like I say, an enigma.

  There was only one town car in the parking lot and it belonged to Sally. The kid was sitting in the driver’s seat reading a thick book that might have been a textbook. I was not surprised that the other town car with the two guys in it was nowhere to be seen.

  Sally finished packing up the files and I took a seat in the office and waited. I looked out the window at the water in Greenwich Harbor. It was a patchwork of blues and grays as the clouds filtered the light above. When Sally was done he spoke.

  “So?”

  “Nurlan’s man had a little chat with Brett in the back of a town car.”

  “Okay.”

  “He told Brett to get rid of the Italians.”

  “Get rid of?”

  “From the deal. I don’t think he was suggesting physical harm.”

  “So he’s convinced we’re in on it.”

  “It would seem. How do the numbers look?”

  “Not good, but they could be worse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if they sell the house and the contents and liquidate the business and their personal cash, they’ll still be short about a half million.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. And that’s assuming my estimates on the value of the house and contents are accurate.”

  “Are they accurate?”

  “Of course, but there’s no telling what the market might be like on any given day, and we are literally talking about any given day.”

  “What do you think we should do about the threat against Brett?”

  “I’ve got an idea or two. What are you doing now?”

  “I’m at a loose end, to be honest.”

  “All right. Come ride with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Sally smiled his nicotine grin. “Lunch.”

  We got in the back of the town car and headed south, back across the state line into New York. The driver cut down through the Bronx, but when I expected him to jink right toward the zoo, he jagged left and headed for the shoreline. We weaved around the Split Rock Golf Course and down into Pelham Bay Park.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I told you. Lunch.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Sal, I’d say this is where the bodies get dumped.”

  “Don’t let anyone around here hear you say that.”

  We crossed onto City Island. I had never been there, and by the looks of it, neither had many other people. Like many parts of New York it had a baked-in, hard scrabble quality about it. Pavements were cracked and thick tangles of power lines dominated the view. We kept driving straight past storefronts that might have been closed for the season or might have just been closed down, until in typical New York City fashion, everything changed within a couple blocks.

  The storefronts suddenly appeared open, and were fronted by planters of flowers that were hardier than they looked. There were people walking along the streets holding the kinds of paper coffee cups that suggest more money than sense. There was an art gallery, and an ice cream stand that doubled as a coffee shop, and some twee and inviting looking restaurants. I felt like I had just been transported onto Martha’s Vineyard.

  The kid pulled into a side street and then headed all the way to the end. I could see the water ahead, and increasingly large family homes as we moved under a canopy of autumnal colors. The town car reached a concrete barrier that declared that the beach ahead was private, and then he turned through some wrought iron gates into a short driveway.

  The house looked like one of those buildings in New York that had all been single family homes a hundred years ago, but now often contained anywhere from three to six apartments that each rented for a King’s ransom. Not this one.

  There was a garage door under the house, and next to it a set of steps that led up to the first floor above the garage. We stepped out of the car and Sal took in a big deep breath of air, which smelled of that mix of brine and heating oil that New Yorkers seem to love so much, and then he began the shuffle up the stairs.
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br />   We reached the top, but he didn’t put his hand on the door or move to press a doorbell. The door just opened, and he stepped inside. I followed and found a tall dark-haired guy holding the door open as if we had just entered the Waldorf Astoria. The guy closed the door and then took Sal’s coat, and his scarf and his hat and gloves, and once again I was reminded of how much accoutrement was required when one lived in a colder climate. The guy then took my jacket, which wasn’t really mine at all. I had no further accoutrement, so he stepped away to a closet and Sal led me from the entry room into a large living area. There were floor-to-ceiling windows that appeared to be triple glazed, and the view was something else. The water glistened silver, and small white caps were starting to get their rhythm together. I didn’t get to take much more in, because the sound that crackled across the room was like a whip.

  “Salvatore!” screamed a woman.

