Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
“I
WENT AROUND
the corner to a Chinese restaurant I know to see if I could get us some egg drop soup,” Teddy said in response to her casual question. “Here, take this.” He thrust a cardboard box of coffee and sandwiches at her. “But it was closed.” He shrugged and dumped a six-pack of Heineken on the backseat. “What else would I be doing?” He showed her such a wide-eyed innocent face that her skin prickled on the back of her neck. She heard,
Don’t you trust me?
unsaid. She thought,
Of course, I trust you. Shouldn’t I?
They were driving again, down Canal and right across the East River, which looked dangerous, with chunks of ice and sporadic little black whirlpools. She had read somewhere that the East River had vicious currents and was a fighting river. They drove off the Manhattan Bridge onto Flatbush Avenue. They were in Brooklyn.
“Do you know how to get there?” Wetzon asked, looking down at the box on her lap. Teddy was drinking coffee with one hand as he steered with the other.
“Yeah. Did a story once on the Cafe Baltic. It’s quite a place—the hub of the Russian émigré social scene. And the wheeling and dealing that goes on there ... You might say”— he grinned at her— “it’s a Middle European Four Seasons.” He laughed out loud.
“Shut up and drive,” she grumbled, knowing he was making fun of her fascination with the famous New York restaurant. She unwrapped her sandwich. “Oh, joy, a hoagie.”
“You mean a hero,” he said, referring to the Italian-style stuffed sandwiches.
“Hoagie in South Jersey.” She pulled out the slimy red pimientos and gripped the bread firmly. “Hate red peppers.” She took a big bite. The fruity olive oil dribbled on her chin, and she blotted it up with a paper napkin.
“Your friend Carlos has made quite a name for himself.”
“Isn’t it great? He’s such a talent, and besides that, he’s a nice guy.”
Teddy stared at the roadway, giving her his magnificent profile. “What’s the name of the firm, Wetzi?”
She didn’t answer him at first. “Let it be, Teddy.”
Turning to her, his eyes crackled, then softened. “Sorry.”
“Okay. Let’s forget it.” She tried not to be irritated, but she could feel herself doing a slow burn.
“I’m going to go around Prospect Park and pick up Ocean Parkway. Say a prayer that it’s as good driving as Flatbush.” They were making better time than she’d hoped. “This is Grand Army Plaza,” he said, referring to a circle with massive monuments draped in snow. She could make out horses among the statuary but very little else. “If we kept going through the park, we’d pass the Brooklyn Museum, the Library, and the Botanic Gardens, but ...” He drove around the Plaza and along the edge of Prospect Park, passing people on skiis, groups of children in vivid winterwear, adults with sleds, some going into the park, some leaving.
“It’s funny, isn’t it, that most Manhattanites never go to Brooklyn, or any of the outer boroughs.” The only place in Brooklyn that she’d been in besides the Heights and Atlantic Avenue for the antique stores, was BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and that was because of the dance companies that appeared there.
“Unless you grew up in one of the boroughs,” Teddy said, “or work takes you there, Manhattanites are the biggest snobs around.” He looked over at her. “You’re not talking much, lady.”
“I’m afraid to. You might get information out of me, digger. You should be doing
Sixty Minutes.”
“Ah, that’s just it. That’s what I’m aiming for.”
“Oh, Teddy! Is there a chance?”
“I’m working on it.” He turned onto Ocean Parkway, and the Rover skidded, spinning sharply into the wrong lane. Wetzon braced her hand on the dash and felt her body surge against the seat belt. Teddy steered into the skid expertly, taking his foot off the gas, putting it on again lightly once they were righted.
A cab, which had been driving a distance behind them, passed them and then stopped. The driver opened his door and called out to them. Teddy rolled down his window and waved. “It’s okay.”
Two cars, oncoming, also stopped until Teddy had the Rover back in the right lane.
“Notice how polite and nice everyone is,” Teddy said. “I love New Yorkers. We always get such a bad rap.” He nodded at the drivers as he passed.
“I’m noticing that the streets are beginning to look a lot less traveled.”
