David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Bernie said you dealt with them, but he wouldn’t say how. What happened?”

“They were some unsavory guys, but fortunately for us, stupid unsavory guys. I took care of them. They won’t bother you again.”

“You seem very confident.”

“I guarantee it—or your money back.”

“I’ll need an invoice.”

“Of course,” I said. I picked up a pad of lined paper from the coffee table and wrote “Vlost and Found” at the top, “For services rendered… $700,000” underneath, and signed my name below that. I added my taxpayer ID number at the bottom. Whatever the system, the government wants its piece of the action.

“This includes expenses. They ran high.”

Mulholland looked at the page and frowned again. “This is somewhat unorthodox. I would assume that—”

“I don’t use letterhead. Keeps costs down. And I don’t think a more detailed description of my services is in anyone’s interest.”

Still frowning, he went to his desk and took out a big checkbook and a gold pen. He scribbled for a minute and returned holding a check for $700,000, drawn on his account at FTB. I didn’t ask about Bernie’s bankruptcy petition. I was tempted to inquire about the bank’s solvency but minded my admonition to behave. Still, I intended to make a deposit as soon as I got out of here.

Mulholland was looking me over, trying to decide something. He stood behind his chair, his hands on the back. He dropped his eyes to the floor and brought them back up to meet mine. “Eva was part of the so-called kidnapping, wasn’t she?”

He wasn’t as obtuse as I gave him credit for. Yet he didn’t know the half of it—and I didn’t want to be the one to tell him. “She could have been. She’s been hanging out with some bad people, criminal people.”

He nodded, as if I’d confirmed his hypothesis. “She’s always been a troubled child.” He sat in his chair, and the frown began to ease. After a minute or two, he just looked glum. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Mr. Vlost?”

“I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion. Bernie speaks highly, and I‘ve never found reason to fault his judgment.”

“A good nonanswer. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve spent much of the last few days staring into an abyss. My business, family… I learned years ago you can only fight so many fights at one time. You have to prioritize or be overwhelmed. You have to know when to ask for help.”

He stopped long enough to take a breath and collect his thoughts. This couldn’t be easy. He’d probably never asked for help in his life.

“I have to attend to my legal problems. I haven’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean I can be lax in my own defense. I have to save my bank. I owe it to our depositors and shareholders. That leaves Eva, where, I’ll be honest, I’m at a loss about what to do.”

He put his head in his hands.

“That fight Eva had with her mother the last time we saw her, the one I mentioned when we met before,” he said, looking at the floor. “I heard things no one should ever say to someone else, especially family.” He freed his head and looked up. “Maybe that’s what some families are all about. I’m not sure I’d know.”

“What did they fight about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“What didn’t they fight about? Life, each other, me, the past, the future… No perceived sin or offense omitted.”

Sounded like Polina. “This a common occurrence?”

“I’ve witnessed three or four. There may have been others. What they lack in frequency they more than make up for in intensity.”

“What set this one off?”

“You know, I’m not really sure. Some little thing. You don’t see it coming. Then, all of a sudden, it’s like each of them puts a match to her own gas can of resentment and anger, and… boom!”

He shook his head and put it back in his hands.

“Are you sure you don’t know what Eva meant by that note?”

He looked up. The black eyes had lost their hardness. They were needy, almost desperate. “She said it that Sunday, the same thing. ‘You should have left me with Lena.’ Screamed it at Felix, right before she ran out.”

“But you don’t know who this Lena is?”

He shook his head again. “Eva had some major trauma in her childhood—the full extent of which I do not know. Lena’s part of that, I think. She had no father until I attempted to fill the role. Her mother has—how shall I put this?—cared too much and tried too hard to overcome the other issues.”

Mulholland kept his voice low and even. “Eva believes—believes very firmly—that she herself is responsible for much of the misfortune that has befallen her. I also believe she feels guilt for her mother, for reasons I don’t know. It’s clear this guilt eats away at her, that it’s responsible for her lack of self-esteem, her erratic behavior, her drug use, her animosity toward us. Even her stutter. I’m very afraid of what she might try to do. I appreciate your not wanting to get between Felix and me. I’ll talk to my wife. Right now, though, I need to know we are doing whatever we can to help Eva. So I’m asking you to find her. If it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay whatever you ask. Will you help me?”

I couldn’t picture the man I’d met last week saying what he’d just said. Perhaps looking into the abyss does change a person.

“I’ll do what I can. But even if I find her, I can’t guarantee she won’t take off again.”

He nodded. “I know that, of course. Something else I learned—one step at a time.”

“Any idea why she would have run from the hospital?”

He shook his head. “Only to avoid being brought home.”

“Any idea where she would have gone?”

“None. I’m afraid that for all our concern, we don’t know nearly as much about her as we should. That goes for her mother, too.”

“You will talk to her? Your wife, I mean,” I said.

“Yes. I’m on my way home now.”

“I think you’ll find her under some stress.”

“About Eva?”

“In part. How much do you know about her past?”

He hesitated, surprised by the question. “Not a great deal. She grew up in Queens, Jackson Heights. Went to CCNY. Sold real estate—very successfully. Married once before. Her first husband died. I haven’t pried. Not really my business.”

“I don’t mean to add to your troubles, but her past is a good deal more complicated than that.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Just that I think it’s about to catch up with her.”

Trastevere was in the early Eighties. I didn’t know it, the Eighties not being my normal neck of the woods. A simple room, in an elegant kind of way, the kind of simplicity that comes at a price. I arrived hot and sticky and was greeted at the door by an old-world Italian gentleman of about fifty with kind eyes and a warm smile.

“Ms. Millenuits just called,” he said when I announced myself. He looked around the room as if trying to decide something. “She… she said she is very sorry, but she’s been detained. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be. She suggests that you meet here tomorrow night. She said…” He stopped and looked troubled.

“You’re being very kind. I’m guessing she isn’t sorry, very or otherwise. You can tell me what she really said.”

He was clearly uncomfortable. A good host doesn’t attack his guest as soon as he walks in the door.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve already been on the receiving end of Ms. Millenuits’s temper. Would you like to see the bruise?”

He smiled, but he didn’t relax. He unfolded a piece of paper from his jacket.

“She said, ‘Tell that bald Bolshevik he can buy me your best bottle of wine tomorrow night if I cool off between now and then. And tell him to bring his body armor. He’s going to need it.’ Those were her words. She wanted me to repeat them exactly.”