Rasputin's Bastards (41 page)

“Like I was telling you, I went back to the Emissary. It was dark by the time I got back there. Lights were still on in the hotel. Nobody was at the desk when I looked in, but you never know, right? So I took the truck around to the loading dock at the back. Tried to get in through there. Door was locked. So you know . . . I do this and that . . . And I’m inside. Fuckin’ scary place, Mr. B. Like it’s got an echo in it, only the echo’s not in your ears it’s in your fuckin’ head. I can’t explain it. Just take my word. Fuckin’
scary
place. So I make my way through the back, checkin’ things out. And everything’s, like, neat and tidy. But it’s like that movie your kid keeps watchin’:
Marathon Man
, right?
Omega Man
. I don’t fuckin’ know. Somethin’ like that. It’s the one with Charlton Heston, where the whole world’s like normal — but nobody’s there. . . . Well, it makes me feel like I’m Chuck in there, and it’s night, and the place is empty and nothin’s getting’ any better, so what the fuck? I pull out my piece.

“I make my way out through the back office. And there I am in the lobby, standin’ behind the fuckin’ front desk. The place is fuckin’ huge or that’s what it looks like. So I make my way into the lobby itself. Then I went back up to the fifth floor, where that guy Alexei Kilodovich slept.

“Didn’t feel right — just leavin’ that alone. Kilodovich was an important one, right? Right. So I went into his room and sat down on the bed. Closed my fuckin’ eyes and thought — where’d I hide shit. Under the mattress? So I pull up the mattress — start searchin’. Nothin’ there. So I think — if I was Alexei Kilodovich, what would I do?

“Right about then, there’s footsteps in the hall. So I get down behind the bed, hold my gun up — wait for the door to open — which it does. And just for a second, I’m feelin’ like an asshole. Because there I am, waitin’ to shoot this little cleaner, comin’ into the room. She’s got her cart with the laundry bag and a big fuckin’ mop handle stickin’ out. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soakin’ wet. Stupid fuckin’ Leo, right? Jumpin’ at shadows.

“Well I should have done a bit more jumpin’ — because before I can do anything, bitch is on top of me. She’s knocked my fuckin’ piece out of my hand, straddlin’ me like a whore and jammin’ the handle of her mop into my mouth. Make a long story short I manage to get it away from my mouth, but she gives it a little twist or somethin’ and clocks me on the side of the head. Knocks me cold, no shit.

“Must have figured me for dead, ’cause next thing you know, I’m awake — in what I first think is maybe some kind of fuckin’ bathtub. And I’m thinkin’, fuck Leo, what’d I do, fall asleep and have a dream? I don’t think that for long though, because I look over the edge of this bathtub thing, and I see there’s that bitch cleanin’ woman haulin’ a big brown jug off a rack of big brown jugs. And I put it together: this ain’t no bathtub. It’s tiled and shit, and the drain’s pretty big, and it’s got marks on the tile that are all brown and smell like old fuckin’ batteries. And all of a sudden, Mr. B., I got a pretty good idea what happened to that Mr. Kolyokov we were supposed to be lookin’ for. Do I have to fuckin’ spell it out? He got
liquidated
, Mr. B.
Liquidated
. Those jugs were filled with acid — an’ the cleanin’ woman was gonna fuckin’ liquidate me with one of ’em now.

“She hadn’t noticed I was movin’ yet. She turns around with a big fuckin’ jug in her arms, and her eyes — they were dead, Boss. Like startin’ to fog over dead. She was like a fuckin’ zombie.

“So now it’s my turn to get the jump on her, and that’s what I do. I’m up and it’s like,
bam!
Take that you fuckin’ bitch!
Bam!
And she’s like, nothing — kicks me near the nuts but misses, so I’m like —
Bam!
An’ finally, she drops the fuckin’ jug in the bathtub an’ it cracks, an’ I’m like, pushin’ her, and then she’s the one in the bathtub, Mr. B., an’ I’m the one with the acid. Oh yeah. And that’s kinda how that went down. I cleaned up, you know what I mean, and on my way out from the basement, I find a couple of suitcases. They’re filled with, you know, lady shit. But one of the things I find there, is this bus ticket. Fuckin’ Greyhound ticket out of Port Authority, up to Halifax. It’s a special ticket — on this charter, it says. Weird name of the company. Here, I got it here: I’ll read it:
Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga. One Way
, it says. Leaves in a couple hours.

