SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) (5 page)

“Will it be faster than looking on the back of the phone?”

He had me there. He put the phone back in his pocket and stuck out his hand.

“Good luck, my son. And God bless you.”

CHAPTER 5 – CARPET BOMBED

The next day, Alice Watts and I were having dinner at Monte’s, the venerable trattoria in Greenwich Village not far from her apartment. We had not seen each other since our storm relief work and I teased her about her selection of restaurant, since she invariably preferred French cuisine. She had smiled wanly. In fact, she had seemed a bit distracted all night. But she perked up when I told her about Father Zapotoski and gave me her full attention.

“What an interesting man,” she said. “Do you think there is anything to it?”

“No. Aren’t you going to finish your ravioli?”

She pushed her plate toward mine.

“I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

“You OK?”

Alice never worried about her weight. What calories her duties as a college swim coach didn’t burn her frequent five-mile runs did. When she ate, she ate like she was going to the electric chair. She always ordered appetizers and full meal portions, which invariably worked out well for me.

“I’m fine. What are you going to do about what Father What’s His Name told you.”

I speared one of her ravioli and noticed that she poured herself more wine.

“Zapotoski.” I spelled his name out for Alice. “I haven’t figured that out yet. I promised him I would look into it, but I don’t know what to do that won’t ruffle liturgical feathers and upset widows.”

“Liturgical feathers?”

“Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it.”

I nailed another ravioli. They were mushroom, my favorite. I had ordered veal spedini, my second choice, knowing that Alice would be generous.

“Did it occur to you that perhaps Father Zapotoski heard something in the confessional, but couldn’t tell you.”

My ravioli stopped halfway to my mouth. A first. I even put it down on my plate.

“The Seal of the Confessional?”

I was annoyed with myself. I was the Catholic, and a Methodist who taught philosophy at a college founded by Lutherans was reminding me about the damn Seal of the Confessional.

“Yes,” Alice continued. “Maybe Father Zapotoski couldn’t break it, but wants you to come at the crime from another direction, for the sake of justice.”

“You think a murderer confessed to killing three people?”

“No. But a priest might hear something else in confession that leads him to believe the deaths weren’t random. You said he hinted that the victims weren’t saints.”

I wasn’t willing to call the deceased “victims” yet, but Alice had made a good point.

“It’s still a stretch. But you’ve given me something to think about.”

The ravioli were all gone, as was my veal. Had there been anything left in the bread basket I would’ve done some serious sopping up. But I draw the line of asking for more bread after the meal is officially over. At least when I’m dining with someone. When I eat alone, I sometime bend the rules. They’re more like guidelines, anyway.

A waiter began clearing our places. I looked at Alice.

“Dessert?”

Alice, bless her heart, never met a canoli she didn’t like. But she fooled me.

“Do you think I can have an after-dinner drink instead?”

Two glasses of wine, and now an after-dinner drink. Something was up. I felt a tingle of apprehension.

The waiter turned to me.

“Might I suggest the Vecchia Romagna Riserva. It’s the best Italian brandy. Made from trebbiano grapes. We just received two bottles.”

I ordered two. With espressos. I’d suddenly lost my desire for a pastry. After the drinks came, we both took sips. The brandy was the equal of any I’d had.

“Alton, there’s something I have to tell you.”

There was an inflection in her voice and a look on her face that meant bad news. I mentally narrowed down the possibilities to the two that frightened me: illness and another man.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound calm, and knowing I didn’t succeed.

“I’ve been offered a sabbatical in Paris. It’s for six months, starting with the spring semester in February, with the possibility I can stretch it to a year.”

It wasn’t cancer. It wasn’t another man who in my mind I had already decided to shoot. Hell, a six-month sabbatical? That didn’t sound so bad. Did she say a year?

“Alice. That’s great. In your field?”

I hoped I sounded sincere. I was, but that didn’t mean I was ready to do cartwheels.

Alice had a Masters in Philosophy and taught at Wagner College on Staten Island, where she coached the women’s swim team. I’d met her at the school pool, where I was rehabbing from recent military service after my reserve unit was called up. She had noticed the bullet wounds on me. I had noticed the legs on her.  

