by Greg Smith
“If we meet,” Aleks said, trying not to sound as though he was teasing her.
Connie was getting exasperated.
“Look Aleks, someone is going to manage this fund for me. And make a nice profit doing so. I just thought you’d be interested.”
Aleks hesitated. He wondered whether his sexy sister-in-law wanted him for business. Or just wanted him. He knew she was dangerous. But he liked dangerous. And he did want the business. He also believed he could play along, have some fun, keep things under control.
“Did you have somewhere in mind?”
They met at La Caravelle, one of Connie’s favorite restaurants. She wore a low-cut, sleeveless white dress and high-heeled pumps. She was stunning. Aleks couldn’t help but think, again, that his brother had married way out of his league.
“Aleks,” she said demurely, offering a hand and curtseying ever so slightly.
Aleks took Connie’s hand, kissed it flippantly, spoke with an exaggerated accent.
“Muh-dahm.”
They sat, ordered drinks. Connie instructed their waiter to stay sharp, keep the drinks coming.
“Every three minutes for the first three rounds. Then every ten for the next three. After that…we’ll let you know.”
After that? Aleks wondered how many rounds this “business” meeting would require.
Talking money was a turn-on for Aleks. He could spit out information about market capitalization, risk analysis, net asset value, price-to-earnings ratio and other investment jargon as easily as a first-grader recites the alphabet.
Connie Stanton had cut her teeth on investment portfolios. She wasn’t impressed, or intimidated, by money talk. She couldn’t have cared less about the particulars of one fund versus another. Rates of return bored her to tears. She understood the single, most important, principle about high finance. That people like her – people who had money – used people like Aleks – people who needed money – to turn their money into more money.
For Connie, dinner conversation was foreplay. She liked to drop sexual innuendos, tease with her words.
They quickly finished with the requisite small talk. Aleks asked his sister-in-law what it was, exactly, she wanted him to do for her. Connie feigned embarrassment, waved her hand as though fanning herself.
“Oh my, that’s a loaded question!” she exclaimed, with false modesty. “I hadn’t scripted this out.”
I doubt that, Aleks thought.
Connie struck him as a woman well-versed in the arts of manipulation and conspiracy. Among others.
“Asset allocation-wise,” he stressed, sitting back, crossing one long leg over the other, taking a sip of his Scotch and water.
Always in control, Connie smiled demurely. She sampled her Pear Martini, found it up to her standards, emptied the glass. As if on cue, Todd, their waiter, appeared with two fresh drinks. Connie thanked him, sampled the second Pear Martini, found it to be as tasty as the first. Still on his initial Scotch and water, Aleks indicated for Todd to place his second drink on the table in front of him.
“I’ll allocate as much of my ass…ets as you can handle, Aleks, darling,” Connie said.
“Connie. You’re my brother’s wife. Can we just stick to the real reason we’re here. To set–”
“Why are you here, Aleks?” Connie asked suggestively.
She’d slipped her shoe off, was rubbing his leg with her bare foot.
“Why did you accept my invitation? You have accepted my invitation, haven’t you? I mean, showing up is the same as saying ‘yes.’”
That she was so straightforward was something Aleks found especially attractive about his brother’s wife. Not that she was all business, no games. Connie Stanton was all about playing games.
He tried to retain his demeanor. To not give this minx the upper hand. He was always the one who remained cucumber cool. The one in control. Intentionally milking the moment, he slowly finished his first drink, started on the second, before answering casually.
“I said ‘yes’ to this meeting, I said ‘yes’ to learning more about your financial needs. I said ‘yes’ to a good dinner, a couple of drinks, at a nice restaurant, with an attractive woman.” He paused to sip his drink. “I haven’t said ‘yes’ to anything else.”
“You haven’t said ‘no’ either,” the blond tease said defiantly. Then she laughed and added, “So, you find me attractive?”
Connie had actually blushed at the compliment.
“In a ‘you’re-my-brother’s-wife’ kind of way, sure. You’re an attractive woman, Connie. C’mon. You know that.”
