Detour

by James Siegel

  Ha, ha.

  Paul wondered if Jews other than Miles found that particularly funny.

  “I don’t suppose you have the kind of money to make it up to them?” Miles finally said. He was looking down at his hands where his fingernails were still black, even after the shower.

  “Two million?” Paul said. It might just as well have been two billion.

  “Okay.” Miles shrugged. “Just asking.”

  Paul had come to a decision of sorts. It wasn’t an easy one, but it was clearly the only one. It didn’t matter that he’d smuggled drugs into the country. Not anymore. The drugs were gone, the cupboard bare. His family was hanging by a string.

  “I’m going to the authorities,” he said.

  “The authorities?” Miles repeated, as if it were a strange and foreign concept. “Okay. Which authorities are we talking about?”

  “The police, the government, whoever has a chance of doing anything. The State Department, the Colombians. Every authority there is—all of them. I’m going to tell them everything—throw myself on the mercy of the court. Isn’t that the expression?”

  “The mercy of the court? Oh yeah, that’s an expression. Absolutely. That’s pretty much all it is. I don’t think mercy is allowed through the metal detectors. You might want to reconsider.”

  “Reconsider? What do you suggest I do? Tell Pablo I lost two million dollars’ worth of drugs, but if he doesn’t mind, I’d like my wife and daughter back anyway? I’ve got to do something. It’s the only thing left.”

  “Maybe not,” Miles said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Miles stood up, stared at the four walls, began pacing back and forth behind his desk, slowly, bit by bit, seeming to regain that can-do aura right before Paul’s grateful eyes, until he stopped, looked up, and snapped his fingers.

  “Plan B,” Miles said.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  His name was Moshe Skolnick.

  He was a Russian businessman, Miles said.

  What kind of business? Paul asked.

  “I have no idea,” Miles answered. “But he’s awfully good at it.”

  Whatever the nature of his business, Moshe did a lot of it with Colombians. “He’s got contacts there,” Miles said. “He flies to Bogotá at least three times a year.”

  Plan B, going to Moshe, was preferable to Plan C, going to the authorities, Miles said, because Paul needed someone who knew the right people. Or, more accurately, the wrong people.

  “Someone who’s got credibility with both sides.”

  Paul had agreed to give it one more shot. If Paul was fueled by sheer unadulterated panic, Miles seemed fueled by sheer stubbornness, as if giving up would be a personal affront. Once upon a time Miles had promised them a baby and he’d only half delivered. He seemed determined to finish the job.

  They were driving to Little Odessa.

  “How do you know him?” Paul asked.

  “That’s the thing about being in my line of work. You meet all sorts of people you wouldn’t ordinarily meet.”

  “He was a client?”

  “More like a client of a client.”

  “Not a friend?”

  “You don’t really want him as a friend. You don’t want him as your enemy either. He owes me a favor.”

  First Miles dropped Paul off at his apartment.

  He needed his own clothes; Miles’ pants felt like they were cutting off his circulation. He needed his own surroundings and his own life. Lying low didn’t much matter anymore. He and Miles had decided that if he ran into his friends John or Lisa, he’d blame Joanna’s absence on a visa screwup, something Paul had come back to work out from this end. With any luck he’d avoid seeing them.

  He took the stairs to lessen the odds. He made it to his apartment without running into anyone he knew.

  When he shut his door, very gently because he didn’t want John or Lisa to hear, he saw a crib sitting in his living room. It had pink wooden slats and frilly bedding decorated with teddy bears. An oversize red bow was stapled to it, looking like an enormous hothouse flower. It was conspicuously empty.

  He walked over and picked up the card Scotch-taped to the headboard.

  Congratulations on our new grandchild! Figured you’d need this when you got home. Matt and Barbara.

  Joanna’s parents, making their first down payment on grandparenthood.

  He felt a stab of pain somewhere under his heart. If heartache was a misnomer, if emotions resided somewhere in your brain and not lower down, why did it physically hurt there?

