David Duffy - Last to Fold

He was watching me. “Get yourself out of here,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”

I gave his hand a squeeze and exhaled slowly as I went down the carpeted hall. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. He probably did.

A black Suburban with tinted windows was parked outside. The driver’s window slid down, and Coyle waved me over.

“Visiting another sick friend?” he asked. Hard to say whether he wanted me to hear the sarcasm or just wasn’t bothering to cover it.

“That’s right. You guys finally twig to the fact he’s in town?”

“We get precious little help from the citizenry these days. You have no idea how this particular Barsukov got sick, of course.”

“He was shot.”

“Thank you for that piece of news. By whom? When? Where?”

“Wednesday night, he says. Didn’t see the shooter.”

“You in the neighborhood?”

“Nope.” Once again, technically true.

“What were you talking about up there?”

“Moscow. The old days.”

“What about money? Especially money moving from Moscow here—or vice versa. You talk about that?”

“Not a word. Sorry.”

“Bullshit.”

“You guys heard of the Slavic Center for Personal Development?”

“This some kind of joke? I’m not feeling funny.”

“Serious question.”

Coyle looked around inside the SUV. I could see Sawicki in the passenger seat. Maybe one or two more in the back, behind the dark glass. He turned back to me and shook his head. “Okay, so what?”

“Barsukov front. They got branches everywhere they got banks. New York Slav House is down on Second, between Eighth and Ninth.”

“So?”

“I was there earlier today. Saw two women go in, empty-handed. They came out with two others, carrying big shoulder bags. They spent the afternoon hitting half the ATMs in Fairfield County.”

I couldn’t see through the dark lenses of his Ray-Ban aviators, but I’d have bet anything on the eyes narrowing.

“How do you know this?”

“Hold on.” I punched Gina’s number. “Can you talk?”

“Sure.”

“Where are you?”

“Train back to New York, thank God. We just passed Greenwich.”

I said to Coyle, “They’ll be in Grand Central in half an hour, getting off a New Haven train.”

“Descriptions.”

I told Gina to describe the four women and handed over the phone. When he gave the phone back, I said to Gina, “You got a list of the banks you and Stripy visited?”

“What the hell you think I’ve been doing all day, my nails?”

“E-mail it as soon as you can. Enjoy your date.”

“Thanks. I meant what I said about owing me.”

“Put in for overtime.”

“Dammit, Turbo—”

I cut her off. Coyle was talking on his cell phone. When he finished, I said, “I’ll send you a list of the banks they hit tomorrow.”

He took off the sunglasses. The eyes were indeed narrowed. “How’d you know about the Slavic Center?”

“Private sector legwork.”

“Uh-huh. If it were up to me, I’d haul your ass downtown and let Sawicki spend the rest of the night trying to establish a meaningful relationship. His family fled Poland one step ahead of the Red Army. He hates Russians. But you’ve got a date with the boss.”

“My lucky day.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure. Based on her mood an hour ago, you’d be better off with Sawicki.”

Once again, I arrived at Trastevere feeling hot and sticky. The owner greeted me with a smile and a handshake. He took me to a table in the front where Victoria was waiting. She looked cool. I felt limp.

She didn’t get up. “Giancarlo, I gather y’all have met Mr. Vlost. He’s been known to do inappropriate things, so we may not be here long. If I leave, make sure he pays.” She turned to me and smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as an alligator can.

I heard her talking, but truth be told, the words didn’t register. The Russian language is full of slang, and Russian slang is full of improbable expressions, few of which translate well. They do capture the essence of the situation, however. The one that came to mind was vafli lovit, which means, literally, standing around with your mouth open long enough to catch flying dicks. The package Armani had obscured Thursday was on full display tonight. A yellow-gold silk dress came to a V at the top of her chest. Her skin was naturally brown, not acquired at the beach, and smooth. The raven hair fell around her shoulders and shone. A jade pendant and earrings played with the green eyes. No glasses tonight. I could only imagine the hips and legs beneath the table, but by then I realized how long I’d been vafli lovit, so I sat down. Victoria had a martini in front of her. I ordered the same, with Russian vodka.

She wasn’t finished with me yet. “All right, you fast-talking, ex-socialist son of a bitch, y’all tell me right now how you know what you know.”

Coyle wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t shown up last night.

“Privacy is an elastic concept.”

“Don’t give me any Russian fast-talking bullshit. How’d you get my number? How’d you know about my bank account? And this restaurant?”

I guess I like to court danger, because I thought briefly about telling her where she lived and how much she paid, but I didn’t think Trastevere could withstand the eruption from the Vesuvius across the table if I did.

“I didn’t break any laws and I didn’t peep through any peepholes, I promise. There’s lots of information out there if you know where to look.”

She cooled—a little. “My number is unlisted.”

“Ever order from a catalog? Call customer service?”

“Sure, but I don’t give them my number.”

“You don’t need to. Computer reads it as soon as it answers the phone.”

“You mean…”

“Yep. You and thirty million other people who think an unlisted number is a way to buy privacy. Child’s play, really. Telephone number’s like a digital tag. As good as a Social Security number. Once you have that…”

“So what else do you know?”

“Pretty dress. Bergdorf or Bendel’s?”

“Fuck you!” She slapped me, hard—and loud.

Giancarlo appeared. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” I rubbed my cheek. “I said something I shouldn’t have. One more bruise. Won’t happen again.”

He frowned, put down my martini, and left. I turned back to Victoria. The Millenuits pout hit me harder than her hand.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for. It’s just, this kind of thing really pisses me off.”

“Generally or just when it strikes close to home?”

Her hand was in the air again before I could turn. It stopped midway across the table and returned to her lap.

“If you’ll excuse me for saying so—and not hit me again—I’m a little surprised this is new to you. Given your job and all.”

She sipped her drink and shook her head. “My background is white-collar crime—corporate fraud, accounting cover-ups, insider trading. I’m not an expert on identity theft—as you apparently are.”

“In that case, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”

“Where you spent Wednesday night. What you want with Rad Rislyakov. And Lachko Barsukov. And Iakov Barsukov. You did say you’d explain over dinner. Here I am—all ears.”

She smiled and took another sip. Giancarlo returned, and I let him prolong the truce while he recited the specials.

“You order,” I said.

She told him we’d both have the seafood salad and wild mushroom fettuccini. “And bring a good Barolo. Don’t worry about cost. He’s buying.”