“A woman still likes to hear it, Aleks. You haven’t learned that? With all the women you’ve been with? You haven’t learned the art of the compliment?”
Todd appeared with the third round, gathered up their empty glasses.
“Someone wants a good tip,” Connie winked at the waiter, who was obviously gay.
After he’d gone, she drawled, “To bad he’s a pillow biter. He’s cute.”
Aleks smirked, wondered if the beautiful blond temptress was trying to make him jealous.
“There haven’t been that many really. Women.”
Connie acted as though she wasn’t truly interested, was bored with the topic.
“How many, Aleks?” she asked indifferently. “How many notches on your bedpost? What’s your number?”
Aleks looked indifferent.
“I’d rather be with the same woman a thousand times than with a thousand women once each,” he said philosophically.
“What are you, a fucking politician?” Connie scoffed. “Your honor, please direct the defendant to answer the question.”
“What? I’m on trial now?”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Bagdasarian.”
“Objection. Counsel is badgering the witness.”
“Overruled. Answer the question.”
Aleks stalled, sipped his drink.
“I haven’t really bothered to keep track.”
“Still waiting.” Connie pretended boredom. “For a number, Aleks. C’mon. Just satisfy a girl’s curiosity.”
“You know what they say about curiosity…”
“If I were a fucking cat, I’d be concerned.” Connie tapped her watch. “Time’s a wastin’.”
Aleks sighed.
“If you must know… I’ve never really sat down, made a list... So, it’s just a ballpark estimate.”
“Jesus, Aleks. Spit it out, for chrissakes!”
“A dozen? Maybe.”
Connie’s look told him she didn’t believe him. Aleks couldn’t tell if she thought a dozen was high…or low.
“Is that a dozen dozen? Or a baker’s dozen?” she quipped.
“I don’t need any more bad luck,” Aleks said drolly. “I’ll go with the dozen dozen.”
He drained his third Scotch and water. Connie finished her third Pear Martini. Both were beginning to feel the euphoric effects of consuming three alcoholic beverages in less than fifteen minutes.
“Seven,” Connie declared, without provocation. “Honest injun.”
She held up her right hand, the pointer and middle fingers extended in what she thought was the Boy Scout salute.
“It’s scout’s honor,” Aleks informed her. “And it’s three fingers.”
Connie quickly erected her ring finger, making her two a threesome. She then dropped the two outside digits, leaving only the middle one standing.
“I was never a scout,” she said with feigned indifference. “Or an injun. Honest or otherwise.”
“So…seven, huh?”
Aleks held up both hands, fingers and thumbs spread wide, then closed and opened them rapidly three times to indicate he believed her number was much higher.
Connie’s look said she didn’t care whether or not Aleks believed her.
“Why is it that men always think a girl who likes to have a little fun…who enjoys a game of flirting…or has a bit of wit…is either promiscuous…or a cock tease?”
She swirled her tongue provocatively around the straw in her drink. Forming her lips like an ‘o,’ she moved her mouth up and down over it. Keeping her baby blues locked on Aleks’s dark brown eyes the entire time.
It took only another two rounds of drinks, and less than half an hour of conversational foreplay, before Aleks and Connie adjourned to the ladies’ room to complete their act of infidelity.
They’d never ordered dinner. Never discussed setting up Connie’s rainy day fund.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 48
Friday October 19: Day 39 post-9/11
Despite questioning his own sanity and whether or not he’d invented a false twin, Aleks was enthused about remembering his name. He’d spent the rest of that day at the library attempting to uncover anything he could about his past life. Unfortunately, his Internet skills were limited to entering a name or phrase into a search field, reviewing the results. He had no intimate knowledge of databases or browsers beyond the common search engines and news sites. His searches for Aleks Bagdasarian and A/S/B Financial yielded no definitive results. He didn’t have enough information about Binyak, Jills, Connie or the Muskolovs to even attempt further searches. He was still anxious to hear about the deaths of Sergei and Viktor, but wouldn’t get that story from Griggor until the end of the week. He was at a standstill.
