CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (23 page)

“I’m still glad the city closed the Fresh Kills dump. And you got balls calling anyone else fat.”

He punched me so hard this time that I fell over backwards in my chair. That at least got my feet out of the ice chest. But one should be careful for what one wishes for. Nando and Bruce spent the next 20 minutes alternately punching and kicking me as I lay on the floor. I thought I felt a couple of ribs crack before I passed out. When I came to again, my situation had not improved. I was back upright, feet in the cooler. They were about the only parts of me that didn’t hurt. Nando was back in his seat, looking sweaty and disheveled. Stomping someone is hard work.

“You should work out, Nando,” I managed to croak out through split lips. “You could have a heart attack.”

“Bruce, gag him. I’m sick of his shit, and I don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

Bruce grabbed a dirty rag off my work bench.

“Basement is a disgrace,” he said. “We could leave his body here, Nando, and nobody would notice.”

He gagged me before I could explain that I planned to clean it after I finished moving all my stuff into my new office. Nando took a drink of bourbon, lit a cigarette, took a few drags and pushed it into my chest.

Bruce said, “Boss, I think I’ll back the van into his driveway.”

After he went up the stairs, Nando shook his head and said, “I told you he didn’t have the stomach for this.”

Nando smiled at me. He went back to work. A few minutes later I heard Bruce coming down the stairs. Nando looked over my shoulder. The smile slowly turned into something else as his jaw dropped. Soon his mouth looked like the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. I heard a
pfffft
and actually felt the bullet pass my ear. I assumed it went into the tunnel because the back of Nando’s head blew off and he jerked forward out of his seat and sprawled over the ice chest with his face in the water. Head wounds bleed like a bastard and it soon looked like my feet were in a tub of Kool Aid. I was looking at what was left of the back of Nando’s head when a pair of boots came into view. I knew the boots. I looked up. Maks Kalugin had a silenced Tokarev pistol pointed at my face.

“I am getting tired of saving your life,” he said. Then he shouted something in Russian and I heard other people clomping down the steps and Arman Rahm came into view just before I passed out for the third time.     

CHAPTER 32 – THE PORTRAIT

I came to in a four-poster bed, in a massive, gaudily decorated room. The mattress, the pillows, the comforter were plush and as long as I didn’t move, I was quite comfortable. I drifted back to sleep. I had vague recollections of being tended to. Brow mopped, bandages changed, salve applied. An eye pried open and a bright, searing light. A frightening feeling I couldn’t move. Paralyzed? No, my legs worked, if feebly. Jabs in the arms. A face drifted in front of me. Ellen James. Alice Watts. The dog I had as a kid. Voices. Some gentle, some gruff. Foreign accents. More sleep.

Finally, some reasonable consciousness. And pain. Not unbearable, but enough to realize that I was less drugged. The pain felt good in a way. It was the kind associated with getting better. I chanced some movement. That made me reconsider my opinion of the pain. But I could handle it. I tried to sit up and roll out of bed. Hard to do when your arms are strapped down.

“Son of a bitch!”

I heard a chair scrape on a floor outside the room. The door opened and Kalugin walked in.

“I knew you were a pizda,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Something approximating a smile crossed his face. He reached down and picked up a phone from the table next to the bed and punched in a number.

“He’s awake. What do you want me to do?” He listened. “Are you sure? Whatever you say. No, he won’t be a problem.”

Kalugin put down the phone, reached in his pocket and pulled out a flick knife. I strained against the bindings holding me down as it slid open.

“Save your energy,” he said.

He reached across me and grabbed my wrist. With a practiced motion, he cut the binding. Then the one on my other wrist. He shut the knife.

“They didn’t want you scratching the burn scabs,” he said. “Now, behave.”

I took a swing at him and tried to sit up. I had the strength of a butterfly and the effort exhausted me. He laughed and pushed me away with one hand.

“Please,” he said. “I don’t have time for this. If it were up to me, I would have killed you along with those guineas instead of bringing you here.”

“Where is ‘here’’.”

“Home.”

I had seen, but never been in, the Rahm mansion on Todt Hill, the highest point along the East Coast from Maine to Florida and the most exclusive neighborhood on Staten Island. The word ‘Todt’ means death in Dutch, but that is a reflection of an Indian massacre of early settlers, not a comment on the hill’s current status as the favorite environs of local crime families.

There was a pitcher of water and a glass on the table next to the bed. Kalugin filled the glass and handed it to me. He sat on the bed and held me up while I drank, steadying the glass with both my hands. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. He went over to a dresser, reached into one of the drawers and came back to the side of the bed holding a small bottle of brandy. He poured some into my now empty glass.

