Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

I said, “You already told me she was.”

“What I say is she tell me Bright needs apartment.”

“Living with her husband but she kept an apartment on West Thirty-fifth?”

Korvutz looked away. The cords in his neck were miniature bridge struts. “I give her apartment, so what?”

Gigi beelined for another can.

Korvutz said, “Here we go again.”

I said, “What show was Sonia in when she met Dale Bright?”

“Who remembers?”

“Did you see it?”

“She keep saying come. For free. Finally, I have to go. Some stupid place.”

“Downtown?”

“East Village, no theater. Room over a Mexican restaurant, they set up chairs, piano, black drapes. Everyone dressed black, black bathrobes, black hoods. The whole time they run around chanting. At the end, someone throws up. Then you clap.”

“What was the name of the show?”

“Maybe Black Bathrobes and Throwing Up?” Snickering at his own wit.

I pulled out the list I’d gotten from the newspaper files, began reading off titles.

“Yeah,” said Korvutz. “That’s the one, Dark Nose Holiday. What the hell does that mean, Dark Nose ? I ask Sonia. She say it’s climb into someone’s brain. Like a tunnel here.” Wiggling a nostril. “In here the truth.” Laughing. “Achoo, eh? No more truth.”

Gigi checked out the flower bed in a towering brick building. I examined the listings for Dark Nose Holiday. The Times was the only paper to capsulize the play. “Neo-absurdist drama exploring mystical meta-motivations.” No cast or credits cited.

I said, “How many people were in the play?”

“This is important?”

“Could be.”

“How many? Four? I don’t know. Not a lot.”

“Was Dale Bright one of the actors?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I told you, hoods, the faces you don’t see, maybe it was him, maybe Mickey Mouse.”

“Sonia definitely said she’d met him at the production.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Nothing.”

“When the Safrans disappeared-”

“Uh-uh, no, no, I told you, we don’t go there. They almost ruined my life.”

“The Safrans?”

“The cops. Harassing, I try to do business, they come in the office with badges, bye-bye business. This Italian guy, look like a gangster. Harass ’cause I’m Belarusssian, want to know about smuggling, Moscow Mafia. Stupid.”

“Prejudiced,” I said.

“I keep telling him, look, you not going to find nothing ’cause there is nothing to find.”

Gigi trotted to a discarded cardboard box and lifted her leg.

Korvutz saluted the air above his head. “Finally, dog.”

I said, “The Safrans only interest me because-”

“Good night and good luck. Only reason I talk to you first place I don’t want you bothering my kid no more. Also, I got nothing to hide. You gonna be back in L.A. soon?”

“Soon enough.”

“Say hello to the palm trees.”

“Talking about the Safrans really bothers you.”

Keeping his mouth shut, he blew out air, ballooning the skin around his lips.

I said, “If you’ve got nothing to hide-”

The air escaped in a hiss. “Maybe they fly to the moon. Maybe Ass-kiss do something to them. Do I give a shit? Not even a little one – not even a Gigi shit.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t put words in. Why I gonna cry for them? They fight me just to fight me. I run away from all that.”

“From fighting?”

“From communism – little slow dog, finish finish aready.”

“The Safrans were communists.”

“Bother someone else, mister.”

“Is Sonia in town?”

“I should know?”

“Call her. If she can talk to me right now, I’m finished with you.”

“You finished anyway.”

“Call her.”

“Why I do you a favor?”

“Your kid and your dog like me.”

He glared. Laughed. “Why not, Sonia recommend stupid ass-kisser to me, I recommend you to her. ”

He left me outside his building, handed the Pomeranian to the doorman, used the house phone. Brief chat; thumbs-up okay.

I mouthed, “Thanks.” Korvutz gave no sign he’d noticed as he crossed the lobby.

The doorman followed. Impassive, as the dog licked his face.

Sonia Glusevitch lived in a fortress of yellow brick that hogged a third of a block on East Ninety-third.

The doors to this lobby were wide open. Mirrored walls alternated with panels of gold-flocked velvet. Ailing palms yearned for something other than track lighting.

Two hatless doormen in white shirts sat behind a Formica counter ignoring a bank of closed-circuit TVs. Sonia Glusevitch’s name evoked a wave-through as they continued to study an offtrack betting brochure.

“Which apartment?”

Laborious consultation of a black plastic-bound book.

“Twenty-six eleven.”

A metal-clad elevator griped all the way to the twenty-sixth floor. The hallways were papered in shiny copper splotched to resemble patina. Rust-colored carpeting had long lost its bounce.

I knocked on Sonia Glusevitch’s door. The woman who opened wore a lime-and-orange kimono and gold, high-heeled sandals.

Early forties, fleshy and pretty, with long too-black hair, tarantulous eyelashes, and crimson lips. Her face was coated with a fresh application of powder. Vanilla-laden perfume breezed out into the corridor.

“Ms. Glusevitch? Alex Delaware.”

“Sonia.” Two soft hands clasped mine. More vanilla as she kneaded my knuckles. “Come in, please.”

Her living room was boxy, pale blue, set up with black velvet seating, white rugs, baroque gold-mirrored tables. Paris street scenes featuring too much pigment and not enough proportion hung on the walls. A black japanned console bore a collection of free-form ceramic mounds.

She perched on the edge of a love seat, pointed me to a chair that placed our knees inches apart. Undraped windows looked out to the East River and the night-glow of Queens.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

Silk rustled as she crossed her legs. A gold-link necklace circled a soft white neck. Additional glint was provided by oversized hoop earrings, a cocktail ring set with a massive amethyst, a gold-and-diamond Lady Rolex.

“Ah-lex,” she said. “That’s a popular Russian nyame. You have Russian blood?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Please.” She pointed to a coffee table set with crackers, tooth-picked cheese chunks, an open bottle of Riesling, two cut-glass goblets. Low lighting accentuated the river view and was kind to her complexion.

I poured wine for both of us. Her first sip didn’t alter the fluid level. I drank less.

Both of us smiling and pretending to enjoy each other’s company. Like a bad blind date.

She’d used the fifteen minutes it had taken me to walk from Korvutz’s place on Park to put on her face and toss together a little spread.

I said, “Did Mr. Korvutz fill you in?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Tinkly voice, Slavic overtones. Show of small, white teeth as a crooked smile suggested a mischievous girlhood. “Roland said you were very nyosy. He didn’t say very handsome.”

She placed cheese on the cracker, nibbled. Played with the toothpick.

“You think maybe Dyale killed someone?”

“It’s possible.”

“Okay.”

“That doesn’t shock you?”

“Of course it shocks me. Cheese? It’s good.”

I’d paid for my forty-dollar salad at La Bella but had left before it arrived. Still, I had no appetite for anything but information.