by Greg Smith
Arkady swung the cane in Griggor’s direction, crossing from the Romanian’s right shoulder to his left. It appeared, at first, as though he’d missed his intended target. Before Griggor’s throat abruptly burst open, splaying blood. The thug holding him released the old man. Griggor continued to hold his head high, thrust his chest out with pride.
“Ukey smile!” Ilya tittered. “Beautiful Ukey smile!”
Step and Oak could only watch helplessly as Griggor’s life ebbed away, his lifeless body finally slumping sideways to the ground. Step was too shocked to respond to what had just taken place.
“Gypsy is all yours, Albanskiy,” Ilya pronounced before getting back into his car.
One by one, Arkady Muskolov and the three thugs began filing into the black sedan. The last of the large Russian men glanced at Step and Oak, grabbed the brown leather briefcase Ilya had left behind, before disappearing inside the vehicle.
The black sedan drove away, leaving Step, Oak and Dragos Vasilyev behind.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 61
Step and Oak watched as the taillights of the Russian’s black sedan disappeared in the distance. Griggor’s body, illuminated by the moonlight, lingered on the ground. A grisly reminder of the brutal event that had just transpired.
“We should go,” Oak whispered.
Step didn’t move.
“What about Griggor? We can’t just leave him here.”
“You want to drive around with a corpse in the car?” Oak asked with concern. “Not my car, bro. We can’t take him.”
“But…but…”
“He’ll be found. He’ll go to the morgue. You can identify him there, have his body released to a funeral home.”
Step couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Couldn’t just leave Griggor lying in the dirt like a sack of garbage.
“We can’t … We can’t just leave him, Oak.”
“It isn’t him, Step. Griggor’s gone. That’s just a…an empty shell.”
Step wouldn’t budge.
Griggor. Poor Griggor, he thought.
“Seriously, Step. We need to vacate,” Oak insisted. “We were never here.”
Step knelt beside Griggor’s body. He impulsively reached out his right hand, made the sign of the cross with his thumb on his dead friend’s forehead.
“Rest in peace, Griggor, hey?” he whispered.
The Russian sedan slid through the night like a venomous black snake. Inside, Ilya sat stroking his cat, breaking into fits of girlish snickering.
Less than a mile down the road the driver suddenly shouted out in Russian.
“Now!”
The thug seated behind Ilya whipped a wire garrote around the small man’s neck, while the other thug did the same to Arkady. Both smaller men struggled against their much larger assailants. The cat had fallen off Ilya’s lap onto the floor, meowed loudly as it was kicked repeatedly by its owner’s thrashing feet.
Ilya, who always wore a thumb shiv, flailed at his attacker, reaching behind and over his own head in repeated attempts to stab at him. As his air supply dwindled, he turned his attack on the driver, managed to gore the man in the thigh.
The driver screamed, held one hand over the puncture wound in his leg. Before passing out, Ilya succeeded in stabbing the driver again, this time in his thick neck, piercing his jugular. The sedan swerved when the driver moved his huge hand from the wound in his leg to the gash in his neck. Blood sprayed everywhere as the big man struggled to maintain control of the vehicle.
The henchman seated behind Ilya continued to pull on the garrote, nearly severing the odd Russian’s head. Having dispensed of The Muskrat, the other henchman braced himself as the car swerved left, then right, then left again.
The black sedan drove off the road, raced across a few yards of gravelly sod, plummeted into the East River. Sank twenty feet to the bottom.
Ilya, Arkady and the driver where already dead when the car hit the water. One of the two surviving Russians had broken his nose badly in the impact, was too preoccupied choking on his blood to worry about the East River seeping into every available crevice, pooling at his feet. As the car filled with water, the other Russian tried in vain to open a door, break out a window. There was much shouting and cursing by the two panicked thugs.