  They should’ve been home by now. The three of them.

  Friends would’ve come calling, toting bakery cakes, bottles of champagne, tiny pink baby clothes. Joanna’s parents would’ve settled into the guest room for a solid week or so. The apartment would’ve been pulsing with life.

  Its current emptiness seemed to accuse him of something. He knew what too.

  All he had to do was look at the clock sitting on the living room TV, the time and date prominently displayed in numbers the color of blood.

  Miles would be back in fifteen minutes to pick him up. He dressed in chinos and a T-shirt, threw his cellular phone into his pocket, and headed for the door.

  His answering machine was pulsing green.

  Oh well.

  He hit the play button.

  Hello, Mr. Breidbart. I’m calling on behalf of Home Equity Plus. We’re offering a special rate on refinancing good for this month only . . .

  Hey, it’s Ralph. When you get back, give me a call, would you? I couldn’t find your charts on McKenzie. By the way, congrats on the baby. Cigars to follow.

  Hiya! It’s Mom, honey. Got your letter, but we don’t know when you’re coming back. The hotel said you checked into another one. Call us, please! Love ya! How do you like the crib?

  Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Breidbart. This is María. I’m calling to check up and see how everything is.

  María Consuelo, making that follow-up call she’d promised them.

  This call was followed by two more follow-up calls from María. Then a spectacular one-time-only offer from a carpet company. Followed by an automated solicitation from an assemblyman up for reelection. Then another message from María.

  By this fourth one she clearly sounded annoyed. She’d called them four times, four, and there was still no word. She’d appreciate it if they would do her the honor of calling back and letting her know how things were.

  Hi, María. As a matter of fact, things aren’t going so well. The baby you gave us was kidnapped by your nurse and driver. I smuggled drugs into the country to try to get them out, but we were attacked and almost burned to death. So, all in all, things could be looking better. Thanks for asking.

  LITTLE ODESSA SEEMED LIKE ITS NAME. LIKE ANOTHER COUNTRY. The evening had turned gray and misty, and a strong wind was whipping in from the ocean. You could see flecks of white foam out there and little whirlwinds of sand dancing across the beach.

  Half the store signs were in Russian. The street fronting the beach was crowded with nightclubs, most of them named after Russian cities.

  The Kiev. The St. Petersburg. Moscow Central.

  Lack of shut-eye was catching up to Paul. He’d nodded off going over the Williamsburg Bridge—only the combination of metal grating and worn shocks revived him, bouncing him awake to a scene of stark black and white. The little bit of sleep had been painfully sweet—once his eyes were open, the dread quickly returned.

  Moshe worked at a sprawling warehouse.

  Miles pulled into the back lot. Two men were leaning against the only other car—a maroon Buick—smoking cigarettes and jabbering in Russian.

  When they got out, Miles waved at them, but they didn’t wave back.

  “Friendly guys,” Miles said. “They love me.”

  The parking lot faced a half-open loading door. They ducked underneath. The inside was astonishingly huge—the size of your average Home Depot. It might’ve contained just as mu
ch merchandise.

  There were rows of washers, dryers, refrigerators, TVs, stereos, computers, and furniture. There were bicycles, basketballs, golf clubs, clothing, and tires. There were video games, books, lawn furniture, and gas grills.

  A group of men were milling around the home appliance section. One of them turned and waved.

  “That’s Moshe,” Miles said.

  Paul thought he was slickly dressed for a warehouse. He was wearing what looked like a thousand-dollar suit, complete with blue silk tie and nicely buffed shoes that came to a distinct point. He had a goatee and thick eyebrows, which seemed to give him a look of perpetual amusement.

  He walked forward and grabbed Miles in a bear hug, bestowing a kiss on both cheeks.

  “Heyyyy . . . Miles . . . my favorite lawyer.” He had a smoker’s voice, husky and low, layered with a thick Russian accent.

