Beating the Babushka (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

“We’re talking today,” said Cape. “Not killing.”

Sally frowned. “Doesn’t that depend on how the conversation goes?”

They were walking down the steps to the subway. It was late morning and the air was cool, but they could feel the temperature and humidity rise as they made their way into the station. When they reached the platform, Cape leaned against a steel girder while they waited for the train. Sally stood facing him, eyes scanning the crowd as they talked.

“I just want to talk to this guy,” said Cape. “Get to know each other.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What?”

“Most people who get to know you eventually want to kill you.”

“I’ll keep the conversation short.”

When the train arrived, Sally and Cape got on separately, sitting opposite each other in the same car. Cape looked briefly at the map Corelli had drawn while Sally studied a guidebook she’d bought at the hotel gift shop.
A Walking Tour of New York’s Five Boroughs
. She opened the fold-out map for Brooklyn as Cape glanced idly at their fellow passengers.

Half an hour and a few stops later they were on foot again, Sally heading north and Cape going east. As she walked up the street, Sally casually tossed the guidebook into a garbage can. Cape walked slowly—the park was only half a mile away.

The neighborhood had character. Brownstones and small wood houses shared blocks with aging brick apartment buildings. Shops of all kinds peppered the streets, most looking family-owned, or at least independent from the big chains. Unlike most of Manhattan and almost all of San Francisco, this felt like a real neighborhood, not another colony in the Starbucks Empire.

Most of the people seemed elderly, and few made eye contact as he passed. A block from the park he noticed a group of teenage boys standing outside a drugstore, smoking and tracking his progress.

The park was really an open square. Other than a small patch of grass at its center, the square was cobblestone, dotted with wooden benches and small, square tables made of concrete. The tables had four cement chairs flanking them, sprouting from the ground like toadstools. Maple trees had been planted between the tables, spaced about ten feet apart. Their wide branches and thick leaves filtered the sun and cast a dappled light across the stones.

The far side of the square abutted the old boardwalk, and beyond that lay the Atlantic Ocean. According to the guidebook, it was only a three-mile stroll along the boardwalk to Coney Island. A row of four narrow buildings with windows overlooking the park on one side and the ocean on the other stood watch over the entire scene. Cape assumed they were condominiums.

The square was almost empty this early in the day. On the north side, two old ladies sat talking and feeding pigeons. While one gesticulated broadly as she talked, the other methodically nodded and tore pieces of bread from a large roll and threw them at the birds milling at their feet. When the first woman finished her rant, she lowered her hands and took the bread, giving her friend a chance to wave her hands and respond. This ritual continued, each one taking a turn feeding the birds while the other dramatically acted out her opinion.

Near the center of the square, a middle-aged man sat reading the paper and smoking by himself, wearing a long black coat with the collar turned up against the breeze. He looked up when Cape crossed the perimeter of the square but returned promptly to his reading, seemingly uninterested in anything other than the sports page.

The Pole was almost directly in front of Cape only twenty feet away. It wasn’t hard to pick him out. He was sitting at the third table from the edge of the square with a large chessboard in front of him. To his right was a folding card table that straddled the built-in cement stool. On it was a bowl, silverware, a glass, a pitcher of water, a bucket of ice, and a bottle of vodka.

Cape stepped around the table so his shadow fell across the chess board. When the outline of his head reached the center of the board, he stood quietly and studied the position of the pieces. The old man seated before him didn’t even bother to look up.

It was a full minute before Cape broke the silence.

“Rook to queen four.”

The Pole might have been a statue. For all Cape knew, the old man hadn’t heard him or, more likely, chose not to acknowledge the interruption. Sixty seconds can be a very long time. Cape stood immobile as another minute passed before the Pole slowly reached across the table and moved the white castle to its new position. Without looking up, he gestured at the stool across from him. Cape sat down.

Another two minutes passed before the Pole moved the black queen sideways, threatening Cape’s bishop on the diagonal. Before the man’s arm returned to his side Cape noticed the raised flesh on the back of the hand, two gnarled lumps that looked like extra knuckles.

Cape took his time, eyes on the board and not his opponent. When he moved one of his pawns, he felt the man across from him change his posture subtly. The pawn was quickly captured, but Cape moved his bishop to safety. Almost an hour later, eight black pieces sat alongside the board opposite six white pieces the Pole had captured. It was Cape’s move.

Very deliberately he reached toward his queen, hesitated, then lifted a knight and swung it forward and to the left. “Check,” he said, looking across the table. The Pole nodded to himself, looking at the board, and then raised his head slowly.

The man was striking. He was also younger than Cape expected. Perhaps late fifties, but the handsome young man he must have been was still clearly visible in every feature. His thick hair was gray with streaks of black, matching the pattern of his full beard. Both cheekbones and forehead were high, framing blue eyes so pale they were almost translucent. Cape had been to Alaska once and seen that exact shade reflected in a glacier—the color of ice older than humanity and colder than the grave.