“Yes. At the Sorbonne. It’s a wonderful opportunity. To study philosophy in the city where Sartre, Gueroult, Camus, Gilson and all the other great French philosophers walked is a dream come true. It will count toward my PhD. Bradley is very excited and supportive of me.”

Spencer Bradley was the president of Wagner College, a black man who fought racism and academic incompetence with equal vigor, and who was generally acknowledged to have made his school a fine institution of learning. He also liked good football and basketball teams, which further endeared him to me.

“Go for it, kid.”

Alice’s eyes misted up.

“Hey,” I said.

“Oh, Alton. Just when we were …. “

“Were what?”

“You know. We have something special. I feel like I’m ruining it.”

“Honey. You’re going to Paris to pursue your dream. That dream predated me.”

“You don’t want to try and talk me out of it.”

Caesar at the Rubicon had an easier decision than the one I was now faced with. Did Alice want me to say I couldn’t live without her? If I didn’t fight to keep her near me, would she assume I didn’t love  her? If I begged her to stay, would she lose respect for me? And how would I react if I asked her not to go, and she went anyway?

“No. I think you should go. I’d be angry if you let anything, or anyone, stand in your way. That’s not who we are. That’s not what we mean to each other.”

She must have seen something in my face, or heard something in my voice, because she simply said, “Thank you.”

“When will you leave?”

“Early January. I want to get settled in an apartment and feel my way before starting classes, maybe bone up on my French.” She hesitated and I sensed more bad news coming. “But I will be traveling for most of December. I want to visit my folks in California before I go, and see my sisters. I’m afraid I won’t see you over the holidays.”

“I think I can return the peck of mistletoe I bought.”

“I didn’t know you could buy mistletoe in pecks,” she giggled.

“I’m cutting back this year. In this economy, a bushel seemed extravagant.”

***

That night, in her bed, we made the best love of our lives, and that was saying something. Later, as she lay in my arms, she said, “You will visit me, won’t you?”

“As soon as I get out of the hospital,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Might be a couple of months.”

She punched me.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I think you broke something.”

“Alton!”

I kissed her.

“Wild horses won’t keep me away.”

She fell asleep. I lay there. After sex, they say men are often sad, diminished. Something to do with the post-coital effect of oxytocin, the so-called pleasure hormone, on the brain. The goddamn French call the feeling “la petite mort,” the little death.

I was sad. But it had nothing to do with oxytocin. 

CHAPTER 6 – LUNCH ORDER

I needed something to keep me occupied, rather than dwell on Alice’s looming departure. Father Zapo’s  case, if that was what it was, fit the bill. Hopeless and non-paying, my stock in trade.

Just to make it interesting, I thought I’d work backwards. That meant starting with Marat Rahm. I called his son.

“Thanks a lot, Arman,” I said.

“I presume the priest has been to see you.”

“I would like to talk to your father.”

“He won’t be able to add much more than what Zapotoski told you.”

“It’s how I work, Arman. I need to get a feel for this.”

“I admire you, Alton. Just about anyone else would blow the old gentleman off. Why don’t you?”

“He said I was his fifth choice and couldn’t pay me. How was I supposed to say no to him?”

Rahm laughed and said something in Russian to someone on his end. I heard a sound like a rusty lawn mower. I presumed it was Kalugin’s version of a laugh.

“I’m in New Jersey at the moment, but am having lunch with my father at home. Meet us there at 1 P.M.”

It was less an invitation than an order.

***

I had been to the Rahm mansion on Todt Hill on more than one occasion. The first time was the most memorable. That was when underworld doctors patched me up while Marat Rahm debated whether to kill me. But even then the Rahms set a good table and I was looking forward to lunch.

Not every visitor walked away from the mansion. In certain circles it was rumored – hell, it was established fact – that one of Staten Island’s most notorious second-story men, Plasma Joe Menucci, didn’t. Plasma Joe, who got his nickname from his uncanny success in removing even the largest televisions from a target home, had boasted that no domicile, with or without a security system, was impervious to his flat-screen talents. On a dare from some of his peers after a night of heavy drinking, Plasma Joe vowed to creep the Rahm manse. This was before the Rahm family had fully established itself on Staten Island, and was barely holding its own against the long-entrenched Italian Mafia. Drinking and daring aside, Plasma Joe, while an independent contractor, was possibly motivated by ethnic pride.