“The doctors said only water, but what the fuck do they know?”

My empty stomach rebelled at first, but soon a warm glow suffused my body. I asked for another shot and he gave it to me.

“That’s enough, for now. Do you need help in the bathroom?”

“Just get me there,” I said.

The bathroom had everything I needed. I was almost reluctant to look in the mirror and was surprised to see that my face had escaped basically unscathed. I had some stitches on my bottom lip and my jaw was sore from Nando’s punches but I had all my teeth. They had concentrated on pounding my body. I brushed gingerly and rinsed with mouthwash, but couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste I’d woken with. Probably a side effect of the drugs I’d been given. I shaved and showered, which would have been a real treat except for the burns and cuts, not to mention the large dark purple bruise in my side over my broken ribs. I left some small streaks of blood on the towel when I dried off. But I felt somewhat human again. On a stool in the corner was a new set of blue silk pajamas and a red velour robe. Under the stool were slippers. When I emerged from the bathroom Kalugin looked me over.

“Now I need a fucking drink,” he said.

“I feel like Noel Coward.” 

“Let’s go,” he replied, opening the door.

We walked down a long, deep-carpeted hallway lined with paintings of men riding to hounds and women holding parasols. At the end of the passage was a large parlor. I could tell by the flickering within that there was a fire going, its comforting smell reaching me as I got to the ornate double sliding doors. I walked into the room, Kalugin just behind. Like everything else I’d seen in the mansion, the room was picture perfect. Had there been red velvet ropes and brass stanchions, I would have thought I was on a tour of a historic manor. My warder pointed to some upholstered armchairs arrayed in a semicircle by the fireplace in front of a low table on which sat some glasses, an ice bucket and a bottle of Russian vodka.  

“Sit.”

I went over to the chairs but remained standing, staring at the large portrait over the hearth. It was a painting of a beautiful woman regally posed in a high-backed chair, dressed in a formal gown. She was holding a book opened in her lap. On a small table next to her was a samovar.

It was Ellen James.

Kalugin was now at my side. For the first time since I’d known him, his impervious mask had dropped. He was gazing at the woman almost reverently.

“Their mother was beautiful,” he said, “was she not? A fine lady.” A vague, but chilling, thought began to coalesce in my mind. “Wait here and behave yourself.”

He walked out and closed the sliders. I wasn’t going to make a run for it. I’d have a hard time making a crawl for it. I heard the doors slide open behind me. The fire flared. I smelled her perfume. I turned as Ellen walked up to me, Arman Rahm next to her. Side by side, the resemblance was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen Rahm said.

“I thought your father disapproved of your acting.”

“I think I may have changed his mind.”

“So it’s true, blood is thicker than borsht.”

“Why don’t we sit, Alton,” Arman said. “You must still be tired.”

We sat. Arman poured vodka for his sister and himself and looked at me. I nodded and he filled my glass.

“The doctors said there was no serious damage,” he said. “The broken ribs are minor. If they interfere with your breathing you might want to get them bound.”

“What story did you give them?”

“None. They have been here before. We thought it a better alternative than leaving you outside an emergency room.”

“And you wanted to chat with me.”

“That, too,” Arman said with a smile.

“What did you do with Nando and Bruce?”

“We cleaned up the basement. Probably better than it’s been in a while. You should really do something about it. It’s a fire hazard.”

“I’m working on it.”

“They had a lot of stuff in their van ready for you. Body bags, saws, chemicals. Came in handy. Nando took a lot of work, but they won’t be found.”

His sister had listened quietly, showing no reaction.

“Should I still call you Ellen.”

“It’s Eleni,” she said and looked up at the portrait. “After my mother.”

“When running a scam,” I said, “it’s always easier to stick with a first name, or something close. Fewer chances to make a mistake.”

“Where did the James come from?”

“That was my idea,” Arman said. “An All-American, Southern name. I liked that movie, the one with Brad Pitt, playing Jesse James.”

“You might have been the only one,” I said.

“Yes, the critics hated it. They said it was too long, but we Russians like long stories. It’s in our blood.
War and Peace
.”

He poured himself a drink and looked at his sister.

“Eleni?”

She just stared into the fire. He patted her on the shoulder.

“Why did you say Capriati played football? You knew he was a wrestler.”

I don’t know why I thought of that. I was just being petulantly curious. Ellen, or Eleni, just shook her head and then looked at her brother.

