In for a Ruble (5 page)

Tonight, the room was busy, as usual, but my regular barstool was free, and I headed that way after handing over my jacket.

“Signore Turbo, you know you are always welcome at a table,” Giancarlo said.

I thanked him, but went to the bar all the same. It feels less like you’re eating alone when you have the bartender to exchange small talk with.

I ordered a martini with Russian vodka and Giancarlo came over to tell me the specials. It occurred to me I’ve never looked at his regular menu. He was pushing a wild boar stew, which I ordered with a grilled octopus salad to start. He recommended a glass of a Barbera he’d just got in. I said that would be fine. The first night, he and Victoria conspired to stick me with a $475 bottle of Barolo, but since then, he and I have reached a more reasonable understanding about wine. The octopus was delicious, the stew even more so. The wine was good, not in a league with the Barolo, but neither, I assumed, was the price. I enjoyed my meal while I replayed the events of West Forty-eighth Street.

Leitz was right to be concerned. Someone was after his secrets. They’d tried the brute-force electronic attack; when that didn’t work they’d resorted to an old-fashioned approach, just as I’d done. These were sophisticated, high-tech crooks—but crooks first. Early November, Timid had told me, he’d been approached. He hadn’t wanted to describe the men who’d threatened, then bribed, him to install the first computer bug. He was deliberately vague on height, hair color, girth, dress, accent. His friend, Bold, professed not to have seen them. I wondered where they’d learned the tricks of their trade, and secured the descriptions with another two hundred dollars.

One was an ordinary-looking man, medium height, brown hair, plain features—anglo, of course—wearing a puffy, dark blue jacket over khaki pants and running shoes. He did all the talking—he described the trading room layout and told Timid exactly where to place the device. That suggested an inside connection—Leitz had more problems than he knew. The other man scared both of them. Also anglo, very tall, ugly, mean. He didn’t say a word, but they could tell. Buckteeth, fading hair, pockmarked skin, and a look that conveyed how he’d happily eat their entrails while he raped their wives and daughters. Timid had been quick to agree to their proposition.

As I rethought it now, however, over stew and red wine, I realized I’d sized it up wrong, too quick to jump to conclusions. Ninety minutes earlier, back on West Forty-eighth Street, they had confirmed my belief about carrots over sticks. I knew better than that. Timid and Bold were double-dipping—take my money, sell out the first guys, then extract another fee from the first guys by selling me out as well, ratting how I was interested in the same setup. The price of the Repin had gone up. Time to watch my back.

The restaurant crowd had thinned when I finished my dinner. The city may never sleep, but Upper East Siders who can afford Trastevere have Wall Street battles to fight in the morning. Giancarlo came over to chat. He asked, as always, if I’d heard anything from Victoria. I shook my head.

“Don’t worry, my friend, she’ll be back.”

“I keep hoping you’re right.”

“Only a matter of time. You’ll see. What you and she had—no woman can stay away from that.”

“It was that obvious?”

“Signore, I’m Italian. And I am not blind.”

He filled my glass. “On me.” He went to help some departing diners with their coats.

I sipped my wine and thought about what he had said and whether what we had was indeed stronger than her need, as she put it, not to have her heart broken. A restaurateur as successful as Giancarlo learned to be a shrewd judge of character. Better than I was, I hoped. Of course, he didn’t know I’d all but driven her out the door.

She had lots of reasons, she kept saying, for not getting too close. I focused too much on all the reasons
I
was giving
her
. In retrospect, maybe she was sending a signal that had more to do with her than me. Maybe it wasn’t my doing after all, her abrupt departure. I thought again, for the hundredth time, whether if given the chance, I could change my ways.

What goddamned difference did it make? I was still dining alone.

I paid the bill, wincing slightly. Barolo or Barbera, Giancarlo didn’t serve up any bargains. Victoria was extracting revenge on the wallet as well as the heart.

*   *   *

Outside the temperature had dropped into the twenties. The wind had a sharp edge. I decided to walk a few blocks anyway, work off the stew. Traffic on Second Avenue was sporadic, the sidewalks mostly empty.