“So that’s how I get here, and how come I’m callin’ you from here. I figure, you know, maybe I go check out this bus shit, see what’s goin’ on. ’Cause I just couldn’t get that woman’s dead fuckin’ eyes out of my head. I’m thinkin’, it’s a mystery. Just go take a look right?

“So I get to the platform — we’re talkin’ just half an hour ago now. And it’s
crowded
— with all kinds of people. People I recognize. That I’m sure I seen when we went to the Emissary this afternoon.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get on that bus, and see where it goes. No one’s name’s on this ticket, you know what I mean? I got a piece if I need it. So I’ll call you again once I’m at Halifax — let you know what the fuck’s goin’ on with the Emissary and all ’at. ’Cause I gotta know, Mr. B.

“First, though, I gotta get a sandwich. I’m starvin’. Hey, does Vinnie still run that stall down here? Makes a mean Pastrami. I’m gonna go check. Seeya.”

A duvet of cloud had spread itself over Manhattan, and as the tape beeped to the new message, thick splatters of rain crossed the Bridal Suite’s window. Gepetto Bucci clicked off the tape machine. He massaged his hands together and looked across the table to Shadak.

“That’s
Omega Man
,” said Shadak.

“What?”

“He’s referring to
The Omega Man
with the ridiculous vampires with ’fros.
The Marathon Man
is the film with the dentist. Charlton Heston is not in that one.”

Bucci squinted at Shadak. “You sure you want to go on with this?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You appear agitated.”

“I am not agitated.”

Bucci shrugged. “Up to you,” he said, and pressed the play button.

“Your kayak is a piece of shit. I take the fuckin’ thing onto the water, and whattaya know? Dip my fuckin’ paddle in the water and the fuckin’ thing turns upside down — and I’m halfway drowned. My kid has to fish me out of the fuckin’ lake. I want you to take this complaint to the top. The
top
. I’ll wait here.

“Okay. Mr. B.? You listening? Good. I am calling you from just past the border in New Brunswick, Canada. I’m at this little diner we pulled into outside a shitheel little town called Edmunston. I’m out back. Using a fuckin’ pay phone — my cell won’t work here. We just ate this fuckin’ great meal. It’s a Canadian thing — french fries and cheese and gravy, all mixed up in like a paste.

“I’m over the fuckin’ border. Got through without any shit from the customs guy — but I tucked my number under the seat anyway, because you never know. I got it out again now. These fuckin’ people, I don’t want to be walkin’ without some protection, you know what I mean?

“Fuck — these people I’m on the bus with. I can’t figure them out. It’s like the fuckin’ Peace Corps with piano wire. They all know each other. Like, from the start. I get onto the bus platform and join the line, and there’s five of ’em, hugging and crying like they were long-lost family. Me, I just get in line. Mind my own business. After a couple minutes, this old lady steps in line. Looks me up and down. So I look back at her, ask her ‘What the fuck you lookin’ at?’ Not like that — she’s an old lady, and I’m not disrespectful. More like: ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

“‘Sergei?’ she says to me. And I’m all, ‘What the fuck?’ And she’s all, ‘Sergei, it is you!’ And then before you know it Grandma is givin’ me a big hug right around the middle. ‘I haven’t seen you since you were this high. Don’t you remember? We were together a year in Berlin! You were just a little boy and I was a young girl.’

“I gotta be honest with you, Mr. B., I almost blew it right there. I mean, what am I supposed to think? Some old whore who sleeps with little boys in Berlin gets me mixed up with some other guy she diddled while he was in short pants? Fuckin’ pervert, I’m thinking. But before I say anything, I start thinking some more. That maybe I have a better chance lasting it out with these freaks if Grandma Walton here thinks I’m her little boy toy Sergei, than if they work out I’m Leo Montassini. I’m thinking, one of them already tried to waste me knowing who I was. Maybe being Sergei from Berlin isn’t such a bad idea. So I say, ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Mrs. . . .’

“‘Kronstein,’ she says. ‘That’s what I call myself these days. It used to be Olga. That’s how you remember me. But when we went into deep cover, I became Mrs. Kronstein. I know that I’m Olga Vilanova. But Kronstein’s the name I’m most comfortable with.’

“
What the fuck?
is what I’m thinking. What’s this shit about deep cover? And she’s looking all . . . intense. Common sense says I should just get the fuck out of there. But curiosity killed the cat, right? I just let her talk.

