by Lee Vance
“Why not you?” I ask, looking for an out. The sad fact is that traveling to New York this morning was about as much as I felt up to. Moscow might as well be the moon.
“Because I’m tied down here with business and because William warned me off. I’m worried, Peter. I need your help.”
“I don’t know that I can do this right now, Katya,” I say, ashamed to admit my frailty.
“I think you can,” she says curtly. “One thing we have in common is that we both do whatever we make our minds up to do. If I can make myself ask you for a favor, despite everything that’s happened”—her voice falters momentarily before regaining strength—“I’m confident you can make yourself do it.” She lifts the file and holds it out to me. “You owe me, Peter. Don’t let me down.”
The look on her face forestalls any further protest. I take the file reluctantly, realizing it’s my best chance to catch up with Andrei but still dreading the trip.
“What makes you think he’s even there?” I ask, playing my last card.
“Our head of security in London checked with the alarm company in Moscow for me. Somebody’s coming and going regularly, usually late at night. Now go.”
She gets to her feet, our conversation over. Rising slowly, I tuck the file beneath my arm and turn to the door. Her hand touches my shoulder lightly from behind, making me start.
“Give Andrei my love,” she says.
10
THE NAME LA FORTUNA is barely legible on a battered red awning wedged between a plumbing-supply distributor and a storefront car service four blocks from City Hall in lower Manhattan. The interior’s Korean War–vintage Italian—fishing nets tacked to yellowed acoustic ceiling tiles, paint-by-number scenes of the Bay of Naples, straw-wrapped Chianti bottles wired to the sconces. Every table’s taken. A chubby Mediterranean blonde wearing a low-cut white dress smiles skeptically as I approach the hostess station.
“Do you have a lunch reservation?” she asks.
“I’m meeting a friend, thanks.”
She takes my coat and hands me a plastic claim check while I scan the crowded room. Tigger’s at a table in the far corner, sitting with an older guy in a scarlet blazer and a hairpiece that can’t pass from fifty feet. He spots me and nods, pointing to the tiny bar. I jostle myself close enough to the bartender to order a San Pellegrino and then wait for Tigger to join me.
I tried Andrei again after speaking with Katya, hoping to get lucky. No response. Sitting at my kitchen table, I almost persuaded myself to let the whole thing drop—to tell Tilling that I hadn’t been able to get a line on Andrei, and to simply duck Katya. The package is bound to be a wild-goose chase, and if Andrei were in any serious difficulty, surely he’d have enlisted Katya’s help. Eventually, though, I realized I didn’t have a choice. Katya’s right that I owe her, and I’m concerned about Andrei. I booked a flight for the next evening and then called Tigger, hoping he might be able to track down the clerk Katya had mentioned, the one who’d been fired with Andrei. The clerk’s bound to know what happened, and I’d rather know what Andrei’s done—or what he’s been accused of doing—before I knock on his door.
“Hey,” Tigger says, settling one haunch on a just-vacated bar stool. “How you doin’?”
“Good. Thanks for finding this guy so quick.”
“No problem. I used to play Catholic-league basketball with the head of Turndale’s back office when I was a kid.”
“The fathers recruited Jewish kids?”
“The fathers wanted to win,” Tigger says deadpan. “Besides, it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where they could worry too much about who mighta killed who.”
It’s no surprise that Tigger knows the head of Turndale’s back office. Thirty years ago, all the Wall Street firms staffed the skilled clerical jobs collectively referred to as “the back office” with Jews and Italians from Brooklyn high schools. Neighborhood ties transcended corporate rivalries, and back office staff up and down the Street quietly cooperated to make sure business flowed smoothly and everybody’s cousins were employed. The smartest kids, like Tigger, occasionally got promoted to lucrative seats on the trading desks next to Yalies and Princetonians, thus achieving the American dream in a single generation. With the rise of professional managers like Eve Lemonde, though, all the firms instituted new hiring policies, ensuring that street-smart guys who never went to college couldn’t get a foot in the door, and purging the residual Brooklyn staff because, among other sins, they’d resisted “professional” management. The goombah network isn’t what it used to be, but Tigger still knows people to call at most of the big Wall Street houses.
