by Thomas Swan
“Let me see your cards,” he said crisply.
Not since he picked up his hand ten minutes before had Vasily Karsalov smiled. Now a grin broke and widened as he put his cards on the table, first a king, then four jacks. The others, except Deryabin, seemed to relax, the tension broken.
“Very good,” Deryabin said. “But—” He flipped the three of diamonds to the side, then lay four queens next to Vasily’s four jacks.
There was utter silence, as palpable as the tension had been seconds before. It was broken when the chairs scratched over the wood floor as Baletsky and Akimov pushed back from the table. Prekhner got on his feet, sobered by what he had seen, his eyes wide. He looked at Vasily, held out his hand and tried to speak. But nothing came. He put on his coat. So did the others and they left without a further word.
Deryabin took the stack of ruble notes and divided it equally. He put a half in each of his coat pockets. Next he put the Imperial egg back in its box, closed it, then cradled it in his left arm. He reached the door, paused, then turned and went back to the table. Vasily had not moved, his eyes still staring blankly at the cards that lay face up on the table.
Deryabin said, “It was a good bet, Vasily Nikolaiyvich, but you went too far.” He took fifty rubles from his pocket and dropped them on top of the four jacks.
“For your son.” His little smile had never faded. “For Mikhail.”
Chapter 4
“Mike’s a lucky bastard,” the driver of the polo green Cadillac said to the man beside her, pushing away strands of hair of an indefinable color though red might come first to mind. Under the hair were eyes that contact lenses made bulge slightly, eyes that were alert and moved quickly, that were highlighted by a skillfully applied razor-thin line of dark brown. She was attractive, not pretty, but might have been, now forty-something.
“The weather’s perfect,” she said as if it were a fact she didn’t want to admit, “and the radio said it would stay that way all weekend.”
The man, even in the big car, seemed squeezed into the passenger seat. He was long, nearly six and a half feet long. He was also in his early forties and beginning to lose hair on the very top of his head. As if to compensate, he was cultivating a new mustache that he constantly rubbed as if it itched. He wore glasses but they were usually dangling from a gold chain around his neck. He said, “Is he always lucky about picking opening dates?”
“Always,” the driver said, her voice a two-pack-a-day Marlboro kind, husky and filled with the sounds of New York, of Brooklyn leavened with a tincture of the Bronx. “Mike picks dates out of his scrotum for grand openings and never fails to have great weather. Never!”
The driver of the brand-new Seville STS knew about this because she had planned the PR and advertising strategy for seventeen grand openings in seven Eastern states over a four-year period and in that time it had sprinkled once, on a Saturday afternoon when the food, soft drinks, and customers were about to run out at the same time.
“There’s the LIE,” the man said.
The car turned smoothly onto the ramp, circled around, and merged with trailers headed east on the Long Island Expressway.
“What’s this Mike guy all about?” The man exuded an air of superciliousness, as if whoever he talked to or about was a couple of degrees beneath him. He fished out a small tape recorder from his shirt pocket. “Mind if I use this, Patsy?”
“Go ahead.”
Patsy was Patricia Mulcahy Abromowitz, product of a fiery Irish mother and a staid Jewish father who claimed the blood of a thousand accountants in his ancestry. Patsy was blessed with the best of both, particularly the same pretty skin of her mother, the same feistiness, yet tempered by her father’s calm.
“First off, you call him Mr. Carson when you meet him, even though he’s younger. And, Lenny, if he likes you, he’ll ask you to call him Mike.”
Leonard Sulzberger, no relation to the famous Times family, had been with the Bridgeport Post Telegram, then the New York Post and now was freelance, commissioned by Patsy to write a profile on the man who pulled the dates for his grand openings from deep inside him, and who had become one of the most successful automobile retailers in the United States at an incredibly young age. He was an all-American success story: hardworking, good-looking, even celebrated his birthday on November 22 when much of the country commemorated the tragic death of JFK. He was nearly too good to be true, but it was true that Mike Carson was a Russian who had emigrated to London when he was fourteen years old armed with a vocabulary of exactly seven English words. There were other bits of information about Mike Carson in the three closely printed pages Sulzberger scanned.
