Bum Rap (18 page)

-43-

The Dew Drop Inn

T
he thought came to Nadia Delova in the early morning while curled up with Gerald in the fluffy sheets at the inn, and it brought a smile to her face.

I am in love with a pretzel baker from Pennsylvania.

Not just any pretzels. Hand-rolled, sourdough Pennsylvania Dutch beer pretzels. How proud Gerald was. The best flour, the best yeast, the best malt. Everything with a personal touch. After the pretzels popped up from the boiling soda ash, little old ladies salted them and placed them in ovens Gerald’s grandfather had used.

On the cans was the slogan: “Hostetler Pretzels: Hand-rolled, hand-salted and hand-baked.”

No mention, however, that this sweetly traditional way of baking furnished only a hand-to-mouth living. Nadia would like to help with that.

She knew better than to say, “You would probably make more money with new machinery.” Because Hostetler Pretzels and Chips Company was steeped in family and history and love. As for the chips, they had stopped making those forty years ago. No way to compete with the major companies. Thankfully, the factory had been in the family for four generations, so the building and land were owned outright. So was his old stone house. Gerald could take home a middle-class income, but that was all.

Now Gerald breathed deeply as he slept in bed next to her. They had made love. Three times. As a lover, Gerald was caring and giving . . . and grateful. As if he couldn’t believe his good fortune that such a goddess of a woman would bestow her gifts on him. As opposed to Benny. A small man, and what he lacked in size he did
not
make up for in technique.

Pump-pump-pump. Ahhhh.

The
ahhhh
being Benny’s. Not hers. Then he would topple off her like a sparrow shot from a tree limb.

Benny treated her as he might a prized possession, like his Bentley. There was the diamond pendant, of course. And the other presents. Prada purses. Valentino shoes. Which, ironically, helped create her persona as the wealthy and wild European tourist looking for a hot time. Instead of a lying, swindling, watch-stealing Bar girl, which, let’s face it, was what she was.

But now there was Gerald, and she felt true love for him. The dea
r man had taken her to the Dew Drop Inn, a bed-and-breakfast in a three-story Victorian home, located just off the Old Philadelphia Pike. The day before, they had visited an amusement park called Dutch Wonderland. They had ridden the
merry-go-round and the twister and had banged into each other in bumper cars. An old-fashioned place filled with families. Nadia had watched the laughing children, faces plastered with cotton candy. It had been years since she’d even thought about having children of her own, but now she did. Now, with Gerald, she felt ready.

She had met Gerald sitting at the bar in the Clevelander. Elena had given him the thumbs-down. No expensive watch. A brown suit that yelled department store rack. But Nadia wanted to go for him, so she did it solo. There was something about his mild, handsome face. The blondish hair, receding just a bit. He had been talking to the bartender, telling him, very politely, that the pretzels in the little bowl were overcooked and oversalted. The bartender had said he ordered the extra salt. A thirsty customer is money in a bartender’s pocket.

Nadia had slipped onto the next bar stool and said hello. She asked if he liked French champagne and American jazz. He said he’d never encountered much of either one, but why the heck not?

It only took two vodkas to knock him sideways at Anastasia. Then came the bottles of champagne, and he whipped out his credit card without her urging. Within an hour, he was trying to buy the black velvet painting of the Kremlin that hung behind the bar.

Sometime during the evening, as Gerald was telling Nadia about the seventh-century French monks who invented pretzels to represent arms crossed in prayer, she started looking at him differently. He was drunk. Helpless. Adorable.

She put him in a cab and took him back to his hotel. Instead of fleecing his pockets for cash, she tucked him into bed and sat in a chair, watching him sleep, until she dozed off herself. The next morning, he awakened with a hangover and apologized in the event he had taken advantage of her the night before.

They spent the day together. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. No booze. Much talk. She told him about growing up outside Saint Petersburg. Always tall and gangly, at sixteen, she had suddenly become beautiful to others. She modeled, dropped out of school. Tended bar.

Then, with a deep breath she said the Lord’s Prayer to herself in Russian, or at least the part about forgiving our trespasses:

“Prahsty nahm dahlgee nashee.”

