Neptune Avenue (13 page)

She shook her head. “These days, my appetite is not so good. And you: no dinner tonight?”

He pictured all of the food piled on his table at the nightclub earlier. He pictured Semyon Balakutis’s rage-contorted face. He didn’t say anything about either, though; just shook his head.

They ate in silence for a minute, until their spoons clinked against empty bowls. She stood, gathered the bowls, and set them in the sink. Turned the tap on and started to wash them.

He jumped to his feet. “Let me do that.”

She turned, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded. “Sure. Let me get in there.”

She shrugged, handed him the sponge, and moved several feet away, where she leaned back against the counter, giving him a wry look. She shook her head.

“What?”

She crossed her arms across her chest. “In his whole life, my husband never wash a dish.”

He almost winced at the mention of Daniel, but managed a smile. “What can I tell you? I’m a modern, progressive type of guy.” He finished cleaning the bowls, set them in the drying rack, then started to rub his hands on his pants.

Zhenya pushed herself away from the counter in mock affront. “What you are doing?” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a dish towel. Moved forward, offering it like a gift.

He didn’t reach for it, but for her instead, and pulled her toward him. He thought she might push him away, but instead she stepped inside his embrace, reached her arms around him, and kissed him back. Hungrily.

A shiver ran up his spine, and for a split second he thought of ghosts.

They made their way down the hallway awkwardly because they were still half intertwined, and then she pulled him toward the living room and its couch, which was fine, because he had half feared that they were headed toward the bed she had shared with Daniel. The room was dark, save for what thin light made it in from beyond the balcony. He banged his shin against what he assumed must have been the coffee table, but he didn’t even pause to register the pain.

They kissed as if they were devouring each other.

“Wait,” he said, breaking away. “Are you sure this is okay?”

She stepped back, mock-pouting. “You would like to have a discussion?”

He grinned. “Not really.”

They stumbled over to the couch. He kissed her lips, the side of her mouth, the little hollow at the base of her neck. He inhaled her sweet scent. She grabbed his head and pulled him back to her mouth. He reached out and cupped her firm, lovely breasts through the thin material of her shirt. She trembled and pulled him down on top of her.

There was no turning back.

AFTER, HE LAY THERE
in the dark, spooned against her on the narrow couch. He almost didn’t trust his luck. He was a realist: he was a relatively attractive person, but no movie star. His wife had been relatively attractive, and so had his last girlfriend, but they had not been movie stars either. Unlike some of his other middle-aged male colleagues, he fetishized neither youth nor beauty. Yet Zhenya was physically stunning. Not in some showy or extravagant way, but with a refined, jewel-like grace. His hand rested against her flat little belly, and he nearly expected to hear her purr.

The sex had been a revelation.

As the sweat dried on his skin, he thought of past loves. He had enjoyed sex with his wife at first, but they had been so young, and neither of them had really known what they were doing. She had seemed to like it well enough, but she had mostly lain back as if sex was something that happened
to
her, rather than something she might participate in. And then, when things had gone sour, it had become a bargaining chip, a trial, their bed a Cold War battleground. With Michelle he’d thought the sex was pretty good, good enough for him to be content with the thought of loving only her for the rest of his life. But Zhenya …

All of her shyness, her wariness, her standoffish behavior disappeared in bed. And she certainly didn’t just lie back. She was giving, and clear about what she wanted, and direct about pleasure in a way that made him feel as if he had just experienced real sex for the first time. It was more than just sensual pleasure; they were two people who had experienced deep pain, finding profound relief in each other. They had moved together, deeper than he had known possible.

She ran her fingertips over the little round scar on his chest. “This is where the bullet was hitting you?”

He sighed. “Yeah.” He had such a heavy whirl of emotional associations with that time, and he didn’t want to think about it now. He turned on his side and ran his fingers over her chin, feeling the deep indent beneath her own scar. He wondered if she would turn her head or push his hand away, but she stayed still.

“How did this happen?” he asked.

She shifted into a different position on the sofa cushions. “I am ten years of age, in Ukraine. My father is buying me a bicycle. The first day, I fall off the side of the road. We have no money for plastic surgeon.”

