DANTE DOCKS THE Ship in front of the Strip House—a steakhouse—on West Forty-Fourth Street. I walk through the front door.
“Good afternoon,” the statuesque hostess says, “may I—”
I see Jake already seated inside. He’s waving to me. He’s already with fork and knife in hand and a napkin tucked into his collar to shield his chest.
“I’m meeting my partner, who I see. Thanks.”
I walk past the bar, which is on my left, toward the dining room. The interior, screaming of Venetian red throughout, is a beautiful union of old-world glamour and contemporary flair. Original Studio Manasse prints of 1930s burlesque stars cover the walls, and gorgeous, wide, crystal chandeliers hang overhead. As I near the table I unbutton my suit jacket.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks—The Palm, Smith & Wollensky, Old Homestead, Keens, whatever—this place has the best steak in the city,” Jake says. “Don’t you think?”
I sit down. It’s two fifteen p.m. The place is only dotted with patrons as the lunch crush has passed. A waiter approaches immediately.
“May I get you—”
“Bring him a glass of cabernet,” Jake says.
“Actually, no,” I jump in immediately, my eyes on Jake’s already half-empty wine glass. “Still too much of this day left. Just some water for me.”
“And perhaps something to start?”
In front of Jake is an appetizer order of scallops in black truffle butter and edamame succotash, which he’s barely touched.
“I’d love a shrimp cocktail. Thanks.”
“Right away, sir. I’ll be back shortly to give you the specials and take your main course.”
“So why the urgency for the two of us to chat?” I start. “Wait, let me guess. You’re back on the idea of a website that allows people to order customized blow-up sex dolls—where customers can set dimensions, upload photos, the works—and you want me to invest.”
“You know that’s a good idea,” Jake says through a quick, short, forced laugh.
I look again at his half-empty wine glass.
“What’s on your mind, partner?”
Jake thinks as he assembles his words. He straightens up. He puts his fork and knife down. He takes another sip of wine.
“I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have it under control.”
“You have it under—” Jake cuts himself off, looks around, and reels in his voice. “You have it under control? It was you who took the picture you showed me, correct?”
“It was.”
“And you’re not scared shitless? For Perry, for yourself, for all of us?”
“I’m not. I mean, yes, of course, I am a little, but, if—”
“If what?”
I take a deep breath.
“I know who we’re dealing with. I’m not sure yet what we’re dealing with, but I know the man. I know Cobus. He doesn’t want to hurt us. He simply wants what he wants, and knows I understand failure is not an option.”
He looks around and leans forward toward me.
“So what am I missing? If that’s so clearly understood, then why the need to cut Shane’s fucking head off,” he asks in a tight-lipped whisper.
“Because that wasn’t about motivation alone. Yes, motivation was a part of it, but this is more complicated. The vehicle used for motivating me, if you will, was because I offended him.”
“Offended him? How?”
“By turning him away on his initial asking. In Cobus’ mind, my willingness to help should have never been a question. And to tell you the truth, his thinking along those lines isn’t entirely wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because I owe him.”
“I thought you two were square. I thought the two of you—”
“Not just for my life. For Perry’s life.”
“I understand that. He looked out for you, which meant by default Perry as well. When Max was abducted, Perry took off on her own to Switzerland to join Gaston and get his help locating Max. She learned almost immediately through Gaston’s contacts Max was alive and safe with his father in Manhattan, at which time you decided together she’d be safest tucked away at Gaston’s chalet until it was time to go home, which would be soon enough. And when it was time, true to his word, Cobus got you both back here safe and sound.”
“For the most part, that’s right. But not exactly.”
“Not exactly,” Jake repeats. “What not exactly? What do you mean?”
“I mean the last three years before we returned, Perry wasn’t at the chalet in Switzerland with Gaston.”
No response. Jake looks confused.
“I know you, and everyone else, thinks she was,” I go on. “Yes—Max was back in Manhattan. Only neither of us knew this. In fact, I had no idea where either of them were.”