And she told Gerald Hostetler, square American guy from Pennsylvania, the truth:

“I am B-girl.”

He looked at her with puzzlement. Did he not understand?

“Bar girl. I work for Club Anastasia. To take your money.”

Still, he did not speak.

“I was arrested in Estonia and Latvia.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I have not been the person I wanted to be.”

She feared he would leave then, but he did not. He told her about himself. The factory passed down to him from prior generations. It barely made money, but he had thirty-seven employees. All those families depended on him.

“Back home in Lancaster, I belong to the Lutheran Church. I am very good with my hands. Maybe from rolling so many pretzels. So I volunteer for the bike ministry. We fix bikes for poor children. Some are teenagers who have gotten into trouble. No one looks after them. We take them on overnight bike trips. Camp out. Cook out. It’s very fulfilling.”

“Is wonderful thing to do,” she said.

“I believe in redemption.”

They spent the next night together in his hotel room and made love for the first time. And the second and third. She decided in the morning that this was a man she could love. Truly love, not pretend.

Gerald had a speech to give at his snacks convention, so she went to the club to process the reversal of charges on his credit card. When she returned to the hotel, he asked if she would like to see southeastern Pennsylvania. Of course she did. She would have gone anywhere with him.

There were things she did not tell Gerald. The criminal charge—the stolen watch—from an unhap
py customer. The federal immigration violations. The threats that she would be charged with federal crimes, imprisoned, and then deported if she did not cooperate. Her decision to wear a wire and try to get Nicolai Gorev to say what the damn government woman wanted. If that was the only way she could be free to join Gerald, then she would take the risk.

Gerald went home to Pennsylvania. Afraid of facing Gorev alone, she hired Solomon, the lawyer she saw on television shooting the guns. Of course, no one was supposed to get hurt. All she really wanted was her passport and the money—more than $20,000—that Gorev owed her. Then she would join Gerald with more than a suitcase filled with thongs and cocktail dresses.

How had everything spun so dangerously out of control? Her happiness at being with Gerald was tempered by the death of Elena. She blamed herself for that. Then there was Solomon charged with murder. That was partly her fault, too. Gorev’s death. Okay, he was swine. Stealing the diamonds. That was spur of the moment.

She knew how to open Gorev’s safe by watching him pay the girls. Foolish man used the postal code from his first strip club in Latvia as the combination to the safe. She would need a story to tell Gerald about the diamonds. Would he believe she inherited them from an old Russian aunt? Maybe. There was such a sweet air about him, like the aroma of freshly baked bread.

But now the dangers seemed to come at her from every direction. The murderous Alex Gorev after her. And the federal government. And Solomon’s lawyers. And Benny. She had thought she could trust him. How foolish. A few days earlier, she had called Marina, one of the other B-girls. Marina said that Benny’s men had slapped her around and demanded, “Where’s Nadia, bitch?”

Why did this surprise me?

For God’s sake, she had stolen Benny’s diamonds. But even worse, Benny would know she could destroy him if the federal government found her. She had lied before, telling the government woman she knew nothing about smuggled diamonds. But she knew enough. She had seen enough. If she testified truthfully, she could send Benny away to prison for the rest of his miserable life.

The last few days, she had pushed these thoughts out of her mind, but now they came swirling back. Maybe she was living in a fairy-tale world like Dutch Wonderland. She did not know what to do. Should she tell Gerald everything? He was smart and honest.

But maybe too honest. He would probably want her to cooperate with the government. Return the diamonds. Testify. Not realizing the risks. She knew about the American witness protection program. Move away. New names, new identities. But Gerald could not move his factory. His life was here.

Most likely, the government would just deport her to Russia, where friends of the Gorev brothers would find and kill her.

I can see no way out.

Next to her in the bed, Gerald stirred. Blinked his eyes open. Smiled at her.

“Are you hungry, hon?” he said.

“If you are.”

“The scrapple and venison sausage are first rate here.”