Aleks now found the room he woke up in comfortably familiar. His mind was no longer a blank slate. It was more like a chalkboard that had been partially erased. Much of the handwriting was unreadable, or gone. But he could make out a word here, a phrase there.
His morning routine now included re-reading his index cards immediately after waking up. Refreshing his Swiss cheese memory. As he showered and dressed for the day, he’d mentally review everything he knew about himself.
He no longer found Griggor intimidating. True, the old man had a hard edge to him. But he was pleasant enough most of the time. The edge showing only when some line had been crossed. A line established by whatever code the old guy lived by.
Aleks found the old Romanian intriguing. He didn’t know much about him. Only that he’d been a doctor in Romania. That he wasn’t one here in the States. Not a legal doctor anyway. He came and went as he pleased. Didn’t seem to have a steady job, yet, was never at a loss for money. Aleks believed the old man was somehow connected to New York City’s seedy, underground criminal world.
“Nadia, what can you tell me about Griggor?” he asked the Romanian woman over breakfast. “His background. What he does here in the States. What does he do?”
Nadia had another early morning reading, was dressed in her Madam Magda outfit. Aleks was stricken by her green eyes, which seemed more intense whenever she was wearing her gypsy garb. She wasn’t bad looking for a woman her age. He found her somewhat attractive.
The Romanian woman didn’t respond at first, busied herself moving dishes from one surface of the kitchen to another before finally replying.
“Have you asked Griggor?”
“Uh, no. Griggor…uh, well, Griggor only tells what Griggor wants to tell. When Griggor wants to tell it.”
“Sounds like you’ve got Griggor pegged. He is…secretive.”
Aleks waited a few moments before pursuing his question.
“Well…?”
Nadia finished clearing the table, sat down across from the tall stranger.
“Griggor is like an uncle to me. He’s the father I never had. I don’t care what he’s done. Or what he does.”
“C’mon, Nadia. Give me something.”
“I only know that Griggor was a doctor in Romania. That he had a rough time there before he came to America. He loved someone. She died. I don’t know the details. Just that it was very hard on him.”
Aleks was surprised to learn that he and the old Romanian had something in common.
“He was Securitate,” Nadia added. “Romanian secret police.”
Secret police!
Aleks was astonished by the revelation.
Explains his constant questioning. Explains a lot, actually.
He mulled the information over.
“Did your ‘Touch’ thing tell you that?”
“No. My bunica…my grandmother. The original Madam Magda. She told me. I don’t know if Magda ever read Griggor, or if it was something he told her. They were cousins.”
“Have you ever gotten a reading from Griggor? Inadvertently? Accidentally on purpose maybe?”
“No. Griggor isn’t the kind of person who can easily be read.”
“Like me? Mr. Blank Slate. Still no readings from me?”
He grabbed Nadia’s hands suddenly, peered into her eyes. An image immediately flashed through the Romanian woman’s mind. A blond woman’s vacant blue eyes. Staring at nothingness. Nadia quickly snatched her hands away. She knew the blond woman had been dead,
“You saw something,” Aleks accused. “Tell me what you saw.”
Nadia recoiled, moved out of his reach.
“I didn’t see anything,” she lied. “I’m sorry, Aleks. There was nothing.”
The vision of the dead blond was disturbing. Nadia wondered about the circumstances of the woman’s death. She didn’t necessarily think Aleks had been responsible, but the blond woman was dead, none the less.
Alex realized it had been rude to force himself on his hostess. Embarrassed by his actions, he stammered an apology.
“I’m, uh…I’m sorry, Nadia. I…I guess I was hoping you could tell me something. About my past. About my accident maybe. I was just being…desperate, I suppose. I, uh, I think I should get going now.”
He headed out the door. Though she was upset by the image of the dead blond, Nadia took some satisfaction in having received a reading from the tall man after nearly six weeks of sensing nothing. She believed that could only mean the stranger’s memory was returning. That he was no longer “Mr. Blank Slate.”
