French Pressed

Twenty

BB Gun parked his SUV on the street, and the three of us walked along Brighton Beach Avenue. Beneath the subway’s elevated tracks, a gust of wind off the nearby Atlantic whipped at our coats and hair. In a sweet gesture, BB draped his arm around Esther’s shoulders and pulled her close.

On the drive to Brooklyn, Boris had explained that we were coming to the “fast-beating heart of Little Odessa.” And within a few blocks of his parked Subaru, I understood what he meant. The neighborhood was pulsing with life; the streets were busy; the markets, stalls, and shops glowing and crowded, even on this cold, dark November night. Everyone was speaking Russian, and most of the signs on storefronts and food stands were printed in Cyrillic lettering.

We soon found the address for Nick on Brigitte’s note, a four-story yellow brick building with art deco trim and a small storefront at street level. Through a crack in the curtained picture window, I spied cloth-covered tables with neat place settings, and even though the sign painted on the glass was Russian, I definitely recognized one word: café.

“Let’s go in,” I suggested.

The interior was warm but not luxurious with cheap wood paneling and simply framed pictures of various Russian cities. Beside a muted television a large chalkboard was covered with Cyrillic writing—probably the menu. Swinging half doors blocked the kitchen, and another doorway was veiled by a black curtain. A large samovar occupied a wooden table between the two exits.

I counted a dozen tables. At the small register near the front door, a plump, florid-faced hostess in her forties greeted us in Russian. Needless to say, Boris did the talking, and we were led to a table in the corner.

A waitress soon appeared with a tray of water glasses, no ice, filled nearly to the brim. I didn’t care; my mouth was parched, my lips chapped from the persistent winter wind. I took a huge, long drink—and thought I’d just swallowed napalm.

“This isn’t water!” I gagged, my eyes filling with tears. “It’s vodka!”

Boris lifted his own glass. “Za Vas!” he cried, draining it. Esther took a tentative taste, then a big swallow.

“Oh, that’s good,” she said, waving air into her mouth.

Boris ordered hot borscht for everyone.

“Beet soup?” Esther’s nose wrinkled beneath her red cat glasses. “I hate beets, and I was promised caviar.”

Boris pulled her close. “And caviar you shall have, my tsarina, but try a little borscht first.”

My eyes cleared, and my mind started moving.

Beets…beets are important. Why?

I suddenly flashed on the cut-up beets that had been scattered on the prep table around Tommy Keitel’s corpse. And there’d been stock bubbling on the stove, too.

Tommy was preparing borscht, I realized, probably from a recipe the mysterious Nick had given him!

Could Nick be the chef here?

The scorching fire in my throat had turned into a pleasing warmth in my stomach. I took another taste of the superb Russian vodka and looked around.

The place was pretty dead, especially for a Saturday night. Only two other tables were occupied. One by a trio of young Russian men in black leather coats, with hair that stood straight up, giving their heads a distinctly angular appearance. Four very attractive young women sat at the other table, nursing cups of steaming tea. One polished her long fingernails; another leafed through a dog-eared copy of Vogue.

“They look like hookers,” Esther whispered.

“They work here,” Boris said. “This is banya, probably also Red Mafiya.”

Esther stiffened. Boris touched her knee. “It’s all right. We’re no threat. We’re…how you say…civilians.”

A young man at the other table rose. Cup in hand, he crossed to the samovar. Boris watched him and suddenly called out.

“Leonid, Leonid, the music man, he books my band as fast as he can. The man with the power and the hour was midnight, we rapped so neat we gave Eminem a fright.”

The man turned toward us, and his eyes lit with recognition.

“BB Gun!” he cried, rushing to our table. Boris rose, and the two men embraced like long-lost friends.

“Hey, guys,” Leonid called to his comrades. “This is BB Gun. He played at Klub Bespredel, the big Halloween show. Really brought down the house. Good haul for the boss!”

“Ah, Leonid, but we both know why you remember me,” Boris said. “That was the night I introduced you to my ex-girlfriend, Anya.”

