"So get a job, honey," Lucy said. 'If you want to suffer that way, too."
"I should. But I don't know how to do anything except ride and paint."
"Maybe you could do portraits of rich people on their horses." Rosa glowered at her. "Sorry, I don't mean to make light of—Hey, looks like we're going to Brooklyn." The cab maneuvered onto the Brooklyn Bridge, and they followed it across.
"Where the hell are we going, Lucy?" Rosa said after a moment, as they trailed the cab through the drizzly streets into the anonymous depths of Brooklyn.
"Good question, Rosie," Lucy said. "I don't have a clue—where we are or where we're going—but you're doing a great job of staying on her tail."
"Damn, it's Brighton Beach," Lucy said after a while spent trailing the cab through the soggy streets of Brooklyn. "Your pal Danny had it right. I should have known." On a block of businesses and restaurants with signs lettered in authentic or Anglicized Russian, they pulled over, double-parked a few cars behind the taxi, and watched Katya climb out. She dashed across the sidewalk and into a restaurant called The Little Neva. "OK, Rosita, here's the deal," Lucy said. "Take this camera in there, and—"
"Wait a minute, Lucy! I can't—I'm not—"
"She's seen me! She'll recognize me, Rosita. You have to do it. Just be sly, take a few pics—it’s digital, everything's automatic—of her, and whoever she sees."
"Jesus, Lucy, how can you expect me to—after Mexico—" The two of them and another friend had nearly drowned off the Yucatan coast the last time Lucy dragged her along on one of her adventures.
"Hey, at least you didn't marry that criminal," Lucy said.
"Don’t remind me," Rosa said, snatching the camera from her. "I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, hon. I'll fill your tank and buy you lunch, too, if you come up with anything."
Lucy waited with the radio on. They were playing Coltrane on the jazz station out of Newark. That ballad she loved so much, "Dear Lord." She wasn't religious, but whatever getting close to God was about, Coltrane had it figured out with this tune.
Rosa came out of the restaurant ten minutes later. She walked towards the car, her face solemn. Lucy slid over, unlocked the driver side door, and pushed it open. Rosa slipped in and sat, saying nothing. She closed the door and locked it. "Well?" Lucy said.
"Well what?"
"Well what happened? C'mon, Rosita."
She grinned. "I got her. It was great. I shot from behind a menu, and..."
"Whoa fuck, Rosa, let's get out of here," Lucy said. "Something's not right." Two men had hurried out of the restaurant looking in both directions. Rosa started the car, threw it into reverse, and backed up enough to pull out of the line of double-parked cars. One of the men spotted them, and charged towards the car. Rosa hit the pedal just as he reached them, and lunged. He slammed a fist down on the roof.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Rosa shouted, as they raced down the street. Lucy looked back and saw one man push the other's hand down, restraining him. The hand held a gun. "What the hell!"
"Someone didn't want their picture taken, I'd say," Lucy said. "You'd better step on it."
They ran three red lights, made a couple of sudden, random turns, and soon emerged on the Belt Parkway, Manhattan-bound. "Lucy, what if they got my license numbers? I'm screwed."
"You'll just have to change them if you're worried," Lucy said after a moment. "Re-register the car up at your parents or something. But I don't think those guys got it, to tell the truth. They were looking at you, not the car."
"Great," Rosa said. "Just great."
"So what was going on in there? Did you get some good shots?"
"Fuckin' A, Lucy, the things I do for you." She tossed the camera at Lucy. "Your blonde friend, in living color."
"Katya."
"Katya was sitting at a table with about seven guys with thick mustaches and belted leather jackets. The table was covered with big platters of food—meat, mostly—and bottles of vodka. They were shoveling it down, and drinking Stoly like water. Blabbing like maniacs in Russian—it sounded like Russian to me anyways—and talking to her like she was a pariah dog. She was begging. Pleading. She looked terrible. They were not giving a shit."
"You got their faces?" Lucy tapped the camera.
"A couple of them. The one that acted like the boss, yeah, I got him dead on. So who were they? Russian Mafia?"
"I guess. But what did she want from them? What is going on?" Lucy paused for a moment, thinking it over. "I think we should go back to the East Village."
"What for?"