Aleks went directly to the Jefferson Market Library, spent the afternoon there. Mostly searching message boards, confirming his doubts that he’d find anyone seeking Aleks Bagdasarian of A/S/B Financial. He discovered nothing mentioning his name, or the name of his company, as he scrolled through dozens of posts. Instead, he was overwhelmed by the volume of grief-stricken messages from people looking for loved ones still missing since the attacks more than a month ago. Personal pleas for help. Providing victims’ descriptions. Begging for any information. Mingled in with those were messages offering thoughts and prayers from concerned citizens.
He got caught up reading the various posts. Spent hours sifting through hundreds of notes. Intrigued by the urgency, the intense pain so many projected. Hoping to see his name in the headlines of just one. He finally tired, logged out, headed back to Nadia’s.
As he walked, he considered how much information he should share with Griggor. He hadn’t told the old man he’d remembered his name. Hadn’t told him about A/S/B Financial. He certainly hadn’t shared his fear that he was a murderer. He decided he’d continue to keep all that information to himself. That he’d tell the old Romanian he’d made no progress. Bemoan the hours spent perusing message boards, searching missing persons’ listings to no avail.
“You are ready to hear bedtime story, hey?” Griggor smiled, sipped from a mug of coffee.
They were seated in their usual booth in Nadia’s. Aleks thought it strange that they always sat in the same booth, seated in the exact same places, even though the restaurant was empty. They could sit anywhere. Griggor, however, had chosen his booth with the care of one who has spent much time on the lookout. His seat allowed a view of the entrance to Nadia’s while keeping his back to a wall.
“Sergei and Viktor Muskolov?” Griggor reminded him. “I promise to tell you about them. How they leave this world, hey?”
“Yes, you did,” Aleks affirmed.
And so, Griggor did.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
One of eight children born to alcoholic
parents, Viktor Muskolov had grown up in poverty in an Omsk housing project. He was rumored to have killed at least two, possibly three, of his siblings. Just to have more for himself at the dinner table. A younger sister was found dead in the bed she shared with her seven siblings. Suffocated between her older brothers. An innocent victim of circumstance? Or, a convenient means of eliminating competition for food? Another sister drowned in a storm sewer. After following her brother into the dangerous area that was strictly forbidden by their parents. And an older brother fell to his death from the rooftop of the Muskolov’s housing unit. After making noise about the mysterious deaths of his sisters.
It was the last death that had prompted rumors about Viktor’s possible involvement.
While he was never charged with the deaths of any of his siblings, Viktor was soon in trouble with the authorities. He quit school at the age of twelve, preferring to spend time in the gym, boxing. A sport he excelled at. He was naturally muscular and athletic, had learned to take a punch early on at the hands of his father and older brothers. By the time he started learning how to defend himself, his body had become hardened by years of their abuse. It wasn’t long before his older brothers no longer wished to tangle with him.
Viktor left home shortly after his fourteenth birthday, moving from one vacate tenement to the next, living off whatever he could steal. From the ages of fourteen to seventeen, he was in and out juvenile detention. When the broken body of Pyotr Dubrovsky, a teen-age boy who had ratted Viktor out, was found next to an abandoned six-story tenement building, it was apparent to all that Viktor had been responsible. For both Pyotr’s and Taras Muskolov’s deaths. After that, his family had nothing more to do with him.
Throughout his teen years, Viktor spent more time in prison than out. At nineteen, he received a ten-year sentence for aggravated robbery. He came to America after being pardoned, released from prison shortly after the fall of the Soviet Union.
Viktor Muskolov arrived in New York City a hardened criminal, having spent nearly twenty years in Russian gulags. Like many Russian convicts, he was heavily tattooed. He was a smallish, compact man; standing 5’6” and weighing 145 pounds. All of it thick muscle. He was sensitive about his size, which made him all the more aggressive. All the more dangerous. He was known as “The Omsk Boar” or, simply, “The Boar.”