David Duffy - Last to Fold

“I’ll attest you did as requested, if given the chance,” I said with a smile. “No hard feelings.” I put out my hand, which he took quickly.

“I’m sorry to—”

“Don’t think any more about it. Would it be okay if I had a bite at the bar? Since I’m here, and solo.”

“Of course. But please, let me give you a table.”

“The bar’s fine. I’ll have a dry martini with Russian vodka, if you have it, followed by whatever pasta you’re recommending tonight.”

“Right away.”

The martini was cold and dry, just like it should be. It went down quickly, so I ordered another. The pasta came coated with a sauce of escargots and mushrooms that was wondrous in its depth and complexity. I found myself looking forward to coming back regardless of whether Victoria showed up.

The place was busy, as was the bartender. With no one to talk to, other than the owner, who came by three times to make sure I wasn’t angry at him, I spent the meal musing on intersections of past and present.

I probably shouldn’t have warned Mulholland about Polina. It wasn’t my business, and he’d made his own bed (with her)—but in spite of myself, I felt bad for him. Perhaps because I knew in ways he’d yet to experience what he was in for. Perhaps because he’d surprised me with his concern for Eva, real and heartfelt. Perhaps because a new snake pit was about to open at his feet, one he wasn’t likely to see before he fell in. Bad enough that Polina had been married to me and hadn’t told him, but Lachko was a whole different nest of vipers. I had a mental image of Victoria licking her Cajun chops when she heard the news.

Nothing I’d learned in the last thirty-six hours caused me to change my initial belief that Polina was hiding from Lachko. I still couldn’t see why. Lachko had expressed less than no interest in her or Eva. I’d half expected him to drag me back to Brighton Beach or at least send Sergei around, but he hadn’t even asked which hospital Eva was in. Maybe he’d found out by other means. Iakov expressed more curiosity in Eva and her mother, and he hated Polina. Always had.

Then there was the enigma of Ratko. He knew exactly who Polina was—he was using the information to put the bite on her. How, and why, had he found out in the first place? Why didn’t he tell his boss? Why was he getting ready to disappear as Alexander Goncharov? Greed—not wanting to share the spoils—seemed much too simple an answer.

Iakov’s Cheka business somehow involved Ratko. How had he put it— laying old ghosts to rest? Why did he need Ratko for that? Why didn’t Lachko know his resident tech genius was working on the side for his old man? There was a lot Lachko didn’t know—a lot that was going on right under those thundercloud eyebrows. Maybe his illness had slowed him down to the point where he was out of touch. Based on our encounter yesterday, I doubted it.

One piece of good information had come from all this. Aleksei was alive and, according to Lachko, working with the CPS—the Criminal Prosecution Service. I hadn’t wanted to show it, but that was the first hard news I’d had in years. It appeared Polina had abandoned him following Kosokov’s death. Perhaps she’d left him with her sister, or another relative. Had she been in touch since? Did he know about his mother’s new identity? Then there was the question I’d been asking myself for two decades—what, if anything, had she told him about me?

My head was starting to spin, and other investigations tugged. I’d had enough vodka to numb whatever pain was in Sasha’s envelope. Tonight was as good a time as any to look into my own old ghosts. I asked for the check. Two martinis and pasta—eighty-five dollars by the time I signed the receipt. There are sound Marxist reasons why the East Eighties aren’t my neck of the woods.

I remembered my disabled cell phone and turned it back on. It buzzed half a minute later.

“ BASTARD! Tell me right now…”

I’ve never appreciated the opportunity to listen to other people’s phone conversations while I’m eating, even when they’re friendly, so I told Polina to hold on, thanked the owner and reminded him I looked forward to sampling his fare again tomorrow, and walked out into the heat of Second Avenue. Just after nine thirty, the street was still hot and busy.

“You keep calling me like this, I might think you have ulterior motives,” I said.

“Ulterior motives? My only motive is to get you out of my life!”

“You talk to Mulholland?”

“He’s a stubborn fool, like all men.”

“He’s trying to help. Eva, I mean.”

“I can take care of her. I always have.”

I didn’t point out that Mulholland thought that was part of the problem. Or that I agreed with him. “Why’d you pull that scam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The kidnap picture. You Photoshopped it, sent it to Mulholland with that bullshit kidnap note. Why didn’t you just tell him you were being blackmailed?”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“How do you… Nobody’s blackmailing me!”

“If you say so, but the only person delusional this time is you.”

“You… You… You haven’t changed at all, you son of a bitch.”

“Still the same guy, zek and all, I always was. What are you afraid of? Lachko?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Why’d you run out on him?”

“Long story.”

“You want to tell it? I’m not far away.”

“Stay away from me!”

“I’m not the one trying to hurt you, Polya.”

“I said, stay the fuck away.”

This was getting nowhere. “Where’s Aleksei? Did you leave him in Russia?”

“He’s all right. That’s all you need to know.”

“Lachko says he’s working for the CPS.”

Another pause, longer this time. “That bastard.”

“You can’t isolate yourself, Polya. Lachko, me, Mulholland. A couple of us might still be on your side, if you let us.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I think you do. I think that’s why you called. What did Rislyakov take from your computer?”

“This conversation is over.”

The line went dead. I was at Seventy-first Street. I walked south and tried calling her from Fifty-eighth Street. I tried again at Fifty-second. No answer. I hailed a downtown cab.

The office was dark, but Pig Pen was awake, listening to his radio.

I retrieved Sasha’s envelope and stopped to say good night.

“Truck lanes closed. Exit nine. Fuel spill,” he said.

“Not on my route. Pig Pen, what do you know about serendipity?”

He gave me his hostile one-eyed stare. He hates words of multiple syllables—he thinks I’m teasing him.

“No joke, seriously, serendipity.”

“Pity me?”

“Not pity. Luck. Good luck.”

“Lucky Russky.”

“Exactly.”

The neck feathers ruffled. “Luck. Crap shoot.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with the boss.”

“Crap shoot.”

“Okay. Maybe. Boss likes statistics and probabilities, but sometimes you gotta go with what’s working. If I roll seven on this crap shoot, pizza’s on me.”

That grabbed him. “Seven—pizza!”

“You got it.”

“Seven. Lucky Russky. Pizza!”

One thing about Pig Pen. He doesn’t lack focus.

I took my time walking home. The streets were still steaming. I was anticipating a painful evening, vodka-numbed or not.

“Lucky Russky,” Pig Pen had said. If he was right, tomorrow night I wouldn’t dine alone.

Solovetsky, March 12, 1938

Dearest Tata,

My heart breaks. I cannot believe this is happening. I have to try to tell someone, so someone knows and I keep my sanity.