  After Moshe had put Miles back down—in his enthusiasm he’d actually lifted him a good inch or so off the ground—he turned to Paul and smiled.

  “Paul?”

  Paul nodded. “Hello,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

  Moshe shook his head. “Not so nice, I think. Miles tell me your . . . situation. Catastrophe. My sympathies. Your wife and child, huh? Those guerrilla—” He uttered what must have been a Russian curse. “You know what we do to guerrillas in Russia, huh? Remember that theater in Moscow—those Chechen bastards? Boom—boom—gassed them to fucking hell.”

  As Paul remembered it, the Russian authorities had also gassed about two hundred innocent hostages to hell as well. He thought it better not to mention this to Moshe.

  Instead, he asked Moshe if he could help.

  Moshe put a large arm around Paul. “Look, I know those bastards. Some of them. We see what we can do, okay? Sometimes things can be negotiated. They are about as Marxist as we were—everyone’s a businessman, okay? Listen—they won’t kill them. Not likely. I make some calls.”

  “Thank you. Really.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done shit.” He smiled. “We see.”

  He looked through the half-open loading door and shook his head.

  “Hey, Miles, my fucking genius lawyer, how many times I tell you not to park there? You’re blocking the door.”

  Miles said, “Oh, sorry. I’ll move it.”

  “Give your keys to one of my guys. He move it for you, okay? We go to the office and talk.”

  “One of your guys dented my fender last time they moved it for me. I’ll do it,” Miles said.

  A man walked by, groaning under the weight of an enormous crate on his left shoulder. It looked in imminent danger of tipping over and smashing to bits. The man had CCCP tattooed on his arm—the letters of the old Soviet sports federation.

  “Go ahead,” Miles said to Paul. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Park it on Rostow, okay, meshugener,” Moshe said. “You park it on Ocean, they gonna ticket you.”

  Miles said okay. He slipped back under the loading door.

  “Paul.” Moshe motioned him to follow. They went through a side door and into a hallway where the walls were paneled in cheap imitation wood. Moshe’s office was down the hall—El Presidente, it said on the mottled glass. Paul assumed that was a joke.

  “We wait for Miles, okay?” The office had a waiting room with two couches. He pointed to one of them. “Please.”

  Paul sat down as Moshe slipped into the inner office.

  RING.

  Ring.

  He’d fallen asleep. Apparently, his cell phone had jolted him awake.

  How long had he been out?

  His phone had stopped ringing—he remembered its ring like an echo. He fished it out of his pants pocket, flipped it open, and checked the number. An area code he didn’t recognize.

  Where was Miles?

  The inner door opened and Moshe was standing there smiling. He looked down at his watch—a shimmering kaleidoscope of gold and diamonds.

  “What the fuck,” he said. “We get started.” He walked back into his office.

  But Paul’s cell phone rang again.

  “Mr. Breidbart?”

  It was María Consuelo.

  “Yes, hello.”

  “I have been calling you for three days. Do you know that?”

  “Yes, María. We’ve been—”

  “I always make a follow-up call to the new parents. I told you and Mrs. Breidbart this, yes?”

  “Yes, you did. We were . . . staying at a relative’s.”

  “I was getting worried. We need to make sure our new families are settling in. How is everything? Is the baby fine?”

  “Yes, she’s fine.”

  Moshe was just visible through the half-open door of his office. He was pointing at his watch.

  “Just a minute,” Paul said to him. But Moshe couldn’t hear him; he cocked his head and cupped his left ear like a comedian searching for laughs.

  “What?” María said.

  “No, not you. I was talking to someone else. The baby’s fine. I really have to run. I certainly will—”

  “Can I talk to Mrs. Breidbart, please?”

  For a moment Paul couldn’t bring himself to answer. “No,” he said. “She’s not here.”

  “Oh? She is well?”

  “Yes, she’s well. She’s just not with me. Not at the moment.”

  “Can she call me? I’d like to speak with her.”