He leaned forward and kissed the scar. His fingertips moved, tracing her delicate collarbones, sliding down and circling her nipples.

He heard something and turned to look outside; the rain had picked up again, and it was spattering against the half-open glass door to the balcony.

He turned back to Zhenya. “You want me to shut it?”

She shook her head and nestled into the crook of his body. “I like it. I like the sound. And the smell.”

He lay back and nodded in agreement. The ocean air had a lush, briny smell that blended with the aroma of sex in the room. He closed his eyes and listened to the rain. As he drifted between wakefulness and sleep, the sound of the drops hitting the glass led to another memory.

A BATHHOUSE ATTENDANT DIPPED
oak leaves into a soapy tub and then slapped them against Daniel Lelo’s bare back. This was called a
platza
and was supposedly a sort of massage.

Jack sat across the subterranean room, which was lit only by a single bare bulb. A few feet away, a massive stone furnace gave off enough heat to grill a steak. He felt like his head was about to melt.

“Use the bockits,” Daniel counseled.

Above the tiered benches that lined the walls, water dripped from spigots into buckets. Every once in a while a bather would rise from a bench and dump one over his head. Jack put his hand in a bucket and yanked it out; the water was ice-cold. “I’m okay,” he said.

Daniel grinned. He lay on his stomach on the upper tier, where the heat was most intense. As part of their informal rehab program after the hospital, he had brought Jack to this old-style
bania
for some rejuvenating steam and relaxation. The man was at home here in this hot, watery realm; he reminded Jack of an old mural on the side of the New York Aquarium, right next to Brighton Beach. The faded painting showed King Neptune raising his trident, guiding a chariot pulled by giant seahorses.

After two more minutes, Jack became concerned that his head might actually catch fire. Wincing, he grabbed a bucket, stood up, and poured it over himself. He sputtered as the liquid ice cascaded over his flushed body. Surprisingly, the shock felt good.

The attendant, also Russian, said something to indicate that the
platza
was finished. Daniel sat up, rubbing his head free of sweat. “Next time, you will try the pool,” he told Jack. Outside the radiant heat room, true fanatics took a plunge in a little swimming pool filled with ice water.

“I don’t think so.”

Daniel smiled. “Don’t worry—it may give you a
leetle
heart attack, but it won’t
keel
you.”

Daniel stood up from his bench, lifted a bucket of ice water, and let it splash down over his head, roaring at the shock.

Jack realized that he was hungry. He and his friend put on robes and went up to the main floor, where there was a little café presided over by an old Russian woman who spoke no English. Jack enjoyed a chicken cutlet, but Daniel didn’t eat. Jack had never seen his friend without an appetite before. The man stared up at a TV mounted in the corner but didn’t seem to be watching.

“Everything okay?”

Daniel frowned. “Just some problems with my business.” He rubbed a broad hand across his eyes. “Let us go to steam room.”

There they sat on a bench, enveloped in a white cloud. Jack spread out a towel and lay facedown. Soon he felt the heat penetrating his muscles, loosening him up. He sat up and leaned back gingerly against the hot tiles. “Hey, Daniel. How did you leave the Soviet Union?”

His friend rolled over and sighed. “For many years, I was wanting to go. When I am young, I try two times.” Daniel looked down at his burly forearms; sweat was starting to bead there, and he brushed it away. “One time, I try to go into Romania. Is very hard. Fourteen kilometers before border begins control zone. If you are not resident there, police can arrest you. Imagine this: in your country, border is for keeping peoples out; in Soviet Union, was for keeping peoples in. There was towers for police, electric fence. I try to go over, but they catch me. I am twenty-two years old. I am afraid I am going to prison, but they send me to psychiatric hospital. They say, If you want to leave wonderful Soviet Union, you must be crazy.” He made a sour face. “I am there for three months; was scary place. After this, KGB makes life very difficult for me. I know I must escape or nothing good can happen in my life.” He stretched out his legs. “I wait five years for opportunity. Other countries will send me back if I go there. But Turkey, they don’t do this. So: I was on a sheep—”

“A sheep?”

