David Duffy - Last to Fold

“I’m told y’all are fuckin’ around in not just one but two of my cases. Suppos’n you tell me why and what for before I have your ass deported back to whatever socialist shit-hole you came from in the first place.”

I listen to what used to be called country music because of, as Charlie Parker once reportedly said, “the stories, man, the stories.” It’s now known by the nondescriptive “roots” or “Americana,” but whatever the term, I was standing in front of the inspiration for countless tunes about the honky-tonk angels who turn otherwise strong-minded men into helpless fools. When I finally told her that, she took it as a compliment—she’s a big fan of Loretta Lynn.

Victoria de Millenuits. Victoria of a thousand nights. I realize I’m in no position to say it, but what’s in a name? It fits her like a pair of tight jeans.

She’s a few inches shorter than I am and built, to use a marvelous metaphor, like a brick shithouse. (Americans, like Russians, can be clever with wordplay, even when it makes no sense.) She has long legs, a full figure, just the right amount of honky-tonk mascara and lipstick, and a pout that turns men—at least this one—to jelly before she gets her lips fully formed. She wears her black hair thick and long, past her shoulders. The eyes—green ellipses that seem descended directly from ancient Egypt—are as deep as the Nile. They laugh when she wants them to and turn sad when she doesn’t. Her nose is a touch too small and her mouth—those pouting lips—too large. The overall effect would have driven Botticelli to distraction.

That first meeting, in her U.S. attorney’s office, the full package was on subdued display. An Armani suit straightened the shithouse curves, but they still took my mind off worrying whether Agents Coyle and Sawicki knew about Greene Street. The black hair was pulled back and tied up behind her head. Horn-rimmed glasses wrapped the green eyes, but they didn’t dull the color. Jade is jade, no matter what it’s encased in.

I stuck out my hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Call me Turbo.”

That defused her—for a nanosecond.

“I know your damned name. Sit down!”

I kept my hand outstretched. “Then you have the advantage. You are?”

“The goddamned U.S. attorney for the Southern District!”

“Your title is stenciled on the door. I’m asking your name. Courtesy’s a starting point in the socialist shit-hole I come from.”

The eyes flashed, jade striking iron. I’d pushed it too far. Then they softened, the lips curled up, and she laughed. A big laugh—one that knew something about life. An Armani-clad arm came across the desk. The grip was firm.

“Victoria. Victoria de Millenuits. Thank you for coming to see me on short notice. Apologies for my greeting. You know what they say about litigators.”

“No, we didn’t have any to talk about.”

The flash was back. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Okay. Doesn’t matter. May I sit?”

“Please.”

I took my chair, she took hers. We eyed each other across a big, cheap, veneered desk, as feminine as a tractor. The rest of the office had the same feel. Men’s club wannabe leather. She read my thoughts.

“I haven’t been here long, a few months. My predecessor’s decor. No time to redecorate.”

“Not a priority.”

“I was appointed to do a job. That’s my focus. Furniture…” She waved a delicate hand in the air.

“The kids I grew up with would’ve killed for a shit-hole like this.”

The flash was back. “All right, goddammit. Y’all made your point.”

I was trying to place the accent—Southern, certainly, more bayou than banjo.

“Description wasn’t inaccurate, if it makes any difference.”

She dropped her eyes as she opened a file on her desk, brought the eyes back up and said, “Small talk’s been a pleasure, Mr. Vlost. Let’s get down to cases.”

“Turbo.”

“Where’d you spend last night?”

“Why?”

“My men waited outside your building until after one.”

“You work late.”

“I work till whenever. Where were you?”

“I work late, too.”

“Doing what?”

“I think my lawyer would advise against answering that.”

“Because you have something to hide?”

“Because he doesn’t approve of fishing expeditions.”

“This wouldn’t be our mutual friend Bernie Kordlite?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He gave me your name and address.”

“Bernie sold me out?”

“I could’ve looked in the phone book. What’s your business, Mr. Vlost?”

“Turbo.” I took out a business card and handed it across.

She laughed—another real laugh. “Vlost and Found? Whatever your business is, we know you’re not a comedian.”

“I help people find things.”

“That make you a flatfoot?”

“I believe gumshoe is the correct technical term.”

“What’s Mulholland looking for?”

I shook my head. “I’m sure Bernie didn’t tell you I’d answer that.”

She looked down at her desk. “What’s your business have to do with Lachko Barsukov?”

“Lachko’s an old friend. From the socialist shit-hole.”

“And Rad Rislyakov, also known as Ratko Risly?”

Careful now. “You seem to know a lot about my movements.”

She took a photograph from the file and turned it toward me. I was looking at myself getting out of the Lincoln in the Badger’s Brighton Beach courtyard. The close focus and blurred background said it had been taken with a long telephoto lens. She turned over another picture. I was exiting Ratko’s Chelsea apartment building.

She said, “Tuesday, you’re at Mulholland’s. Coyle saw you there. Yesterday morning, you show up at Risly’s building. Later, you pop out to Brighton Beach for a visit with a top member of Russian organized crime, someone who’s in business with the someone you went to see that morning. When you get back to Manhattan, you play cute all over downtown, then on the Lexington Avenue IRT, like you want to lose anyone following you. Then you don’t come home. Bernie says you’re straight, but Bernie used to be a spook, too. What are you up to, Mr. Vlost?”

I gave up on her calling me Turbo, at least temporarily. “Sounds like I was successful.”

“Successful? At what?”

“Losing that tail.”

She slapped the desk. “Goddammit—”

“Okay, okay. Lachko’s an old friend, like I said. We used to work together—in the KGB. I heard he was sick.”

“So you were visiting a sick friend?”

“Sure. Is that a crime, even if we are both ex-socialists?”

She ignored me. “Why the shenanigans in the subway?”

“Don’t like being followed. Occupational hangover.”

“Why did you think you were being followed?”

“I wasn’t wrong.”

“You’re not as smart as you think you are either. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Lachko has a couple of guys camped out in Ratko’s lobby. You know that. He was asking questions about Ratko yesterday that suggest Ratko has dropped out of sight. And since you’ll undoubtedly ask, no, I don’t know where he is.”

Technically and spiritually true, if factually dubious. Two out of three ain’t bad.

“Your powers of deduction knock me over. You know who Risly is?”

“No.”

“Why would he want to drop out of sight?”

“Never met the guy. Have you?”

The jade flashed again. “Why did you go to see him?”

“Had something to talk about.”

“Something involving Barsukov or Mulholland—or both?”

“I hope you won’t hold it against me if I don’t answer that. Maybe if you tell me why you’re interested in Risly, I could help.”