  “Yes. She’ll call you.”

  “All right. You’re sure everything is good?”

  “Yes, everything’s okay. Couldn’t be better.”

  “All right, then.”

  Paul was going to hang up, was just about to, but he suddenly couldn’t resist asking a question of his own.

  “María?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m just curious. How long have you been using Pablo? How well do you know him?”

  “Pablo?”

  “Yes. The driver you gave us. Have you been using him a long time?”

  “I gave you a driver? No.”

  “No? What do you mean, no? I’m talking about Pablo. You hired him to take care of us in Bogotá.”

  “No. I didn’t hire him.”

  “Okay, someone from your staff. Someone took care of it for you.”

  “Accommodations and transportation are not supplied by us. The contract clearly stipulates this, yes?”

  “So who . . . ?”

  “Who? Your lawyer. Mr. Goldstein, yes?”

  Your lawyer, Mr. Goldstein.

  “Miles,” Paul said.

  “Yes, certainly. It’s his responsibility to provide accommodations and . . .”

  “Transportation.”

  “Yes.”

  Moshe was still waiting for him in the office. He was still smiling.

  “Mr. Goldstein called you two days ago, María,” Paul said, keeping his voice low. “Remember—he asked you for Pablo’s number.”

  “Called me, no. Mr. Goldstein didn’t call me.”

  “He didn’t call you. He didn’t call you and ask you for that number? Two days ago—Wednesday night?”

  “No.”

  A vision came back to Paul. Miles on the telephone—smiling, nodding, laughing, emoting for someone who wasn’t actually there in front of him. But someone was there in front of him.

  Paul.

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Was there a problem with your driver?”

  “No problem.”

  “Please have Mrs. Briedbart call me.”

  “Yes. Good-bye.”

  He was operating by rote—the way you can steer your car left or right, stop at lights, and accelerate on highways, even when your mind is somewhere far away. Paul’s mind was far, far away, stuck in a place between terror and helplessness.

  “Coming?” Moshe was suddenly standing right in front of him.

  He was still smiling, but Paul understood that it was like Galina’s smile when she’d opened her front door and welcomed them
into her home.

  “Is there a bathroom?” Paul asked. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  It’s amazing how the survival instinct takes over.

  How you can be frozen to the spot, your body positively numb with fear, and you can still move your mouth and ask for the bathroom—ask for anything that will prevent you from walking into that office. Because you know with absolute certainty that if you walk in, you won’t be walking out.

  Moshe seemed to contemplate this request for a moment.

  “Back there,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “Out the door to the left.”

  Paul stood up. His legs felt like they had back in María’s office, like soft jelly. He was trying not to let Moshe know that he was in on the big secret, that he understood he was the only actor in this charade who hadn’t been given his lines.

  “Down the hall,” Moshe said, but Paul noticed that he’d stopped smiling.

  “Okay. Be right back.” He turned to go.

  Moshe put his hand on his shoulder. Paul could feel sharp fingernails digging into his flesh.

  “Hurry,” he said. His teeth were yellow and misshapen, something that hadn’t been evident from a distance. Now that Paul was close enough to smell him, he could see the physical legacy of what must’ve been an impoverished Russian childhood.

  “Sure. I just need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll come right back.” It sounded like bad exposition—he was giving too much information.

  “Good,” Moshe said, seemingly unawares. “We got lots to do, huh?”

  “Yes. Lots to do.”

  Paul walked through the door, resisting the overpowering urge to run. It’s what you do in the face of mortal danger, isn’t it? It’s wired into your system—this need to churn your legs and take off like a bat out of hell.

  He could hear Moshe stepping out into the hall behind him, evidently making sure Paul was going where he said he was.

  The bathroom was about ten yards down the hall. Hombres, the door said—perhaps it came with the El Presidente model in the Spaghetti Western Collection.

  He didn’t have a plan when he said he needed to go to the bathroom. He didn’t have a plan now.