David Duffy - In for a Ruble

I waited on the bench until the last speck of orange disappeared on the other side. The man in the tan overcoat didn’t budge. Two things were clear about Thomas. He had something—maybe several somethings—to hide, but whatever it was almost certainly had nothing to do with his brother’s computers.

I took the rest of the afternoon off.

The dim sum place was a hit. We followed lunch with a movie in the Village, a romantic comedy Victoria chose. I didn’t find it particularly romantic or comedic, but my sense of humor is usually out of step with Hollywood’s these days. My mind was also on the Leitzes, who were providing a better story, although not much about them was romantic or comedic either.

The wind had died down, and we walked home, stopping at an old-school Village butcher for a couple of veal chops, which I ordered cut thick, and a liquor store for some red wine. The chops, stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella and sautéed with a sage brown sauce, were as delicious as was the wine, a Pinot Noir from Oregon. Bud Powell played bop piano on the stereo, causing Victoria to wrinkle her too small nose in mock distaste whenever he launched into one of his more angular solos. I think it was mock, she didn’t complain out loud. The last of the wine led to holding hands on the sofa and that led to holding everything else in bed. I fell asleep thinking she’d been back a bare twenty-four hours and we were already settling into a routine that was fast becoming one more thing to hold on to.

I left her sleeping at 6:00 A.M., took my usual run through a cold, dark southern Manhattan and stopped at the office on the way back. At 6:55 on Sunday, the space was tomblike. Pig Pen was still asleep—contributing markedly to the silence.

I fired up the Basilisk and fed in Andras Leitz and Walter Coryell. The beast went to its cave.

Andras had called his uncle last night—three times. Uncle Walter hadn’t answered.

I sent the Basilisk back for the location of Andras’s cell phone.

Newburgh.

Okay, I asked, what’s the kid been up to?

It bucked and hissed. Let me tell you.

Andras had hopped the 4:30 Delta shuttle to New York yesterday afternoon, while Victoria and I were in the movie house, taken a cab from LaGuardia to the Harlem–125th Street train station, paid with AmEx, where he’d purchased a roundtrip ticket to Beacon, across the Hudson from Newburgh, also with AmEx. The exact location of his calls to his uncle was vague, somewhere south of town. Not my fault, the beast said, cell phone location can be spotty, depending on the service provider. Do your own legwork.

Nothing else new on Walter Coryell in the vast reaches of the Big Dick, which further supported the supposition of another identity.

I went back to the spending records of Andras and Irina. They were both regular patrons of Crestview Pizza and Mike’s Grocery, both on Main Street in Crestview, Massachusetts. Their purchases took place on nights and weekends. Irina bought her gas at Crestview Citgo, filling up every couple of weeks, at night. Except last night. She’d bought almost eleven gallons at 12:24 A.M. at service station on the Massachusetts Turnpike, a mile from the intersection with I-84. Right on the most direct route from Newburgh to Gibbet.

I checked Facebook, looking for a picture of Andras. To my surprise, he didn’t have a page. Neither did Irina. Andras supposedly spent all his time online. One more thing that didn’t add up.

I walked the two blocks home, stopping for breakfast makings. Victoria was just stirring.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Run. Research. Breakfast in twenty minutes.”

She emerged as I finished frying sausage and whipped the eggs for an omelet. No sleep in her eyes.

“What kind of research, shug?”

“Whereabouts and whatabouts of certain Leitzes.”

“You couldn’t have done this yesterday?”

“Staying current.” But her point had a point.

“Bull. You didn’t want prying eyes.”

“We each have our own cases.”

“That just means you’re not sharing. How about some Tabasco in the omelet?”

I did as she asked, and we ate in partly contested, mostly contented, silence, especially when I relented and told her what I’d found and that I had no idea what it meant.

She acknowledged the gesture silently with a nod and a smile.

I said, “Why are you so interested in the Leitz case?”

“Because it’s yours. When I was sitting by the pool at the Gage Hotel, one thing I figured out for certain is, we’re in this together. If you’re absorbed in something that’s likely to lead to trouble, then I’m worried. If I’m on the outside trying to peek in at what you’re doing, like last time, we aren’t going very far. I can’t live that way, and I don’t think you want to either.”

I took her hand and looked into her eyes. “You’re right, of course. Want to talk about what you’re working on?”

Green flash. “You’re a bastard.”

“Just making a point. In the spirit of togetherness, however, I’m happy to discuss my case. Want to hear it?”

“Why do I have the feeling I’m being set up?”

“No setup. I’ve got two teenaged kids, each with eleven mil in the bank. They may be mixed up with an organized crime outfit called the Baltic Enterprise Commission. I know the girl is. Her father, her uncle, and her stepfather are all partners. The Leitz kid’s up to something with his uncle, the uncle’s being blackmailed by his brother-in-law. The client’s sister is a lush who won’t give her husband a divorce even though he’s sweet-talking any broad he can find into the sack. The client may or may not be carrying on an affair with the ex-wife of one BEC mobster, now married to another. He, by the way, tells me, everything’s fine. Welcome in.”

At some point during my summary, she’d removed her hand from mine, and now she was winding up to knock me silly. Then she smiled.

“You know, you make it goddamned difficult for a girl to do the right thing. This a national character trait, or did you learn to be a pain in the ass all by yourself?”

“Probably some of both. You read Tolstoy? Dostoevsky? No simple plots.”

“Try Faulkner, shug. Or Flannery O’Connor. No normal characters. You’d fit right in. Tell me one thing—would you know any of this without the Basilisk?”

“The problem isn’t phones, computers, credit cards, and bank accounts. It’s what people do with them.”

I almost could hear the Basilisk chuckling two blocks away, if rooster-headed, hawk-bodied serpents can chuckle.

“Including kids?”

“It’s all in the Big Dick. Age isn’t a factor.”

“That ain’t right,” Victoria said.

“It’s your country. Can you keep quiet for moment? I have to call Leitz and he’s going to want to lecture me on proper client relations.”

“I could give him a pointer or two, but I’ll do the dishes instead.”

I dialed Leitz’s number.

He came on right away.

“You finally surface,” he said.

“I’ve been busy—on your nickel.”

“I’m used to having my calls returned.”

“Apparatchiks at Lubyanka and Yasenevo used to tell me the same thing. One advantage of working in the field.”

Victoria raised an eyebrow as she picked up the plates.

“Lubyanka apparatchiks weren’t paying you,” Leitz said.

“Neither are you—yet. I need a photograph of your son.”

“Andras? Why?”

“The people who bugged your computers have touched every member of your family. I think he’s next.”

“WHAT?! What the hell do you mean?”

“Just what I said. They’ve visited your brother and sisters, but you know that by now.”