On the left side of the Pole’s face, partially hidden by his beard, was another sizable lump, a plateau surrounded by deep pockmarks of scar tissue. He wore a gray sweater with an open collar, and Cape noticed similar scars at the top of his chest.

The Pole smiled by way of greeting and Cape caught himself before he flinched. The teeth along the top of his mouth were perfect, but the bottom row was a ragged ravine. In the brief instant before the smiled disappeared, Cape was reminded of shark teeth. It was as if the teeth had been knocked out, one at a time, and set back in place at haphazard angles. No doubt a favorite pastime in the gulag.

“Check,” said the Pole in a rich voice, the Russian accent barely discernible. “But not mate.”

Cape smiled without showing his teeth. Beyond one or two mishaps at the orthodontist, he couldn’t compete on that level. “Not yet.”

The Pole smiled and nodded, this time not showing his teeth either. He reached over to the card table and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. Cape didn’t recognize the brand but saw they were unfiltered. He also noticed the spoon on the tray begin to wobble as the Pole’s hand passed over it. When it came time to reach for the lighter, the Pole merely opened his hand. The metal Zippo jumped two inches into his waiting grasp.

The Pole caught the surprise in Cape’s face and smiled again.

“You are not a policeman,” he said. “They never come alone.”

Cape said nothing, watching as the Pole pried the lighter free with his other hand.

“And you are not FBI,” the Pole said definitively.

“How do you know?”

“They don’t know how to play chess.”

Cape smiled. He knew one or two feds that might take exception to the remark, but he kept his mouth shut.

“And you are not a reporter.”

Cape raised an eyebrow in question.

The Pole shrugged. “Many years ago, in Russia, it was said that I had one killed.” He shrugged again. “Now they leave me alone. Rumors are useful that way.”

Cape took one of his business cards and set it down in the center of the board.

“I’m not interested in you,” said Cape very deliberately. “I’m interested in what you might know.”

The Pole took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled, squinting through the smoke.

“Where did you learn to play chess?”

“My mother.”

“Me also!” said the Pole, nodding his approval. “Your father—you did not play with him?”

“Some,” said Cape. “When he wasn’t working. You?”

The Pole shook his head. “I never knew my father. He was killed in gulag when I was boy.” He practically spat the word gulag across the table.

“That must have been rough.”

The Pole shrugged again. “It was Soviet Union,” he said. “But chess—a great game. An important game. You can endure much, if you know chess.”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Cape.

The Pole nodded. “You know the term babushka?”

“Grandmother, isn’t it?”

“Correct.”

“I think that’s about the only Russian word I know.”

“Everyone knows babushka,” said the Pole. “It also means old woman, but only someone special. It is a term of great affection.”

Cape waited, wondering where this was going.

“I had a babushka,” said the Pole, his eyes turning inward. “Not my real grandmother, but a lovely old woman. Very kind. Once a month, my mother would take me to visit her. She lived far outside Moscow, to the north.”

The Pole smiled at some private memory before continuing. “Before we would go inside my babushka’s house, my mother would always tell me to beat the old woman at chess.”

“Did you?”

The Pole frowned. “No, though I knew that I could—she could play chess, but not very well. I let her win.”

“She was your babushka,” said Cape simply.

“Da,” said the Pole. “You understand.”

Cape shrugged. “We all have kind hearts when we’re kids.”

The Pole showed his teeth. “That was the lesson my mother wanted me to learn.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “To harden my heart, so I could see things without emotion. She knew the way of the world.”

Cape said nothing as the smoke from the cigarette coiled listlessly in the air between them.

“Then one day, my mother sat me down in the kitchen. She said my father was not coming home from gulag.” The Pole stamped out his cigarette and continued. “I was just a boy, but old enough to understand that he had been murdered by the State.”

Cape watched the Pole’s eyes regain their focus, the glacial blue hard and clear.

“The next day we went to visit my babushka,” continued the Pole. “We played ten games of chess, and I beat her every time. I never lost at chess again.”

Cape nodded his understanding. “Your mother wanted to protect you from getting hurt.”

“She wanted me to see things clearly,” replied the Pole, “so I could survive.”

“Looks like you have.”

The Pole held his gnarled right hand in front of his face and looked deliberately at the raised flesh. He was dying slowly, but still alive. Still in the game.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said, “and we will finish our match.”

Cape gestured toward the remaining pieces. “That gives you more time to study the board.”

The Pole grinned. “Don’t ever forget, it is my board.”

“See you tomorrow,” said Cape.

“Da zavtra.”

Cape was two blocks from the subway when Sally fell into place beside him, appearing out of a side street.

“That was boring.”

“I like boring,” said Cape. “When it’s boring, no one gets hurt.”

“He had a bodyguard—middle-aged guy in the long coat.”

“Saw him,” said Cape. “No one spends that much time with the sports section, even in this town. And he was a little studied in his boredom with the surroundings. Was he packing?”

Sally nodded. “Submachine gun with a folding stock. Saw it when he shifted in his seat—he must have hemorrhoids from sitting all day.”