“Well, this is Brooklyn. As we said, an outer borough. Our sanitation department doesn’t love Brooklyn as much as Manhattan. Too many poor people here.” He edged the Rover left again and they entered a wide, majestic thoroughfare with many lanes and a spacious island in the middle. The spacious island might as well have been in the Antarctic because all the vegetation was completely buried in snow.
“Wow!” Wetzon said. “This must be beautiful in the spring. Are we really in Brooklyn?”
“Dis here is Brooklyn all right, bubbie. God, I love this. Give me my sandwich, will ya—I’m getting in the mood.” His preoccupation seemed to have vanished. With few other cars on the road, he threw caution to the wind and began to pick up speed. “We’re almost there.”
On both sides of Ocean Parkway stood ample stone houses, fronted by small snowy lawns. Some of the houses were attached like row houses, but others would have been classified as mansions in Manhattan. The side streets were almost obliterated by snow.
“You’re very quiet, Wetzi.”
“I’m not sure how we do this, Teddy.” She was beginning to worry whether she wasn’t taking them on a wild-goose chase. “Do you think we should just go in and ask at Tsminsky’s for Ida and say that I have an old aunt who needs care, or something like that?”
“They’re very clannish and careful about strangers here. Hard to shake old habits.”
“The KGB will get you if you don’t watch out?”
“You got it. How about we do that, leave a name and say we’re going into the Baltic for a drink and she can find us there? Then they won’t feel they’re being pressured and we can wait where it’s warm. And maybe we can pick up some information from people there.” He waved his arm. “We are now passing the famous Kings Highway.”
She looked up at the sky. The blue had turned to gray. She shivered and rolled up the window. “I don’t think we have a hell of a lot of daylight left.”
“How old a guy is your broker Tormenkov?”
“Late twenties.” She rubbed her hands and put her gloves on. It was cold. “Why can’t you wait until I can give it all to you?”
“Because I’m a reporter, and I smell something really big here.”
A blustery wind battered the white-coated trees with wicked force as they drew closer to the Atlantic Ocean. It was almost as if the sharp winds blowing in off the waters blew the snow inland, away from the beaches. There was always much less snow near the ocean, or so it had seemed to her when she was growing up in New Jersey near Seaside Heights.
“Did he and this Ida look alike?”
“Not at all. It’s probably just coincidence. Tormenkov may be as common a name in Russia as Smith is here.” She said it, but she didn’t believe it.
Teddy made a sweeping turn and drove down a broad street with rundown storefronts, clothing stores, cleaning establishments, a furrier, the Restaurant Odessa, which had the marquee of a movie theater, and a boarded-up furniture store. On the other side of the street she could see a windswept boardwalk and farther, the beach and the ocean.
“I’m giving you a quickie tour of Brighton Beach Avenue,” Teddy said, “then we’ll park behind the Baltic. There’s a lot there and we won’t be so obvious.”
They passed a movie theater showing
Conan the Barbarian.
The people on the street, and there were quite a few bustling along, scarves to faces, hands to hats, looked foreign. The men wore flat caps or berets. Robust women in various versions of the omnipresent quilted polyester storm coat had woolen scarves tied under their chins and carried shapeless plastic grocery bags. Everyone looked middle-aged or older.
“Where are the children? Where are the young people?” she asked out loud.
“They don’t hang around.” Teddy pointed to the left. “There’s your ice cream shoppe.” He pronounced the
e
as a second syllable.
“It’s open.” A small surge of adrenaline raced through her.
He drove another block, the chains clanking on the almost snow-free road. “There’s the Baltic.” He made a left and another left and pulled into a lot with a small assortment of cars. The Rover was the only one without a blanket of snow on it. The lot itself was windswept and almost clear.
Wetzon gathered up the remains of their sandwiches, paper wrappings, and the empty coffee containers and took them with her when she slid out of the Rover. “It’s amazing. There’s so much less snow here,” she said.
He took the box of garbage from her and dumped it on top of an already more-than-f garbage can as they walked off the lot.
Wetzon looped the strap of her backpack over her shoulder, making it a shoulder bag, and looked around. The sun had given up for the day and the air was bitter cold. The wind chill probably brought the temperature down into the single digits. She shivered and fished her lavender beret from the backpack and pulled it on over her ears. She folded up her sunglasses and put them away.