"That first stop she made on Eighth Street. I want to check it out a little more."
This time they only had to wait fifteen minutes. A cab pulled up. Lo and behold, Katya, in dark sunglasses, got out and ran into the building. The cabbie drove off. They waited. Ten minutes later she came out, shades off, visibly relaxed, and strolled up the block towards them. "Get ready to dive for cover, honey," Lucy said, but at that moment a cab passed, and Katya hailed it and climbed in.
They followed her uptown. She exited the cab at the front door of Barney's. "Well, I am not going in there," Rosa said. "There's nowhere to park around here."
"I'm gonna stick with her a little while longer. I'll hoof it from here I guess."
"OK, Luce. But don't forget you owe me lunch and a tank of gas."
"You're a doll, Rosita. Thanks for everything." She jumped out and shut the door. Rosa drove off. Lucy put on her sunglasses and let the doorman usher her into Barney's.
The place swarmed with women shopping. Lucy moved to a railing and glanced down into the lower level dining room: the lunch zone looked lively, a high rent fish tank flush with throngs of self-important tropical Manhattan fish engaged in a restrained and elegant frenzy of upper class public consumption. One day soon she'd have to do lunch there, just to watch the shark dance. But not today. Lucy checked a few items out while following Katya around the store. There was a really great hat Lucy wanted, only it cost four hundred and seventy-five dollars. Katya bought some make-up, and a scarf, and then took the elevator up a level; she meandered from boutique to boutique, purchasing a dress, a skirt, and a couple of shirts. Her taste was rather gaudy, and invariably expensive: while Katya tried on shoes, Lucy did comparison pricing, and quickly calculated that the Russian babe had dropped over fifteen hundred dollars in half an hour in the store. There's no way Nova could make enough money reading the stars to keep her in daily fixes of these fancy goods. Had to be another source of income. Katya looked pleased, though, as she headed out with her shopping bags full of shiny new stuff. Having made no purchases herself, Lucy tailed Katya home on foot in the luminous clarity of a post-rain afternoon. After watching a couple of apparent clients enter and exit the building, Lucy approached one, a middle-aged fashion victim in a short black skirt, big black boots, black stockings patterned in fleur-de-lis, and a dark red cape. She looked like the kind of woman who would not miss Zane Smithson if he passed within half a mile of her. "Um, excuse me," she said. The woman jumped, startled.
"What do you want?"
"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I was just wondering if—" she showed her the photocopy of Zane Smithson—"you've ever seen this man."
The woman took it, and had a close look. "Yes, that's—" she looked slightly puzzled—"the actor on—what is it? As The World Turns? No. I know I saw him on something, but I can't remember."
"Are you sure you didn't see him here—there?" she looked up the block, towards Nova's building. "At Nova's?"
She didn't hesitate. "I've never seen him there. Hon, I'd remember if I had. But you know, I've never seen any men there. I think all Nova's clients are women." Her eyes went dreamy, a little lascivious. "He's that kind of man." She shifted gears abruptly, putting on her guard. "But why are you asking?"
"Oh, it's nothing. I'm looking for this guy is all." She walked away, and headed downtown on the eastside train. On an impulse, she jumped off at Astor Place instead of hea
ding home, and wandered east on St. Mark's Place, across Tompkins Square, and east of the park, back to the building which she'd already visited twice that day.
She lingered behind a parked car up at the corner for a little while, watching. A few respectable types came and went, middle class mamas, banker boys in expensive hip threads, clusters of laughing kids. But there was dealing as well. A number of young men, wary-looking in the low-life criminal style, popped in and out of the place. Among them two older white guys had stood out. In their forties, wearing leather jackets, wide, brightly colored ties, bellbottom corduroys, one with a big mustache, they'd arrived in a taxi and entered the building shortly after Lucy started watching. Now, twenty minutes later, they hadn't emerged.
"Looking for something, sister?" Lucy jumped. A skinny Hispanic guy in his twenties, in a peacoat and polyester pants and tennies, got in her face. Hands in his coat pockets. Curly hair, a scrawny mustache. Mild, unthreatening tone, tentative even, looking to make a sale.
"Yeah," Lucy said. 'I was interested in—hey, who are you?"