The man touched his heart. “What a night! And thanks for introducing me to Svetlana, too.”

“Da…da.” Boris nodded.

Leonid smacked his lips, thumped his barrel chest. “They’re a pair of hot pistols, I’ll tell you. Make me feel like byki—strong like a bull.”

“I’m the guy who’d know,” Boris boasted. “That’s why they call me BB Gun!” Boris put his arm around Leonid’s broad shoulder. “Homey, listen up now! I wrote this song about those two phat booties.”

Boris launched into another rap, this time in Russian. The names “Svetlana” and “Anya” came up a number of times, and the references were obviously lewd. The men at the table guffawed. The women pretended to be shocked, but in the end they laughed, too.

When Boris finished, everyone applauded except Esther. Stewing, she glowered at her new boyfriend.

Leonid nudged Boris with his elbow. “So what is the great BB Gun doing in our banya?”

“It’s my new friend,” Boris said, tilting his head in my direction. “She came to this place because of a mutual friend of Nick’s.”

“You know Mr. Pedechenko?” Leonid asked me, obviously surprised.

“If you mean Nick, then the answer is yes. I met him once.”

“Ms. Cosi wants to ask Nick a few questions,” Boris explained.

The man snapped his fingers. “Olga,” he bellowed.

The woman who’d been painting her nails rose. She wore a tight blouse, and figure-hugging black Levi’s. Waving her spread fingers to dry the nail polish, Olga approached us. Her hair was long and black as squid ink, falling like a curtain around her oval face. She was supermodel thin and had a good eight inches on me, at least half of which could be attributed to her four-inch heels.

“Take Ms. Cosi to see Nick,” Leonid commanded.

Olga nodded. “Follow,” she said, spinning on her giant heels.

“I’ll be right back,” I told Esther. She barely heard me. She was still glaring at Boris. As I followed Olga through the black-curtained door, Esther clutched her boyfriend’s arm.

“Who’s Anya?” she demanded. “And who the hell is Svetlana?”

Behind the curtain, cubicles lined one wall of the narrow corridor, a bank of steel lockers the other. Each cubicle was veiled by black curtains that matched the one blocking the door.

“In there,” Olga said, directing me to a cubicle. Inside there was a bench and a clothing hook.

“What’s this?”

“Changing room,” Olga replied. Her voice was deep and sultry.

“What am I changing into?”

Olga thrust a white towel and plastic flip-flops into my hands. “Put purse and valuables in locker. You leave clothes here.”

“Wait a minute, why am I changing?”

“You want to see Nick,” Olga said, hand extended as she admired her manicure. “Nick in banya. You want to see Nick, you go in banya.”

“Banya? What’s a banya?”

Olga rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated with the slowwitted American woman. “Banya is steam bath.”

Wrapped in nothing more than the barely adequate towel, with rubber flip-flops on my feet, I stepped out of the cubicle five minutes later. Olga was waiting for me at the lockers. She took my purse and watch and made a show of locking them up, then she handed me a key on a long white string, which I wrapped around my wrist.

“Follow,” Olga commanded.

She led me to a stout wooden door, painted black, with a comically large metal ring for a handle.

“When I open, go right in,” Olga instructed. “Nick don’t like to lose heat.”

Then the door opened, and a blast of steam washed over me. My eyes filmed, and I blinked to clear them. Olga placed her hand on the small of my back and shoved me over the threshold. The door slammed behind me.

The bath was incredibly hot, hotter than any health club sauna I’d ever sweated in, hotter than the hottest kitchen I’d ever cooked in. Hissing steam rose from stones piled around a black cast-iron stove in the center of the room. The only source of light was the flickering glow of yellow flames through the grate.

Someone had just dumped water on the rocks as I’d entered. Now much of the steam had dissipated, and I looked around. The concrete room contained ascending levels—essentially long, wide steps, rising up to the high ceiling. On each tier I noticed spigots with aluminum buckets under them.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I counted eight men, all clad in white towels. Four were young and fit enough to be bodybuilders, the terry cloth around their loins hardly larger than hand towels. The rest were seated on the higher tiers. They had towels wrapped around their heads, obscuring their features.