“What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask Tigger, glancing over my shoulder. His table companion is mopping olive oil off a plate with a hunk of bread.
“Tony Pongo.”
“Is he going to talk to me?”
“Turndale made him sign a confidentiality agreement when he got canned. But he’s workin’ on a water glass of grappa, and I told him you were a stand-up guy, so he’ll probably talk if you ask right and promise not to blab.”
“If he doesn’t pass out first,” I say, seeing Pongo take a big hit from his glass.
“Nah. Pongo’s a paisan. He’ll get a little weepy maybe, but he won’t keel over.”
“Thanks, Tigger. I appreciate the help.”
“Anytime, Peter. You mind if I ask you a question?”
I’m not used to hearing Tigger sound tentative. I rest one elbow on a corner of the bar like a guy with all the time in the world, hoping the waiter doesn’t fill Pongo’s glass again.
“Shoot.”
“Did you sign a confidentiality agreement?”
“No. Klein’s been chasing me for one, but I’ve been tossing their mail just to piss them off. Why?”
“I was embarrassed to tell you,” he says. “I got a lawyer. We filed suit against Klein for age discrimination about six weeks ago.”
I can’t help laughing. He looks hurt for a second and then smiles.
“You spent the last decade on double-secret probation for diversity violations and you turned out to be a minority yourself?” I say. “How’s it feel?”
“Like the white man owes me reparations,” Tigger booms in bass tones. We both crack up, the hostess frowning as heads turn in our direction.
“You want me to do a deposition?” I ask when I’ve caught my breath. Like every other senior manager on Wall Street, I’ve been involved in a number of legal wrangles with departing staff, learning a fair bit about employment law in the process.
“We haven’t gotten that far. We’ve been tryin’ to subpoena my file, but Lemonde’s a lawyer, and they’re claiming it’s all privileged work product. You were on the Human Resources Committee.”
“I didn’t save any documents.”
“What about e-mail?”
“Firm policy is to erase anything older than three months.”
“Yeah, but you saved it, right?”
“Of course. I’ve got a couple of gig on my hard drive, going back three or four years.”
“Is there anything that would help me?”
I take a sip of water, thinking. It’s hard to separate my recollection of things Lemonde actually said or wrote and things she only intimated with her penciled brow.
“Probably,” I say, “but getting the mail from me isn’t going to help you with the privilege issue. You’ve got to get the court to admit it as evidence.”
“My lawyer thinks we might persuade the judge if you waive your privilege.”
“What privilege?”
“Lemonde says she was actin’ as a lawyer, and she sent you mail, so that makes you her client. You can waive the client privilege.”
Tigger starts bouncing a little on his stool, gleeful at the thought of outwitting Klein.
“Is that going to work?” I ask dubiously.
“Who knows?” Tigger says. “But suddenly they’re arguin’ why we shouldn’t be able to use stuff we already got
, instead of us arguin’ they should give us stuff we’ve never seen. We’d be doin’ even better if you signed on as a claimant. That would really confuse things. The law covers anyone over forty.”
“It’s going to take a lot of chutzpah to argue Klein fired me because of my age.”
“We can always drop you later. It’s just to get the documents admitted.”
“Your lawyer’s got big balls,” I say, shaking my head admiringly. “Who’s representing you?”
“My daughter, Rachel,” he says, grinning.
“Mazel tov.” I laugh again. Tigger’s lawsuit is the reason Klein’s been pressing me to sign their documents. Lemonde isn’t stupid. She must’ve anticipated Tigger would turn to me for help. “Have Rachel draw up a retainer appointing her to represent me on this and you’re welcome to do whatever helps your case.”
Tigger slips an envelope and a pen from his blazer pocket and offers them to me. The envelope contains a retainer printed on his daughter’s letterhead.