“ This says his name is Mike Carson. That it? Just plain old Mike . . . not Michael?”
“He was born Mikhail Vasilyovich Karsalov. Ran off to London when he was fourteen, and after he had learned to speak English without a trace of a Russian accent he changed his name. Someone told him that Mike had an all-American ring to it, so Mikhail became Mike and Karsalov became Carson. Vasilyovich means ‘son of Vasily,’ but Mike will have nothing to do with his father. He once told me he thinks his father was in the navy, was booted out, and sent off to some dreadful place near Mongolia. Doesn’t know if he’s alive or dead.”
“His mother?”
She shook her head. “Mike’s mother was sick when he was a kid. I don’t know if it was physical or mental. Both, maybe. Whatever it was, she wasn’t well, and then she was gone. Just like that . . . out of his life. He’s never told me much more than that.”
“A little weird, right?” Lenny said.
“Hm, yeah. But Mike’s a normal guy. You’d never guess his background. He has an uncle, mother’s side, in London who he likes, and that’s all I know about his family, and more than you need to know.” Patsy gave Lenny Sulzberger a stern glance. “Don’t ask about family, it’s not part of the Mike Carson story.”
“Brothers, sisters?”
“You’re not paying attention, Lenny. No family.”
“I’m asking you, not him,” Lenny said testily. “The better I know him, the better I can write about him.”
Patsy Abromowitz accelerated into the fast lane. “Okay, he’s an only kid. That better?”
“You said he speaks perfect English. You don’t mean that, do you?”
“I do mean it and I think you should make something out of it. I’ve got eighteen years of school but talk like a sixth grader in the Bronx. Mike Carson sounds like he grew up in the middle of Oxford University. And he’s not the first to do it. Robert Maxwell, the English publisher, did the same. I heard one of his speeches, couldn’t believe he’d been born and raised in Czechoslovakia. He had a voice like Laurence Olivier.”
Lenny considered what he had heard. “Mike Carson was sixteen when he arrived in Brighton Beach . . . the late 1970s. How come Brighton Beach?”
“That’s where the Russians went. He had been brought up Orthodox if he had been brought up anything, but here he was in America in a Jewish community. Actually he went to a Catholic church when he first arrived. To meet people, not for the religion. I’m not sure he has any religion, though he seems ethical enough.” She paused, then added, “He’s damned ethical.”
Carson Cadillac & Oldsmobile occupied a glass-enclosed building that, from a distance, resembled a luxury greenhouse not quite the size of the Pontiac Silverdome, and was situated in a row of automobile dealers on Northern Boulevard near Roslyn, and convenient to the upscale communities that lined that part of northern Long Island. It was dealership Number 24, a number Mike Carson considered lucky, but then Mike had learned when he opened his first used-car lot on Coney Island Avenue consisting of a half-acre lot, six bare bulbs, and a handpainted sign that the number he assigned each of his dealerships was a lucky number. Now, Carson Motors Inc. had showrooms in Boston, Washington, Atlanta, Jacksonville, and St. Petersburg, Florida, selling Ford, Dodge, Jeep, Chrysler, Oldsmobile, Buick, and Cadillac. There were six car-rental franchises and three t
ruck-leasing operations to round out the privately held company that in the previous year had grossed slightly less than a half billion dollars. Not bad for a man about to be thirty-five who didn’t go to school in this country until he was sixteen, who finished high school two years later, then got a bachelor’s from Long Island University in three years, and all the while holding down two jobs.
Banners and metalized streamers glistened in the late-May afternoon sun, creating the kind of loud, glitzy show that had somehow been institutionalized by American car dealers, as if a display in quiet, good taste might fail to attract attention, or heaven forbid, send the wrong message to potential buyers. And so there was hype and bright lights, with pigs-in-a-blanket and Swedish meatballs next to a bar where the strongest drink was Coke Classic. It was American all right, that fabled love affair with the automobile continuing, but an anachronism nonetheless. In the showroom were Cadillacs and full-sized Oldsmobiles with prices beginning at twenty thousand and going up to sixty-five-thousand-plus for the Cadillac Fleetwood that weighed in at nearly two tons and could be propelled from 0 to 60 in 7.8 seconds by a 295 horsepower Northstar engine.