"This my spot, baby. You want something, you talk to me. The way you watching the building you police or you want something. But you no police," he said, looking her over with a grin, "so what you want?"
"What's the brand, man?"
"Blue Rose. Best on the block. Old school. Knock you on your ass."
"So I've heard. Can you get any blow?"
"Coke? I can get you coke. What you want, powder, crack..."
"Powder, and junk. Enough to, you know, make a speedball." Lucy hoped she sounded like she knew what she was talking about, because she didn't. "Hey, listen—"
"Pablo."
"Pablo. I'm looking for a way to get some—quantity for some uptown friends. Major quantity. Any way you might, you know, introduce me to the man?"
"Ten dollars I will take him this message, see what—"
"Ten bucks! What's my guarantee?"
"There is none, except that he likes to make money, and I like to make money."
She pulled out a ten and handed it to him. "I'll wait five minutes. If you're not back, I go elsewhere. And Pablo—I want to see the Russians."
"Russians? There are no Russians."
"Yes there are. Take them this and say I want to see them." She handed him one of the copies of the Zane Smithson photograph.
"What's this?"
"They will know." He ran off. She had nothing to link Smithson with these people, but sometimes you had to go on hunches. She felt one here. What did she have to lose? A good dope connection, which was not something she had much use for.
Two or three minutes later Pablo appeared at the top of the stairs by the front door, and waved at her to come over. She headed over and up the stairs. "Leonid will see you now," Pablo said, and led her in. A hallway on the left, stairs on the right. In dim light they went up one flight and then another, accompanied by the sounds of babies and radios drifting out of the apartments. Everything looked clean and newly-painted. On the third floor, down the hall, they approached a door that appeared heavier than the others. Or maybe it was the armed man outside, automatic pistol in his hand, that made it appear more solid. He moved aside, and Pablo rapped on the door three times. A slot opened. "Da?"
"Pablo. With the lady."
The slot closed and the door opened. Pablo started in, the gunman stuck his pistol across the portal, stopping Pablo. "Just the lady, Pablito," he said.
Pablo said, "Don't forget, baby, I bring you here," and left. Lucy went in alone, wondering what the hell she'd gotten herself in to this time.
She found herself in an entry hall, with doors opening off both sides. Ahead, she could hear singing. She went that way, the door swung open, and she walked into a 19th century parlor, complete with velvet sofas, Victorian draperies, and rich, Persian carpets. A rather heavy-handed opera she didn't know played in the background, and the two men she'd seen enter the building earlier now sat before her, in a pair of matched overstuffed armchairs with a table between them, calmly watching her. One of them finished up a conversation on a cell phone, in broken English. “OK, yes, it is her. Don’t worry, we will do this. See you.” Three other men stood around on the edges of the room, looking alert and deferential. The photo of Zane Smithson lay on the table between the two men, illuminated by an elaborate ceramic lamp crowned with a fringed lampshade. They stared. She said, "Hello."
"Yes," said one of them in heavily-accented English. "So, lady, you want to talk about this picture, or you want to talk about some other business?" He poured himself a glass of vodka. He didn't offer her any. "My name is Leonid, and this is Yevgeny." He drank. "What do you want here?" he asked. "I trust my people here to tell me the police when they see them, and they promise that you are no police. So: I ask myself, why is she showing us this picture? How is she coming here? So tell us."
"Do you know this man?" she asked, pointing at the photograph of Smithson.