“I should’ve known,” I say, shaking my head as I sign and hand the letter back. “My laptop’s over at the Harvard Club. I’ll burn the mail to CDs after lunch and leave them at the front desk under your name.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
“Seriously, though. Have you thought about this? If you sue Klein, you’ll never work on the Street again. I know you don’t need the cash, so why bother?”
“You’ll laugh.”
“Probably.”
Tigger smiles and then looks away.
“Tell me the truth, Petey. All the bullshit aside, did I ever not give anyone a fair shake?”
“Bullshit aside, you’ve always been square with everyone.”
“And did I do a good job?”
“You made money every year, and you trained half the guys on the floor, including me. Frankly, with both of us gone, I think Klein’s in deep shit.”
“So why’d they can me?”
I’m not sure what to tell him.
“Because your ties are a fire hazard?”
“Because I’m old school,” Tigger says bitterly. “That’s why I’m suing them. Because being discriminated against sucks.”
11
PONGO’S BABY-FACED, in his late fifties, and wearing a double-breasted gray suit and yellow tie over a pink shirt with white collar and cuffs, the top button undone to give his fleshy cheeks room to breathe. He’s got a salt-and-pepper Valentino mustache and long, dark eyelashes. Up close, his rug looks like a hibernating squirrel. I settle into Tigger’s empty chair, extending a hand and saying my name.
“Tony Pongo,” he replies. “Tigger left?”
“He had some errands to run.”
“Listen,” Tony says, taking a sip of grappa. “He told me you was lookin’ for Andrei. I don’t know where he is, or how to get hold of him. Last time I seen him was three months ago.”
“So tell me about Moscow.”
“Whadda you care about Moscow?”
“I’m flying over tonight. I’d like to know more about Turndale’s setup there. What Andrei was doing, who worked in the office. That kind of thing.”
“Good luck in that fuckin’ place.” He shakes his head doubtfully. “Turndale finds out I’m talkin’ to you and they’re gonna fuck with my pension.”
“Why should they care?”
His pinkie ring flashes as he taps pudgy fingers nervously on the white tablecloth, not answering. I need to get him started.
“How’d you end up in Moscow?” I ask.
Tony sighs, letting his shoulders slump. “I’m a fuckin’ babbo,” he says. “An idiot. Turndale moved some of the back office to Tampa. I figure the weather is better and I got nuthin keeping me here, so I put my hand up for a transfer. Big fuckin’ mistake. What they teach you in the army is right: Don’t volunteer for nuthin.”
I laugh appreciatively and he smirks.
“You put in for Florida and they gave you Moscow? Somebody doesn’t like you, Tony.”
“They blew so much smoke up my ass. ‘We need a guy that knows what’s what. We’ll give you more money. We’ll pay for your house. It’ll be good for your pension. It’s only gonna be a coupla years.’ Yada yada yada. Shit. Fuckin’ winter every day, nuthin to drink but potato wine, and food like you get in jail. And the girls. The ones under twenty-five are younger than my daughters, and I got a rule about that. The problem is the ones over twenty-five look like they should be chasin’ tin rabbits at the track.” His hands fly as he speaks. Tony’s an entertainer.
“What was your job?”
“Just the same as here in New York. I confirmed positions, checked out trades, instructed money, proofread confirms, all the usual shit.”
“Did Andrei talk to you much about what he was doing?”
“Not for nuthin, but I didn’t care. I’m just doin’ my job and waitin’ out the time. I can tell you what the paperwork said, but that’s about it.”
“Was the paperwork clean?”
“Always. We got no problems. Everybody in London is very happy with me, tellin’ me I’m doin’ a good job and all that shit.”
“Was the paperwork telling the real story?”
Pongo hunches forward conspiratorially.
“You mean was Andrei takin’ a skim or somethin’?”
“Right.”
“The paperwork was tight, but Moscow’s a wild place. Everybody’s mobbed up. Fuckin’ place makes Brooklyn look like the Upper East Side. Ya gotta do business to do business,” he says, rubbing his thumb against his first two fingers, “but I don’t know nuthin for sure.”