He shakes his head.
“I’m not following. What really happened?”
I swallow hard. I look down at the tablecloth. The memories, though five years earlier, are still as fresh as they are awful. I lift my eyes back up to Jake’s.
“One afternoon the three of us walked through Amsterdam. It was a gorgeous day. It was really crowded. There was a World Cup qualifier match versus Scotland so the place was teeming with people. I sensed we were being followed. Before I could even blink, we were literally sprinting through the crowds from our pursuers. Out of nowhere, a black van screeched to a stop in front of us. More guys jumped out, grabbed Max and Perry, wrapped them in their big, burly arms, and were pulling them toward the van. We were all so shocked, and frightened. Perry’s voice, laced with sheer panic, was screaming for Max. As I fended guys off I caught glimpses of Perry and Max kicking and screaming. But every time I took a step toward them another set of arms or fists came at me. I remember even biting off a part of one dude’s face then spitting it out just to get myself free, get some space.”
“Jesus Christ, Jonah,” Jake says.
I take a sip of water, and continue.
“I’ll never forget the sound of that sliding door slamming shut. The van peeled out and I ran after it as fast as I could. Gunshots came from behind me and hit the van. At the time I had no idea if the shots were aimed at the assailants or me, so I just kept running. I ran all the way home. I learned later the shots were from Cobus’ protectors of me who at the time I didn’t even know existed. But I’ll never forget the sound of the sliding door slamming. It still haunts me. It still wakes me up at night. Even in that moment something about it was so . . . I feared and sensed something was so . . . final.”
“You couldn’t go to the cops,” Jake correctly deduces. “In the States you were still a fleeing murder suspect. In the Netherlands you were a fraud who would have been extradited.”
I nod. I clench my jaw.
“It was so hard. To have that happen in front of my own eyes, on my watch, and not be able to do anything about it was so hard. At the same time, I knew maintaining my cover, and getting home, was the only chance any of us would have. I had to have faith and keep it together. I had to get home.”
“What happened? Where was she?”
I shake my head, pissed to have to even think about it, and drop a fist on the table that sends all the silverware and everything else bouncing. My water topples forward. Neither of us give it a thought or look. A waiter starts toward us. I throw an authoritative hand in the air expressing him to leave it alone, and keep his distance.
“Fucking Andreu Zhamovsky.”
Andreu Zhamovsky. My scumbag, Russian half brother, whose plan to steal treasured Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs I foiled. And had sent to prison for embezzlement in the process.
“It turns out a few years after we were gone, and after apparently paying his way out of the Russian prison system early, he came looking for Perry to get to me,” I go on. “Her asshole husband explained that not only did he think his wife was running with me, but we had Max. Andreu made a deal with him. Should he ever get a bead on where his wife, son, and I were, he was to let Andreu know. And for that he’d make sure asshole husband would get his son back.”
“Don’t tell me. Somehow the stars aligned.”
“You have no idea. Like some insane cosmic clusterfuck. Asshole husband’s brother was traveling in Amsterdam and was sure he’d seen Perry even though there had been some minor adjustments made to her appearance. To be sure, he followed her, and that’s when he saw Max too. So the brother called asshole husband, asshole husband called Andreu. But there was a problem. According to the brother in Amsterdam, Perry and Max were with a guy, but it wasn’t Gray. Why?”
I cover my face with my hand, and then move it away as if I’m unveiling myself.
“The surgery,” Jake says.
“The surgery. Once asshole husband said there was no Gray, Andreu said there was no deal. Asshole husband pleaded with him—he was desperate to get his son back. So the two came up with a solution. Now—think about the abduction I described. What do you think that solution was?”
He says nothing as he processes my words. He leans back in his chair.
“Perry.”