They walked right to Brighton Beach Avenue, shoulders braced against the fierce ocean wind. The Cafe Baltic had once been a bowling alley. Someone had strung colored lights around the front of the building but couldn’t quite hide the giant kingpin and the ball.
“Here we are,” Teddy said, stopping in front of Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe. In the grimy window was a dusty display of cheap plastic ice cream arrangements on white pegboard stands. A sad-looking sundae with pink ice cream, an ice cream soda with a dirty straw, and a banana split with orange bananas. A greasy black sandwich board listed sandwiches and prices. Tuna fish was listed as $1.50. A sign in the window, crudely hand-lettered, with misspellings, listed the specials of the day as homemade borscht, and a stuffed cabbage dinner for $5.00. Alongside was writing in Russian. Cyrillic letters.
“Can’t beat these prices,” Wetzon said, looking up at Teddy.
“Let’s go.” As he opened the weather-beaten outside door, a bell rang.
Behind the counter a squat woman, her head a Brillo of dark curls, was pouring water into a coffee machine. She turned at the sound of the bell, put down the large stainless steel pitcher, and wiped her broad hands on her apron. Her small dark eyes were deep set. She looked from Teddy to Wetzon and let her eyes rest on Teddy. She cleared her throat nervously.
A man sat at the far end of the dingy counter, slurping soup noisily from a large spoon. He looked over at them and put the spoon down loudly. His body stiffened.
Wetzon looked at Teddy. Did they think because he was black that he had come to rob them? Or was it something else?
“Vat I can get for you?” the woman asked suspiciously. Under the apron she wore a wine-colored wool sweater with tiny designs. It looked hand-knit.
“Are you Mrs. Tsminsky?”
The woman gave a barely perceptible nod and looked over at the man.
“I’d like to get in touch with Ida Tor—”
The woman, agitated, interrupted. “I don’t know nossing.”
The man came around the counter and stood next to the woman. “Leave us alone,” he cried. “Vee don’t know nossing. You have no right—vee are in America ... you go avay—” There was pleading and terror in his voice.
“Mr. Tsminsky ... Mrs. Tsminsky, please,” Wetzon said, growing frightened. “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m just trying to get in touch with Ida.” She felt Teddy’s arm on her shoulders. “My aunt is old. I need someone trustworthy to take care of her—” She saw the woman’s eyes flicker, change. She glanced over at her husband, whose hands rested on the cutting board near a few pieces of lettuce and several slices of pale, waxy winter tomatoes.
A shadowy figure stopped in front of the window and appeared to be studying the menu. Tsminsky looked out. “No, no,” he mumbled. He looked back at Wetzon and Teddy. “No,” Tsminsky said, this time loudly. “You make trouble, go avay and leave us alone!”
“You’ll be doing Ida out of a good job,” Teddy interjected.
“Right.” Wetzon nodded, feeling guilty for frightening them. “We’ll wait awhile at the Baltic. If you can get in touch with Ida, maybe she can meet us there.”
The woman looked to her husband again, her hands playing obsessively with the hem of her apron, rolling and unrolling it. The movement was hypnotic, lulling.
“Wait! No!” Teddy shouted, backing into her, crushing her off balance back against the door.
“What—” Wetzon’s view was blocked by Teddy’s shoulder. Teddy grabbed her forcibly, lifting her off the ground, swung around behind her, and pushed hard. The door gave under the pressure of their bodies.
It was then that she saw the long butcher knife in the man’s hand, his wild, fear-filled eyes.
She heard the woman scream.
“GODDAM, I
WISH
I had a cigarette.”
They stood panting on the sidewalk outside of Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe. Teddy’s dark skin had a grayish hue in the pale light. Beads of sweat covered his upper lip and forehead in spite of the extreme cold.
“Please, Teddy—” He was taking great strides and dragging her along with him. It had all happened so fast Wetzon had not had time to be afraid. And she wasn’t now. She was curious. Why such a violent reaction? Tsminsky could just have said, no, go away, and left it at that. She remembered what Eddie O’Melvany had said about built-in paranoia.
