David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Suppose I believe you—and I’m more likely to kiss your balls. What did Ratko have?”

“Her new identity.”

“Who was she hiding from?”

I just looked at him.

“Me? You pile absurdity on top of stupidity. Polina and I were finished years ago, long before she disappeared. We were separated. We’d made a deal. She was going to start divorce proceedings. She wasn’t going to try to clean me out, I wasn’t going to contest it. I couldn’t have cared less.”

He sounded sincere. If Lachko can ever be considered sincere.

“Iakov said she and Kosokov…”

“Yes, I know. They deserved each other.”

“He said Kosokov stole six hundred million…”

“Kosokov? Steal? Hah! This gets more fucked up with every word. A minute ago, Polina’s broke, she needs money. Now she has six hundred million. I do think my father’s finally losing his mind. Kosokov was so fucking thick he had to be led around by his member just to avoid walking in front of a bus. And you—you’re just trying to keep your shriveled skin from being peeled off its useless frame. Don’t bother. I intend to take care of that myself.”

I ignored the threat. He and Iakov told different stories. That was worth pursuing, if I had the chance.

“What did you find at Greene Street?” Lachko said.

“Iakov, Ratko’s body, suitcase, computer, Eva.”

“What about bullet holes in the bedroom door, two slugs in one wall, one in another, one in Ratko? Where’s the gun?”

“I took it.”

“What kind?”

“Glock, nine millimeter.”

“I want it. What else did you find on the computer?”

I grabbed hold of the desk leg with both hands and somehow pulled myself to my feet. I leaned on the red lacquer, out of breath, ready to throw up.

“Your laundry,” I gagged. We were going to get there sooner or later.

He thought for a moment, no expression on his withered face.

“How much does your friend Victoria know?”

No good answer to this question. “She knows. Don’t know how. She knew before I told her.”

“Bullshit. You were at the Slavic Center this morning.”

“Looking for Eva. Ratko had the home page on his computer. She ran from the hospital. You sent your men there.” A guess, but a good one.

I missed the eyebrows twitching, not that it would have made any difference. Sergei came across the room and hit me in the stomach. Another explosion and I was sucking rug shag again, looking for oxygen. I couldn’t take too much more of this. No one could.

Lachko and Sergei backed off. I spat again on the brown-red stain and tried to focus. Lachko kept his eyes on me as he chewed some cashews from his pocket. I was almost able to breathe at a normal rate when he said, “Someone copied a large database from Rislyakov’s computer, then erased it from the hard drive. That you?”

Were we finally getting to the point? “Not me.”

“You took the computer with you. You have a partner well known in technology circles. I want what was taken returned.”

I started through the motions of standing again.

“I don’t have it. I found the ransom note and Ratko’s blackmail note, like I told you. I removed them. You can confirm that. I didn’t touch anything else.”

“Turbo, you forget I’ve had the misfortune to know you from the time you crawled out of the Gulag. You learned to lie before you could walk.”

I might have pointed out we all did. He turned the wheelchair away. Leaning hard on the desk, I made it back to my feet. The exertion had me gulping air like I’d just sprinted two miles.

I saw eyebrows twitch this time. Sergei lifted me off the floor with one muscled arm, grinned, and hit me in the gut with the other. He let go, and I crumpled back at the base of the desk. The scratch was still there.

Lachko said, “I’m going to give you one more chance, although I have no idea why. Zeks can only be dealt with as zeks . They deserve no respect. They deserve nothing.”

He took a cordless phone from the pocket of his tracksuit and punched in a number. Lot of digits—overseas call.

“Good morning, Vasily. How are you today? How’s the weather?… Fine, fine. No, no change. There’s an old friend here with me. He wants to talk to you.”

Lachko pushed the speaker button.

“Ya sru na tvayu mat— I shit on your mother,” Lachko’s brother said.

“Hello, Vasily,” I replied, as evenly as I could.

“I understand you are feeling some pain. I thought news from home might brighten you up. I’m in a car with one of the Cheka’s best marksmen, in Ulica Otradnaja. You know it?”

CPS headquarters. Panic replaced pain. What time was it in Moscow? Pushing 2:00 A.M. here… 10:00 A.M. I pulled myself to my feet again, still leaning on the desk. Sergei backed off, about a foot.

“My friend and I are parked across from your son’s building. He’s on the second floor. I can see him through the window.”

I didn’t answer.

“We’ve been watching for an hour. Right now he’s talking on the phone. Wearing a faggy blue sweater, by the way. You should’ve taught him to be more observant, Turbo. But, of course, you weren’t there, were you? Never have been. He hasn’t noticed us at all, parked right across the street. Those CPS pediks are all piss-stupid.”

The unmistakable sound of a shell being loaded into a firing chamber ricocheted across nine thousand miles.

“Dragunov SVDS with a scope, in case you were wondering,” Vasily said. “Let’s see if your dumb-fuck kid puts in another appearance.”

Lachko said, “One more time, Turbo, where’s that database?”

“No! I don’t have it. I told you the truth!” I threw myself toward his wheelchair. Sergei knocked me sideways with his hip. Lachko shrugged.

Crack!

“NO! ALEKSEI!”

Time stopped.

Then the sound of a car engine starting and Vasily’s voice, low and quiet. “A warning, Turbo. Maybe your son needs a new window. Maybe he needs a new head. Understand, you prick. Doesn’t matter who they are—or where. We find them when we’re ready. Listen to Lachko. With luck, someday I’ll eat your blood over ice cream.”

Lachko pocketed the phone. “I want that database, Turbo. If you don’t have it, find it. You understand the consequences?”

“Yes.” Like a Cheka confession—meaningless, but what they want to hear.

“One more thing. Stay the fuck away from my family. Your business with Polina, whatever the fuck it was, is finished. Same goes for Eva. I will take care of them now. Understand?”

No point in arguing. I nodded assent.

“Good. Maybe you’re not as stupid as you always seem to be. This is from Vasily.”

Sergei hit me once more, this time in the gut. I collapsed to my knees, heaving, then vomited, finally, without control. I couldn’t breathe—but I could puke. Sometime during my seizure, Lachko left. Sergei waited until I was heaving dry, then grabbed the collar of my coat and dragged me down the hall and the stairs out into the courtyard. He and another guy dumped me into the open trunk of a car.

I hit my head and passed out again.

I’ll never know how I got home.

I came to next to some trash cans, reeking of vomit. The thick night air held the stench. That made me want to throw up again, but there was nothing left. I managed to sit up and, after a while, take off my jacket and pull off my sticky, stinking T-shirt. I threw it as far as I could. I rolled on the grass like a wounded animal—precisely what I was. That helped, at least with the smell.