“My name is Clare Cosi,” I called out. “I’d like to speak with Nick.”

“I’m here,” a voice boomed from the highest tier. “Talk.”

I tried to see the speaker, but between the steam and the shadows, he was no more than a silhouette. I didn’t recognize the voice, but why should I? When I’d met Nick the other night, he’d barely uttered a sound.

“You may not remember me, but we met at Solange,” I continued.

“I don’t remember you,” the voice replied from on high.

“Okay,” I said. “Could you answer a few questions, then?”

“I suppose so, Clare Cosi,” the voice replied. “Since I doubt very much that you’re wearing a wire.”

The others chuckled. Self-consciously, I readjusted the towel, but the narrow strip of terry cloth was barely up to the task. Don’t freak. Keep your head. This is for Joy. You can handle this… I stepped forward, which brought me so close to the heat source that I suddenly felt light-headed.

“Do you know about Tommy Keitel’s death?” I asked carefully.

“I read the papers.”

“You knew Brigitte Rouille, too. No point in denying it. I found your name and address among the papers she left behind.”

“Yes. I know Brigitte. Why do you speak of her that way?”

“What way?” I asked.

“You say I knew her. I know her.”

One of the bodybuilders rose and tossed a bucket of water onto the rocks. More steam filled the room. I touched my forehead. My skin was slick with sweat, my hair stuck in dark ringlets to my face and neck.

I cleared my throat. “I said knew, because Brigitte is dead, along with her boyfriend, Toby. It was suicide by overdose.”

There was a long pause. One man bathed his face with a blast of cold water from a spigot.

“When you visit a Russian man, it is customary to bring a gift as a gesture of goodwill. Did you know that, Clare Cosi?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“All you have brought me is bad news.”

The door opened behind me. A draft of chilly air ran over my flesh, giving me instant goose bumps. I looked over my shoulder as another bodybuilder entered. This one had tattoos on his forearms and across broad shoulders that tapered down to narrow hips and sculpted, powerful-looking legs.

“She’s not a policewoman,” the newcomer said, standing uncomfortably close to me. “I went through her purse. Ms. Cosi here runs a coffeehouse.”

“Coffee?” the voice cried. “Bitter, black mud! Russian men drink tea!”

Oh, good God.

The bodybuilder brushed past me and plopped down on the bottom tier, clad in barely more than a wisp of steam.

Once again, I cleared my throat. “I’m not here to defend my trade,” I told the man. “I want to know how you’re connected to Brigitte Rouille. Are you a chef? A restaurateur? A vendor or importer?”

“I’m a businessman,” he replied. “My business of selling kaif to the kit—”

“Sorry?” I said.

“I peddle recreational drugs to people with the cash to waste on them. Do you understand, Clare Cosi?”

“I understand you sold drugs to Brigitte.”

“A long time ago. When I first met her at a Manhattan nightclub, she was just another customer. But I enjoyed her company, and Brigitte became very special to me. So special I cut her off when I saw that she could no longer handle the drugs. When she hooked up with that worthless artist who was always on the kalol, I refused to see her again.”

“On the what?” It was so hot I was having trouble following his words.

“Toby De Longe was hooked on the injection. Heroin. When the lavit kaif goes that far, it’s not fun anymore.”

Someone else tossed a bucket of cold water on the rocks. The sizzling hiss was deafening. Rising steam swirled around me, and the heat started really getting to me. I felt myself losing balance, swaying on my feet.

“I…You…” I couldn’t seem to form words. The room was too hot. My grip on the towel faltered, and I almost dropped it. My head began to spin.

“Feeling…dizzy…”

Nick said something to me in Russian. But I couldn’t understand him, and then I saw a figure quickly scrambling down from the steam bath’s highest tier. My legs started giving out. Crap!

I must have gone down, because the next thing I remember was coming back to reality by the shock of cold water. Someone had filled a bucket and dumped it over my head. I yelped and opened my eyes at the icy jolt. A large man with beefy hands and thick, muscular arms was holding me. His round head was shaved, but his shoulders, chest, and torso were covered with curly hair. He looked at me through brown eyes filled with concern.