He chose a snowy night when the Rahms went to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn to attend a wedding. Amid worsening weather reports, and suggestions that the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge might have to be closed, the family decided to leave the festivities early. That was three years ago. No one has seen Plasma Joe since.

Things changed after the Rahms rose to the top of Staten Island’s crime pyramid.  Now there were security cameras in every alcove and thin wires ran along the windows. I was sure the electronic security was at a C.I.A. level now.

The Norman-style limestone and slate house itself was stunning. Its most distinguishing feature was a two-story copper-clad turret just to right of the front door. Arman told me his father added the turret because it made the house look a bit like his old dacha in the Crimea. 

Kalugin answered the door. I wondered if his was the last face Plasma Joe ever saw.

“Nice to see you, Maks. How are the Pilates lessons going?”

He shut the door behind me and then walked ahead without a word. I followed him past the winding marble staircase that led up the turret to the rooms on the second floor. Arman Rahm came out of a room halfway down the hallway from which I heard construction noises.

“Ah, Alton. Perfect timing.”

I glanced into the room, in which workmen were installing shelves along a far wall that had walnut paneling and hand-carved detailing.

“Another library,” Rahm explained. “We Russians are great readers.”

“Have one of your girlfriends buy you a Kindle for Christmas, Arman. It’s cheaper.”

“But not as beautiful, my friend. Look at those shelves. A new design. No visible means of support.”

“In keeping with the family tradition.”

Arman laughed.

“Come, my father is waiting.”

Marat Rahm were already seated at a dining room table. The room was dark and a maid was lighting candles in its center. She was young and very pretty.

“Sit,” Kalugin said, pointing to a chair, “and behave yourself.”

He walked over to the wall behind Marat, who was at the head of the table, and stood there. The maid soon joined him on the wall, but at a safe distance. I sat. Arman smiled across the table at me.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Rahm.”

The old man nodded.

“I’m glad you could join us for lunch, Rhode. Please forgive the lighting. The drugs I am taking have made my eyes very sensitive to light. I’ve been told that the condition is temporary. I could have the electric lamps turned on if you like, and I can wear sunglasses.”

The idea that I would ask one of the most powerful mob bosses on the East Coast to put on sunglasses for my convenience was humorous.

“This is fine, Mr. Rahm. In fact, I prefer it this way. It might throw Kalugin’s aim off.”

Both Rahms laughed and Marat said, “I almost forgot why I liked you.” He coughed and I caught a look of concern in his son’s eyes. “I know you have questions for me, but perhaps we can eat first. I am hungry, a rare enough occurrence these days, and I don’t want to waste it. Lara, please tell the chef we are ready.”

The maid went through a door.

“Lara, a lovely name, Mr. Rhode, don’t you think? You’ve read
Doctor Zhivago
?”

“No, but I saw the movie, with Julie Christie as Lara. She was Zhivago’s lover. Your maid could give her a run for her money.”

Marat Rahm laughed.

“Yes, I believe she would. But don’t get the wrong idea. She is the daughter of a distant cousin in Kiev. I am putting her through school. NYU. But I want her to learn how to work when she is not in class. She also does some secretarial chores for me.” He turned to his son. “Arman, why don’t you open up a good cabernet. We can drink wine, eat and talk movies for a little while. I would like that.” He turned back to me. “You know my daughter, Eleni, is an actress. She has appeared in several European films.”

I stared at the old man. Was it possible he didn’t remember I knew all about Eleni’s acting ability. Indeed, I had been a victim of that talent. And he had to remember that she had slept with me, likely with his approval, if not urging. But I could see no sign in his face that he was being cruel or disingenuous. I looked at Arman, who shook his head slightly and shrugged. I let it go.

Marat continued, “What did you think of Omar Sharif as Zhivago?”

He was very knowledgeable about American movies, although he insisted that Russia’s Serge Eisenstein was the greatest director who ever lived. I made my case for John Ford and William Wilder and we agreed to disagree, which considering who I was dealing should have earned me the dinner-table equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Honor. I was initially surprised at his film expertise until I remembered that prior to becoming a Russian mob boss, Marat Rahm was a colonel in the Soviet Union’s KGB and a highly educated expert on all things Western.