Tipping the Valet

by K. K. Beck

“Oh, sorry to bother you,” said Helene. “I just wondered how you were doing.”

  “You’re not bothering me, Helene. Listen, is there any chance we could do lunch? It would be great to see you again. I guess you’re kind of busy these days, but…”

  “I think that would be nice,” said Helene.

  “We can have a real talk without all these stupid interruptions,” he said.

  “God, Dad,” repeated Samantha.

  He flapped his hand at her and said, “Helene, how about that little place where we used to eat lunch back in the day. Next to the old Duckworth offices. You know. Chez Marie.”

  “I think it’s called something else now,” said Helene.

  “Whatever. Let’s meet there,” said Roger.

  “Okay. How about tomorrow at noon?”

  “Wow! That would be fantastic, Helene! I can’t wait to see you. Noon tomorrow at what used to be Chez Marie! I can’t wait to see you.”

  He put down the phone and turned in his chair to see that Samantha had gone to fetch the ultimate authority. Ingrid was now standing there dangling car keys at him. “Samantha. Orthodontist. Now.”

  “Can’t you take her? I can wait for the plumber.”

  “The plumber is my dad. He’s the only plumber we can afford. I think he’d rather deal with me, to be honest. At least I’ll make him a cup of coffee and tell him we appreciate his help.”

  “Okay, whatever,” said Roger, rising. Reading some magazines in a waiting room was preferable to having his father-in-law sneer at him because he didn’t have the manly skills to make a faucet stop dripping.

  “Hot lunch date tomorrow?” said Ingrid, slamming the keys into his hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  “It’s business,” said Roger with dignity. “Despite everything that’s happened. I’m still looking for fulfilling opportunities that will help us all get back on our feet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  VIC WAS STANDING IN THE DARK, behind a chain-link fence in a gravelly space dominated by a huge propeller, talking to the fish master of a 350-foot fishing trawler. The Russian vessel, in dry dock in Seattle for an electronics upgrade, blasting and repainting of the hull, and maintenance work on the deck gear, fish-processing plant, and engine room, loomed behind them.

  “It’s all there. Two grand,” said Vic eagerly.

  His companion flicked through the wad and began counting fifties, then encountered bills of a smaller denomination. “What are all these ones and fives?”

  “My tip money,” said Vic.

  The man rolled his eyes. He stashed it all away in the pocket of his nylon windbreaker.

  “So you’re sure you’ll be ready next week?”

  “We better be,” said his companion, a tall man. “We need to go fishing.”

  “You sure you got enough room?”

  “I can get three thousand tons of pollock on here. I can easily get your stuff on.”

  “Everything’s arranged from the Vladivostok end,” said Vic. “We’re all ready to go. And you don’t need to worry about the rest of the money. It’s all waiting for you as soon as you deliver the merchandise.”

  The fish master said, “Why should I worry? I’ll have the merchandise. If anyone should be worried, it’s you.” He pocketed the roll of cash.

  “I’m not worried,” said Vic. “My cousin Gleb has it all arranged. He wouldn’t screw me over!”

  “You know your own family,” said the other man. “But if he doesn’t have the money, I’m not releasing those cars.”

  “You don’t want to mess with Gleb,” said Vic. “I told you all about him.”

  ———

  AFTER Vic went back to his car and drove away, Sergei Lagunov, who had been parked a few car-lengths away, waited a while, then turned on his own lights, glanced briefly at the smartphone that was tracking Vic, then pulled into traffic. He’d come back later and see what business Vic had aboard the trawler.

  Vic seemed to be heading back to his parents’ house over in suburban Bellevue. Sergei’s surveillance of Vic hadn’t provided any proof that he and Chip were actually stealing any of the cars they’d been fitting out with tracking devices provided by the Zelenkos for their own operation. And he wasn’t any closer to finding out if Vic’s family back in the old country were indeed high ranking vory, and if Vic’s uncle Ivan and cousin Gleb were big players.

