James Baldwin - Stained Glass

Grimacing, I looked down. The doctor caught my chin, and tipped my head up. He had a depressor: I opened my mouth, the small of my back aching, and let him work.

“Maybe,” I said, once he was finished. “I don’t know if I ever really thought like that, to be honest. I was never like Nicolai Chiernenko, or Vanya. All I know is that I want out.”

“If you are going after Celso Manelli, you are not ‘out’.”

“Just because I can’t change my nature doesn’t mean I’m not out.”

His sigh was long-suffering and deeply felt. “Any man can change, Alexi. Even if he does carry a burden of guilt and sin.”

Except that I didn’t carry a burden of guilt, and I never really had. The very first man I’d killed had been a bully. He tried to stab me for my watch; I punched him off a bridge and slept soundly after the fact. That guy, he was a young Carl Panzram in the making. The kind of kid who threw kittens to flocks of seagulls for fun.

There were a few things I thought I felt guilt for. My mother. Vassily. Mariya. Mostly, I was angry. I was angry that I was too rigid and too slow to change to anticipate Nicolai’s next scheme, and despite myself, I was angry that someone had taken the Wolf Grove children.

“I appreciate the insight, but my goal hasn’t changed,” I said. “I need to know places. Associates. Security. Hangouts, vices, addictions… anything you can learn about Celso Manelli and the guys protecting him. I’ll pay for any of it, but I need it soon.”

“Is next Sunday soon enough?” Dr. Levental went to his desk, took out a thick file, and set it on the desk. Fifteen years of my medical record. He took a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write. “I know someone who knows someone who can probably get all of those things, but it will take time.”

“Sunday week is fine. What will it cost?”

“Well, considering your talents, Alexi, I have a request in kind. Trade that will cover the cost of finding these things for you,” he said. “Nothing dangerous, nothing that will put you under Yaroshenko’s eye.”

“Go ahead.”

Dr. Levental looked up at me from his new record, and smiled. A shy, boyish smile, almost embarrassed. He sat up and back, lacing his fingers over his buttoned black coat. “Well, you see, I have been getting into sports in my old age.”

“Sports?” I moved to stand, but the doctor waved me down. Maybe it was some ingrained respect for my elders, but I promptly returned to my seat. “You never struck me as the kind of person to be found at a Mets game.”

His smile grew. “More exciting than that, Alexi. Fighting. There is a big mixed martial arts syndicate in this city now. I am sponsoring a young up-and-coming bull in the ring and playing his numbers with some very wealthy people. It’s a bit of fun, but besides that, there is a prize being offered by one man, Lior Ostmann, for one of the syndicate fights. Fifteen thousand dollars, quite a lot of money. The semi-final match is on this Saturday, and I have gotten word that the man my boy is fighting is very strong. Too strong, strong enough that he has to be cheating. We don’t know how, but he’s been crushing the roster since he joined up. It’s killing the business.”

My mouth twitched at the corner. “How unsportsmanlike.”

“Yes, indeed. I want you to go and have a talk with this man. Convince him that professional sports might not be a good career for someone like him. I’ve written you his name and address, and you can take it from there. Tell me if you need money to motivate him into losing on Saturday.” The doctor tucked the note he was writing into a plain white envelope and stood, every inch the Hasidic gentleman. “Now, so you know… your blood pressure is low, and I think you have poor liver function. You need to eat more, sleep more. Eat good food, vegetables and lots of meat and fat, and take milk thistle. You have a little bit of a chest infection. I want to run a blood test to make sure it’s nothing serious.”

“I will. And of course. If he has a price, are you fronting?” I took the envelope and stowed it in my jacket pocket while Dr. Levental went to go and get the strap and tray.

“Of course. But try to make it substantially less than the prize. The fighter only gets five grand anyway.”

It was a decent trade, and not one that was likely to set me back much. Dissuading people from pursing activities not in the best interests of paying parties was my bread and butter, and big-headed, testosterone and money-driven men weren’t usually difficult to convince. Strip away the tough-guy persona, and they had no plans or contingencies, only their fists and their fantasies of alpha-male domination. Their dreams of winning the big fight were generally short-sighted, and easily replaced by tax-free cash on the side. If that failed, inducing helpless terror was a sufficient substitute.

Once my blood was drawn and sealed, Dr. Levental saw me and Binah out into the waiting room. His son was there at reception, shy and darkly handsome in his skullcap, and he glanced up at us and smiled as we passed by. At the door, I turned to face the doctor and offer to shake, but he pressed a second envelope into my hand instead. The elder’s face was graven.

“There is one other thing,” he said. “This is the current address I know of for Moris Falkovich. You said my gossip on the subject might be useful.”

“Yes.” I took the second slip, and stowed it with the first. “But not for me. I know people who are searching for missing children. Children with organs capable of performing miracles.”

He frowned. “And you are helping them?”

The imagery of my dream returned: a crowd of children, bodies red with blood, their eyes missing. Their sightless stares had not felt like an accusation; they had felt like a plea. They were waiting for us. “Yes. If I can.”

The doctor nodded, his mouth a grim slash drawn under his beard. “I don’t like to speak badly of someone, Alexi, even if they have turned their back on my community. But Falkovich? If he is doing what I now believe he might be doing, he deserves whatever is coming to him.”

Binah and I returned to Strange Kitty, and walked right into a raging hurricane of conflict.

Jenner, Mason, Zane and Duke had their backs to the pool table, facing down Spotted Elk, Michael the Pathrunner, and a rag-tag collection of other people, some of whom I recognized from the convocation. The rest of the Tigers lounged, loomed, and leaned around the room. There was a heavy silence from their side of the clubhouse: this was their territory, and their leaders, and they were not impressed. Aaron stood off to the side in plain-clothes, rubbing the back of his hand nervously. Talya was seated at the bar, looking sullen in a sundress and sneakers, but Ayashe was notably absent.

“You can’t just assume control of this investigation with a band of vigilantes and destroy potential crime scenes without keeping us in the loop!” Spotted Elk was holding a space of his own in front of the bar, voice raised. He was turning hoarse, like he’d been shouting for a while. “That’s not how it’s done, that’s never been how it’s done, and it shouldn’t be how it’s done!”

“Then stop being such a panty-waisted wimp, get off your hands, and fucking do something.” Jenner had her arms crossed, boots planted.

“The FBI has already arrested one suspect who might be involved, based on the forensic evidence–”

“And they’re going to be too late.” Jenner switched to hands on hips. “It’s two weeks as of today, and you know as well as I do that every day that passes is another day for some son-of-a-bitch to be making more skin-flicks with our kids.”