Within minutes, the East River had successfully overrun the black sedan. Silencing the screams. Six bodies floated about the interior. Bumping into and bouncing off one another like a bouquet of parade balloons. Five of the bodies were human. The sixth was that of Ilya’s Persian cat, which had given the last of its nine lives to the East River. The bloated face of the thug with the broken nose pressed up against a window. His left arm floated aimlessly, his hand seeming to wave at an unseen audience outside the vehicle.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 62
Griggor Alexandru’s body remained undetected for three days. Until a young high school couple intent on becoming unwed teen-age parents stopped at their favorite make-out spot along the East River.
Step had the distressing task of informing Nadia that Griggor was dead. Then dealing with her grief during that three days’ time. The Romanian woman was devastated, inconsolable. She’d fainted immediately upon receiving the news. Griggor had been her savior. Her surrogate father. Her everything. She’d adored him.
She fell into a catatonic state. The irony of his situation was not lost on Step, who now cared for the Romanian woman as she had once cared for him.
The week following the discovery of Griggor’s body was unsettling for a number of reasons. Nadia had to identify the body. Luckily, that was done with a Polaroid picture. Though Griggor’s face was swollen and bruised from the beatings inflicted by Ilya’s men, the old Romanian was recognizable. The photograph didn’t reveal the slash across Griggor’s throat. His Ukey smile. Because the cause of death was homicide, the body was evidence. An autopsy had to be performed before it could be released for cremation. Hand-written instructions found in his pockets had outlined Griggor’s last wishes, including the inscription on his headstone.
HERE LIES
Dragos Grigore Alexandru Vasilyev
“Griggor”
1932 – 2001
Born in Maguri, Romania
Died in New York City
Standing at Griggor’s gravesite with Nadia and Oak, Step smirked at the ambiguity of the word “lies.” Here Rests Dragos Vasilyev. Here Deceives Dragos Vasilyev.
It was a common enough epitaph. Ordinary. Innocent. Step, however, knew the Romanian man of mystery had chosen the word “lies” for a reason. He could just as easily have requested “rests.”
Is that his way of confessing? the tall man wondered. Of admitting he was living a lie? That he was hiding something about his past? Something about his history with the Romanian secret police? Or, maybe something about his time as a doctor in Romania?
Whatever his reasons, the old Romanian had been hiding his true identity, living in America as Grigore Alexandru. A.k.a., Griggor. Step sardonically savored the irony that both he, and the man who had questioned his character so arduously, had been living under an assumed identity.
Not so different were we, hey, Griggor?
The stranger who had once believed he was Aleks Bagdasarian, only to find he was actually Aleks’s twin brother, Stepan, now stood on the precipice of beginning a new life under yet another name.
• • • • • •
CHAPTER 63
After Griggor’s death, Step continued to live at Nadia’s. He told himself he was keeping Nadia company, comforting her. The truth was, he’d grown very fond of the Romanian woman. He divided the remaining forty-eight thousand dollars from the safe in his apartment, gave half to her, the other half to Oak. Despite strong objection from both.
“It’s less than one percent of the insurance payout, Oak. Probably the smallest
commission you’ll ever earn. There’s more, if you ever need it.”
To Nadia, he simply said, “Take it. Pay for Griggor’s internment and headstone. Do what you want with the rest.”
One evening, as they sat in the apartment consoling each other, Step and Nadia were ambushed by the closeness of an embrace, surrendered to the need for intimacy that often comes with the loss of a loved one. Overtaken by the suppressed emotions they’d been circumventing for weeks, they became lovers.
Lying in bed together the following morning, Step thought Nadia looked radiant. The Romanian woman was naturally shy, reserved. She was unaccustomed to the openness of a relationship, bashful about her body. She’d insisted the lights remain off as they made love the night before, had kept herself covered with blankets as they cuddled afterwards.
“I’ve been admiring you for some time now, Nadia,” Step confessed. “I think you’re beautiful.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. Embarrassed, Nadia turned her face away.