Gerald gave her a peck on the lips and headed into the bathroom to shower. Nadia was just getting out of bed when her cell phone rang. A 305 number. Marina’s.

“Allo,”
Nadia said.

“Ay,
bubeleh
!” Benny Cohen said. “Why you stay away so long?”

Nadia felt her throat tighten. She shot a look at the bathroom door. Closed, the shower running.

“Hello, Benny. Where’s Marina?”

“She lent me her phone. Sweet girl.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“Never! She handed the phone to Tony of her own free will . . . after he broke her wrist. I know where you are,
bubeleh
.”

I never told Marina where I am, so how did he find out?

She went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked outside. She imagined Benny outside with his thugs in a rental car. But no. Nothing suspicious.

Benny coughed up a laugh and sang a little tune off-key: “It’s better in the Ba-ha-mas.”

Just like the television commercial. But what was he talking about?

“My plane’s at the Nassau airport right now. Two of my men are there. You’ll recognize them.”

He thinks I’m in the Bahamas.

How could Benny get it so wrong? Welcome news. At least for now.

“Come to the airport,” Benny said, “and save them the time of looking for you. They won’t hurt you. They’ll bring you home.”

“They’ll drop me into the ocean.”

“
Oy!
You confuse me with Alex Gorev, that barbarian. This is Benny, the man who loves and forgives you. The man who can protect you from Alex. You know what he did to Elena?”

“I heard.”

“Then come home to Daddy. And bring my property with you. I have a reward for you.”

“Okay, Benny. I’ll come to the Nassau airport. Two hours, okay?”

“Don’t disappoint me,
bubeleh
.”

The phone clicked off.

She tried to relax but could not. She had bought time but how much? What would the next call be? Who would be at her door? Room service or assassins? She had tried running away from her problems but now knew she would have to face them.

I cannot live like this.

-44-

At Long Last . . .
Pravda

V
ictoria drove past the Hostetler Pretzel and Chips plant near downtown Lancaster. The building had to be a hundred years old. Three stories of red brick. Some of the mortar had turned mossy green, but the place gave an impression of solidity and strength. She remembered something Jake had said about constructing a legal defense.

“One brick at a time. Place the brick exactly in line with the one next to it. Smooth the mortar to the same depth each time. It takes a while to build a wall.”

Gerald Hostetler’s forebears had doubtless laid the bricks straight enough for the building—and the business—to last a century.

She had spent the night in a hotel near the Philadelphia airport, then hit the road at 8:00 a.m., piloting her rental Ford Fusion to Lancaster County. A straight shot west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, then a short drive on US 222, and she was in the small city that dated from before the Revolutionary War. She stopped at a farmer’s market downtown for a glazed donut and coffee.

Now she eased the Ford into the pretzel factory employee parking lot. Windows down, she smelled the dough baking. Spotted a marked spot for “G. Hostetler.”

Empty.

She’d been hoping the spot was filled, that Gerald was at work, and Nadia at his house alone, arranging flowers or whatever.

She drove off, using the rental car’s GPS to find Hostetler’s home. It only took ten minutes to get there. A clean, quiet neighborhood. The house was two stories of stone with bright-green shutters and two chimneys. Probably old fireplaces. No car in the brick driveway. But there were three days’ worth of newspapers.

Damn.

They were out of town, and no way to tell when they would return.

Victoria wondered,
What would Jake do?

Empty house. Quiet neighborhood. Probably walk around the back and jimmy open a window.

Then she wondered,
What would Steve do?

Something involving deception, she figured.

She went with Steve and picked up her cell phone.

“Hostetler Pretzels and Chips,” said the chirpy voice on the phone. “This is Edna.”

“This is Margaret Lee at the Sheetz store over in Mechanicsburg,” Victoria said. “Is Mr. H there?” Thinking “Mr. H” would be just the right touch of familiar but not overly so.

“Not yet,” Edna said. “We’re expecting him around noon.”

Great.

“Anything I can do to help?” Edna asked.

“I’ll just call back. Love your extra dark pretzels, by the way.”