I made it to the mid-Seventies and was thinking about hailing a cab when a tall man in a long overcoat fell into step next to me. At least six foot seven, with thinning hair and a sharp, pockmarked face, pulled forward by a long nose and buckteeth. I couldn’t judge his age. His collar was turned up around his neck.

The man the cleaners had described. He oozed creep. Nosferatu, I thought, the impossibly tall vampire played by Max Schreck in the German silent movie from the 1920s. I looked for a coffin under his arm. It wasn’t there, but that could have been the lights playing tricks. Vampires can do those sorts of things. There were now two men in lockstep twenty feet head ahead. A glance back saw two more, the same distance behind.

Nosferatu said, “Keep walking,
zek.
”

How the hell could he know that? He spoke Russian with a Belarusian accent. I answered in flat American English.

“Sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Bullshit. You understand fine. Keep walking.”

“Is there some kind of problem?”

“For you.”

I kept walking. So much for watching my back. But if they wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead. The
zek
reference bore into my brain.

“I’m going to explain the situation,” Nosferatu said in Russian.

“You’ll have to speak English,” I said in English.

“Shut the fuck up and listen.” He stayed with Russian. “I know who you are. I know who you used to be. I know everything. You know nothing, not about me, not about anything. That is the way it’s going to remain. Do you understand?”

No point in answering that.

“I said, do you understand?”

“I understand I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, still in English.

“You will learn the spirit of cooperation. Sooner than you think. What were you doing on West Forty-eighth Street? Remember what I said and think very carefully before you answer.”

There were a handful of replies, none of which was going to satisfy him. I thought carefully, as instructed. The key question was whether he’d seen me pass the computer bug to Timid.

“Trying to find a way in,” I said.

He grunted. Sometimes honesty is the best policy.

“Who for?”

“Myself. Who’s your boss?”

“None of your fucking business. That’s my point. None of this is your fucking business.”

“We’re all interested in the same thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know? You’d better ask your boss.”

The right hand came around so fast I had no chance. It hit me square in the stomach with the force of a hydraulic hammer. Boar stew and red wine erupted into my mouth as I doubled over, gasping for air. I stayed that way for a minute, collecting my breath and my wits. He didn’t look like he should have that kind of strength.

I glanced up and around. Nobody on the street, except the four men front and back who had closed in, ready to assist. Nosferatu grabbed the back of my collar and pulled me upright.

“Keep moving.”

Easier said than done, but I spat sour stew and tried to put one foot in front of the other.

“Who are you working for?” he asked.

“My own job,” I coughed.

“What do you want, once you get in?”

“Information, what else?”

He hit me again. Same force, same place. This time, stew spewed onto the sidewalk as I went to my knees.

Kneeling, retching, I sensed a few onlookers starting to gather. I took hope in that. Nosferatu jerked me up again and pushed me forward. The other guys moved too, staying in formation, but closer now. The onlookers remained where they were.

“One more chance,
zek
. What kind of information?”

I had the dim idea that I was better off if he thought I was hired to find him than if I was trying to compete with him.

“Whatever you left behind.”

He considered that for a moment before he slugged me once more. This time, stew splattered a parked car before I fell to my knees and vomited more stew onto the sidewalk. His strength was superhuman. I couldn’t take much more of this. No one could.

The other four guys moved in close. They were looking around. More onlookers stopped to see what was happening.

Nosferatu was impervious. He pulled me upright. His eyes bored into mine. “If you have one ounce of intelligence, and your Cheka file indicates you used to, you will stay the fuck away from things that are none of your fucking business.” Two steel fingers stabbed my chest, punctuating each word with enough force to crack ribs. “That way, you might live out the week. I will tell you one more thing—if you see me again, it will be the last time.”

My back exploded in pain as one of his cohorts hit me in the kidney. Nosferatu’s fist came around once more—into the right side of my face. The left side bounced off the cold concrete of the sidewalk.

*   *   *

I didn’t try to get up.