“I’m old,” she whispered. “I’m boring. I’m…routine.”
“You’re middle-aged at most,” Step exclaimed. “I’m not that far behind. Anyway, who cares? Age is just an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter,” he smiled. “Mark Twain said that.”
Nadia snuggled closer to him. She loved his wealth of knowledge.
Step fell pensive. Nadia could tell there was something on his mind. Years of dealing with Griggor, however, had taught her not to force a man’s hand. She waited patiently for Step to decide on his own whether or not he wanted to share his thoughts with her.
Moments later, Step spoke.
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you, Nadia. Just please hear me out before you respond.”
Nadia listened attentively as her new lover spoke.
“Everyone I ever cared about in this world is gone. Aleks. My parents. Jills. Even Griggor now. I feel as though you’re all I’ve got left. I…I’ve grown to like you very much. I think, in time, I…I could learn to love you. If I…if I haven’t already.”
Nadia opened her mouth to speak. Step touched a single finger to her lips.
“Shush. I’m not finished.”
He took a deep breath, as though mustering the nerve to continue.
“I’m just putting this out there. No expectations. No strings attached. Just something for you to think about. I’m, uh, actually very wealthy, you know. The money I gave you for Griggor’s funeral expenses was just the tip of the iceberg. I have much more. I mean, I will. Soon.”
He held both the woman’s hands in his as he spoke.
“You don’t have to work another day, Nadia. In fact, you don’t even have to live here if you don’t want to. We could move into my apartment at The Schuyler. Or…or we could get a new place. A house, if you want.”
Nadia’s eyes were wide as she listened with disbelief.
“I realize you’ve made a life here. This is all you’ve ever really known. But things can change, Nadia. I, uh…I also realize you may not feel the same way about me. I don’t want to rush you. I don’t expect an answer right now, today.”
He took another deep breath, let it out slowly before going on.
“If you…if you tell me to pack my bags and go…I’m…I’ll leave.”
Nadia regarded her stranger with adoration. How could she tell him how much she longed to hear those words? Her gift from God telling her he thought he loved her. That he wanted to stay with her. Forever.
“Even if you don’t want me around, the offer still stands. I’d set you up. Anywhere you’d like.”
Though she cherished the words her gift was speaking, Nadia felt some reservations about Step’s proposal. It wasn’t in her nature to accept charity. She’d always earned her way. Everything she had, she’d merited on her own. More than that, deep down, she didn’t believe she deserved such good fortune. She’d aborted a child. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding that act, she believed she was destined to rot in hell for it.
“I’ve worked every day of my adult life, Stepan. What would we do? Without work? What else is there?”
First we work, then we do anything else, Step thought. Nadia’s version of Griggor’s life motto. First we eat, then we do anything else.
“Oh, Nadia, there’s so much more,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “There’s…there’s… There are museums. There’s music. Orchestras. Movies. Books. Parks… There’s a whole world of things besides work.”
Nadia remembered a time as a teen ager when she would cut school, spend her days visiting museums, art galleries, science centers. Days when Leo had to work, couldn’t be with her.
“Nadia, listen to me. I’m trying to tell you that I want to take care of you. I want you to live with me. I have plenty of money. Neither of us has to work.”
The Romanian woman had no idea her stranger was about to become a very wealthy man. That he was, in fact, on the verge of becoming a millionaire.
Step could appreciate her hesitation. He was mostly an unknown factor in the equation. He was asking this woman to uproot her life, walk away from something she’d built. Start a new life. With a man she barely knew.
He laid back, spread his hands open.
“I said what I wanted to say. I realize it’s a lot to think about. I really believe we could have a wonderful life together. Take all the time you need to mull things over, Nadia. In the meantime, do you think I could have a little good morning kiss? And some of your peach clatites?”
He grinned broadly as Nadia moved close, kissed him on the lips. They held each other in a gentle embrace before she finally excused herself to make breakfast.