An elderly waiter settles a shrimp cocktail in front of Tony and then looks at me questioningly.
“Nothing for me right now,” I say as Tony tucks a corner of his oversized linen napkin into his collar. The waiter nods politely and vanishes.
“You’re missin’ out,” Tony says, his mouth already full. “The food here is the best.”
“I already ate. So tell me. What was going on that the firm didn’t like? Why did everything get shut down?”
Tony shrugs, holding a half-eaten shrimp by its tail fastidiously. I let the silence develop, but he seems perfectly comfortable, concentrating on his food.
“Did Andrei seem worried about anything?” I ask, trying a different tack.
“No idea,” Tony says, swallowing. “Fuckin’ guy was a mystery wrapped in a riddle. Smiled and said hi and that was about it.”
I’m positive Tony knows why William fired Andrei. It’s just a matter of asking the right questions.
“Tell me about the office.”
Tony wipes his hands and frowns.
“You couldn’t park four cars in it. Andrei’s got an office and there’s a conference room. I got a desk and the fat Russian broad that answered the phones had a desk. An extra desk for people that might visit. Nuthin special.”
“Did anyone visit?”
“Nah. Who in their right mind would go to that fucked-up place? The secretary had a kid that used to come in and do stuff sometimes. A real mook. Ya know what I mean?”
“What did the kid do?”
“He fooled around with the computers. Andrei had a car. Sometimes the kid drove him places. Other stuff maybe.”
“What’s the secretary’s name?”
“Olga Guskof.”
“And the kid’s?”
“I dunno. He had a big metal ring through his face. Whadda I want to know about him?”
Tony’s a little bit too loud. It doesn’t feel right that he wouldn’t know the kid’s name in an office that small. I hesitate, wondering what I’m missing. He dips another shrimp in cocktail sauce.
“Did you hear Andrei talking on the phone much?”
“I didn’t pay no attention. It was mostly Russian anyway.”
“Tell me about the phone system.”
“Whaddya mean? They were phones.”
“You taped everything, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
; “How long did you keep the tapes?”
“Coupla months maybe. Olga handled it.”
“Where’d you keep the tapes?”
“I dunno. It wasn’t my job.”
“Tony.”
He stares down into his empty bowl, cocktail sauce in his mustache. I know he’s lying. I just have to figure out why.
“The office wasn’t big enough for her to fart without you smelling it. Right? That’s what you said. What do you mean you don’t know where she kept the tapes?”
He shrugs again, not looking up.
“Didn’t you ever have to listen to the tapes?”
“What kind of fuckin’ questions are these?” he asks angrily, pulling the napkin from his collar and throwing it on the table. “What do I know where some fat-ass Russian broad I wouldn’t fuck with your dick kept a bunch of goddamned tapes. This is bullshit.”
“No, Tony,” I say, catching his wrist firmly as he gets up from his chair. “What you’re telling me is bullshit. What kind of fucking hump do you think I am? Tigger told you I was a stand-up guy, and he told me the same thing about you. I’m not going to make him a liar, so why are you?”
He glares at me, looking like the kind of guy who got beat up a lot as a kid.
“Listen,” I say, releasing my grip and trying to sound conciliatory. “Andrei’s a friend of mine. His sister and I are worried about him. I just need you to tell me what was going on. Nobody else has to know anything about it.”
“Shit,” Tony says, his mouth working unhappily. He turns away and stomps off toward the bathroom, leaving his coat check on the table. At least I know he’s coming back. Frank sings “My Way” while I wait. I make it even money that Tony either spills his guts or tells me to fuck off.
Tony’s face is damp and he smells of fresh cologne when he returns. “Okay,” he says, sinking heavily into his chair. “I got my own reason for talkin’ to you, but you gotta give me your word that everthin’ I tell you is between you and me.”
“Done,” I say, shaking his hand again.
He takes a big slug of grappa and then leans toward me, speaking in a hoarse whisper, as if afraid Turndale might have spies in the restaurant.
“I never moved to Moscow.”