David Duffy - Last to Fold

The beating Friday night wasn’t about them though. He told me to stay away—sure—but that was hatred talking, his perpetual knee-jerk response to me and my past. He didn’t care about them—he as much as admitted he had written Polina off in 1999 back in Moscow—but she was still terrified of him. Why? Lachko cared about his laundry. He was convinced I had the missing piece. That was what the beating was about. Or was it? Iakov’s lesson about a million shades of gray floated into my consciousness.

The last time I made a list of things that didn’t make sense, it had led me back to Greene Street and eventually to getting thumped within an inch of my life. That had been a mental list. This time, I’d be smarter—I’d write the list down so I didn’t make another stupid mistake. I got some paper.

1. Lachko didn’t have the T.J. Maxx database. Who removed it—Ratko?

2. Neither Lachko nor Iakov had known about Polina/Felix, but Ratko did. He also knew to phish the Mulhollands four months ago.

3. Ratko dropped out of sight around that time.

4. Ratko needed money.

5. Iakov said Kosokov stole from his bank. Lachko said Kosokov was too incompetent to steal.

6. Iakov came to New York to see Ratko—without telling Lachko.

7. Ratko had just been in Moscow.

8. Eva Mulholland was terrified of her father and grandfather.

9. Polina wouldn’t/couldn’t tell Mulholland about being blackmailed.

10. Polina wouldn’t/couldn’t tell me about Ratko.

A neat list of ten facts. I drew a line under the bottom and tried to add them up. That didn’t work, so I poured another drink. Less burn this time. Something else was bothering me—something that needed to be added. I couldn’t quite grab it. The vodka wasn’t helping.

Petrovin hadn’t called back. How long had it been? I called again. No answer.

I reread the list, considered eating something, and drank some more vodka instead. I thought about calling Victoria.

The glass was empty. I refilled it, staring at the page, waiting for things to clarify. They didn’t. Eventually I decided to try getting dressed. The room spun when I stood. I waited, and the spinning slowed. I could make it to the bedroom. Wrong. Three steps, and dizziness swept down my body, starting at the top. I remember the nausea and hitting my face on the corner of the coffee table as I fell, the same side Sergei worked over. I don’t remember throwing up again or passing out on the rug.

That’s where they said they found me.

Americans put a high value on efficiency, and the medical industry, with dubious justification, prides itself on leading the way.

The first thing the youngish lady doctor said was “You’ve been thoroughly examined and treated. Two cracked ribs, concussion, six stitches on your face, twelve more along the jaw. Various contusions and lacerations. You can go home as soon as you feel ready.”

To that I could add a nasty hangover that was fighting a war of supremacy with some powerful painkillers. Hard to tell which was winning. I wasn’t even in a position to process her diagnosis.

I lay in a curtained-off space in a room that smelled like a hospital. Noises all around, bad sounds. People in pain, groans, cries, the occasional scream. I felt just like they did. The lady doctor asked how I’d acquired my injuries. I told her I’d fallen, twice. She asked how much I drank on a regular basis. I shrugged and replied not too much, for a Russian. She looked skeptical and repeated I could go home anytime. I think she was using the word “could” in the sense of “free to” rather than “able to,” because I could barely move. My left side felt paralyzed. My head pounded as the battle raged. The rest of me just ached, until I tried to reposition something—then whatever it was shrieked with pain. On the other hand, I had no desire to stay here any longer than necessary, so I gave her my best smile and hoped she’d go away so I’d have time to think.

She did. Not long after, the curtain parted, and Foos and Victoria stared at me with a mixture of concern, annoyance, and—on Foos’s part—bemusement.

“You are some kind of mess,” Victoria said.

Foos held up a foam cup. “Coffee. They say it’s okay to drink if you feel like it.”

It took me a minute to grasp that they were there.

“What…”

“Don’t try to talk too much, sugar,” Victoria said. “Doctor says it’s bad for the stitches.”

Foos just grinned his lopsided grin and held out the cup. I took it, gingerly, after he peeled back the opening in the plastic top. The coffee was hot and tasted remarkably good.

“Where am I?”

“NYU Hospital,” Victoria said. “You remember the ambulance or the emergency room?”

I shook my head. The painkillers were winning the war, for now.

“You remember our date? You stood me up.”

I shook my head, more slowly this time.

“This morning, eight thirty, at your office. Identity theft tutorial.”

“What time…”

“Coming up on 4:00 P.M. Monday.”

Shit. I tried sitting up but didn’t get very far. I tried again with the same result. Sweat broke out on my forehead.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Foos said.

I had the hazy memory of a country song. A rabbit’s being chased by a dog, and the singer asks him if he’s going to make it. The rabbit states the obvious—“Got to.”

“Got to,” I said. There was a reason, too, if I could only remember what it was.

Aleksei. Petrovin.

“Phone,” I said to Foos.

He handed his over, and I called my machine. Sure enough, Petrovin had called back that morning. “I will be delighted to assist if I can. You can reach me at this number, as you know.” He didn’t leave the number, because I already had it. At my apartment.

I pushed my legs over the side of the bed and let gravity pull them toward the floor. The rest of me had no choice but to follow, although my ribs howled in protest. My entire upper body felt drenched. Foos no longer looked bemused, and Victoria looked frightened.

“I’m okay,” I lied. “Doctor said go home. Where are my clothes?”

“You weren’t wearing any when we found you. I brought these. You oughtta add some color to your wardrobe.” She put a shopping bag on the bed.

“You mean…”

“I’ve seen it all, shug. I’ll wait outside.”

It took time, sweat, and a lot of help from Foos to thread two legs into some trousers and two arms into a T-shirt. When Foos opened the curtains, Victoria was gone. I was happy to rest against the bed while we waited for her return. She came back scowling. “You’d think a goddamned hospital would have a goddamned wheelchair you could borrow.”

“Maybe you should launch an investigation into outpatient practices,” I said.

“Don’t think I ain’t gonna look into it. You sure you can make it?”

“Feel better already,” I lied again.

I took a step to prove it. Foos caught me before I fell.

“This is silly,” Victoria said.

“Let’s go,” I said to Foos. “I’ll explain later.”

Somehow they managed to carry me out of the hospital and pack me into a cab, Victoria issuing orders the entire way. The painkillers helped. Foos squeezed into the front, and Victoria sat beside me. The driver took off like the rabbit chased by the dog. I yelped when he hit the first bump, and Victoria shouted at him to slow down. He used his lack of English to ignore her. The name on his license was Slovakian. I said in his native tongue, “My friend here is with Immigration. You don’t take it easy, I’ll make sure she has you on the first boat back to Bratislava.”