“That was also my idea,” he said. “A little misdirection. I didn’t want everything to seem too pat. If you had to find out a few things on your own, I thought it would keep you on your toes.”

“You’re lying, Arman. It wasn’t your idea. That’s something that an actress would come up with. Just to make her role more interesting.”

I could tell by the look on her face that I was right.

“What happens now?”

“My father wants to talk to you. If that goes well, soon as you’re up to it, I’ll have someone drive you home.” 

I held out my glass. He hesitated.

“You might want to go easy on that,” he said, “until you are stronger. Besides sober would be better when talking to my father.”

“And you might want to go fuck yourself.”

He shrugged and poured vodka into my glass.

“You have every reason to be angry, Alton. But had we listened to our father, you would be sleeping with the tires and other junk in the Kill van Kull.” Arman lit a cigarette. He took a luxurious drag and let the smoke hiss out dramatically. “I like you. We go back. But that wouldn’t have been enough. Eleni convinced him.”

We all turned as the door opened and Marat Rahm, using a cane, entered, Kalugin at his side. They were trailed by a tough-looking character wheeling a cart with a tray piled high with sandwiches and pastries. There was also a coffee service and a crystal dish of caviar surrounded by toast. After placing the cart by the table, the man left. Marat took a chair and faced me while Kalugin leaned against the wall by the fireplace. Eleni took a small blanket from a nearby chaise and draped her father’s legs. He waved the cane in my direction before resting it on the table.

“I’m getting old. Arthritis. Doctors say I need a new hip. I think I need new doctors.” He was a handsome man, with sharp, angular features and a shock of white hair. “I may also be getting soft.” Kalugin made a grunting noise of agreement. “But, like most men, I have a weakness for a daughter. A son I can tell to go to hell.” He and Arman exchanged smiles. “I will keep my word to Eleni. You are safe. I will not risk losing her again.”

“You won’t, Papa,” Eleni said.

He adjusted himself in his seat.

“The vodka is good?”

“Superb,” I said. “Although at this point I think I would appreciate turpentine.”

He laughed.

“Yes, it’s all relative after one comes so close to death. I think I will join you.”

As he reached for the bottle Kalugin came off the wall but I beat him to it. I poured Marat a glass.

“Thank you. Tell me, how did Carlucci find out about your search for Capriati?”

“Someone at Wagner College fingered me. Nando had his hooks into him.”

“Who?”

“None of your business.”

“Perhaps he should be punished.”

I thought of Alice Watts. Lancaster probably didn’t deserve to be killed.

“He will be, but I’ll do the punishing.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Rhode. You are a tough man, and quite resourceful, as you have proven to my benefit. Eleni may even be in love with you, an unforeseen complication of our plan.”

“I’m sure she’ll get over it,” I said. “Actresses can be very fickle.”

“You are bitter. I can understand that. “You think you have been used, and you have been. You were a means to an end. We all are at one time or another in our lives. And we all use. Is that not so?”

I remained silent.

“No matter. Deep down you know that you would have done exactly as I have, given the stakes. And you have not been greatly harmed, considering. You might even say we have saved your life.”

“Twice,” Kalugin grumbled, undoubtedly referring to the late Ben and Jerry.

“I wouldn’t have needed saving if you’d left me out of all this.”

“I’m not only talking about that. Before all this happened you were a recovering veteran, drinking too much and trying to get his business back on its feet. You cannot tell me in all seriousness that the past few weeks were unexciting. You’ve even made love to a beautiful woman.” He saw my expression. “Yes, Eleni told me everything. Don’t trouble yourself. We keep no secrets. And in case you are wondering, that wasn’t part of the plan. Eleni’s mother was an impetuous romantic as well.” He gazed up at the portrait a moment and then resumed. “Moreover, you made serious money and humiliated the Federal Government. You could be a Russian with a resume like that! You should thank me for giving you the opportunity to re-sharpen your skills.”

“How did you know that Nando and Capriati were cooking something up?”

“Carlucci was in negotiations with the prosecutor’s office. We have what the Government would call a mole.”

I smiled at the former KGB officer’s use of the spy lingo. The blonde A.D.A. from the Red Lantern that Arman had his sights on? Was that possible? And why tell me that? I could warn the D.A. Marat read my mind. His smile grew wolfish. How could I explain the knowledge without exposing myself to all sorts of problems? I couldn’t even be sure he was telling the truth. The D.A.’s staff would be chasing their own tails for months trying to uncover a traitor who might not exist. I bet Marat Rahm, like most Russians, was a damn good chess player.