Eight

Eddie is sitting in his usual spot at the rear of Mario’s Deli when I enter. The door to the back room is slightly ajar and Eddie’s talking to someone just out of sight in the shadows of its interior.

Before I reach the booth, the door closes.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“A room,” Eddie answers.

“Yeah, but what kinda room? What goes on in there?”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s just a room. You have too much imagination.”

“Can’t be a journalist without curiosity,” I say.

“Can’t be a runner without legs,” he replies.

I recoil. “Jeez! Talk about ominous. It was just a question.”

Eddie shrugs again. “See. Imagination. What did I say? You need legs to be a runner. A simple truth. But you, you take it another way. That’s why I don’t use imagination. People see a horse and they imagine it will run fast because it has a clever name. Is that logical? No. I get rich on imagination.”

“So does your friend behind the door have a name?” I ask.

Eddie almost smiles, but it could be my imagination.

“What can I do for you, Dixie? Ready to make that big wager?”

“I have a question.”

“Am I guru now? Does this look like mountaintop cave?”

“Not so much, but you’re the closest to one I’ve got.”

“I pity you then. Must not have many friends.”

“Always room for one more.”

“Not even your imagination is that vivid.”

I smile. “You’re a curious one, Eddie. You remind me of Yoda in that last Star Wars movie when he whips off his cloak to fight the bad guy and all of a sudden the old cripple is as spry as a teenager.”

“If you’re trying to confuse me, you succeeded. I do not know this Yoda. Now do you wish to place a bet?”

My smile fades. “I want to meet Krasnyi Lebed.”

Eddie doesn’t even blink. “So why come to me?”

“You know everyone.”

“I know who’s important to know, nobody else.”

“And the Red Swan is important to know.”

“True.”

“So where can I find him?”

“It is not so difficult, but neither is it advisable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“But still you persist.”

“It’s my job.”

“Curiosity, they say, is lethal to felines.”

I recoil again. “Jeez, Eddie. Enough with the doom and gloom. I just want to talk to the guy.”

He releases a heavy sigh. “I can give you an address, but only on one condition.”

“OK.”

“Do not piss him off and do not mention my name.”

“I can guarantee the latter, but I tend to have some trouble with the former.”

“That you do.”

He gives me the address anyway.

When the taxi arrives at the address, I release such a loud guffaw that it makes the olive-skinned driver with a boastful Seventies-era moustache jump in his beaded seat.

“Sorry,” I say as I pay the fare. “Bumped my funny bone.” When he doesn’t smile, I point at the mat of wooden beads he’s sitting on. “Are those comfortable or is it more like flagellation? I’ve always wondered.”

He chooses to ignore me as he tucks the cash in his money pouch.

“I’ll ask the next driver then,” I say sarcastically. “Obviously, you’ve got places to be.”

The taxi takes off as soon as I close the door, leaving me standing across the street from The Russian Tea House. Instead of harassing my contacts, I could have just looked in the phonebook under most likely place to find a Russian immigrant in need of an afternoon pick-me-up.

For a mob boss who likes to keep a low profile, Lebed certainly isn’t hiding.

I cross the street and push through the front door.

The interior of the restaurant is first-class all the way: white linen, bone china, polished silver teapots and cutlery. The furnishings are antique dark woods against stark white walls with occasional touches of glittering robin’s-egg blue, pomegranate red, and caterpillar yellow. The chandeliers are glistening crystal and gold, and I have a feeling the menu doesn’t bother listing prices.

Dixie’s Tips #14: If you need to ask how much something costs, you can’t afford it. To avoid embarrassment, head to the washroom and climb out the window.

An expertly lit glass tower at the entrance holds four impressively bejeweled Fabergé eggs, although I doubt they’re genuine; last I heard, an original is worth a minimum $10 million. And even if you can afford one, very few ever appear on the private market.

On the second shelf from the top is the largest egg at just over nine inches tall. It is light blue and held aloft by three golden lions. I’m intrigued by the domesticated elephant that crowns the fragile dome as the royal carriage upon its back reminds me of a scene from the third Lord of the Rings movie.

I lean forward to see if there are small figures of Frodo and Samwise running around.

“Table for one, madam?”

I turn to see a handsome maître d’ dressed in an unusual stark white tuxedo with black bowtie and shiny black shoes. Despite the flattering cut of his suit, it’s obvious he likes to hit the gym, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I could scrub my delicates on his stomach on washday. (Which reminds me again of my need to do laundry.) His eyes are deep, dark, and chocolaty, but the perfect manicure, the closeness of his shave, and a posture that would make a ruler-wielding Catholic nun proud make me wonder if he’s straight.

“I have an opening by the window,” he offers.

The restaurant is completely deserted now that the lunchtime rush is over, so he can seat me anywhere, but the offer of the window is still gallant.