  I turned to see the rest of the room was full of people, all of whom clearly shared some kind of lineage. They were all dark-haired and heavy-set, average to below-average height. They all appeared to be dressed as if getting ready for church, fine dresses and sharp shirts and trousers.

  The woman who had screamed at Sal was an older woman but certainly no older than Sal—although I had to admit I had no idea how old Sal was. He was old when I met him and I had the sense then, as I did now, that he had been old even when he was young. The woman was large and her dress was black, but the pearls around her thick neck were white. She opened her arms and charged toward us with an energy that belied her years.

  “Salvatore!” she yelled again, drawing every eye in the room, first to her, then to Sal, and then, inevitably, to me.

  Sally stepped into the woman’s embrace and they hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks, and then the woman pulled back and appraised Sal the way older women do.

  “Grazie per essere venuto,” she said.

  “Ovviamente,” he replied.

  Then the woman cast her eye on me. Sal turned to introduce me.

  “Anna, this is Miami, a very dear friend from Florida. Miami, this is my sister, Anna.”

  I made to shake her hand and ended up in an embrace that would not have been out of line in a wrestling match.

  “So handsome,” she said. “Welcome to our home, Miami.”

  “Ma’am,” I said. “It’s an honor to be here.”

  What happened then was like the receiving line at a wedding. Everyone in the room got in a queue, apparently in some kind of pecking order that was known to everyone but me, and they were each introduced. I’ve never hugged so many women or kissed so many men. Some of the guys really could have done with a shave, and my cheeks felt the burn by the time we were done.

  But when I was done, I wasn’t really done. It was like the credits in a movie, where the headline actor gets first billing all by themselves, and then the second actor’s name comes up, and then eventually the lesser known actors come up two or three at a time, and you think it’s all done, but then the actor’s actor, the most important person—often some ancient fossil who had their heyday half a century ago and is now considered a national treasure—comes right at the end, last of all, with the word and before their name, to show how vitally important they are. It was like that. Just when I was done, I got led out onto the balcony.

  Three men sat out there. Two of them were younger, maybe late twenties. The third was about my age. Not old, but not young. He was sitting in a rocking chair that reminded me of a Cracker Barrel Country Store in Florida, and he had a blanket over his knees to ward off the cold wind coming in off the water.

  Sal introduced me to the two younger guys who stood and shook hands, and I instantly forgot their names. Then he paused before the third man in the chair. He didn’t get up, he just put out his hand and for a moment I thought Sally was going to kiss it like the guy was the Pope. Instead he shook it and sort of bowed, and then he stood aside.

  “Don Mondavi,” said Sal, “this is my friend, Miami Jones.”

  The guy put his hand out to me but made no move to stand. I had to bend down to shake his hand, and I wondered if the entire thing was some kind of power play. I took his hand and shook it. He was freshly shaven and his thick black hair was swept back. He was in shape, and his cheeks were chiseled like the side of El Capitan in Yosemite. The thing I noticed most about him, though, was his eye lashes, which were uncommonly long.

  “Mr. Jones,” he said, enunciating each word. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Salvatore speaks very highly of you.”

  “The pleasure’s mine,” I said, although I had never heard Sally mention this guy, ever. He offered me a seat and I hesitated because the same seat had just been occupied by one of the two other men, but when I looked at him he had already assumed a position against the railing on the balcony. I sat and waited for Sal to do the same.

  “I apologize for not standing,” said Don Mondavi. “I recently had knee surgery. A tennis injury.” He smiled like it was a silly way for a man to get hurt, so I nodded.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  “Tennis? Occasionally.”

  “I suppose in Florida there are more water-based pastimes.”

  “I like to run on the beach,” I said.

  “Perhaps I’ll stick to walking,” he said.

  I nodded again. I didn’t really know who this guy was, or what to say to him, so I let him lead the conversation.

  “How does the view compare with Florida?” he asked.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the water. “A little chillier, but it sure is a great spot you have here. There’s more to look at. Most views in Florida are of water and more water. Here there’s more to see. Is that Queens over there?”

