Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“If a clear conscience means I get my mother back.”

Victor held her eyes with his for a moment. Then he reached out and patted her on the arm.

The buzzer to the door sounded. Victor turned his head to listen. Footsteps from the living room to the front door. A deadbolt slid open. More footsteps. People walking into the apartment. More than one person. One of the twins said something in Russian or Ukrainian, but no one answered.

Victor fixed his collar. He stood up and took a deep breath, as though preparing for something that might tax his constitution.

“Forgive me, please,” he said. “I forgot I had an appointment. Stay right there. This won’t take long.” He started out of the kitchen and stopped. “Sometimes I’m asked to help resolve disagreements in the community. Two guests have arrived. Enterprising types. They’ve asked for my help to resolve a business dispute. Why don’t you come to my courtroom as an observer?”

“Courtroom?”

“Yes,” Victor said, as though there were nothing peculiar about his calling a room a courtroom. “You might find it interesting.”

The reporter in Lauren asserted herself. She was up even before she said yes. A voice inside her told her to be cautious, but the reporter within her silenced it. If Victor Bodnar resolved disputes in the community, he might be the type of man who knew everything about everyone. Including Bobby Kungenook. If that was the case, her best course of action was to flatter and play along with him. She grabbed her oversized bag from the floor.

“I don’t allow bags in the courtroom,” Victor said. “Everyone must follow that rule, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have an X-ray scanner or a metal detector.”

Lauren waited for him to laugh, chuckle or grin to show he was kidding. He didn’t do any of those things. Instead he stared at her bag and waited. Lauren lifted her wallet and computer out of her bag.

“The wallet, yes,” Victor said. “The computer, I’m afraid not. No cell phones, no electronic devices of any kind. I can assure you your computer will be safe inside this kitchen. There are only my nephews here. I trust them with my life.”

No phones or electronic devices, Lauren thought. The parties to this dispute were starting to pique her interest. Lauren slipped the computer back in the bag.

Victor eyed the purse. “If you give me your word there is no weapon or tape recorder, I won’t insult you by asking to look inside.”

She was the one who chuckled. Popped the purse open and unzipped the change compartment. Tilted it toward Victor so he could see inside.

He grimaced, as though mortified she was being subjected to such scrutiny, and threw his right hand up in disgust for good measure. But he still snuck a look inside.

“This way to the courtroom,” he said.

He turned and headed up a narrow flight of L-shaped stairs. Lauren followed. Victor’s earlier words resonated. He called the two parties to the dispute “enterprising types.” His obsession about recording devices suggested something sensitive was going to be discussed. His concern about security meant the visitors to his courtroom could get violent. Probably had been violent in the past.

What if by “enterprising types” he meant criminals? What if she was walking into a mock courtroom where mob disputes were resolved? Obon said that Victor Bodnar made his fortune in the food business. He didn’t look like any baker, farmer, or grocery store operator she’d ever seen. What was she walking into?

Not a nice little story. A great story, Lauren thought. One that could catapult her out of the sports section and onto the front page.

The stairs opened up to a second floor with a narrow corridor and three doors. She followed Victor into what she guessed was originally a bedroom. It contained a rectangular wooden table with two empty chairs on one side, and three chairs on the other. The parties to the dispute sat on the latter side with an empty chair between them. It looked like an imaginary boundary, a buffer to prevent an accidental elbow that might lead to fisticuffs.

Except the parties to the dispute were grandmothers in Sunday dresses. One wore white gloves, the other a black hat to match her dress. The one with the white gloves held a cane. The other wore a hearing aide. At first Lauren wondered if it was a joke. But then she studied the expressions on the women’s faces and she knew that for them, it was no joke at all.

One of the nephews marched into the room. He stood beside Victor, who turned to Lauren.

“We must speak Ukrainian. But my nephew will translate for you.”

Victor gave a speech. His nephew bent down on one knee and translated into Lauren’s ear.

“We’re here to settle an argument. One person has been harmed. The other person is accused. The wronged party is demanding compensation from the other for lost income. This is a courtroom. Verdicts are final. There is no appeal. Punishment if you don’t follow the court’s verdict will be quick and severe. Do both of you agree to be bound by this courtroom? The verdict and the sentencing?”

Both women nodded.

“Very well,” Victor said. He stood up, moved to the other side of the table, and sat down in the empty chair between the two women facing Lauren. He grasped one woman’s hand with his left, the other’s with his right. “You both grew up in the same village in Ukraine. Together you’ve served the best hunter’s stew in town in your little restaurant for over twenty years. How did it come this far?”

“She’s a philistine,” one said. “She wants to use cabbage instead of beetroot and add lemon to the borscht.”

The other one bristled. “We get a customer asking for this every week.”

“Who cares what the customer asks for? If he asked for turpentine in a glass, would you serve it? Only Russians use nothing but cabbage. Only Russians add lemon to their borscht. I will not serve Russian dishes in my restaurant.”

And so it went on for ten minutes. Eventually Victor persuaded them to compromise on adding the Russian version of borscht to their specials.

“A good host is a humble host,” Victor said. “He puts his guests’ desires above his own. And a Ukrainian restaurant should maintain its purity. There’s enough confusion about Ukraine and Russia.”

Victor’s nephew escorted the women out.

Lauren followed Victor back to the kitchen. She returned her wallet to her bag, which was exactly where she left it.

“That wasn’t what I expected,” she said. “Why the concern about security and electronic devices to resolve a dispute between two cooks?”

“Disputes in my courtroom involve all sorts of people. I found it best to keep a consistent set of rules and apply them to everyone. That way there’s no risk of an unpleasant surprise. People aren’t always who they seem to be. Now, what was this boy’s name again? The one you asked Obon about?”

“Bobby Kungenook.”

A light came on in his eyes. “Ah, yes. Bobby Kungenook. I remember that name.”

“You know him?”

“No. My daughter does. She runs a bakery in Brighton Beach. Her protégé, a girl named Iryna, is dating him. Or was, at least. You know how kids are. And now that the boy’s in jail—I must have mentioned it to Obon the next day.”

“What is your daughter’s name? Where exactly is her bakery?”

Lauren got the address for Tara’s bakery.

“Have you seen his guardian, Nadia Tesla, recently?” Lauren said.

Victor frowned. “Who?”

Lauren studied him. He appeared genuinely confused. “Nadia Tesla.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone by that name.”

Lauren grabbed her bag and thanked Victor for his hospitality and help.