“I’m actually here to talk with Mr. Krasnyi Lebed.” I dig in my pocket for a business card and hand it over.

When he glances up from the card, some of his charm has been replaced with a steely aggression that sucks in his cheeks to reveal sharp, angular bones beneath. A small tingle ignites in the base of my brain stem to tell me he’s more than a head waiter.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asks.

“No, sorry. I wasn’t sure how to contact him.”

“Then I’m afraid—”

“I doubt you’re the kind of man who gets afraid very often.” I smile flirtatiously. “Especially not when it comes to women. Could you please show Mr. Lebed my card and see if we can set something up?”

My charms don’t seem to have much effect.

“I’ll wait here,” I say. “And guard your eggs.”

He glances toward the display cabinet, and out the corner of my eye I spot a tiny, almost imperceptible green light blink in the base of the topmost egg.

“You will wait here,” he says.

I hold up three fingers with my pinkie trapped beneath my thumb. “Scout’s honor.”

The waiter scowls slightly before walking away, which makes me wonder if maybe they don’t have Scouts in Russia and I’ve just given him the Moscow equivalent of our one-finger salute. That could be embarrassing.

When the waiter returns, his eyes and his mood are even darker.

“Mr. Lebed will see you,” he says. “Hold out your arms.”

I raise a quizzical eyebrow but comply, wondering if he wants us to play airplanes, which could actually be fun if we were both naked and the landing strip was a chocolate fountain.

The waiter moves in to pat me down. He’s not shy about it either, but neither does he linger in the spots where I wouldn’t mind some male attention.

“I usually get a man’s name before I let him do this,” I quip.

“And I usually get a woman drunk first,” he says.

“That’s disturbing,” I say.

“It’s meant to be.”

Suddenly feeling more violated than aroused, I follow the no-
longer-charming waiter through the deserted dining area to a private room in the rear, separated from the main restaurant by a pair of frosted glass doors.

The waiter knocks once before opening the door. He stands to the side as I enter, and I’m relieved when he closes the door behind me to return to his duties at the reception desk.

Inside, the room is half private-dining area and half office. Directly in front of me is a rectangular table sporting white linen, fine silver, and china place settings, but behind it is an elongated wood desk with two computers back-to-back that are being operated by what appear to be identical redheaded twins.

The twins are dressed smartly in black dress pants and white shirts with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Each has an identical pair of tortoise shell glasses. One is wearing a blue tie, the other green.

Neither of them flash me the top-secret Ginger Wink of Solidarity. Maybe they didn’t get the memo.

I look to my left and see a mountain of a man with shoulders as wide as my legs are long. He’s wearing a suit that must have been custom made in a tent shop, but it fits him well. The only flaw is a slight bulge beneath his left arm that tells me he’s carrying a larger gun than the tailor intended. Then again, that could be on purpose, to give trouble pause before it starts.

The bodyguard is standing perfectly still, and even though he doesn’t appear to be looking at me, I can feel his eyes probing every square inch of my intentions.

When I glance to my right, his shaved-head doppelganger is occupying a similar position. This mountain is darker and swarthier than his companion, but just as silent.

No one is paying any attention to me at all, which only makes me more nervous. I’m not a big fan of silence. I’m happy that Prince Marmalade the Purr Machine is in my life. Bubbles, the world’s oldest goldfish, was never much for chatter, but then again I wasn’t around for his final words. I can only guess they were cursing my name for leaving him alone with Prince when I went to work. Who knew kittens could jump so high?

A door connecting the private room to the kitchen opens and a razor-thin man enters in a tailored suit that matches the gray pallor of his skin. He smiles at me with teeth that have lost their luster, but none of their bite. His nose reminds me of a shark fin with a small bite taken out of one nostril. If he floated on his back in a pool, small children would scream.

“You are Dixie Flynn the reporter,” he says with a Russian accent that has been refined and polished to remove the grit. “I am Krasnyi Lebed.” He gestures toward the table. “Please, sit. I have ordered tea.”

“Lovely,” I say with a smile, and take a chair.

Lebed rests his elbows on the table and tucks his chin into his hands as he studies me. His wrists are so thin that half the links have been removed from the band of his platinum Rolex watch.

“I am surprised that our paths have not crossed before,” he says, “but then, you do tend to spend more time in the gutter than the palace.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say the gutter—”

“I would,” he interrupts. “You may call it social conscience—I hear that is the buzz word people like to use these days—but really when you are writing about dumpster divers and injection clinics and former street walkers trying to go straight, the gutter is not below them, it is still all around.”

“And what would you have me report on?” I ask, refusing to rise to the bait.

“What about political corruption?”

I blink. “Well, sure, if—”

“I could point you in the right directions.”

