David Duffy - Last to Fold

“See Ratko.”

“What for?”

“Friend of friend.”

“He ain’t here.”

“So I’m told. But if he’s not, why are you?”

“Fuck off.”

The brain had apparently maxed out. He went back to his seat and took out a pack of cigarettes before remembering he couldn’t light up inside. He put them back in his pocket with a curse. These weren’t the Badger’s best men. One more try wouldn’t do any harm.

“Hey, I’ve been trying to call Ratko, but nobody answers. When’s the last time anyone saw him?”

“Fuck off.”

That seemed to be the extent of his conversational repertoire. They would certainly report my presence. Question was, did I want to make it easy for Lachko to know I was interested.

Couldn’t hurt.

Bullshit.

It could hurt in the extreme.

That didn’t stop me from saying, “Tell Lachko, Turbo sends his regards.”

Neither man looked up as I walked out the door.

Five phone messages from Bernie at the office, two from last night and three this morning. One from Gayeff, curt but informative.

“Guys left at six. One went out to a shelter, came back with clothes. The two we followed went straight to SoHo, 32 Greene. Couldn’t see the buzzer, but there was no one home. Followed them to Manhattan Beach. Same addresses you had. One more thing. Somebody followed us following them. Blue Chevy Impala. Probably a rental. New York plates but couldn’t get the number without getting spotted. Car stayed at Greene Street when we went back to Brooklyn.”

Who the hell could that have been? And where did they pick us up? The hotel? Montgomery Street? Maybe Marko and his friends were sharper than I thought. But I still had the money. I checked the safe, just to make sure.

I gave Foos and Pig Pen a rundown on the night’s activities. The parrot gets obstreperous if he’s left out of the loop.

“Wait a minute,” Foos said. “You telling me this guy Risly pulled off the T.J. Maxx job?”

“That’s right.”

“Shrewd dude. That was one ballsy hack.”

“See what the Basilisk can find on him. He goes by Risly and Rislyakov. His apartment is 663 Sixth. SoHo address is 32 Greene.”

“Sure.”

I had gotten some coffee and a traffic update from Pig Pen when Foos’s baritone rumbled through the office like close-by thunder. The last bites of a bacon-egg-cheese-grease-on-a-roll concoction sat on tinfoil on his desk. My doctor is constantly on my case about blood pressure and cholesterol. He has me on statins, and I watch what I eat. I tried to compare notes once with Foos, but he just grinned and said he had no issues. I think he was swallowing a cheeseburger at the time. Like the Ralph Lauren girlfriends—life just isn’t fair.

“No Rislys or Rislyakovs at 32 Greene. But there is a Goncharov. Number 6A.”

“Goncharov?”

“Alexander.” He banged on the keyboard.

“Ratko has a sense of humor. The Russian poet Pushkin’s first name was Alexander, and his wife’s name was Goncharova.”

“Hilarious. The Rislyakov side of his personality has a gambling problem. Accounts at four online casinos. Down about eight hundred grand, all told.”

“You don’t say?”

“I also say he’s three months behind on the rent in Chelsea. Eighty-five hundred a month. Sold the car in May—Audi TT—for eighteen grand. Stiffed the garage for two months before that. Prepaid Con Ed and Time Warner. Eight hundred and change. That covers Internet and phone.”

“Huh. Sounds like he was getting ready to run.”

“Yep. Goncharov’s up to date on the financial basics of life, but he’s accumulating credit cards and bank accounts. Eight Visas, five MasterCards, five Amex. Only just started using them, though. Been running up a Visa bill in Moscow the last eight days—six grand and change. Hotel, restaurants, a few shops. Huh, he used a Rislyakov Visa. Can you tell what this is?”

I leaned over his shoulder. “Looks like an undertaker.”

“We all gotta go sometime. Let’s see. He’s got bank accounts at Chase, Citi, B of A, and some locals. Twenty-two in all. Nothing much in them. Few hundred each. I’d say he’s getting ready to leave Rislyakov and his debts hanging, and switch to the Goncharov identity. Maybe he was arranging for Rislyakov’s funeral.”

“Funny. Phone calls?”

“Patience. On to those next.”

“Think I’ll pay a visit to Greene Street. Order another breakfast delight. On me.”

I went next door and called Bernie.

“I’ve got Mulholland’s money. And a possible line on the so-called kidnapper. Unless I miss my guess, he’s sleeping with Eva. Although he might be gay—or AC/DC.”

“Turbo! It’s already been a long day. Make sense. What happened last night?”

“The less you know, in your current capacity of practicing attorney, the better.”

“Just give me the basics.” Bernie’s twenty-five years in the CIA were spent mostly behind a desk. Sometimes he can’t contain his curiosity.

“Three Ukrainians, small-time hoods. I used some contract muscle. We shot one of them so they’d know we were serious, then faked killing another so his pals would talk. Oh, and we threatened to hunt down their families, kill them or worse. The last time I saw the Ukrainians, they were naked in bed together in a Jersey City rent-a-flop.”

“Okay, you made your point.”

“The Ukrainians are working for a guy named Rislyakov. He works for Barsukov.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah, but Rislyakov’s not where he’s supposed to be. Lachko’s got men out looking for him.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Rislyakov’s a geek playboy. Geek as in Gates, not Onassis. He probably has a gambling problem, and rumor is, he’s dropped from sight. Before he dropped he was seen a lot with an auburn-haired, blue-eyed beauty on his arm. Sound familiar?”

“I really don’t need this.”

“She’s still priority one, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ve got an idea where Rislyakov and Eva might be. I’ll be by later with the dough. Mulholland sprung?”

“Arraignment’s in an hour.”

“Good luck.”

Pig Pen was watching as I headed for the door.

“ Au revoir , parrot.”

“ Adios, cheapskate.”

The Basilisk was humming as I passed through its core.

Lower Greene Street was quiet in the late-morning haze. The bazaars of Canal Street bustled at the far end of the block, but only a few cars and fewer pedestrians passed 32 Greene. A gray eight-story loft building with a cast-iron facade that needed paint. The hand-lettered sign by the buzzer for 6A read GONCHAROV. I pushed the button, waited, pushed again, waited and pushed again. I pushed the other buzzers to see if I could at least get into the building. That didn’t work either.

I crossed the street and looked up. The windows on the sixth floor needed washing even more than the facade needed paint. I took out my cell phone and found the number I wanted.

“Gina,” the clipped voice answered immediately.

“I know that. I called you.”

“Turbo!”

“Want a job?”

“Does it involve running around sweating buckets in this fucking heat?”

“Involves watching a building. From the street. No shade.”

“And the hottest friggin’ day of the year.”

“You want the job or not?”

“Yeah. I need the bread. But I’m only good till six. I’ve got a job at the library for the summer. It’s air-conditioned.”

“That’s fine. I’ll spell you then. Thirty-two Greene. We’re interested in 6A. I just want to know who comes and goes. I’ll wait across the street.”