The Atlantic wind blew needle breaths on her cheeks, numbing them. The drops of sweat on Teddy’s face turned to ice. Teddy came to a stop in front of the Cafe Baltic. Almost reluctantly, he released her, first reassuring himself by looking up and down the street that they were safe from attack, that the madman Tsminsky had not followed them out into the street with his knife.
“What did we say that upset him so?” Wetzon was dancing from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm.
“Upset! That’s some understatement, Wetzi. He might have killed us.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
He turned suddenly belligerent. “You yuppies are so into yourselves, you have no sense of danger. You don’t know these people. It’s a good thing I’m here with you.”
Wetzon gave him a cold hard look. “I do not consider myself a yuppie, you shithead. Don’t you ever talk to me like that again.”
She walked away from him, down the street. Winter twilight was rapidly turning to evening. People were not hanging out on the street tonight. And of the few that passed them, undoubtedly heading home, no one seemed to have noticed the incident at Tsminsky’s Ice Cream Shoppe.
“Hey, wait a minute, Wetzi.” Teddy came after her and took her arm. “Come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I know you’re not a yuppie.” He gave her his big, charming grin and hugged her, but Wetzon was stiff in his embrace, still angry. “Come on, say you forgive me.”
“Okay,” she said with great misgiving. Funny how you think you know someone well and then you see maybe you don’t know him at all. She didn’t remember Teddy being so abrasive, but they had been friends a long time ago, and people change. She was certainly not the same person she had been then. “Don’t you think it’s strange that no one even noticed when we rushed out of the store?”
“Around here,” Teddy said, “people make a point of not noticing.”
One entered the Cafe Baltic through a revolving door, like a department store. They came into a cold, dimly lit lobby, with a coat check on the right and a lectern decorated in varied-colored strips of Christmas lights on the left. Neither spot was occupied.
The tiny slivers of ice on Teddy’s hairline and upper lip melted. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face without unfolding it. “I don’t know, Wetzi,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve stepped into deep shit here.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what happened. One minute we were asking nicely and the next minute he went at us with a knife. You really moved, Teddy. You don’t really think he would have hurt us?”
“Would you have wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt?” He unzipped his coat. “Did you get a look at that guy in the window? Do you think that’s what upset him?”
“Don’t know. Could have been just some passerby.” She stuffed her gloves, beret, and scarf into the backpack. “But it was just before he went crazy on us—”
“Tuvya!” A tiny man, his gaunt face full of seams and gnarls, came out of a dark passageway beyond the gaudy lectern. He was dark-skinned, like a gypsy, with large moist black eyes, and was wearing a black velvet jacket, black tuxedo pants, a frilly white shirt, and a red silk ascot fastened in place by a large glittery tiepin that looked suspiciously like a real diamond. “Long time no see,” the little man said in a thick Russian accent, and his laugh thundered. “And who, I may ask, is pretty lady?”
“This is Wetzi. Wetzi, say hello to my friend, Misha Rosenglub.”
Wetzon held out her hand and Misha Rosenglub bowed deeply and kissed her hand, barely brushing it with his breath. It was an incredibly delicate movement. Wetzon was charmed.
“Vetski? You are Russian?” Delight spread over Misha’s face. A gold tooth glinted in his red mouth. Was he wearing lipstick? He was still holding her hand.
“No.” Wetzon smiled at him.
“No, she’s not Russian, Misha, and that’s quite enough of your Continental charm. She’s
my
girl and we’re hungry.”
Damn, Teddy was getting on her nerves. First she was a yuppie, now
my girl.
“Oh, of course, of course, forgive foolishness. Come in, come in. I take coats.”
The revolving door deposited three ladies in moth-eaten fur coats and sequinned and tulle evening gowns and a bearded man in a fur hat and a bulky raincoat, who carried a folded newspaper under his arm. The little lobby had suddenly become crowded.
Misha was energized. “Follow, please,
mesdames et messieurs.
” He winked at Teddy and Wetzon and did a little bob and dance before moving forward. “Coat check, coat check!” he boomed. “Come, come, everyvon.”