Daniel shook his head. “A
ship
.” I get permission to visit a person from my family in Ninotsminda, in Republic of Georgia. On return, I am on the Black Sea, going to Odessa. I wait until middle of night. Then, very quiet, I jump over side. I have bag with some foods, some water. I take—” He pantomimed holding something around his chest.

“A life preserver?”

“Yes. And an umbrella.”

Jack chuckled. “An umbrella! Why would you care if you got wet in the ocean?”

“Was for sail.”

“Did it work?”

“Too difficult. But I am good swimmer. When I am young, I have training, for sport.
So
—I swim south, on way to Hopa, in Turkey.” Daniel turned on a tap and scooped up a drink of water. “I swim all night and next day.”

Jack sat in a cloud of steam, imagining this feat, this heavily muscled Neptune stroking out across the sea.

“And then,” Daniel continued, “in the next night, I am very close to Turkey, maybe one hour only.”

“How could you tell?”

“Lights in Soviet Union are yellow. Here I see lights of many colors: advertising. But I cannot swim no more. I am thinking, please do not let me have failure now, in sight of my freedom. And then, like answer to wish, comes fishing boat. They save me.”

“
Jesus
. What a story!” Jack sat marveling at his friend’s difficult life—it certainly put his own problems in a different perspective.

Daniel suddenly changed the subject. “In your job, you are good detective?”

Jack looked up. Out of 1,800 detectives in the NYPD, only about a hundred like him had reached First Grade. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m pretty good. Why?”

Daniel just stared thoughtfully. Jack sensed that his friend was about to say more, but the man stood up. “Time for shower.”

JACK LEIGHTNER HAD WALKED
out of the baths that day as relaxed as a rag doll. It had seemed like such a simple, uncomplicated afternoon. In retrospect, though, several things stood out. Daniel’s edginess and lack of appetite. His vague reference to business troubles. His question about Jack’s abilities.

From this vantage point, a new possibility emerged: maybe his friend had been about to ask for help. …

Next to him now, the man’s wife shifted her beautiful naked body in her sleep.

“Y
OU’VE REALLY NEVER SPENT
any time here?”

Zhenya shrugged. “I have seen it. But Daniel does not like the noise, all the people.”

Jack could see the man’s point. The previous night’s wet weather had been burned away by the bright August sun, leaving a perfect, breezy beach day at Coney Island; as they had for generations, hordes of working-class New Yorkers had flocked to the resort, and they clogged the boardwalk. He didn’t have to be at work until four today, an evening tour. For now, he could pretend to be having a normal weekend.

The place was loud as hell: seagulls cawed overhead like shrill party noisemakers, the rides in the two amusement parks clanged and dinged, rap music thumped out from a nearby bumper car emporium. Jack himself didn’t come here, except when duty called. He had fond childhood memories of the place, back when Steeplechase Park had provided the setting for a rare family day of fun and relative peace, but Coney had fallen far short of its glory days.

It wasn’t so strange that Zhenya and her husband had not spent time here, either, even though they’d lived just a short ways down the boardwalk. Many New Yorkers lived parochial lives, bound to one tight-knit neighborhood. He thought of Mr. Gardner, who had visited neighboring Manhattan only a few times in his entire life. Hell, he had met old Brooklynites who had
never
gone in to the City, never seen the Empire State Building up close, or Central Park. It was a peasant mentality, really, a fear of the unknown.

But Zhenya looked thrilled to be here today. He glanced at her, noting how she had prepared for the occasion. Most of the passersby looked schlubby in their basketball shorts and T-shirts, but she wore skintight designer jeans, another in her collection of silky blouses, and strappy high-heeled shoes, hardly the best footwear for the uneven, roughly weathered boardwalk. She also wore a bit too much makeup, though he figured that she was the last woman on the planet to need it.

As they strolled along the boardwalk, men swiveled to stare at her. Jack imagined that if he weren’t here, they might be making crude comments as well. She was a walking contradiction: she liked to dress up, but she was clearly uncomfortable with the attention her looks brought her. There were two Zhenyas: the beauty men were attracted to (including one Jack Leightner), and the woman she felt herself to be, inside. Even though he had known her only a short time, it was clear that these two were worlds apart. He wondered what it would be like to have such a problem; for once, he was grateful that he was a pretty average-looking guy.