by Jason Pinter
“It’s under the bed, doll.” He smiled at Paulina’s grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the bed.
“Take it.”
“What’s that for?”
“Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn’t matter.”
He looked at the money. “Really, you don’t have to.”
“Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I listened to you whine about your mean parents, your crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don’t think you’ll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go home.”
He watched her for a moment, looked at the money. “Thank you,” he said. “But you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”
Paulina’s mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her lips. “Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just repeated what you’ve been blabbing about all night? If you don’t like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you didn’t fuck Mitsy for a decade, you’d keep that irrelevant streak of yours going. So you don’t want to believe the truth? Then, buddy, don’t read the newspaper. But if you want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn’t hurt you any more than your life hurts you.”
“See,” Myron said. “That’s what I mean. Most women, when you give them an orgasm, they don’t treat you like you’re a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something. Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it didn’t exist.”
“Listen, Myron. You’re a sweet guy. But sweet guys get as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master wants to feed you, but pretty soon you’re a nuisance and not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a bitch, well, I’d rather be a bitch than a pussy.”
Myron stared at her. “I’m looking forward to reading the article.”
Paulina nodded. “It’ll be a good one, I promise you that much. I’ll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered to you first thing Sunday morning.” Then she strode across the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron. “And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I’ll run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks.”
“My what?”
“Exactly.”
“Even you wouldn’t stoop so low,” Myron said, though he looked unconvinced.
“Try me,” Paulina replied. “I love it when people think they’re calling my bluff.”
Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.
21
By three o’clock, my legs were growing stiff. We’d watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We’d taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And even worse, worried.
Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like Petrovsky.
At four o’clock, Amanda asked, “Do you think we might have missed him?”
I shook my head. “I hope not. Let’s make sure.”
I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a woman’s voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would be available for any more appointments today.
“I’m sorry, sir, he’s got two more patients scheduled for this afternoon, then he’ll be out again until Monday.”
“Do you have any idea what time he’ll be finished with his patients?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, but if you want to come in next week I’d be happy to schedule you for an appointment.”
“No, thanks, I’ll call back later.” I hung up. “He’s still there, but probably not for much longer.”
Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just a little stiff.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Nah, thanks, though.”
For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, just something else that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only when they ended that I realized their significance.
“Henry, look,” Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the direction of the entrance. “There he is.”
Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait. He’d changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried that the argument would escalate and our whole plan would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue Nissan.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Take my tape recorder out of my bag.” She did so. “Now turn it on.”
She clicked the record button.
I said, “I want to record the directions. Just in case.”
“Smart,” Amanda said.
I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights on Petrovsky’s car turn red before I edged out of the parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.
“What if he sees us?” Amanda said.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t.”
Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky’s Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.
Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp that led away from Yardley. I stayed far enough behind that it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror. Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the road, the car and what would happen next.
When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind. There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept pace, threatening to give us away.
After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it. I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky closely. I could make out the man hunched over the steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we were being cautious, keeping out of sight.
I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds decreasing as the road became more residential. The doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after, leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.
We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all I could make out of Petrovsky’
s car were the taillights. The faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this night would end.
About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow, had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up before losing him among the turns.
“There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re following him,” Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. “No way.”
I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the recorder and kept driving.
We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair, casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us, felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer this chase would last.
Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one dimly lit. I couldn’t see any houses on either side. There were no lamps. It was just him and us.
I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder, “Turned right onto Huntley Terrace.”
Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we’d driven a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.
“Henry,” Amanda said. “What is that?”
I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled the property within. The woods were thick on either side. I couldn’t see anything beyond them.
“Oh, fuck,” I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he approached.
“What now?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I’m scared,” she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep going.
I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed a residential area. They were protecting a single home. Was this where Petrovsky lived?
When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited, unsure of what to do.
And after a minute of waiting, I realized something strange.
The gates hadn’t closed.
They were wide open.
Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.
“Too late to turn back,” I said.
I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates. I still couldn’t see anything beyond them, but as I got closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky’s brake lights.
I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped as I heard the metal sounds again.
The gates were closing behind us.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Amanda said. “We should go.”
“We can’t now,” I said. “Let’s just see what’s what.”
As I continued down the path, Petrovsky’s Nissan came into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness, but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire property. It confused me. The wall wasn’t high enough that an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone smaller from getting out.
Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was waiting for us.
I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan, then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.
“Stay here,” I said to Amanda.
“The hell with that,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.
We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.
As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me. I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.
“Dr. Petrovsky,” I said. “It’s Henry Parker. I know you saw us following you. I’m sorry to approach you under these circumstances, but I have more questions.”
“Yes, Mr. Parker,” the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. “I am very sorry, too.”
I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and then everything swam away.
22
I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below. My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back into the brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.
Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God, where was she?
I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t reach the rope that bound my hands.
Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I stopped moving.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine. I’m sorry my associate had to restrain you, but I promise it’s for your own good.” The voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker’s voice.
“Who are you?” I said. “Come over here so I can see you, asshole.”
“Listen to you, talking as though you’re holding all the cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up.”
I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.
I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man’s face. I couldn’t see much detail, but he looked to be in his late fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.
“Come on!” I shouted. “What do you want?”
“What do I want,” the man said. He flicked away the cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The room wasn’t dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes. If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn’t the most intimidating one. The man approached me, took another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep drag.
Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his lips and held it out.
“Want a puff?”
“Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a butt that was just in some strange asshole’s mouth.”
“You sure? It
’s a Chesterfield.”
“Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself.”
The man shrugged, took another puff.
“I haven’t smoked another brand in over thirty years. You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things in life without knowing where it came from. Who made it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I smoked. Now I can’t get enough of ’em. Ironic, ’swhat it is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap like that and never listened to her. I’d say, baby, because one’s interesting, and one ain’t.”
I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I stayed alive.
“Chesterfields started to become popular back in the day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by saying, ‘This is Arthur buy-’em-by-the-carton Godfrey!’ Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty soon that’s all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was good enough for the fighting men and women of this country was good enough for him.”
The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better look at him.
His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten. The crow’s-feet at his eyes actually made him look handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven, wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn’t been stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto the floor.
My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn’t be much help.
“Where is she?” I said.