A good Samaritan rolled me over and offered to call an ambulance. I told him I was fine. He looked dubious. He was surely right. I didn’t want the help he was going to call. I made it to my knees without retching. Nosferatu and his friends were nowhere to be seen.

“Fight over a girlfriend,” I murmured. The Samaritan still looked dubious. I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. Everything spun. I was surrounded by five or six people, all wanting to help, none quite sure how.

“I’m okay,” I croaked. “I’ll be fine.” None of them believed me.

“I called nine-one-one,” another Samaritan shouted, holding up his cell phone. “Ambulance on the way.”

I took a step toward the curb, scanning the street for a cab, before my knees buckled.

The first Samaritan held me up. “Easy,” he said. “Help’s coming.”

“Thanks.” I was still scanning the street. “Let me lean on this car.”

He released his grip and I stumbled against a parked SUV. A free cab sped down the avenue, three lanes over. I took a breath and stepped halfway into the street, hand raised as high as I could. Every muscle screamed. The cab hit the breaks, cut across traffic and screeched to a stop a foot away. I might have been safer with Nosferatu. I should have thanked the Samaritans, but I was bound for freedom. I yanked the door open, causing more muscle protest, fell into the backseat, and croaked, “Downtown.”

I all but passed out as the driver pressed the pedal to the floor.

*   *   *

I pulled myself upright around Thirty-fourth Street, causing shooting pains in my chest, back and head. I told the driver to drop me at Pine and Water. His look in the rearview mirror was more dubious than the ones from the Samaritans. He wore a turban and the name on the license was Indian. He said, “Excuse me, sir, not my business, but you want hospital, maybe?”

“Pine and Water,” I repeated.

“But, sir, you look…”

“Pine and Water!”

“Yes, sir.”

He still didn’t appear happy when we got there, but he took the twenty I pushed through the divider, let me get out, which I managed without falling, and sped away at the one speed he seemed familiar with. I nodded feebly to the night guard in the lobby, who’s used to comings and goings at all hours in all conditions, and took the elevator up to the office.

Foos and I rent the twenty-eighth floor of a boring tower with stunning views. We have a reception area nobody uses—it was left by the previous tenants—that has chairs and a sofa. I stretched out on the latter for a rest. I might have passed out, I’m not sure. When I felt up to moving again, I stumbled down one of the Basilisk’s twelve server corridors, which took time because they’re all forty feet long, and I had to stop once or twice, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling wall of electronic brainpower, to rest. I finally emerged into the large open area in the back. The lights were off except in a few outer offices. The smell of marijuana floated in the air. Pig Pen heard me and squawked, “Russky! Tiramisu?”

We’ve had this conversation before. Foos’s African gray parrot used to be obsessed with pizza. But he bonded with one of his master’s Ralph Lauren model girlfriends, two iterations ago. Veronica was her name. She ordered tiramisu every time Foos took her to dinner, ate two bites and brought the rest to Pig Pen in a parrot bag. When Foos moved on to the next girl, as he inevitably does, Pig Pen went into a funk. He’s still not completely over her—or the tiramisu.

“No luck, Pig Pen,” I told him the first time he asked. “Do I look Italian?”

“Russky,” he agreed.

“Do I look like Veronica?”

“No cutie. Russky.”

“That’s right. So what makes you think I have tiramisu?”

He considered that. “Cross Bronx. Accident cleared.”

Resorting to the traffic reports, which he listens to constantly on 1010 WINS, is his concession whenever logic overwhelms desire. That hasn’t stopped him from continuing to try on subsequent occasions, however.

Tonight, he took a closer look at me, and said, “Ouch.”

“You got that right. Boss here?”

“Boss man!” Pig Pen squawked at full volume, which is a lot louder than seems possible. “Russky help!”

Foos emerged from his office. “Jesus, who ran you over?”

“Leitz’s fault,” I said, stretching out on a sofa. The open area is divided into two seating arrangements—one organized like a living room, the other a big conference table with a dozen chairs. Around the perimeter are a dozen glassed-in offices and conference rooms.

“Hang on,” he said. He went to the kitchen and returned with rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, and a bag of ice. “Can you do this, or you want me to?” he asked.