The poignant strains of an accordion drifted out at them. Wetzon, looking down at her ski pants, bulky turtleneck sweater, and boots, felt conspicuously underdressed. They followed the new arrivals down the short passageway which opened into a large room jammed with white linen-covered tables, round and rectangular, of which a surprising number were occupied and glutted with food. There was a modest dance floor and a raised platform at the far end of the center of the room for a bandstand. A few empty metal music stands were scattered about and a huge silver grand piano took up half the platform. A lone accordionist in a shabby black tuxedo, a red silk scarf around his neck and over one shoulder, sat on a chair playing a mournful melody. Several women’s voices full of sorrow and somewhat off-key accompanied him from the tables out front.
Around the outer edge of the room were semiprivate banquettes covered with red velvet. Very few of these were occupied.
A tall, thin waiter in a black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie took charge of the man and the three women who had come in behind Teddy and Wetzon.
They were in a tacky 1940s-style nightclub. The ceiling held three concentric circles of theatrical lights which danced in opposing directions. A hallucinogenic haze hung like a smoky saucer over the room. Everyone seemed to be smoking except Wetzon and Teddy. Large brass coatracks loaded down with coats stood in various spots around the perimeter of the room, sharing space with a dozen palm trees, real or artificial.
The Baltic was a curious mixture of tacky and old-world Continental. Silverware clattered on heavy white commercial china, tables were candlelit. A grandly proportioned woman, wearing a long black skirt, a glittery sweater, and high-heeled silver sandals, was dancing stiffly to the accordion music with a small bald man, who bulged in a tight brown suit with wide lapels. Every once in a while he would spin his immense partner around into a graceful whirl.
Wetzon closed her eyes and smiled, picturing herself and Carlos when they had done the revival of
She Loves Me!
, dancing in just such a cafe set. She looked around to see what Teddy was thinking. He was gone. She was standing quite alone. Misha had also disappeared.
She felt invisible, discombobulated, as if she were in the midst of one of her dreams. The room was sweltering ... Where was Teddy? Tuxedoed waiters rushed by, precariously balancing huge platters of food for the horde of diners in gaudy finery who crowded the room.
“Come, Vetski,” Misha said, reappearing at her side. He touched her elbow lightly, trying to steer her to a banquette. She resisted politely but firmly. “Teddy is coming right back. I think I’ll wait for him.”
“I take coat, then. So varm, here, no?” His dark eyes watched her. She couldn’t read them.
“No, thank you.” She was sweltering, but what if they had to make a fast getaway? Where the hell was Teddy?
“You are okay, Vetski?” Misha brought his face close to hers. He smelled of cigarettes. Everyone did. “Ah, here is Tuvya now.”
About fucking time,
Wetzon thought. Teddy, carrying his coat over one shoulder, came out of swinging doors to their left, followed by a tiny, plump woman, her hair in a heavy braid like a tiara on her head. She was swathed in burgundy satin, just short enough to show well-shaped calves and tiny feet in spiky high heels that matched her dress. Large diamonds glittered in her ears and on her surprisingly delicate wrists and fingers.
The woman’s high-cheekboned face was flushed crimson from the heat in the kitchen, and she was a little short of breath, but her dramatically black-rimmed eyes were bright and perceptive. Her hair was a dye job somewhere between brown and red, having settled at a pale rust. There was something about the way she held her head and neck that made Wetzon think she might have been a dancer a long time ago.
“Ilena, my dollink, this is Tuvya’s friend, Vetski—”
“You are Russian?”
“Give up your coat, my little Russian princess,” Teddy said, grinning at her. “Vetski.” He looked completely recovered from their flight. “Let’s sit down. I could eat a horse.” He took her coat and gave both to Misha. “Maybe you can help my friend Vetski here. She has a problem with one of your ... comrades ...” He laughed. Misha and Ilena joined in, but to Wetzon’s eyes it was wary laughter and their faces showed no emotion. Why was Teddy being such a klutz? She made a small pass with her boot at his foot, which he ignored.
