by Adam Gittlin
“Eeeewwww—nasty!”
“What?” I asked, dumbly, as I soaped up while gazing into her eyes—almost taunting her.
“You have no idea who used that!”
“No. I don’t.” I answered, never missing a beat while lathering up. “Because I don’t care. You know why?”
She actually thought about it for a second.
“Why?”
I moved close to her. I reached around with my free hand, grabbed her tight, glistening ass, and pulled her body into mine.
“Because it doesn’t matter who dirtied me up. All I need is a minute or two, and this soap will know exactly who it belongs to.”
The world has dirtied me up.
And, fuck if I haven’t made that same world my guest-bathroom bar of soap.
Golf umbrella overhead I charge east to Park Avenue. Though I need to end up more west, Park runs downtown as opposed to Madison which heads up. Because of the rain cabs are hard to come by. A black town car pulls up, no doubt a driver with a little downtime looking to make a few extra bucks.
“Where to?” asks the driver, as I jump in.
He’s a stocky fella—short and thick with a cheap, black suit, a size too small, and a ridiculously heavy New York accent to match his deep voice. Looking into the front seat, I can’t help noticing his white socks.
“Meatpacking District.”
“That’ll be twenty-five bucks from here,” he goes on.
“You get me there quickly, I’ll make it fifty.”
No sooner than I say the words, we’re on the move. The car’s warm. I crack the window and hear the tire treads slosh through the street. I take the disposable from my inside pocket. I dial. All these years, and I still remember the number by heart.
“You have reached Luckman Meats.”
Voicemail system as it’s after hours.
“If you know your party’s extension, you may dial it now. For a company directory—”
I go through the motions. Extension twelve takes me to the office of my closest friend since I’m a little boy. Tanqueray Luck-man—L. L’s family has been the biggest meat distributor in New York City since horses drew carriages on dirt roads. The last time I saw L, we were running away from a cop through his family business’s distribution warehouse, where I’m headed right now. As we did, I told him that was going to be the last time I’d ever see him; that I could never come back. Not to Manhattan, not to the United States. Different mothers, but we grew up brothers. I don’t know which of us was more crushed by my words.
“Luckman…” his voice answers. “Hello?”
I knew he’d be there. He always works late. The sound of his voice temporarily shreds all these lost years of friendship and brings me back to the time of our youth. I see us as boys smoking pot in the high school bathroom. I get a surprising image of us having a baseball catch in the Queensboro Oval on York Avenue. I only want to say something; start explaining, rambling, rhapsodizing, justifying.
Knowing I’ll see him shortly, instead I hang up.
The town car, jostled by the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, slowly rolls to a stop. I depress the button and drop the window, unfazed by the water now spraying my face. I look up at the old, weathered, three-story gray-brick warehouse/office. In the center of the building is the main entrance door. To the right, windows that allude to administrative space and the like. To the left, seven wide, story-high rolled-down bay doors, a few with shutdown refrigerated trucks backed up to them.
“How’d we do?” asks my stocky new friend.
“What’s your name?” I ask, my eyes still on the building.
“Dusty,” he responds, with his deep, New York–accented voice.
It takes a second, but I turn to him.
“Really?”
“Really. My grandfather worked in a suppository factory.”
Huh? And?
I turn back to the building. I hold out my hand.
“Here’s a fifty, Dusty, for a job well done,” I say. “There’s another waiting for you if you give me two things.”
“What’s that?”
“Five minutes inside before driving me uptown. And the right to call you anything but Dusty.”
I get out of the car and open the umbrella. I walk toward the front door. The front area of the property is well lit, as it’s an active, 24/7 distributorship. I don’t exactly have a plan. Yes, it’s after hours, but people are always coming and going. And with that there is no doubt the front door locks at this hour behind whoever enters or exits.
I’m apprehensive. Something that seems warranted as a tall, lanky guy in overalls comes through the front door when I’m no more than thirty feet away.
I make a hard left. But, funny, it doesn’t feel blind. It feels like instinct, like I know where I’m going.
Think.
The fire door.
The fire door I left through when I fled this building nine years ago. The one that, if I know L as well as I think I do, still hasn’t been fixed. I walk around the corner, turn right on Washington, and head for the door.
It creaks open. Again, it’s like all the time in between has disappeared; like I took a step outside, decided against running, turned right back around, and came inside. I leave the door open a crack, for both the sliver of alley light and so not to let it slam. I’m standing in a dark storage room full of boxes and equipment. A room that looks as though it hasn’t been touched since I last came through it.
I retrace my escape route from the day I left, the day I ran through this building while missing my own father’s funeral. I move through some vintage, dusty offices ripped from the set of Mad Men into a dingy hallway and find my way to the staircase leading upstairs. As I approach the second-floor landing, I hear L’s voice. I stop in my tracks. I catch my breath.
“What did you just say to me? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” L says, his voice loud as usual, “You listen to me, Jimmy! I don’t give a crap if our great-grandfathers’ great-grandfathers did business together. In fact—tell you what. You want to keep conducting yourself like this, that cute little sister of yours who keeps looking for me to take her out will get her wish. And I promise I won’t be such a gentleman.”