Patsy Abromowitz’s Seville had dealer plates, which meant she was waved into VIP parking. Lenny’s eyes took in all the sights, then his ears were assaulted by the Top 20 hits blasted over a dozen speakers and interrupted by the rapid-fire voice of a local radio DJ broadcasting live from the showroom floor, urging everyone (eighteen and older) to enter the giant sweepstakes that promised a grand prize of a week at a deluxe motel in St. Petersburg, Florida, free airplane tickets, five thousand in spending money, and an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible which the lucky winner would claim at Carson Olds & Pontiac, located a hundred yards from the motel.
A pair of clowns, one female and one male, watched over the kiddies while mother and dad were shown the newest in automotive luxury. In the evening, the New York commuters came in larger numbers, the ones who lived in Glen Cove and Oyster Bay, the ones with the real money. Patricia’s advertising agency had scouted the territory and mailed expensive invitations to homes in the correct zip codes; the research department predicted, based on previous history, that 2,734 adults and 3,411 children would visit the showroom during the three-day grand opening.
Patsy grabbed hold of Lenny’s arm and ushered him past young men and women dressed in the Carson uniform, gray slacks or skirts and maroon blazers, each wearing a badge with name and title, all smiling broadly as they handed out grand opening packets that contained product literature, service specials, and sweepstakes entries. Then the two went by a Cutlass Supreme convertible that overflowed with balloons and gift boxes wrapped in gold and silver, and with a sign suspended over it that said the car was the Sweepstakes Grand Prize. Flanking the car were two stunning models wearing dangerously brief bathing suits, one in Carson gray, the other in Carson maroon. Lenny was momentarily dazed by the immensity and cluttered noisiness. Patricia’s expression was watchful, searching for mistakes, of ways to do things better the next time.
“Over there,” she said, pointing to the escalator that connected to a mezzanine. Her badge contained her photograph, and the word “Executive” across the bottom assured entrance past a huge man wearing a size 50 extra-long blazer. Dennis LeGrande had recently retired from his position as defensive tackle with the New York Giants, and though he was in training to become a Personal Transportation Consultant, his assignment during the grand opening was as a kind of marshal. He was anchored at the foot of the escalator to keep the kids from running up the down steps, and vice versa.
Patsy said, “Mike’s waiting for us, and remember, it’s Mr. Carson.”
On the mezzanine, eight clusters of desks, chairs, and low cabinets surrounded the communications center, each work station separated by leafy plants or small trees in pots. Along the inside wall were private offices, none large, except for one that had a commanding view of the showroom below, and in the doorway to that office stood two women and two men in their company blazers talking animatedly. They gave way to a man who came out of the office, paused briefly, then seeing Patsy, walked toward her, one hand held high, waving to her.
“Let ’s go.” Patsy smiled broadly and waved back. “There’s your man.”
Lenny studied the man as he walked toward him, a surprised look on his face, as if the man he saw was not what he expected. But what had he expected? Did Mike Carson look too ordinary? Was his hair receding, or was his hair an early gray or very blond? Were his teeth crooked or was there a gap to one side, a small but noticeable gap? Did he look younger then thirty-five as Patsy said he would be on the 22nd of November?
“This is Leonard Sulzberger,” Patsy said efficiently.
Mike Carson’s smile was still in place. “Welcome, Mr. Sulzberger, Patsy told me you were a good writer.” His hand went out.
“Hi, Mr. Carson,” Lenny said with a firm voice, certain not to make an immediate mistake. “I’m very happy to meet you.” His hand caught hold of Mike’s and he shook it affirmatively.