“Are you all right, Clare Cosi?”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I’m Nick, of course. The man you came to see. Nikolai Pedechenko.”

“You’re not the man I met at Solange!”

“I’ve never been there. And we never met, Clare Cosi, because I would’ve remembered someone as attractive and determined as you.” He grinned.

I disengaged myself from his grip. “This has been a terrible mistake. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all,” Nick replied. “But I believe I know the man that you are looking for. His name is Nick, too. And he was a friend of Tommy Keitel’s, the chef at Solange.”

That’s him! It must be! “Do you know where I can find that Nick?”

“Let me find him for you. You go shower and cool down. I’ll make a call.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said.

“Good-bye, Clare Cosi. It has been a pleasure. My byki will show you out.”

The naked bodyguard took my arm and led me to the door. Olga greeted me on the other side. “Take a cold shower,” she said, thrusting a glass of clear liquid and garlic cloves into my hand. “And drink that right down quick. You’re dehydrated.”

Inside the shower stall, I dropped the towel and stood under the cold flow for a good ten minutes. When I came out, I was trembling, as much from nerves as from the cold. The glass was waiting for me on the bench, beside a clean robe. It was vodka, not water. I suspected as much. I drained the glass anyway.

I did my best to dry my hair with the weak hair dryer supplied by the house. I used the key to unlock my locker—a joke, since it was clear my stuff had been rifled. Nothing was missing, not even Brigitte’s note. Apparently Nikolai Pedechenko felt he had nothing to hide.

When I finally returned to the café, Esther was in a better mood than when I’d left. I’m sure the vodka helped, because she was obviously feeling no pain.

“Hey, boss, you’re back,” Esther cried, slurring her words.

I was glad to see Boris wasn’t in the same state. He was stone sober.

“After the first glass, no more vodka for me,” he explained. “Better not to drink and drive.”

“Ain’t he sweet,” Esther giggled. “You should try the boss, borscht…I mean, try the borscht, boss. It’s spectacular!”

I was about to suggest we leave when a man at another table caught my eye. Behind dark sunglasses I saw a pale face framed by long brown hair, thin lips, and a cleft chin. He removed his sunglasses and motioned me forward.

It’s him… “You’re Nick,” I said.

“Yes.” He rose, shook my hand. “I am Nick Vlachek. I recognize you. We met at Solange the other night.”

He offered me a chair. “Please sit down, Ms. Cosi.”

I was sure Nick knew that Tommy had been murdered, but he probably hadn’t heard who’d been arrested for the crime. I decided to keep him in the dark. Keitel had introduced me as a friend of his. Nick didn’t need to know that I was also Joy Allegro’s mother.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “I got a call from Mr. Pedechenko. He said I should come right over and talk to you. He also suggested I bring some of my new shipment—a nice Caspian beluga.”

“Caviar?”

Nick nodded. “I have a restaurant not far from here. And I import caviar, among other commodities.”

“So you were one of Tommy’s vendors!”

He nodded. “I met Chef Keitel a couple of years ago, after your country banned the sale of beluga caviar…”

“It did? I mean…we did? Why?”

Nick shrugged. “Because Black Sea sturgeon is on the endangered species list. Tommy wasn’t satisfied with the substitutes. He wanted the real thing for his restaurant.”

“And you could get it for him? Even though it’s outlawed?”

“Tommy wanted the real thing,” he said with pride. “I got it for him. No crime. What I call a crime is what some of my unscrupulous colleagues do. They import Finland burbot and pass it off as beluga.”

“The business is that profitable?”

Nick nearly choked on his vodka. “The market value for beluga is ten thousand dollars a kilogram.”

“Oh. I see. Well, that would be profitable then, wouldn’t it?”

Nick nodded. “At least Tommy knew the value of the real thing.”

A waitress appeared. She placed a basket of toast points, a bowl of chopped hard-boiled eggs, another of minced onions, a bowl of sour cream, and two glasses of vodka on our table. In the center she set a tiny bowl brimming with what looked like silver jelly.

