David Duffy - In for a Ruble

We went up to the room. Inexpensive, functional, well used, and all the atmosphere of the office park next door. No chintz here, but plenty of polyester. Andras took off his coat and dropped himself on the sofa.

“Now what?” he said.

“Something to eat?”

“Okay.”

I called room service and ordered two steaks with fries, a Coke for him, and beer for me. I kept watch at the window, which overlooked the parking lot. A few cars pulled in, but their occupants appeared harmless. I found myself musing on what we all did for luggage before the invention of the wheeled suitcase. Andras kept his thoughts to himself. Time enough to let those loose.

The food came and we ate in silence. The steak was tough and tasteless, but I was hungry. I took heart in the fact that he ate hungrily as well.

When he finished, he fell back against the sofa and said, “All right, you brought me to the middle of fucking nowhere. What do you want?”

“Start with Uncle Walter.”

“Asshole. I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You’re going to have to. Sooner or later. To me or the police.”

He shook his head.

“You kill him?”

“NO! He was…”

He turned away.

“He was what?”

“I’m not going to talk about that.”

“He was what, Andras? Dead when you got there?”

He turned further until I was looking at the back of his head. The kid had spent his whole life overprotected by a rich father. The idea of vulnerability hadn’t sunk in.

“Listen carefully.” I put the telephone on speaker and punched in Nosferatu’s number.

“What the fuck now, dead man?” he said in English.

Andras faced the phone.

“Fuck your mother,” I said. “What are the ConnectPay servers worth to you, Karp?”

“Your life—maybe.”

“The kind of stupid answer I’d expect from a pidar gnoinyj . Try again.”

The slang translates literally as “rotten faggot,” but as with so many Russian expressions (this one actually originates in the Ukraine), the meaning is much stronger. I was accusing him of being a passive homosexual fuck-bag with an acute case of the clap. No reason he should have a monopoly on the insults.

“You pathetic pizda ”—cunt—“I will make sure you swallow your own balls before I break your neck.”

“That what happened to Druce? You kill him on purpose, or did you fuck that up too?”

“I didn’t kill that petuh ”—male jailhouse whore—“I didn’t need to. Oy’ebis’l! ”—Fuck off!—“Why the fuck am I talking to you?”

“The servers,” I reminded him.

“I want them. And the kid.”

“What kid?”

“Don’t waste my time. You’re a zek, too stupid to live. The Leitz kid. Thinks he’s clever. Thinks he can fuck the girl and steal the money. He’s going to pay.”

The voice was like ice. Just above a whisper. Andras sat frozen on the couch. I looked at him and put my finger to my lips.

“Who do you want more, Karp—the kid or the girl? Maybe we can make a deal.”

“No deal, zek. I’m going to take care of everyone—you too—in my own time.”

“Guess I was wrong, then.”

“You’ve been wrong your whole life, zek. Fortunately for you, it’s almost over.”

A click and the line went dead.

Andras stared at the phone then back at me. “Who… Who is that guy?”

“The assassin. The one I told you about in the car. He means what he says. He’s been told to get rid of you and Irina both. He’s headed here—probably an hour or two away.”

“Here?!”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be long gone. Feel like talking about Uncle Walter now?”

Andras walked around the room, animated, not stopping. Karp had gotten his attention, maybe even more than sister Daria’s note. Up until now, it had been some sort of game for him. All played out long distance, anonymously, through computers and the Internet. He could stay removed, in his own world, protected by his technical expertise and his rich dad. After he made three or four perambulations, I had the feeling the shell of protectiveness was crumbling.

He was at the window when he turned back to face me.

“Why didn’t you let me jump?”

Cracking, not crumbling. He was still thinking about himself.

“I grew up in a tough place. Too many people died. For no reason. Kids, parents too. Other parents fought to keep themselves and their kids alive. Most failed. Kids were left to fend for themselves. Man eat man. Man eat woman. Most of us ate whatever we could. That was the deal, every day. You learn the hard way about the value of life.”

Blank stare.

“You study history at Gibbet School?”

“Sure.”

“World War Two?”

“Yeah.”

“Concentration camps?”

“Yes.”

“Russia? Soviet Union?”

He shook his head.

Another strike against American education.

“I grew up in a concentration camp, Soviet version. They were different, they weren’t about murdering Jews, but no less brutal. They were about murdering everyone. I saw more kids die than you have classmates. I’m one of the lucky ones. I made it.”

It struck me I was using the same technique Batkin had on me—to the same end. We were both Chekists. Whatever works.

“You were in a concentration camp?”

I had his attention—finally.

“That’s right. Labor camp. Gulag camp.”

“Irina said her stepfather…”

“Was too. Same deal.”

“But he’s…”

“He’s what?”

“HE’S A PIG!”

Maybe my history lesson was a mistake. He resumed his walk.

“Andras, tell me about Irina. She’s a beautiful young woman. What’s the deal between the two of you?”

He arrived back at the couch and fell backward on it, face held in bandaged hands. “She… We… Shit, you’ll never understand.”

“Try me. You have to know by now I’m trying to help.”

He shook his head. “No. You can’t.”

“I think I can. Uncle Walter—he abused your sister. That’s what the note meant, right?”

He looked up, pain penetrating every part of his face.

“Where’d you get that note?”

“It’s going to hurt worse if I tell you.”

“Can’t hurt any worse.”

I didn’t want to do this, but I needed him to trust me and open up. More pain, for him, was the price.

“Uncle Thomas was the first to get there, right? First to find the body?”

He snuffled. “I came in right after. It was…”

“Horrible. I’m sure. Daria wrote the note before she… she used the gun. Thomas took it. And used it for years to blackmail Walter.”

“Uncle Thomas? Blackmailed Uncle Walter? I don’t get it. What for?”

“Thomas needed money. He spent… He spends more than he has. It’s an addiction, like any other. People do bad things, even in families. Maybe especially in families.”

He shook his head violently. “I always thought Uncle Walter… I always thought… It was supposed to be…”

“Thought what? What was supposed to be?”

He shook his head again and buried it in the cushions.

I took a deep breath. I didn’t want to say it, but no avoiding it now. I told myself it was for the best and hoped I wasn’t rationalizing.

“He abused you too, didn’t he?”

I’d hit home. He sobbed into the sofa. I let him cry. There was no comfort I could offer.

After a while, I said, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

He raised his head and looked at me, face red and stained with tears.

“IT IS MY FAULT! I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that. Nobody else will.”