There was too much about Mike Carson’s background that did not comport with the way he came across in the flesh. In every respect he seemed regular or average, nothing at first meeting glistened or stood out. The thinning hair Lenny thought he saw was, in fact, a heavy thatch of blond, the kind most women would kill for. Then his face, his features. All standard except when looked at individually were better than average; strong nose, alert, solidly blue eyes, an expressive mouth with even a tiny cleft in the chin. And yes, there was a small gap in the teeth on his left side, but a minor flaw. He stood five eleven, no flab at the waist. His voice was solid, and if there was any accent at all, it was Rochester, New York, or was it Ogden, Utah? This, in spite of having spoken only Russian until he was fourteen? But something else. A supremely confident aura surrounded Mike Carson. He seemed relaxed and mature, traits that usually came from a secure and wellprovided environment, not from a broken family, or from a youngster who had emigrated on his own terms when he had barely reached his teens.
Mike’s hand went to his side. “I’ll call you Leonard, and you call me Mike. Okay?”
“Okay, but make it Lenny. That’s what everyone calls me. Can we talk now? Is that good for you?”
“Whatever Patsy says.”
Patsy said, “Sooner you get started, the sooner it will be over.”
“Before we do anything, let me show you the store. It’s our newest design, something you might use in your story.”
They were about to go down to the main floor when a loud squabble broke out at the bottom of the escalator. Dennis LeGrande and a small, balding man were jawing at each other, the man obviously frustrated in his attempt to make himself understood, but unable to find English words to help his cause.
“What’s the problem, Denny?” Mike looked curiously at the man, who started to scramble up the steps toward him.
The man broke into an enthusiastic smile. “Mikhail! Mikhail Vasilyovich—myenya zavut Sasha Akimov.”
For a split moment Mike Carson was confounded, then greeted the newcomer warily. “Akimov, it’s a surprise to—” He didn’t complete the sentence, instead, he took hold of the man’s arm. He called over to Patty Abromowitz and Lenny Sulzberger.
“An old friend of the family. It shouldn’t take long.”
Sliding glass panels completely covered one side of the office that was Mike’s when he visited the dealership, an office with a conference table, and a view past the floor-to-ceiling glass to the showroom immediately below. It was there that Mike took his unexpected guest, repeating that he was surprised by the visit.
Akimov said, in Russian, “I am not good with English, will you speak in Russian?”
Mike nodded his grudging reluctance. Akimov spoke rapidly, spilling out a polite and more formal greeting, one he had probably rehearsed during the long journey, moving all the while to the wall of glass, where he stared intently down at the growing crowd. Mike watched, amused.
“Ar
e you expecting someone?”
Akimov said he was not, then retreated to the table where he produced a package out of which came a bottle of vodka. “A toast, Mikhail?”
“I am not Mikhail,” Mike said forcefully. “I am called Michael. Mike Carson . . . not Karsalov, not Vasilyovich.”
Akimov took two glasses from the tray on the conference table and poured vodka into both and handed one to Mike. He proposed a toast to their reunion and drained his glass. Mike sipped. Akimov was a surprisingly small man, smaller even as he had aged. His body was no longer stout, but more like that of a young boy, and covered with a dull, wrinkled gray suit that was brightened by a row of military ribbons pinned above the breast pocket and a necktie that lay against a shirt with frayed collar and cuffs.
He refilled his glass and toasted to Mike’s success, then said, “Please, you sit, and allow me to tell you why I have come to New York. And please, also, allow me to call you Mikhail, as that is the name I knew you to have, even on the night you were born.” He gave a warm, paternal smile. “You will be Mike when I go away.”
Mike glanced quickly at his watch, then at the door to be certain it was closed, and sat back and sighed, the merest hint of an ironic smile on his lips. “Mikhail,” he whispered to himself.
“I knew your mother also,” Akimov continued. “Anna was very pretty, and very proud of you. But there was a bad feeling between your mother and father, so deep it caused them to fall away from each other. Do you know?”
“My father was never good to her, always forgetting and getting drunk, spending money. There was nothing I could do.”
“Too much of this.” Akimov lifted the bottle of vodka, then set it down noisily. “Do you know what happened to your father?”
Mike’s eyes strayed from Akimov. “He was sent away, I never knew why. To a Central Asian country I recall.”