My inner radar begins to beep with its Lost in Space mantra: Danger, Dixie Flynn! Danger!

“That’s generous of you,” I say cautiously. “I’m always open to reliable tips.”

“Good.” He unclasps his hands and stares at me through dull eyes that suck in light and make the whole room gloomier. “The tea is here.”

Lebed sits up straight as the kitchen door swings open and a white-aproned server delivers a silver teapot along with a three-tiered tray of crackers, black caviar on ice, smoked fish, pickles, and sweet pastries. I begin to regret going for ice cream with Pinch, but then again I did only have time for one mini burger at the Pink Bicycle.

After the server departs, Lebed pours tea into two china cups and passes one over. He appears to take caution that our fingers don’t accidentally touch.

“This is good Russian tea,” he says. “Strong and hearty, like it should be.”

I take a sip, control my shudder at the distinct smoky density of it, and smile. “Nice.”

Lebed shakes his head. “Not nice. Russia does not have such a word. It is khorosho.”

“Khorosho,” I say, attempting to duplicate his intonation.

Lebed smiles for the first time and looks over at his two guards. “Nyeplokho.”

The guards nod ever so slightly in agreement with whatever their boss has just said.

“Would you care for jam in your tea?” Lebed asks.

I shake my head while pretending that isn’t one of the oddest things I’ve ever heard. “Black is fine.”

He smiles again and wags a finger at me. “You may have some Russian in you. A Cold War infidelity, perhaps?”

I don’t know how to answer, so I keep silent.

“Have you ever tried real caviar?” he asks.

“I’m not sure, but I do enjoy Greek taramosalata, which is—”

“Bah,” he snarls. “Peasant food. That is cod roe, not caviar.” He loads a small cracker with a spoonful of black fish eggs, places it on a china plate and slides it over to me. “Place the caviar on your tongue and savor it before swallowing.”

I do as he says. The sturgeon roe is light and salty on my tongue, and as it warms within my mouth, each egg pops open like a champagne bubble. The taste is unusual and exquisite and thanks to the expansion of my palate at the hands of Dmitri, delicious. I scoop the remainder off the cracker with my tongue.

“This is amazing,” I say.

“Pryekrasno! I’m pleased.”

We eat and drink a bit more until I feel comfortable enough to say, “I want to ask you some questions about a missing person.”

Lebed dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin and takes another sip of tea.

“A Russian?” he asks.

“No, but I think he worked for you.”

“I am not missing anyone.”

“This was twenty years ago.”

“A lifetime.”

“Maybe, but I have a feeling you possess a very good memory.”

“Flattery,” he says. “Only a woman can wield such a simple tool.”

“I doubt that,” I say with a smile, struggling to make it appear genuine. “I’m sure you charm the birds out of the trees.”

“A man’s skill. More complex.”

I feel I’ve wandered onto thin ice, but nothing ventured … “His name is Joseph Brown.”

Lebed glances over his left shoulder at the two redheaded twins, who haven’t stopped pointing and clicking on their computers since I entered.

“That name is not familiar to me.”

“Twenty years ago, you went to Joe Brown’s apartment in the middle of the night and recruited him for a job. His family hasn’t seen him since.”

A shadow crosses Lebed’s face to reveal the thug beneath the gentleman’s veneer. “How do you come upon this information?”

“Does it matter? I’m not interested in whatever the job was. I only want to find out what happened to Mr. Brown.”

“Why do you care?”

“So you do remember him?”

“No.”

“Then why do you care why I care?”

Lebed flashes his teeth, but he’s not smiling. “Because you are in my restaurant and I asked you a direct question.”

“His family wants answers,” I say. “So do I.”

“The wife is dead and the daughter is a whore,” he snaps angrily. “The past is the past.”

I shudder and feel my own anger rise. “I’ll take that as an admission then. So what happened to Joe?”

Lebed pushes away from the table and stands up. I notice his hands are clenching into fists and releasing, clenching and releasing. I’m suddenly, frighteningly aware that the only person who knows where I am at this moment is a small-time bookie with no reason to care what happens to me.

Lebed’s voice becomes a hiss. “Do you know why Russian women get so fat?” Before I can answer, he continues. “Because they need to be able to absorb the blows of their husbands’ fists. My mother was very fat, but my wife is fatter still. You are skinny; you would not survive.”

I take this as my cue to stand up, too, and control the quiver in my voice. “I might surprise you.”

“You would not.”

“So I take it you’re not going to help me find Joe Brown?”

“I told you before, I do not know who that is.”

I swallow and look around the room. Neither of the guards has moved.

“Thanks for the caviar,” I say.

Nobody attempts to stop me as I push through the door to the main dining room. It’s still deserted of customers and I hold my breath all the way to the street.