“Thank you kindly. We bake ’em a tad longer. Hard as heck not to burn ’em.”

Victoria looked at her watch: 11:10 a.m. She drove half a block and pulled up to the curb in the shade of a pine tree. Rolled down the windows, killed the engine, and took in the scent of the pine needles warmed by the summer sun. She kept her eyes on the Hostetler house in the sun-visor mirror.

Twenty minutes later, a gray Buick Lacrosse pulled into the driveway.

Yes, Gerald would be a Buick man. A V-8, if they still made them.

Feeling like a shady PI, Victoria watched as Hostetler, in khakis and a blue polo, exited the driver’s door and hustled around to open the passenger door.

Chivalry is not dead in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

As he held the door open, two long legs stepped out. The rest of Nadia Delova followed. She wore a bright floral sundress, tight in the bodice with a swingy skirt and strappy summer sandals. Hostetler popped the trunk and removed two overnight bags. Ever the gentleman, he rolled the luggage to the front door, where Nadia was already waiting. He unlocked the door and placed both bags inside. They stood there a moment, talking.

Then he took Nadia in both arms and kissed her. A long, slow, loving kiss, his left hand cradling the back of her head, her long dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders.

The kiss lasted long enough for Victoria to contemplate the length of time it had been since Steve had kissed her like that. Well, before he was jailed, of course. But truth be told, some time before that. Three months? Six months? She couldn’t remember.

Why don’t I know? Was it something I’ve pushed out of my mind?

So much to work on with Steve . . .
if we can keep him out of prison.

The long, soulful kiss turned into an even longer hug, the two of them gripping each other, as if they couldn’t bear to part from say . . . lunchtime to dinner.

Victoria found herself filled with a longing for Steve—the old Steve—and filled with jealousy, too. What a jumble of emotions.

I’m jealous of a fugitive who’s in love with a pretzel baker.

Finally, the couple untangled. Hostetler gave Nadia a last quick kiss, headed back to his waiting Buick, and drove away. Yes, he’d be at the plant by noon. Victoria figured Gerald Hostetler was not a man to be late.

Victoria waited five minutes, then walked to the house and rang the bell.

Nadia opened the door a moment later, a puzzled expression crossing her face.

“Da?”
she said.

“Nadia, I’m Victoria Lord. We spoke on the phone.”

Nadia’s hand flew up to her mouth. “I told you not to call me again!”

But she made no move to close the door.

“We should talk, for your own good,” Victoria said.

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t that hard. And if I could do it . . .”

“I know. The government. Alex Gorev. Benny.”

Nadia shot worried looks up and down the street, then grabbed Victoria’s arm and pulled her inside, quickly closing and locking the door. She led Victoria into a large living room with traditional furnishings. An overstuffed sofa, chairs with carved wooden legs, and an oak coffee table with old-fashioned drawers. Nadia pulled the drapes closed and motioned toward one of the chairs.

“You sit. I will make tea.”

In five minutes she returned with an ornamental teapot, two cups and saucers, and a plate of lemon cookies. The Bar girl had quickly become domesticated, Victoria thought.

Pouring the tea, Nadia said, “In a way, I am glad you are here. You are a needed reminder of the real world I have been avoiding. Since coming here, I have been living in a dream.”

“Love will do that,” Victoria said, “but the world always finds a way in.”

“What should I do?”

Victoria sipped the tea. “Have you told Gerald the truth?”

“Only that I have an immigration problem. Which is like saying it gets a little cool in Siberia. The sweet man thinks everything will be solved by his marrying me. That I’ll get green card. He doesn’t know I face prison, then deportation.”

“I relate to how you feel. Your fear of losing the man you love.”

“Of course you relate. You are in love with Solomon.”

“We are both afraid of losing the light of our lives.” Victoria felt silly saying it. A soap opera cliché. But she meant it, and she thought Nadia would respond to the emotional overload.

“Exactly!”

Victoria nibbled at a cookie and decided to plunge ahead. “Perhaps I can help you with your problems in Miami. But you must tell Gerald everything.”