  He’d check out the kid’s home from the street, maybe get a feel for what his family situation actually was. When Sergei had Googled Vic’s parents’ names, all he could find out was that Gennady and Anna belonged to a community orchestra in Bellevue. The site had listed all the amateur musicians in the orchestra, who apparently performed for free in church basements. Doing something for free didn’t sound like anything an elite criminal would be doing.

  Sergei had also learned that Victor’s father worked as a structural engineer—Sergei had found his picture on a company website citing an article he had written about adhesives used to repair aerospace composite materials.

  Sergei pulled onto the gravel strip across the street where a sidewalk would have been if they hadn’t been out in the suburbs, killed the lights, and lit a cigarette. In the dim light of the street lamp, he could see that the house itself was a sixties tract house with a neat little green lawn in front, a winding concrete path up to the porch, and a two-car garage.

  Sergei, cigarette now dangling from his lips, took a pair of small binoculars out of the glove box, and examined the black mailbox on a post at the end of the path with the family name GELASHVILI stenciled clearly on it in white paint.

  The only thing unusual about the scene was the sight of Vic’s car, in the driveway. The trunk was open. Its interior light revealed a couple of suitcases and what appeared to be an empty aquarium tank filled with odds and ends -- some rolled-up posters, a can of tennis balls, and a hairbrush.

  Suddenly, the front door opened. Sergei crushed out the lit cigarette to avoid being noticed, and watched the porch through the binoculars.

  Three people emerged from the house. First came Vic himself, carrying two sturdy black trash bags and a tennis racket. He was followed by a middle-aged man, presumably his father, wearing an old-fashioned wool cardigan and baggy khakis, and a pair of felt house slippers. He appeared to be shouting at Vic. He was followed by a plump blond woman about the same age, presumably his wife, wearing a terry cloth bathrobe. Her arms were crossed against her ample bosom and she was sobbing.

  Sergei cracked the window and leaned toward it. Despite the dull and respectable facade, things were apparently not tranquil in the Gelashvili home.

  Dad was shouting in English. “What do you think you are planning to do with your life?”

  Mom, in Russian, said, “How can we help you if you won’t tell us what you are doing with your life!”

  Now Dad turned to Mom and said in Russian, “He is living some crazy fantasy life. He is not right in the head.”

  Sergei smiled. This was all very interesting. Too interesting to observe from the curb. And what better time to interject himself into this drama than when the man was frustrated and angry and the woman sobbing. They would definitely be off their guard.

  He slipped quietly out of the car, and made his way toward the front porch.

  Now Vic was snapping back at his father in English. “It’s not a fantasy. You’re so in denial. Just ask cousin Gleb. You think you know so much!”

  “Who the hell is cousin Gleb?” demanded his father. “Someone you met on the damn Internet!” He turned to his wife. “He’s crazy.”

  “Cousin Gleb in Vladivostok!” said Victor.

  Mom stopped sobbing and grabbed her husband’s arm. “Didn’t your cousin Ivan have a son named Gleb?”

  “Gleb?” repeated Vic’s father, putting a hand to his forehead.

  “You remember,” said his wife. “Your cousin Ivan’s son.” She turned to her son. “You need counseling. Your father is worried about you. His health plan will cove
r it.”

  “Leave me the fuck alone!” said Victor. He turned away from his parents and headed back to his car, dragging the trash bags along the concrete path, and then ran into Sergei coming up the path.

  “Hey Victor!” said Sergei in a friendly way. Sergei, whose professional life was based on sensing fear in others, noted immediately that Vic looked petrified. Sergei pushed Vic aside and strode purposefully up to the parents. He was gratified to note that they, too, looked fearful—the woman pulling the two halves of her robe over her chest more securely, and the man stepping up next to his wife in a protective way, and eyeing Sergei nervously.

  Sergei tilted his face just a bit to one side so the porch light would catch his scar. He’d hated it when he first got it, but had learned how to display that scar for maximum effect. He was rewarded by a solid flinch from both parents.

  “You must be Vic’s parents,” he said in a pleasant tone. He stepped back next to Vic, who had satisfyingly frozen in his tracks, and was staring up at him in horror. Now, Sergei slipped his hand into his pocket, wrapped his fingers around the binoculars, and jabbed them into Vic’s side through his jacket pocket. Vic stiffened, apparently convinced he had a gun stuck into his ribs.

