Last to Fold

CHAPTER 48

I stayed out of jail—but it was close.

I used one of the eight stories the naked city keeps retelling—this one, the falling-out among thieves over a girl, specifically Iakov and Sergei, who, in my version of the tale, was sweet on Polina and intent on revenge. Iakov foresaw that and lured him to JFK with two of Lachko’s thugs waiting. Sergei anticipated the trap and disposed of the thugs, and he and Iakov fought a Cheka-urki duel to the death. I had phoned Iakov to say good-bye, and he had called me to Kennedy. I arrived too late to stop the bloodshed.

I needed one supporting fact. Just before the cops arrived, I got Foos and the Basilisk to tap into the Big Dick and adjust the location of my cell phone call to Iakov. Dzerzhinsky would have killed for that capability.

Tell a lie, but stick to the plot—one more proverb. I made up the plot and held on, all the way through the weekend. I doubt they believed me, but they didn’t care much about a couple of dead Russians either. It helped that I was able to give them a front row ticket, as Foos put it, to Lachko’s laundry. They’d be able to watch every dollar moving through Ratko’s washing machines. It also helped that there was no one left to contradict me.

Except Victoria, who wasn’t buying any of it. “Where’s Petrovin?” she asked, after Coyle and Sawicki finally let me go. “He said he was going to JFK. Where is he? Don’t tell me you didn’t see him. Don’t tell me you don’t know. I don’t believe it.”

We were sitting across from each other at the counter in my apartment. I was sipping vodka, my first in four days. She had a glass of wine.

Coyle and Sawicki hadn’t asked about Petrovin, which meant they hadn’t known to ask, which meant Victoria hadn’t told them to ask, which meant that maybe she wasn’t going to throw my ass in jail after all. Maybe. Once again, I found the idea of lying to her impossible. But I couldn’t tell her what had happened either.

“I can’t tell you,” I said. “I can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“You covering your ass or his or both?”

“It’s complicated. Goes all the way back to the Gulag.”

The glass was halfway to her mouth when the green eyes froze. She returned the wine to the counter. “Jesus Christ, he’s your son, isn’t he? The one you left with your wife.”

I nodded.

“You told me his name once…” She pulled at memory. “Aleksei.”

I nodded again.

“That’s Petrovin’s name, his real name—Aleksei. Aleksei Tiron. Wait… Polina was his mother!”

I could only sit there silently, filled with sadness and pain.

“Christ! How long have you known?”

“Since Thursday.”

“Does he know—about you, I mean?”

“I think he’s known longer than I have.” I remembered his words almost a week ago—right here at this counter.

I couldn’t help thinking you’d make a good father.

If we both live long enough to get to know each other better, I’ll tell you the story. That might explain things. I’d like to hear yours, too. That could explain more.

“He did go to the airport, didn’t he?” Victoria said. “He was at JFK.”

“Don’t ask me that.”

I watched her work it out—she knew enough to put the story together and come out somewhere close to the truth. I sipped my vodka as I wondered what she’d do.

“I warned you—twice.”

“I know.”

“Remember that promise about not breaking my heart?”

“Yes.”

“You’re awfully damned close.”

She went back to her thoughts.

I made a silent bet on her leaving.

I won.

“I might call tomorrow. More likely, I won’t.” She put down the empty glass, collected her stuff, and went. No kiss, just as she’d said. I didn’t try to stop her.

The door closed, and I heard the elevator chime in the distance when it arrived to carry her off. I stayed right where I was, drinking alone at the counter where I’d told myself I didn’t want to end up drinking alone. I didn’t bother to question or rethink or look for options. There wasn’t a damned thing I could do.

I poured another two fingers and put the bottle away.

Love’s a bitch. But it’s got nothing on that pig fate.