By mid-November, the sum of three million dollars had been deposited into Stepan Bagdasarian’s bank account. He immediately withdrew a million dollars in cash, boxed it up, hand delivered the parcel personally to Wins Stanton’s valet. The man who answered the door at the Stanton residence, explained that Mr. Stanton was not home at the moment.
Nothing changed in the weeks following. Step continued to stay at Nadia’s. Though he spent most of his daytime hours at his apartment in The Schuyler Building. Examining his computer files. Catching up on his portfolio. Contemplating his future. He’d filed a VCF claim. Had interviews to contend with concerning that. He also cleaned paperwork and personal items out of Aleks’s apartment at The Hathaway before terminating the lease. Nadia continued to perform as Madam Magda, conducting three or four readings each day. She tentatively hoped her restaurant customers would return in full force, dreaded the day they would.
After hearing Stepan’s proposal, she knew what she wanted. To spend the rest of her life with her gift. She believed she finally had the answer to the reason the stranger had come to her. It was nothing otherworldly or earth-shattering. It was simply that they were fated to find one another. Predestined to spend their lives together. She just had to bring her mind around to accept the reality of that.
Step didn’t pressure her, never mentioned his proposal again. He wooed her, however. Doted on her. Lavished her with gifts. He talked her into spending Christmas in Chicago. Followed by a quiet New Year’s Eve in Charleston, South Carolina.
Nadia’s never reopened for business in 2002. By February, they’d put the building up for sale, left all of the furniture. Taking only Magda’s treasured picture of Nadia Comenche, they moved into Step’s apartment in The Schuyler. They agreed that arrangement would last only until they’d decided where they would settle. Whether in New York City or elsewhere.
“We can live anywhere we want!” Step exclaimed. “Anywhere in the world!”
They couldn’t bear to leave Manhattan, however. Not until they’d witnessed their beloved city heal from its horrific wounds. While waiting, they enjoyed the things Step had mentioned. Movies. The theater. Museums. Concerts. And so much more.
• • • • •
PART V
ALEKS BUILDS A NEW LIFE
CH
APTER 64
After the day at Coney Island with the brown-haired girl from Pulaski, Wisconsin, the jogger had returned to The Pile. Working each day in the bucket brigade. Crashing each night at PS #234. Occasionally at St. Paul’s. He hadn’t gone back to either The Hathaway or The Schuyler Building. Wasn't sure he ever would. Neither place seemed safe.
He assumed the Russians knew about Binyak. That they’d discovered he and Binyak were business partners. They would eventually figure out neither of the brothers was coming back. Maybe they’d assume they’d left town. Or that they were among the 9/11 casualties. The odd-looking one who’d visited him in their office in the North Tower, demanding he pay back five-hundred thousand dollars, was certain to reason it all out.
For only the second time in his life, his future was not mapped out. He lived each day as if it were a single cup in a stack of paper cups at the water cooler of Life. Drink from one, toss it aside, grab the next. Only he wasn’t drinking Life up. He was only drinking what he needed to get by. His recommended daily allowance.
Each day was as monotonous and nondescript as the next. A series of white cups. Every once in a while Life would throw him a gratuity. Instead of the usual white, a bright yellow cup would appear in the stack.
Coney Island had been a yellow cup.
He hoped Sheila Cahill would become a bouquet of yellow cups.
“Oshkosh!”
He looked over the crowd inside St. Paul’s, saw Sheila waving at him from across the room. Before disappearing into a sea of hardhats. He watched her brown pony tail weave in and out of the herd of weary workers. She narrowly avoided a collision with a Mack truck of a man in bib overalls, risked being t-boned by another Mack truckman. Ducked around him, pulled up next to her new tall friend.
He couldn’t hide his joy at seeing her. He smiled broadly. Put an arm around her shoulders. Presented her with a quick, gentle squeeze. Voiced his usual greeting.