  “Hey, guy? Moving out? Need some help?”

  After a long moment of silence, Vic’s dad smiled nervously and said, “Is this a friend of yours?”

  “We kind of work together,” said Sergei. “At the valet company. I’m afraid I have some sad news.”

  “Oh?” said Vic.

  He turned to Vic. “You remember Old Pasha?”

  “Pasha?” stammered Vic.

  “Hey, he died. And it’s really important that you come to the funeral. Tomorrow. You and Chip.” He paused while all three Gelashvilis stared at him. “We want a good turnout. Let me give you a hand.” Sergei yanked the tennis racket from under Vic’s arm and hustled him over to the trunk of his car. Obscured behind the trunk lid he leaned in close, pressed the binoculars deeper into Vic’s rib cage, and said, “Things are different now. I’m in charge. And you and Chip need to be there at that funeral. Old Pasha got shot. We need you to show some respect. St. Basil’s church. Noon. Bring Chip.”

  He emerged back up from behind the lid and waved at Vic’s parents. “Sorry to bother you,” he said cheerily. And in Russian, he added, “Poor Old Pasha. A tragic death.” He turned to Vic. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow. Noon. St. Basil’s.”

  As he sauntered back to his car in silence, he congratulated himself. Yalta Yuri would be happy to have more mourners. And what better way to send a message to Vic and Chip. Meanwhile, he’d try and find out who the hell cousin Gleb was.

  On the porch, Vic’s mother turned to her husband. She still looked blotchy from crying, but her face was now businesslike. “You need to call your cousin Ivan in Vladivostok. Your mother probably has his number. We need to find out who the hell cousin Gleb is.”

  ———

  SVETLANA Gelashvili was standing at the sink doing dishes, an apron over her white uniform, when her cell phone rang. She tucked it between her ear and her shoulder, picked up her dishrag, and continued her task.

  “No, Ivan isn’t here,” she said. “He’s at work. I’m sorry, who did you say this was?”

  “Gennady Gelashvili. His cousin in America. I’m sorry to bother you.… ”

  “Yes! I remember you,” she said. “Is everything all right? Did someone in the family die?”

  “No! No! It’s, well,” Gennady gave an embarrassed little chuckle, “to be honest, we’ve been having some trouble with our son. Victor. My wife is worried about him. We don’t know what he’s up to.”

  “Yes?” Svetlana could relate to this. But why was this long-lost cousin of Ivan’s telling her this?

  “My wife wanted me to see what he and Gleb might be up to on their computers.”

  “Gleb?”

  “Apparently they are in touch.”

  “What! I didn’t know that. Gleb is on his computer all day long. He plays this game called ‘World of Warcraft.’ He plays a Cyrillic version but I think he also plays in English. Is that how they got together? But they don’t use real names. They’re avatars. Like pretending to be a character. Are you worried that your son is spending too much time on-line?”

  Gennady sounded apologetic. “I don’t know what I’m worried about. He seems to be interested in the mafia or something. He said he and Gleb were emailing. Does Gleb still live at home?”

  A young, skinny blond boy about five foot two inches tall came into the kitchen and looked in the fridge, then he came over to Svetlana and pulled her apron strings loose. She swirled around to face him and he laughed at her. Glaring, she slapped him across the face with her wet dishrag.

  “Ow!” he shouted.

  “What does Gleb do? Does he have a job?” asked Gennady.

  “A job? Of course not! He’s only thirteen years old,” said Svetlana. She covered the phone to muffle it, and said, “Have you been emailing a cousin in America? Victor?”

  Gleb gave her a little smirk. “I’ve just been kidding around with him. It’s good for my English. Is that him on the phone? Does he want to talk to me?”

  “No, it’s his father, he’s worried about him.”

  “Well, he should be,” said Gleb, wandering back to the fridge. “That guy’s crazy!”

