Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

Inside the diner, all seating revolved around the kitchen. A counter and chrome stools faced the kitchen. Behind that, loose tables for four, which could be pulled together for larger groups. Red vinyl booths lined the windows. The floor was carpeted in a dark burgundy. Eddie told the hostess he was meeting a friend. He said he'd scout around first, see if he'd arrived.

At 6:50, the El Greco was a madhouse. Conversations shouted over clattering plates and silverware boosted the noise to prison-riot levels. At a table near the door, a little girl colored on the restaurant's place mat-an outdated outline of the nations of Europe. She carefully kept between the borders as her mother made secret arrangements for a cake with candles. The mother spoke in English with a common Russian accent, but her clothes were upscale. "Hold the cake until after dinner," she told the hostess, "or she'll never eat her vegetables."

Fredek Dolgev sat in his booth, oblivious. Head down, fist wrapped around a fork, he shoveled food into his mouth. Eddie stayed on the opposite side. His plan was not to approach him here, but to follow him home. He didn't think he'd lead him to his daughter, but he might lead him to Zina. Eddie thought he'd tail Freddie until he saw him reaching for his keys, about to enter a building. Then he'd snatch this Russian off the street, as he had another Russian, Sergei. Among the trees of Marine Park, Freddie Dolgev would tell him where to find Kate.

Eddie checked faces hidden behind partitions and fake plants, looking for detectives, off-duty cops, old girlfriends, anyone who could complicate the scenario. Mirrored walls were the tailman's friend. He checked all sides of the restaurant perimeter, looking to see if any of Borodenko's hired guns lurked nearby. Not that the Russians needed to worry about Freddie. He had enough IQ to understand that American cops weren't going to yank out his fingernails. He wouldn't utter a word to them. But Freddie's loyalty didn't matter. If he weren't Borodenko's cousin, he'd be dead already.

After he was satisfied, Eddie returned to Kate's Camry in the parking lot and tried to get comfortable. He didn't really like the Camry. It had a tight, responsive quickness to it, but it seemed hard-riding and tiring to drive. And there was something miniature about it he didn't like. The cloth seat covers, made of a suedelike material, acted like Velcro, preventing any sliding across the bucket seats. The rough cloth of the headrest felt like sandpaper against the skin abrasions from the lesbian grenade. Eddie preferred bench seats. He preferred the cushy Olds, every bit as quick, and yet as comfortable as your living room sofa. The Camry's reclining seats were a plus, however. He angled the seat back so he could watch the diner's front steps and back kitchen door at the same time. He stayed in the passenger seat, as if waiting for the driver.

Eddie called the North End Tavern and asked for Kevin. B. J. Harrington told him he was missing out on the roast chicken, which was as grand as it was every Monday. Then he told him that Kevin was in the back, and he asked if Eddie wanted to speak to his lovely sister-in-law instead. Eddie was about to relent, when he noticed a black Lincoln Town Car pull into the parking lot and make a quick U-turn. The U-turn piqued his interest. The driver pulled the Lincoln right up to the door of the diner and waited at the front steps with the engine running, forcing other cars to go around him. Eddie clicked the phone off.

The Lincoln parked at the foot of the diner steps, facing the street, motor running, poised for the getaway. This wasn't about a cheeseburger takeout. It reeked of muscle. Either a stickup or vig collection. The passenger door swung open and a guy wearing a black leather car coat got out. About five ten, wide-bodied, he was a refrigerator of a man. Eddie sat up straight as the man limped around the front of the Lincoln. He knew that head. A big gangster dome with sparse, close-cropped stubble, sitting neckless on a stocky body. Eddie knew exactly who it was. Somehow Sergei Zhukov was not in a car trunk on his way to Russia, but entering the El Greco diner. Sergei grabbed the rail and pulled himself up the four steps and into the diner.

By the time Eddie ran up the diner steps, Sergei had managed to evaporate. Eddie stood near the front table, trying to spot the black leather car coat. The chat level in the restaurant had decreased several notches as people studied their salads. It was as if a thick blanket had muffled the restaurant noise, smothering all the tables as it rolled from front to back. He could see Dolgev at his window booth, squeezing a white mug in his big hands, the world forever tuned out.

Afraid to blink, Eddie scanned all sides. Still no Sergei. A sharp intake of breath came from the birthday girl as the cake arrived from the kitchen, its candles burning. The waitress and the mom and dad began to sing as Sergei suddenly appeared in the aisle. He came straight up behind Dolgev and put the gun against his ear. The blast from the first shot sucked the air out of the room.

"Sergei," Eddie screamed as he pulled his old service revolver and circled around to the left, but there was no way to get an angle. It was a reflex action, a mistake on Eddie's part; he had no way to keep a single breathing soul out of the line of fire. Sergei saw him coming and knew he had the advantage. They pivoted around each other, guns drawn, face-to-face. People dived to the floor, holding their heads. Sergei backed toward the door, smiling, moving slowly, his halting gait that of a man with fewer toes. Eddie edged toward him.

Then, for no reason Eddie understood, Sergei stopped by the birthday girl, reached down, and grabbed the mother by the hair. He yanked her to her feet.

"Sergei," Eddie said. "She has nothing to do with this."

" Mussor ," Sergei said. Garbage, a Russian punk's word for cop. "She dies for you."

"Go, just go," Eddie said. "No one will follow you."

Eddie put his gun away and waved his empty hands. Sergei didn't release the woman. He kept her in front of him as he hobbled backward out the door.

"Come on," Eddie yelled. "Let her go. I'm not following you!"

The Lincoln turned left on Emmons and accelerated out of sight. Eddie didn't get a good look at the driver. On the way out, he took charge of the restaurant, ordering the hostess to call 911 and say shots had been fired, people injured. He told her to ask for two ambulances. Dolgev was dead; Eddie didn't bother with him. The mother of the birthday girl lay on the blacktop parking lot, two bullets in her face. A total of three shots had been fired, the police said later, as if it were important to count such things.

When the first radio car arrived, Eddie left the mother to the uniformed cops. He shoved his way back through the crowd leaving the diner. The birthday girl sat in the arms of a waitress. Alone in his booth, Fredek Dolgev slumped facedown on the table, still holding tightly to his coffee cup. Blood and bits of brain and bone stuck to the window that looked out onto the sailboats on Sheepshead Bay. Eddie reached around the body and unhooked the keys from Freddie's belt.

It was after eleven when Eddie looked into Grace's bedroom. She'd kicked off the covers and now lay at an angle, facing the foot of the bed. Like Kate as a child, Grace always seemed red-faced and overheated. She ran around barefoot, dressed in only shorts and a T-shirt on days when it was definitely not warm enough to do so.

Kate never told her to put more clothes on. She said she was raising her to make her own decisions; that when she got cold, she'd put something on. Eileen wouldn't have approved of this liberal parenting, but Eddie liked the results. Grace made a puffing noise and laughed in her sleep, having a good dream. He prayed to God to always keep her dreams happy, and asked Him to do whatever He could for the dreams of the birthday girl.