Andrew Vachss - Dead and Gone

“There is a Russian couple,” I said, not looking directly at her. “Man and wife. From Chicago. They had a child. A son. He was abducted when he was around four years old. Disappeared without a trace. There never was a ransom note. No body was ever found. They never heard a thing. A lot of years passed.

“Then, one day, they were contacted by a man who said he had their boy. The man wanted to exchange him for money. A lot of money. The Russians, they were immigrants. Nervous. Didn’t trust the police. So they went to a gangster. A Russian, like them, in New York. He hired me to handle the transfer. I was there, with the money. A kid got out of the ransom truck. At least it looked like a kid—it was dark. But it was a trap. The kid shot me. So did some others. They ran away, thinking I was dead.

“It took a long time for me to heal. Then I went to see the man who set it up for me to make the transfer. He told me that the Russians had insisted on me for the job. So whoever was lying in wait, they knew I’d be the one coming. I’m who they wanted to kill. It was never about a ransom payment—it was a murder setup.

“The Russians don’t live in Chicago anymore. They have someone there who keeps up a front for them, but all their mail is forwarded here. To Vancouver, I mean.

“I need to talk to them. I don’t know what they look like. Or where they live—the Vancouver address is a mail drop. I figure, if I … if you … write them a letter, in Russian, I might be able to get them to come out in the open.”

She knelt there quietly, deep dark eyes on me, waiting. When she saw I was done, she blew out a long stream of breath, a cleansing act like yogis do. Then she asked, “You wish to find out who wanted to have you killed?”

“That’s not past tense. If they knew I was alive, they’d still want me dead. I have no way of knowing what they know. It cost major money to set this whole thing up. So they may have resources I don’t know about. Access to information.”

“Why were the arrangements so complicated?”

“I thought about that, too. And maybe they weren’t. Not all that much. I don’t live aboveground. I don’t have a home. Or an office. Or a hangout,” I said, dismissing Mama’s from that category—she wasn’t exactly open to the public, and I couldn’t think of a worse place to try and take me out. “If they wanted to hit me, they couldn’t just go out and look for me; they’d have to bring me to them.”

“Do you believe this gangster person was involved?”

“I don’t think so. For two reasons: One, I’d had to meet with him to get the money to deliver. So, if he was going to hit me, why not just do it right then? Two, there was a kidnapping. There was a missing kid. The Russians did run.…”

“How long?”

“I don’t … Oh, you mean, how long have they been running?”

“Yes.”

“About a year, as near as we can tell.”

“And the attempt on your life was … when?”

“Sure. I know. They were in the wind before it all went down. There’s pieces missing. Big pieces.”

“Would it not be better to ask this gangster person more questions?”

“He’s no longer available,” I told her. “I see.”

She went quiet then. So did I. Finally, she looked up at me from under her eyelashes, said, “Do you feel comfortable with me … like this?”

“You mean … talking about this stuff?”

“I mean with me on my knees,” she said softly.

I closed my eyes, reaching for the answer.

“Yes,” I finally told her.

“Because …?”

“It’s … I don’t know …”

“Safer?”

“Yes.”

“I understand,” she said, barely above a whisper.

We ate in the restaurant attached to the hotel. A nice place—clean and pretty quiet, considering the bar was right in the center of everything. Gem ate … carefully, I guess would be the word for it. Slowly, chewing every bite a great number of times. But steadily, too, never varying her pace. She finished a whole roasted chicken, right down to cleaning the bones with her small, very white teeth. And a large tossed salad. Four helpings of rolls. Three large glasses of apple juice. A plate of fried onion rings. A side of roasted potatoes.

I did most of the talking, and there wasn’t much of that. A thin rain slanted down against the plate glass of the window next to our table. All around us, activity. Between us, peaceful quiet.

The waiter came and went, raising his eyebrows a couple of times, silently comparing the diminishing pile of food in front of Gem with her slim frame. He opened his mouth to ask her where she put it, but I caught his eye and he closed right down.

Gem ordered a slab of double-fudge cake for dessert. I had the same, mine with twin scoops of vanilla ice cream on top. “Oh!” she said, when she saw my addition. Then she helped herself to one of the scoops.

When she was completely finished, Gem wet her napkin in a glass of water, then patted her mouth and lips. “You didn’t say anything,” she said.

“About what?”

“About me being such a pig.”

“A pig? You eat as neatly as a … I don’t know.”

“Neatly, yes. But a lot.”

“I understand.”

“You … understand? I do not understand.”

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“It is I who should apologize. I invite your comment, then I make you feel bad for it. Please tell me … what you meant.”

She returned my gaze. Serene, not confronting. But not backing away.

“There was a time when food was very precious to you,” I said.

“Yes. Do you know when that was?”

“Twenty, twenty-five years ago?”

“Yes. But you … guess, do you not? I mean, you do not know this for a fact; it is a surmise?”

“That’s right. The beast got loose in Cambodia in 1975, I think.”

“I was five years old,” she said, her voice soft and dreamy, but her eyes stayed on mine, unblinking. “My father was a lawyer. You know what happened to anyone with an education? To anyone with any knowledge of the world outside the fields?”

“Pol Pot.”

“He was only one of them. A symbol. A horrible butcher, yes. But he did not kill three million people by himself. The Khmer Rouge were swollen with lust for blood. If the Vietnamese had not come, the killing would have gone on until there was no one left to die.”

“How did you—?”

“My parents knew they were coming. They knew there was no escape. My mother was a peasant born. She had friends in the fields. My parents handed me over. My new people tried to provide for me. It was … impossible.

“I … eventually lived with a guerrilla group near the Thai border. They purchased me from the people who had me. They were not freedom fighters; they were drug lords. When the leader discovered I could do sums very quickly, he got me books. About money. He was very interested in money.

“The books were mostly in English. Some were in Russian. There were Russian soldiers in the jungle. Independent outfits. It was as if they all knew governments would fall, but heroin would always have value. Like gold or diamonds. So they traded together. Made alliances. I became the translator for the leader. He could trust me, because I was a child, so I had no power. Even if I could have escaped, the jungle would have devoured me.

“I was very patient. One night I was able to leave. In Thailand, money is god. I had to be very careful. Anyone would hurt you. Anyone would take your money. But I did speak English. I found some students. American students. In the Peace Corps. One of them helped me buy papers. I came here. First to California. I had names of people. I found some of them. And then I found myself.”