Every Man a King

25

I woke up with the morning sun on my face. The huge bedroom had a chilly stone floor and its own fireplace. The faint scents of burnt wood, plaster mold, and bacon sat me up in the big bed. I’d kicked off the down comforter in the night.

There were the faraway sounds of the labors of morning coming from downstairs. Probably Mel making breakfast.

My clothes were hung on a high-backed dark walnut throne. I thought about getting dressed but didn’t have the heart for it yet. Instead I went to the twelve-foot windows. They gave a panoramic view of the pine forests and grassy fields that surrounded the hill where Melquarth Frost’s northern New England home sat.

No barn, farmhouse, or even paved road could be seen. It was idyllic. Beautiful. Primordial. And there I stood, naked as Adam — or a youthful Cain.

In spite of appearances, the majesty of nature is just a fancy blanket draped over the malevolence of the creatures of earth.

The forest floor was populated by beasts that spent entire lifetimes fighting and killing for food, for survival, for fun. And there I stood, a member of the most depraved species.

Every once in a while, naked and alone in the morning, I make up my mind to be better than my race, my human race. It’s a vow that can’t be kept for long. The call of nature will, sooner or later, drag you back down into the struggle that nothing and no one can long escape.

But now and then, if I concentrate, I have the chance of doing something right.

“Mornin’, Mel, Olo,” I said half an hour after my soul-searching.

“Good morning, Joe,” Oliya said.

“Hotcakes or cheese omelet?” Mel offered.

“Both.”

Over breakfast Mel talked about one day retiring to his woodland retreat.

“I could raise sheep, make maple syrup, and grow a garden that could feed a family,” he told us.

“Are you married?” Oliya asked.

“Never.”

“Then what family would you be feeding?”

The man named after the devil’s grandfather hunched his shoulders and smiled.

“Yuri in the basement?” I asked him.

“Yep. You want me to milk him this morning?”

“I was thinking that I’d like to take a run at it first.”

“That don’t sound like you, Joe. What’s up?”

“I don’t know. I was just looking out on the countryside and thought that I’d like to try my hand at forced honesty.”

Both of the specialists were looking at me, wondering. A sane man would have gone running from that room.

“Where’s the door to the cellar?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” Oliya put in before Mel could answer.

“He’s never been here before,” Mel replied. “I never had an uncoerced guest out here. Usually when we do this kind of work it’s out on Staten Island.”

I wondered if I should warn my bodyguard against learning too much but then realized that Mel was only flirting.

“At the other end of the sitting room you’ll find a yellow door,” he said to me. “It opens on a staircase that ends at blue and red doors. Red goes into the main room. Blue takes you to the prep chamber.”

Through the blue door was a closet that contained long black robes and porcelain-like masks of either red or white; these were used to interrogate the penitent without revealing your identity.

I eschewed disguise.

Yuri was chained to a stainless steel chair that was bolted to the granite floor. He wore headphones and a thick pair of blinders. Mel usually played opera for his prisoners. He said that you had to have dramatic music for serious situations.

I removed the headphones and then lifted his blindfold.

The international mobster was short and wiry, his hairless face lean and olive-colored.

“What do you want?” he said with conviction.

“I want you to give me a name.”

“Fuck you.”

His accent was so mild that I thought he must have learned English at an early age, at some kind of American school. Forty or so, maybe one of his parents was some kind of diplomat who lived in D.C. during Yuri’s formative years.

“You’re going to tell me, Yuri. There’s no question about that. I have a friend upstairs who gets pleasure out of breaking down resistance.” I paused for a few moments and then said, “I was looking out the window this morning. It’s really beautiful outside. So much so that I thought I’d come down here and offer you your freedom for some discreet information. I won’t tell anyone that I got this information from you. And you will leave here with all your appendages in working order.”

This was why I didn’t wear a mask. I was hoping that the Russian was a pragmatist. But in order to achieve this end he had to look into my naked eyes, hear my unmuffled words clearly — honestly.

I could see the inner workings of the oil bootlegger’s mind trying to encompass the situation.

“How would you know if I lied?” he asked.

“I’ll test the answer. If you’ve told me the truth I’ll call my friend and he will deposit you, safe and sound, in a red Tesla in any place of your choosing.”

“What will stop me from finding and killing you and your family?” he said, trying his best to sound threatening.

“You won’t find me. And if you did it would cost you dearly.”

I was Adam’s surviving son, free and unrepentant. If Yuri wanted to live, to go back home without fear, he’d have to get my approval.

We sat for a long while in silence.

He hated me and needed me.

I didn’t care if he lived or died.

“What do you need to know?”

“There’s a guy who identifies himself as Tava Burkel. I need to speak to him.”

Sometime after our conversation I went back upstairs. Mel and Oliya were sitting across from each other in block-shaped padded sofa chairs that were covered in bearskins. Mel was opining about some schism in his character and she was studying him like a postdoc grad student majoring in evil.

They brought to mind a dog and cat of equal size living in the same house. They got along well but weren’t the same. The call of nature outside the walls was always summoning and they couldn’t help but listen.

“Hey, Joe,” Melquarth hailed. “That was a goddamned masterpiece.”

“You watched?”

“I got a vid up here. Oliya didn’t want to, but it’s my house.”

“You liked it?” I asked my bodyguard.

“He knows your face.”

“That’s not gonna be a problem.”

“You want me to take care of it?” Mel offered.

“I want you to sit on him until I call. Then gas him and bring him wherever he wants to go.”

“But like your friend says, he knows your face.”

“By that time it won’t matter.”