“Come, vee sit down, vee eat, vee talk,” Ilena said. She raised her long hand with its narrow wristbone and long elegant fingers high in a sort of flourish, and two waiters shot into the kitchen and came back with trays of food, preceding them to one of the rectangular tables in front of the banquettes. The table was already set with china, silver, and glassware. When they finished laying out the spread of
derma,
stuffed cabbage, baked fish, caviar, and slabs of roasted meat from the giant trays, it was almost impossible to see the tablecloth. Two fifths of Absolut vodka and an enormous bottle of seltzer stood among the platters. As Wetzon watched, another waiter, dwarfed by an oversized tray laden with food, set a bottle of Hennessy cognac on the table.
“So vhat is problem then?” Ilena said as soon as they were seated, Ilena and Misha on the outside, Teddy and Wetzon on the banquette. “Wodka for everybody,” she shouted to the hovering waiter, who came over and filled the large shot glasses. “Come, vee drink, dollinks, and vee vish ourselfs good health, long life, and God bless America.”
Wetzon laughed. The vodka in her glass had tiny dark specks floating in it. She dipped the tip of her finger in and tasted it. Pepper.
“L’chaim.”
Teddy tipped his head back and downed the entire shot glass.
“L’chaim.”
Misha and Ilena did the same.
“Come on, Vetski,” Teddy said, teasing her, knowing she never drank anything but beer.
She made a face at him and took a cautious sip. A cold pool of heat warmed her mouth and burned her tongue. She held the cold-hot liquid, savoring the flavors, then let it run down her throat, where it exploded. “Help, fire,” she gasped, taking the glass of seltzer Teddy had ready for her.
“Eat, eat,” Ilena urged, pushing a plate of
pelmeni
at her and dousing them with vinegar and sour cream. “Must eat with wodka. Is essential.”
“So, Vetski, tell us—” Misha gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“It’s a long story—” Wetzon skewered a
pelmeni
and placed it in her mouth. The taste was exotic, tart, oddly soothing.
“Ida Tormenkov.” Teddy interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand.
Misha’s face turned pale. “Ida—”
Ilena’s silent gesture with her head was so small anyone could miss it. Wetzon, however, did not. Darn. Why had Teddy done that? It was not her style to plunge right in and it
was
her story. She had caught that quick exchange between Misha and Ilena and nudged Teddy’s knee under the table with less force than she wanted to.
A violinist joined the accordionist and the two began to wander among the crowded tables, playing a spirited melody that everyone seemed to know. Patrons were clapping in time to the music.
“Misha, Ilena, you know everyone here.” Teddy just blasted forward like a bull in a china shop. There was a long pause. Wetzon’s fingers played with the fog that had formed on her cold glass.
“Is for us strange name,” Misha said finally, with a studied blankness.
Ilena rose, unfolding herself like a dancer, and shouted in Russian to a waiter, who came scurrying over with a platter of pumpernickel. When she tilted her head, Wetzon noticed Ilena had a large raised red mole near the corner of her mouth. There was something about her—”Wait, you are Ilena Milanova, aren’t you?” Wetzon remembered the dancer with the Kirov—she had actually seen her dance once when the Kirov had toured the United States years and years ago. That Ilena, a sylph of a creature, had been their star. When she had applied with her husband to emigrate because they were Jewish, her career had ended abruptly. It had taken them years to get out of Russia.
“Ah yes, my dollink,” Ilena said, beaming, her face softening. Her blue eyes filled with tears. “See vat happens ven vee stop dancing.” She patted her heavy bosom, then tapped Wetzon’s hand sharply with her index finger. “Must never stop dancing.”
“Me? How—”
“Can alvays tell. Hair, head. Is like clothing vee vear. Is in blood. In soul. Mine ... yours.” Her hand fluttered on her breast.
Wetzon was overwhelmed. “I was never like you, Ilena. I danced on Broadway—in the chorus. I was just a gypsy.” She buttered a slice of pumpernickel, which was slightly stale. She took another sip of vodka and ate a big bite of pumpernickel. The last thing she wanted to become was woozy.
“Is all family,” Ilena said.
“Vetski finds jobs for stockbrokers now.” Teddy tipped his head back and drank another full shot of vodka. Wetzon glared at him. It would be terrible if Teddy got drunk.