Nadia sighed. “What a test that will be for him. Of his love for me, I mean.”

“I watched him kiss you. I think he will pass that test.”

“I can hope.”

“You will need a lawyer in Miami,” Victoria said.

“Can you represent me?”

“I have a conflict of interest because of Steve’s case, but I can find someone to help.”

“I will trust you, then. Do you know about the diamonds in Alex Gorev’s safe?”

“Benny’s. You stole them.”

“Will they prosecute me for that?”

“It depends what information you have to trade. To make a deal, you’ll have to be honest with the government. Do you have information that ties Benny Cohen to diamond smuggling?”

“
Da.
I know plenty.”

“Does it have anything to do with Aeroflot 100?”

“Everything.” Nadia gave Victoria a knowing smile. “But before we talk about that, you didn’t come here just to help me. You want to know what I will say if the government makes me testify in Solomon’s case.”

“Yes.”

“But do you really want the truth?
Pravda?
”

“Yes. At long last,
pravda
. The truth, Nadia.”

“Is simple story. I paid Solomon to help me get my passport and back pay. I told Nicolai I was quitting to get married, and he laughed at me. Then I made a mistake. I told him I would not be part
of his wire fraud and money laundering and racketeering. He knew those were not my words. That they had come from the government.”

“Then what?”

“Take off your dress!” Gorev orders.

“I have taken off my clothes for you for the last time.”

“I am not going to screw you. I am looking for wire.”

“Nicolai, I would never—”

“Are you working for the government or for the jeweler?”

“
I work for you only.”

“Nadia, my little Nadia. Why?”

She pulls a Glock nine millimeter from her purse and aims it at Gorev with both hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Solomon says.

Her hands shaking and the gun wobbling, Nadia says, “I just want my passport and money you owe. Forget everything else.”

Gorev barks a laugh. “First your lawyer wants to sue me. Now you want to shoot me. At the sound of gunshot, Alex and Sergei will break through that door and cut your heart out. So stop this foolishness,
gerla
.”

“Nadia, let’s put down the gun, okay?” Solomon says.

“Lawyer is not as stupid as looks,” Gorev says.

Solomon reaches over slowly with one hand. Nadia removes her left hand from the gun but is still holding it in her trembling right hand, pointing the barrel at Gorev. For the moment, the gun is partially in Nadia’s right hand and partially in Steve’s left hand.

“Do me favor, lawyer,” Gorev says. “Hit magazine latch and
remove bullets.”

“Where’s the safety?” Solomon says.

“Idiot! Glock has no safety. Why do you think I want magazine out?”

It all happens in seconds.

Nadia takes her index finger off the trigger and lets Solomon take the gun.

Solomon’s right index finger slips into the trigger guard as Nadia lets go. With his left thumb, Solomon hits the magazine latch.

Filled with fourteen rounds, the magazine slides from the Glock’s grip and hits the floor with a startling noise. Solomon’s index finger jerks back—a movement as light as a baby’s touch—and the round in the chamber fires.

The gunshot hits Gorev squarely between the eyes.

“
It was an accident!” Victoria felt her heart racing. “Steve never meant to shoot Gorev, did he?”

“With the magazine gone, he didn’t even know there was a bullet in the chamber.”

“But it’s not the story Steve told the police.” Victoria shook her head sadly. Instead of telling the truth—or better yet, clamming up until she arrived at the scene—Steve had invented the story of Gorev threatening them with his gun and Nadia shooting him. As lies so often do, that one required another. Steve then told the far-fetched tale of Nadia pulling a switch, taking Gorev’s gun with her—thus explaining its absence at the scene—while leaving Steve with the murder weapon.

Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .

“Why did your man not tell the truth?” Nadia asked.

Victoria shrugged. “Because he panicked. Or maybe he thought the police wouldn’t believe him. Or he feared he’d still be charged with manslaughter, even if they did believe him.”

“What can I do to help him, Victoria?”

Before she could answer, a noise far louder than a gunshot rocked the room as a battering ram blasted through the front door. As splinters flew and light from outside streamed through the opening, three men with guns burst inside.