“I didn’t see you,” commented Cape.

“Neither did he. That’s the idea, remember?”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

Sally stopped walking long enough to curtsy.

“Did you learn anything?”

“Not yet,” replied Cape. “We have to come back tomorrow.”

“So he can have you checked out.”

“I assume so.”

“You trust him?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Cape, “but I like him.”

“See how you feel after tomorrow,” said Sally.

“Deal.”

Chapter Thirty-six

“Would you like to eat one of your testicles?”

Angelo didn’t respond, hoping it was a rhetorical question. He stood with his back to the door of Adam Berman’s office, his hands in a defensive position over his crotch, while Adam paced back and forth behind his desk.

“You fucked up, Angelo, letting that guy in here.”

“I know.”

“I could cut your balls off,” said Adam with conviction.

“You mentioned that, Mr. Berman.”

“Did I?” asked Adam, halting momentarily. When he resumed pacing, he added, “Well then, I guess I meant it.”

“You are a man of your word, Mr. Berman.”

“Stop kissing my ass and do something right for a change. Did we get the adjusted numbers from Grace yet?”

Angelo hesitated. “No…no, we haven’t.”

“Fuck,” said Adam. “What’s taking so long? I want actual costs to date against the budget, new distribution of points, revised estimate of marketing costs, all that shit. It’s just fucking math, for chrissakes.”

“I don’t think she agrees with—”

“She doesn’t have to agree,” snapped Adam, stopping to point a stubby finger at Angelo. “She just has to run the numbers.”

“Actually,” said Angelo hesitantly. “She does have to agree.”

Adam squinted at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The clause,” said Angelo, “in the contracts.”

“What clause?” demanded Adam. “There are so many fucking clauses in these movie contracts that even I can’t remember them, and my name’s on all of ’em.”

“The contracts were written to allocate a share of the gross receipts to every principal member of the production team,” said Angelo. “The amount given to each person varies by seniority and contribution to the film, after all costs incurred are deducted from the total.”

“Why do you think I want to see the new numbers? I want to know how much is already spent.”

“But these contracts stipulated that those amounts could be re-allocated if anyone left the team during production, even in the event of death.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Adam testily. “So what clause are you so worried about?”

“Re-allocating percentages in the middle of production isn’t unheard of, but it is a bit unusual,” explained Angelo.

“So?”

“So the lawyers added a clause that says all remaining parties must agree to any changes during production. If all parties don’t agree, then the percentages remain as they were. In this case, that means Tom’s estate would get his share after the movie opens.”

Adam was staring at Angelo. “The lawyers?” he asked, incredulous. “The lawyers? What lawyers?”

“The lawyers,” said Angelo simply. “Our lawyers, the director’s lawyer. Grace’s lawyer. All the lawyers.”

“I fuckin’ hate lawyers,” mumbled Adam. “They’ve ruined the movie business.”

Angelo was pretty sure Adam had a law degree, but it seemed an inopportune time to mention it.

“Does Grace know about the clause?” Adam asked.

“I don’t think so,” replied Angelo. “It wasn’t in the fax we sent of the contracts she asked for—it was an addendum, so we, well…we just didn’t send it. Unless she asks her lawyer to go through the contracts, she’ll just be working under the assumptions you gave her on the phone.”

Adam nodded, pacing again.

“So she figures out the budget—how much we’ve spent, how much we have left for production, then sends us a copy of the revised budget and the new allocations.”

“Right.”

“Then she’s culpable in the whole thing, right?”

“How do you mean?” Angelo shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“She sends us a new budget, then she’s putting in writing that she’s okay with the new numbers,” said Adam. “So if anyone’s lawyer gets in a huff, we hang the whole thing on Grace. Why would she rework the numbers if she didn’t agree, right? And while the lawyers go at it, we hold on to the money. The interest alone should pay some legal bills.”

“But she’ll say she never knew about the clause.”

“Her word against ours,” replied Adam. “Inadmissible.”

He’s starting to sound like a lawyer, thought Angelo. “But what about the investors?”

Adam blinked, frowning. “What about ’em?”

“If she’s got Tom’s budget, she’ll see how the cash flow has been stop-and-go instead of simply drawing on money already in the bank. That’s not how we normally do business.”

“We’ve been a little strapped for cash,” said Adam belligerently. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Angelo forged ahead, emboldened by the lack of projectiles this far into their conversation. “Then won’t the investors want to ask the producer how their money is being spent? You said the money guys were pretty hands-on. And won’t Grace naturally want to know where the money’s coming from?”

Adam sat down heavily, reaching for the glass on his desk. It was half-f—or half-empty, depending on how you looked at it. From Angelo’s perspective it looked like it might hurt if it hit him in the balls, so he stepped sideways to position himself behind a floor lamp.

“Maybe she won’t ask,” suggested Adam in a tired voice, setting the glass down without taking a sip.

“You’re probably right, Mr. Berman.” Angelo tried to sound positive—maybe the glass was half-f. “Maybe she won’t ask.”