David Duffy - Last to Fold

Lachko smiled as broadly as his cancer-stretched skin would allow, then laughed.

“What can I offer you, Miss Victoria?” Lachko asked. “Vodka, coffee?”

“Glass of wine, please. Red, if you have it.”

Lachko nodded at Sergei. “Turbo? Vodka?”

“Nothing for me.”

“Vodka, Sergei. That’s twice you’ve declined my hospitality, Turbo. We have our differences, sure, but that’s no reason to be uncivilized.”

I shrugged. Lachko scooped up some cashews. Sergei went off to get the drinks.

Lachko said, “I gather you two had a very relaxed meal. Almost three hours. I hope you didn’t spend all that time talking about me.”

Victoria had disbelief written all over her. “Y’all got an inflated opinion, you don’t mind my saying so.”

“You are a good actress, Miss Victoria. Better than many I’ve seen on your Broadway stage. You also have a battalion stationed across the street from my home, men with cameras, telescopes, microphones, and who knows what else. My opinion is my opinion, but it is not far-fetched.” He bit hard on a nut as if to emphasize his point.

Sergei returned with a tray. Victoria took her wine. I decided to have the vodka after all. Lachko thought he could intimidate Victoria. It would be fun watching him try.

Victoria gave him a long stare and shook her head. “My predecessor put those men there. Not unreasonable, given that you’re a mobster. I haven’t had time to think about them myself. Although I can’t imagine they’re earning the taxpayers’ keep watching a bunch of second-rate crooks in a dump like this, dolled up like a Vegas cathouse.”

The taunts registered. The black eyes turned blacker. I hoped she knew what she was doing—spearing Lachko’s vanity was playing with fire.

She took a sip of wine, wrinkled her nose, and set the glass aside.

“The wine not to your liking?”

“You get points for consistency, if nothing else.”

“Why’d you haul us out here, Lachko?” I said.

“A chance to talk, Turbo. And to meet the most attractive Miss Victoria, of course.”

“Hold the sugar, sugar,” she said. “You missed the opportunity for that.”

That got her another black-eyed stare.

“You want to talk, Lachko, that’s fine. Tell Sergei to take Victoria back to Manhattan.”

“In good time, Turbo. The matters I wish to discuss may involve her, too.”

“I’m all ears,” she said.

“Rad Rislyakov,” Lachko said. “I know you have an interest in him, Miss Victoria. You’ve had men not busy watching my home watching his.” He held up a hairy hand full of nuts. “Spare my patience, I don’t need to hear more about your predecessor.”

“What about Rislyakov?” I asked.

“Wednesday, when we picked you up on Greene Street, you were outside a building where he did business. You didn’t tell me.”

Victoria swung toward me.

“I see Turbo hasn’t told you about Greene Street either, Miss Victoria. Maybe you are in a similar position—you think someone is a better friend than he turns out to be.”

“Who said we’re friends?”

“You hear that, Turbo? Even Miss Victoria here questions your friendship. Perhaps you know something about Rislyakov’s death. How he became dead, for example.”

“What about it?” Victoria asked me.

“Rislyakov rented a loft at 32 Greene, 6A, under another name—Goncharov. Lachko didn’t know about it, which raises two questions.” I turned back to face him. “How’d you let that happen? You must be slipping. And what was Ratko hiding from you?” That got me the dark look and the sense that I’d pay a price in the not-too-distant future. “On the other hand, there are rare occasions when Lachko knows more than he lets on.”

“Rislyakov worked for me. No secret there. I’m the one who recognized the boy’s talent, saw his potential. I nurtured him. He was worth a lot of money to me.”

“You’re avoiding Turbo’s questions,” Victoria said.

“Turbo and his questions mean nothing to me. A raccoon has sharp claws, sharp teeth, a pea-sized brain, and a nasty disposition. It also carries rabies. If one crosses the road in front of your car, you either swerve around it or, better, run it over. You certainly don’t stop to talk. Miss Victoria, what do you think of Russia?”

“Don’t have much of an opinion. Y’all aren’t very funny, I know that much.”

“An assessment based on your acquaintance with our mutual friend here, no doubt. I mean Russia today, the country, Moscow, the capital.”

She shrugged. “What I read in the paper. What Turbo’s told me. I’m no expert, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Lachko chewed on a cashew while he watched her. “You do yourself a disservice. That’s your prerogative, of course. But you do me a disservice as well, which is stupid.” He spat into his bucket.

“You are—”

The right hand came up, smoking Belomorkanal between the fingers.

“You visited Moscow last month. You arrived at Domodedovo at ten o’clock on May fourth, BA flight eight seven four. You stayed three nights at the Marriott Tverskaya. You spent eight and a half hours at CPS headquarters in Ulica Otradnaja. You walked around Red Square, toured St. Basil’s Cathedral, and visited the old GUM department store. You did not pay your respects at Lenin’s Tomb. You did not visit Lubyanka. Pity. Would you like to know where you ate?”

“You’re well informed.” She was working hard to keep her temper under control.

“What did you discuss with the CPS piss-drinkers?”

She shook her head slowly, her eyes not budging from his. “As we say down where I come from, ain’t none of your beeswax.”

Lachko spat again and fired another papirosa . “Did Turbo tell you about the Cheka?”

“They arrest people for no good reason. You used to work for it.”

“The zek’s -eye view. I assume he told you where he came from.”

“For once, you assume right.”

That stopped him, for a moment. Not the implied insult, but that I’d told her. He hadn’t expected that.

“Things have changed since Turbo left Russia. He’s out of date. Nowadays we always have a reason.”

“If you say so.”

He chewed a cashew. “Russia is an international power—politically, strategically, economically, in all spheres. The Cheka watches out for Russia’s interests.”

“You left out criminally,” I said. “And the Cheka watches out first for itself.”

“I thought y’all were retired,” Victoria said.

“Didn’t Turbo tell you? No such thing as an ex-Chekist.”

“I’m the first,” I said.

“You’re a zek, Turbo. You’ve never rid yourself of the stench.”

Victoria picked up the wineglass, reconsidered, and put it down. “I hate to interrupt this stimulating cultural conversation, but you still haven’t told us why you brought us out here.”

Lachko nodded slowly. “Turbo and I have business to discuss. I wanted to make your acquaintance—since you take such an interest in my affairs. Also I wanted to offer a piece of advice. You appear to be an intelligent woman, despite your choice of dinner companions.”

“Like I said earlier, I’m all ears.”

“The pederasts at the CPS—don’t put too much faith in them. They get excited at the sight of naked buttocks, but they are as impotent as eunuchs.”

“I take it you don’t get along.”

“They exist because we have allowed them to exist. They are shit-chewing maggots, feeding on the waste of others. Soon they will be squashed like maggots. There is only one power in Russia today, and Turbo is right, we do take care of ourselves. Those who interfere…” He spat in his bucket.