Nick smeared caviar on a slice of toast with a tiny spoon made of mother-of-pearl. “Caviar should never touch metal or it will taste like metal,” he explained.

He handed me the toast, and I took a bite. I wasn’t a caviar eater. I couldn’t afford it, and I’d never actually eaten really good caviar—not the kind Nick was offering me now, anyway. The texture was soft, the taste briny and salty and mildly fishy, too, with a subtle hint of acid, more layers of flavor than I’d expected.

“Beluga is prized for its large, pea-sized eggs,” Nick said, chewing. “It can be silver gray, dark gray, or even black. The lighter varieties come from older sturgeon and are the most highly valued.”

I reached for another toast point and slathered on the caviar. “I think I could get used to this stuff.”

Nick laughed. “Don’t bother with the eggs or the onions. The best caviar needs no embellishment.”

“No wonder Tommy sought you out,” I said after I cleared my palate with a few sips of vodka. I was starting to feel no pain…but then I remembered my daughter.

“Nick, I have some questions for you about Tommy Keitel. I saw beets on the prep table where he was murdered. I smelled stock simmering on the stove. Were you there last night, Nick? Were you there when Tommy was murdered?”

“No. And if you’re asking me if I murdered Tommy, the answer is also no. Friday is my busiest night of the week. I was running my restaurant until almost two in the morning last evening. Hundreds of people saw me. So you can believe me. More than that,” Nick added, a shadow crossing his features. “I was going into business with Tommy. A profitable one. Why would I kill him?”

“What business? Importing?”

“No. Tommy wanted to learn Russian cuisine. I know some of the finest chefs in Moscow and St. Petersburg. I was paving the way for Tommy’s move to Russia.”

My jaw dropped. “He was moving to Russia?”

“In seven weeks, his contract at Solange was up. He said he was ready for a new challenge. He’d become bored with French cuisine. He wanted to learn how to cook authentic Russian dishes in Russia. Then he was going to return to America, and we were going to open a new restaurant together.”

I heard the sadness in Nick’s voice, not only over the lost opportunities, but because Nick had also very clearly lost a friend.

“These are bad times,” he said.

Tell me about it. “Did you know Brigitte Rouille?”

Nick nodded. “Yes. And Nappy, too. Of course when I’d first met them, they were still lovers.”

I blinked. “Lovers? I’m sorry, but…I’d assumed Napoleon Dornier was gay.”

Nick laughed. “I think he cultivates that impression. Goes with his pumped-up French accent. But Nappy is definitely not gay, and he owed Brigitte—quite a lot. He was no more than a waiter at Martinique when she took over its kitchen. It was Brigitte who used her influence as executive chef to help him move to sommelier and then maître d’. That’s why; Dornier always took care of Brigitte, even after they broke up.”

I told Nick about Brigitte’s death, and he absorbed the news in silence. I saw his eyes glistening. There was such a heaviness of heart about the man, it was almost contagious. And between Joy’s arrest and finding Brigitte’s tragic corpse, I felt my eyes tearing up, too.

“I’m sorry to bring you this news,” I said, touching Nick’s arm. “And I’m sorry for your loss. In many ways, Tommy Keitel was a great man. I’d like to find out who killed him. Do you know if Tommy had any enemies who would want him dead?”

Nick shook his head. “Tommy had a big ego. He stepped on toes. He fooled around. I suppose he could have hurt the wrong person. But I couldn’t tell you who. Tommy never discussed with me anything that caused him fear or dread. My friend was a happy man. That’s how I’d like to remember him.”

Nick drained his glass. “Well, Ms. Cosi. I must leave you now. My restaurant is busy, and I must take care of her.”

I rose and thanked him, remembering how Tommy had referred to Solange as a “her,” too. Then I returned to our table. Esther was leaning against Boris. She was snoring lightly.

“She had too much vodka,” he said with a shrug.

“I think I had too much, too,” I said, massaging my temples. “So before I pass out, let’s get Esther back to the car.”