  “It is. We overlook Eastchester Bay here, toward the Bronx. And to our left, separating us from Queens, is the westernmost point of Long Island Sound. And you see that rocky outcrop just on the waterline out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s called Big Tom. It’s only visible during low tide, and it’s the only navigation hazard in Eastchester Bay.”

  “It’s a wonderful place,” I said. “I can see why you’re out here.”

  “I like the cold,” he said. “It’s reminds me I’m alive, but that I won’t be forever.”

  I nodded but had nothing to add to that.

  “Sal tells me you are from this area.”

  “Connecticut.”

  “So you know.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I’m glad you could join us for lunch.”

  “I hope I’m not intruding. It looks like a family thing.”

  “Not at all. A friend of Salvatore’s is always welcome. Besides, it’s just lunch, it’s not Thanksgiving or anything.”

  It looked like Thanksgiving, with everyone so well dressed. I usually wore shorts to Thanksgiving lunch in Florida.

  “Before we eat, Sal mentioned some trouble you have had.”

  “Trouble?”

  “In Connecticut.”

  “Oh, right. The Kazakh thing.”

  Don Mondavi nodded slowly. “The Kazakh thing.”

  “It’s a misunderstanding. I’m helping a friend who invested his retirement savings, and the Kazakhs are under the impression that the man behind the investment will help them expand their territory.”

  “Expand their territory?” Don Mondavi flashed a look at Sal.

  “Into Boston,” said Sal.

  “Right,” I said. “Into Boston.”

  “And this man, this investor, he can do that?”

  “No, that’s the problem. He can’t. His investment portfolio isn’t real. He has nothing in Boston.”

  “And you have told the Kazakhs this?”

  “They didn’t buy it.”

  “They didn’t,” said Don Mondavi, readjusting the blanket on his legs. It gave him the effect of looking thirty years older than he was, and it made me recall how I thought of Sal as being old when he was young.

  “I made a miscalculat
ion,” said Sal.

  Don Mondavi looked at him. His eyes were dark and penetrating. “Go on.”

  “I thought that the debt could be bought. I made an offer.”

  “But it was not accepted.”

  “No.”

  “Because the Kazakh wants to expand his territory more than he wants the money back.”

  “Yes. But it’s more than that. He knew who I was. He connected dots that aren’t there and now believes that the family wants in on this Boston action.”

  “He believes that we want to expand our territory into Boston?”

  “Yes,” said Sal.

  “The Irish will not be happy to hear this.”

  “No.”

  “So we must not be anywhere near it.”

  “I understand.”

  “You must wash your hands of this, Sal.”

  “Of course.”

  Don Mondavi turned to me. “I am sorry, Mr. Jones. Salvatore’s miscalculation has put you and your friend in a difficult position. But we can have no part of this. This battle is not our battle.”

  “I know, sir,” I said.

  “If the investment is bad, if your investor has no connections in Boston, this will be revealed to the Kazakhs in short order. They will see that we are not involved. I know this is of no comfort to your friend, but I am afraid I am not responsible for this man. He must tend his own field.”

  I wondered for a second whether guys in these positions spoke like that naturally or if there was a book of quotes they shared around. It was like talking to a poet, or a knight. But either way, it meant I was going to have to find a solution to Brett Pickering’s dilemma all on my own.

  Sal stood, so I followed, and we thanked Don Mondavi for his time, and we left him outside in the cold. I was handed a glass of red wine by a young girl who had Sal’s eyes, and then I was directed to a large dining table, where lunch was served.

  It was a loud and enjoyable meal. There were enough carbohydrates to feed a small island nation. Pasta of every variety I knew and some I didn’t, loaves of bread and focaccia. After I was full I was offered baked chicken and vegetables, and then after that cannolis and cake. I longed for a pair of those trousers with the elastic waistband that seemed so popular in Florida.