I start moving again. I take my last two upward steps, my head shaking as I move toward L’s office. I’m not sure if I’m surprised by this ridiculous conversation I’m overhearing, or if I’m surprised by the fact I’m so completely not surprised.
“Oh, is that right? Tell you what, smart-ass—how’s this for clear? If my cash isn’t here first thing tomorrow morning, I’m coming to collect myself. And I won’t just be looking for money.”
At the exact moment I hear this threat—standard business practice for L—I stop dead within the frame of his open door. Standing in his usual mess of an office facing the back glass wall that looks out into the warehouse, he wheels around when he hears, feels me. Startled, maddened, his eyes and chest swell.
“Who the fuck are you?” he barks, chucking his iPhone onto his desk.
“I … uh …”
Now we both know I’m seldom at a loss for words. But there are certain moments even I can’t prepare for. I’ve never bothered practicing this encounter. I knew it would be a futile effort.
“I asked who the fuck are you? You realize you’re standing in my fucking living room?”
“I do—and apologies for sneaking up on you,” I say, my European accent purposefully extra heavy. “Tanqueray Luckman, right?”
L casually reaches under his desk. He pulls out a gun. A pretty serious one at that.
“I’ll ask one more time. Who are you?”
“May I close the door before telling you?” I ask, calm. “I promise it will be worth your while. And you’re the one holding the gun should you not like my answer.”
Without giving him a chance to answer, I close the door.
I turn to him.
For maximum effect, I lose the accent and u
se my natural-born voice.
“Seriously, L—a fucking Walther PPQ? Are you serious?”
L’s face goes blank, his arm goes slack for a split second, then both return to normal like he’s just seen a ghost. Or one of those black squiggly things out of the corner of your eye floating in the air that isn’t really there.
“It’s me, L. It’s Jonah.”
The instant I speak again, he sucks in a breath. His expression morphs from anger to fear, confusion.
“What the fuck is this?”
I open my arms, as if to say I have nothing to hide.
“It’s really me.”
L’s trembling.
“It can’t be! It’s … you’re—”
“This is crazy—I know. But it’s me. Same Jonah who grew up with you on the Upper East Side. Same Jonah who missed his own father’s funeral.”
“Stop it! How are you—why do you sound—”
“I’m just in a different body. I mean, it’s the same body, just, you know my face—seriously, L, can you put the gun down?”
His eyes and expression return to anger. Gun still up, he starts toward me.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“L, please, listen to me.”
He’s not hearing me. It’s my voice, but I couldn’t look more different. He’s freaked. And he’s coming.
“What do you want?” he snarls, rushing up to me. “Who the fuck are you? How do you know about Jonah?”
“L, please. It’s me.”
“Bullshit! Not possible!”
I remain calm. He puts the gun to my temple. The hard steel is cold against my skin. Our faces are close. When our eyes lock, in his I see ambivalence. Because in mine I know he thinks—he feels—he sees me.
“Jonah Gray is dead.”
“Who told you that? Morante? The FBI?” I counter.
No answer.
“Listen to my voice. I know I look different, but it’s me. It’s me.”
Still nothing.
“They told you I was dead so you wouldn’t think you were betraying me by giving up information. They told you I was dead because they were desperate and couldn’t find me. And because they figured I’d never have the nerve to come back.”
Gun still to my temple, he closes his eyes and starts shaking his head. Like he wants to wake up.
“No. This is insane.”
“I’m sorry for this. I am. I know—”
“Now!” he cuts me off, his eyes open, alert, and locked with mine again. “Who’s the first girl I slept with and what grade? You have five seconds. Four. Three—”
“Debbie Tarlow. Seventh grade.”
He drops the gun. We both exhale. We hug. Neither wants to let go.
“My God, Jonah? What the hell is going on? Where have you been?”
“When did they tell you I was dead?” I respond, blowing off his questions. “I’m guessing after three months. Maybe four.”
We pull back from one another.
“Close. Six. And they never said you were definitely dead. Just that they had good reason to believe you were.”
“Makes sense. After all, a definitive death notice would have meant they needed to actually produce my body.”
L nods. With both his eyes and extended, dangling gun, he looks me up and down.
“Wow. I mean—wow!”
“Crazy, right?”
“You’re like out of a fucking Jason Bourne movie or something.”
“You realize they were books first—right?”
And just like that, it’s like I’ve been here all along.
“How about getting the gun out of my face?”
“Right—sorry.”
L walks behind his desk and replaces it underneath.
“Why such a serious piece anyway?”
“Still a cash business, still dealing with old-school families. Unlike your new and improved cheekbones, some things haven’t changed.”
He walks back over to me.
“Where do we even begin? Does anyone even … I mean, are you staying? Is—”
“I can’t, L. I mean, not now at least. I’ll tell you everything, but right now I don’t have time. The last thing I can let happen is for anyone to know about me. Being someone else, being alive, any of it. You’re one of a few in this world I can trust.”