“Correct. They didn’t even try to take me. Asshole husband would get his son back. Andreu would hold on to Perry for as long as it took for me to show up and lead him to the Fabergé Imperial Easter Eggs he’d been trying to get a hold of with his mother.”
“So where was Perry all that time?”
“In complete isolation in some remote wing of a Zhamovsky estate in St. Petersburg. For three years she had no idea if I was alive. More importantly, she had no idea if her own son was alive. She had no contact to the outside world whatsoever. All she had were her thoughts. Thoughts that soon enough became suicidal. Thoughts she refused to let get the better of her because she felt in her soul her boy was still alive.”
“My God,” Jake says slowly. “Poor Perry.”
“She’s been through so much. She put so much on the line. For me.”
“She loves you, bro. She knew what she was doing when she ran with you. Look, it’s awful what happened, but there’s no way either of you could have—”
The waiter shows up and places my shrimp cocktail in front of me.
“Are you two ready to order?” he goes on, placing a couple napkins on top of the spilled water.
“We need a few more minutes,” Jake says.
The waiter leaves us.
“I know,” I say in response to where Jake was going, putting my hand up. “But it doesn’t make it any easier to think about every day. What she went through because of me. Her days running into nights running into days—all alone. Anyway—once I landed in Moscow, Andreu didn’t go lightly. His crew beat the crap out of me something awful. It was Cobus’ crew who ultimately busted Perry and me out of there. Without him, no shit, I don’t think we would have left Moscow alive.”
“I don’t get it. Why the secrecy?”
“Because that’s how Perry wanted it. The flight back from Russia on Cobus’ Gulfstream, even though we’d been separated for three years, she was so quiet. She told Cobus and me about her isolation—what the space she was in was like, how seldom she ate, the minimal contact she had with humans—but mostly she just stared out the window. No doubt remembering thousands of memories she only wanted to forget. That first night back in the States, we were trapped somewhere between stunned and relieved. And we were both exhausted. We passed out. But in the middle of the night I woke up. I could feel Per staring at me. I sat up. Her eyes were filled with tears. She told me she was so scared. I asked her of what. She said of having to reflect on, and confront, what she had just been through.”
“Understandable,” Jake says.
“Agreed. I told her we’d get her the best help money could buy. That she could take as long as she needed. She said she wanted to get back to living, but that whether I realized it or not my story—our story—was about to become a big one. And unless she could confront her ordeal—and these newfound demons—on her own without having to share them with the world at the same time, she didn’t think she’d be able to recover. So I gave her my word we’d keep that part of the story quiet. And not only did Cobus cover our asses, he has kept this secret as well.”
“Just unbelievable,” Jake goes on.
“Like I said. I owe him.”
“Has Perry ever fully opened up to you about all of it? Everything that happened?”
“She visits with her therapist often, so I’m guessing she’s dealing with it all in her own way. But I don’t know. And I don’t push. She knows I’m here if she needs me.”
She does know.
Doesn’t she?
“You know, I don’t want to say anything out of line. But ever since you two returned Perry’s been—she’s been a little, like, she’s been—”
“Different,” I save him from squirming any further.
“Yeah. Different. She’s always been edgy, and sharp as anyone in the room, but I don’t ever remember her being full-throttle twenty-four-seven.”
“I know,” I concur. “Believe me, I get it. It’s like she won’t stop for even one second because in that second she might have to relive one of the memories she’s running away from.”
“She’s always been intense,” Jake continues, “but there was always a softness underneath that kind of, like, balanced her out.”
Now I’m the one beginning to fend off unwanted memories. I look at my watch.
“We need to order and get moving,” I change direction.
“So Cobus isn’t as scary as I thought,” Jake takes my cue.
“Oh, he’s scary all right, but I like to believe he and I have a mutual respect for one another that is unlike any other between two people. Trust me, that’s our saving grace, so long as he never perceives us to be crossing him. He ever thinks we’re fucking him, it will be a different part of our bodies than our heads that shows up in a box somewhere.”