They stared at her. The opera rose towards a crescendo. "Do we know this man?" He laughed. "Yev, do you know this man?" Leonid grinned, pointing at the picture. "Ha, ha, ha," they both laughed, and the three others in the room—all Russians in leather coats and wide, brightly colored ties and bellbottom corduroys—laughed loudly. What was with this bad guy style? Straight out of Starsky and Hutch. Eastern European chic. Leonid abruptly raised his arms with a conductor's flourish followed by a cutting motion, as the opera hit a peak and dropped, along with the laughter. He suddenly rose to his feet and stood very close to Lucy. "Lady, I think it is a very, very bad idea for you to be pushing your nose into my business." He picked up the photograph of Zane Smithson with one hand, and pulled the zipper of Lucy's jacket down with the other. He slowly unzipped it all the way, and the jacket opened. She didn't dare raise a hand to stop him. She didn't dare say, "The police have the original." What good would it do? What the fuck was she doing here? He was very close, and smelled of vodka. His eyes were black and cold. He eyeballed her black t-shirt, and her breasts pushing lightly against it. She felt herself breaking out in a sweat, but held his gaze with her eyes, trying to look unafraid. But she knew she looked like she felt—terrified. There were five grown men in the room, they all had guns, and nobody in the world knew where she was except them. He carefully, deliberately folded the photocopy up to pocket size, then stuck it in her pocket. Then he slowly pulled the jacket closed, linked the zipper, and zipped it up. He let her go, muttering something in Russian. The three thugs approached, and one of them turned her around and led her over to a wall. She felt weak in the knees, facing the wall, waiting for the assault. Surprisingly, it was just a roust, and a gentle one at that: one guy patted her down, and he was very careful not to touch her in any lascivious manner. He stopped, spoke to Leonid. Lucy turned around.
"Now," Leonid said. "Since you have no identification on you," he said, "Because I am not good at remembering things like this in English, I am going to ask you to write your name and address on this piece of paper, and also write why you have this photograph. You can decide if you want to tell the truth or not, but if you don't this is very serious." He put the paper and pen down on the table. "Remember that you do not know what I know. Now write."
Lucy picked up the pen. She wrote, first, "Patricia Moody," paused, then added, "is dead. Do you know why he killed her?" Then she wrote, "Lucy Ripken. I am looking for him because he killed her. That is all." Then she wrote her address and phone number.
He picked up the paper, and read over it. "Lucy Ripken, Lucy Ripken, I see that you are willing to be truthful with me," he said. "But that still does not solve my problem. I think that I will have to give you another chance," he said. Lucy relaxed a little. This wasn't going to end in gang rape or murder after all. "Another chance to stay out of my business." Suddenly he slammed her across the face with the back of his right hand, sending her reeling across the room. She bounced off the wall, regained her balance. Tears came to her eyes, blood flowing from her nose. "So get out of here, Lucy
Ripken, and do not come back," he snarled, and sat down again. He poured himself another vodka, erasing her from his consciousness as the lugubrious opera soared to new heights. Lucy backed out of the room and hurried down the hall, a hand to her face. Oh God it hurt. She hustled down the stairs. Tito Puente blared from an apartment on the second floor as she passed. Had he broken her nose? She pushed the front door open and stumbled out, ran down the steps, and up the block. She didn't see Pablo anywhere.
She hurried west and crossed Tompkins Square. She slipped into the bathroom of a bar on St. Marks and had a quick look. Ugh! Scarface. Once she washed the blood off, it wasn't so bad. Her cheekbone had taken the worst of it. She'd have a purple cheek and a black eye, but her nose looked intact. She headed over to the train and rode two stops downtown from Astor Place. Nearing home, she talked herself into a "lucky to be alive" kind of mood. After all, it was true. Those guys could have done anything to her.
Home, she greeted the pup, who went into a gentle frenzy of cheek licking when he discovered her wound, and then she played her voicemail. There was just one message. "Hey Lucy it's Rob out west. I wanted to check in with some good news for a change. Got a new boyfriend. He's a kayak guide in the San Juans, writes poetry, loves to travel, and has enough money to not need any of mine. Also Bill's gone—to Bali, with his chiroquacker, to study dance. Good riddance says I. But we sorted out our fight and put the house on the market before he left, and already got an offer. I'm thinking of buying one on Queen Anne if the deal goes through. Get your butt back out here and help me pick one. I love you, miss you, hope you're OK. Bye."
That was good. Next, trying to ignore the weirdly swollen and painful feeling in her face, she sat at her big yellow table with her camera and her computer, did some downloading, and had a look at what she’d done with the Kremlin projects. Hallelujah! There was definitely enough here for a story on each. She'd even gotten Siberia, and its gloomy Lubyanka Room, to look good, or at least visually accessible, in spite of the murky light. She downloaded the images onto a CD, moved to her desktop, loaded the images into the hard drive, and then sent them to Nina via email. Then she wrapped some ice in a towel, and laid back on her bed with the icepack resting on her face. She was exhausted, and soon dozed off.
Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5) Page 14