“Are you still running? Are you still in danger?”
“Until Jonah Gray’s name is cleared, I’ll always be in danger. And I’ll always be on the run.”
“Where do you live? I mean—what do—where do you—”
“It doesn’t matter, L. Like I said, I promise to get you up to speed. I just can’t do it right now.”
“You storm in after all these years as some piece of Eurotrash, and now you’re gone? You’re leaving?”
“I have to.”
“Just like that?”
“I’m sorry. I am. But I have to.”
“So then why the little coming-out party tonight?”
“What are you driving these days?”
“Serious?”
“As a quintuple bypass.”
“Quattroporte Range. Burgundy. Brand-new. It’s downstairs.”
“I need the keys. And I promise to have it back before sunrise.”
L doesn’t move. He’s just staring at me.
“L—look. I can’t begin to imagine what—”
“No, Jonah. You can’t. To leave the way you did? I know you were down to the wire. I know the whole world was looking to come down on you. But to grow up like brothers the way we did? And for you to be alive this whole time and—”
“It’s not like that, L—”
“Not a word? Not a single fucking word?”
“I couldn’t!” I say with urgency as I step toward him. “Not just out of concern for myself. Out of concern for you.”
L nods.
“I know. I just missed the hell out of you.”
“I missed you too. Every day. And I promise—maybe tomorrow, maybe in ten years—I will be back here for good. I will.”
He reaches down, opens the top drawer of his desk, pulls out the keys, and tosses them to me.
“Maserati’s best yet. Thing’s a beast. Makes that little Porsche you used to drive look like a nursery school toy.”
I catch the keys and nod.
“One more thing,” I add. “I need a gun. Something small. But able to wreak havoc if necessary.”
L always has a couple pieces handy. Occupational necessity when you’re dealing in such a large, all-cash business within an industry that sometimes calls for a little strong-arming.
He reaches down and opens another drawer in his desk. He pulls out a compact, aluminum piece. With a rosewood grip.
“Kimber Ultra CDP II. Small enough to keep tucked away. Strong enough to keep someone off your back. Or if need be, bury them.”
I jump back in the town car. The rain has tapered off quite a bit. I throw the drizzle-dusted umbrella on the seat next to me. And put my European accent back on.
“Del Posto, Brutus.”
Dusty gives me his eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Sorry. Just can’t do Dusty. Brutus seems to suit you.”
Nothing. His eyes move back to the road ahead. I reach forward and hand him a fifty over his shoulder. He takes it.
“We good?” I follow up.
“Del Posto. Eighty-Five Tenth Avenue, I believe.”
“I believe you’re right.”
The restaurant’s about ten blocks away. I look at my watch—7:46 p.m. Which means I’m right on schedule.
The inside jacket pockets of my suit are getting fuller by the hour. The flash drive occupying about 75 percent of all my thoughts at this point has joined the inside left pocket with the disposable phone. L’s Maserati keys have replaced the silver pen with the iPhone and loupe in the right inside pocket. The gun is in the rear of my pants’ waistline.
I take out the disposable. I punch a 410—Baltimore�
��area code into it. Before hitting “send” I just look at the number. It belongs to Pavel Derbyshev. The last and only time I saw Mr. Derbyshev—the count as I like to call him because of his, well, countlike appearance—I put a gun to the back of his head then kicked him in the balls so hard you’d think I was playing in the World Cup. Derbyshev, descendant of Piotr Derbyshev, has six of the eight missing Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs—eggs that would have been sold to my half-brother Andreu Zhamovsky had I not blown up the plan. Now, after all these years, I need to see those eggs. And learn once and for all why Galina wants them in her possession.
I remember the night I confronted him in Prime Rib, one of the few restaurants in the 410—back then, at least—for power players. His number is a private, unpublished one, but in the day’s leading to my fleeing, I had gotten it from bank records. Derbyshev never knew how I’d obtained it. Which is what I’m counting on for his not changing the number. There’s always the fact that I ended up saving his ass. Had the deal gone through, he would have been out both the eggs and the half a billion he thought he was getting in return. But I’m going with the fact he probably figured if I could get his number once, I’d simply get it again.
Once I was out of the country, there were a few things I would jot down in strange places. Things I couldn’t risk forgetting, yet couldn’t dare have on me in a more permanent fashion—like in a phone or contact book—until I was safe.
Or safer.
For example, in the room in St. Maxime there were notes, written tiny, under the end tables and in the closet right where the wall met the carpeting. One of those notes was the count’s phone number. I said it over and over to myself that night driving back from Baltimore knowing it was probably one I’d need again one day. I’d even switch the first and fourth numbers any time I wrote it. This went on for each stop until we settled in Amsterdam. And I don’t mean the first place in Amsterdam—I mean the gift house from Cobus. It didn’t stop because I ever felt safe. It stopped because all of a sudden, when I went poking around for places in my new palace to jot them down, it occurred to be they’d all probably been engrained in my brain from the moment I wrote them down in that hotel in the French Riviera.