  His mother grabbed him by his bony shoulder. “Tell his dad about it,” she said, lowering her voice to a fierce whisper and thrusting the phone at him. “And be nice to him! Who knows, he might be able to get you into an American university! You don’t want to grow up to be some pathetic, grubby little hacker, do you?”

  Chapter Twenty

  INSIDE THE NAVE OF ST. BASIL’S, a small group dressed in black clustered around the coffin holding large candles while an altar boy swung a smoky censer. Detectives MacNab and Lukowski stood respectfully back a few feet, and while appearing solemn and holding their heads still, they peered through the clouds of incense, their eyes flicking across the faces of the mourners.

  There was a burly guy in his late forties, with a round, jowly face who fit the description Father Ushakov had given them of the man who was paying for the funeral and the repairs to the church roof. Lukowski was delighted he’d actually called back to ask again about that funeral, and sent a guy who said he worked at a convenience store where Old Pasha bought a breakfast burrito every morning to identify the body.

  He wore a black suit and had entered the church in the company of a handful of hard-looking men with a vaguely foreign appearance. One of them was a tall, thin guy in an expensive suit with a nasty scar on one side of his face. Besides the alarming scar, the fact that he was videotaping the ceremony on his phone made him stand out from the others.

  There were also a few old ladies and a couple of teenaged kids. As they were the only ones crossing themselves at appropriate times and singing softly along with the haunting voices of the small choir, the detectives figured they must be the ringers from the congregation that Father Ushakov had said would be there to flesh out the skimpy crowd.

  And then there were two young guys—a blond one and a dark one—whose all-black outfits were highlighted by a pink logo on the zipped-up nylon jackets that included the words ELITE VALET. One of them looked like the kid that Tyler Benson had been pushing around at their last visit to Alba’s valet booth. Tyler, however, wasn’t present.

  The top half of the coffin lid was now opened, revealing white satin lining and the face and upper torso of the tattoo guy, whom the detectives by now knew was named Pavel Ivanovich Tarasov, and who the priest had learned from his bereaved friends, was a Russian immigrant with a green card who had worked in an auto body shop. His hands, folded together on his chest, held a crucifix. Now the bottom part of the coffin lid was opened, revealing a handsome white embroidered shroud.

  Lukowski thought Pavel looked like he was tucked in bed. Those prison tattoos and the autopsy report describing his chewed-up liver, tarry lungs, an
d hardened arteries, and some unsightly scars that looked like they’d been made with a knife, had made it pretty clear the guy had had a hard life. Whether that was of his own making or not, Lukowski found himself saying a prayer for the poor old guy to rest in peace.

  Now the priest was placing a small paper strip on the old man’s forehead, and he removed the tall hat he wore and bent over to kiss the crucifix. Lukowski wondered how much longer the service would last. The uniformed officer who was taking pictures of all the license plates in the parking lot should be done by now.

  On the other side of the coffin, Chip leaned over to Vic and said, “Hey that coffin opens up just like a forty-sixty split bench in a Ford Ranger.”

  Sergei Lagunov glared at both of them.

  “Shut up,” whispered Vic out of the side of his mouth. “Show some respect.”

  ———

  TYLER was on his phone in the valet booth in front of Alba. “I still think it’s stupid for you or your dad to talk to the cops,” Veronica Kessler said. “But I’ll listen to what you and this gal have to say.” She explained to Tyler that she didn’t have an actual office per se, but that she was going to be over at his grandpa’s tomorrow afternoon and they could all talk then.

  Now, all Tyler had to do was convince Flavia to come with him. He turned to Brian, who was scribbling in his spiral-bound notebook. “Hey, I have to go inside to the office for a minute,” he said. “I’ll be right back. I’m not sure why it’s just us. I wonder what happened to Vic and Chip.”

  “Vic and Chip said they had to go to a funeral,” said Brian.

  “Really?” said Tyler. “I wonder who died.”

  “Chip said it was some Russian guy or something. You know, I’m thinking my screenplay would actually work better with zombies. I think that vampire thing is so over—it’s just like a chick thing now, you know. And I don’t want just plain old zombies that just want to eat brains or whatever. It’s more complex. Like a whole organization. With layers. Like some zombies are in charge of other zombies.”