“Well it turns out that Mrs. Kronstein used to work in publishing. Oh fuck, Mr. B., she knows everybody to hear her tell it. Stephen Fucking King babysits for her when she and the husband go out for brunch. John Irving’s her tennis partner. She got to know everybody. She says she was part of some ‘cultural operation.’ She says she and some others were there to feed the decadence of the West. All the time she’s telling me this, she’s giggling.

“And then, I can’t take it no more. ‘You’re a spy, is what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘For the Russians.’

“Well that just sets her off. A couple of other people, this bald guy in a leather jacket and his girl, say, ‘What’s so funny?’ And Mrs. Kronstein wipes her eyes.

“‘I’m a spy!’ she goes, still laughing. ‘Sergei here thinks I’m a spy!’

“They all get a really good laugh at that. Big fuckin’ joke as Sergei’s expense. Fine. I laugh too. I mean, if I’m going to find out what the fuck’s going on here, I can’t go doing the first guy who pissed me off. And I’m thinking, we found ourselves a whole new arm of the Russians here. Bunch of crazy ex-fuckin’-KGB agents, right? Smart enough to hide a fuckin’ eighteen floor hotel in Manhattan. Maybe I should have run then. Just gotten the fuck out of there. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. B. — you stick your head into that fuckin’ UFO on the 14th floor of the Emissary, catch a whiff of that weird — fuckin’
alien
sea. Hear the voice. The voice . . .

“See if you can give up the scent after that.

“So the bus comes. It’s a Greyhound. Got Halifax written on the sign. Door opens up, driver steps down. Creepy fucking guy. Thin as a rail. Looks about a hundred. Name’s Orlovsky. Found that out later. Looks me in the eye, takes my ticket — and there I am. On the bus. I went to sit by Mrs. Kronstein, but she picked a seat by this other old bat. Doesn’t even meet my eye when I say hey. Fuck that, I take a seat at the back by the can. Everybody else sits further up near the front, so I got a few seats between me and the rest. Suits me fine. I got my piece. They should leave me in peace. Heh heh.

“So we get going. Takes a while to get out of the city — you know how it is. And before we’re out of the Lincoln Tunnel, the bald guy’s got a blaster with some tapes. Starts playing this Russian singer, some guy with a deep voice. He’s singing about some broad called Natascha. In Russian. And fuck if everybody doesn’t join in. Laughing and singing along like they grew up on this shit. Orlovsky the driver yells for them to shut up but they don’t hardly hear him. They’re singing too loud. And pretty good, too. All in tune. Like they been practising — which of course is impossible, right? Finally, we get to the toll gate. And the driver stops the bus and gets up. Turns around like fuckin’ Count Dracula, and fixes his eyes on the sleepers.

“‘Manka!’ he says. “‘Vasilissa! Baba Yaga!’ And they all stop singing.

“‘The song,’ he says, ‘that kind of thing, is one of the things that will put you all back to sleep. You cannot go to sleep again. We are paying a toll. We will be crossing the border in a few hours. Now is not the time to retreat to your Safe Place.’

“Whatever, I think. And then — that’s when I learn Orlovsky’s name. Because he fixes me with this look — and squints — and comes back, hand over hand over the seat backs like some fuckin’ spider. And stands over me.

“‘I am Pavel Orlovsky,’ he says. ‘Who are you, who does not sing?’

“‘Sergei,’ I tell him. ‘I’m Sergei.’

“‘Well, Sergei,’ he says, ‘you are a strong one, then.’

“He might have said something else, but traffic was moving and the cars behind us started honking. So Pavel Orlovsky the bus driver turned around and went back to take us through the toll. Tell you what, I kept to myself after that. Hardly slept through the night or rest of the day. Kept my fuckin’ hand on my gun.

“So here I am, outside Edmunston, New Brunswick. We’re gonna drive through the night and then some to Halifax. But I hear there’s a couple stops along the way. I’ll try and call you with more then. Maybe I’ll see if I can talk to Mrs. Kronstein more — find out about where we’re going. What’s with the ocean in the tank. The fucking ghosts in the hotel.

“Okay. That’s all for now. Gotta run. I’ll call.”

“What does he mean,” said Shadak, “about the ocean in the tank? That’s the second time he’s mentioned that.”

Bucci shrugged. “Tank’s filled up halfway with salt water. Maybe it reminded him. How should I know?”

“He doesn’t seem right in the head.”

“Tell me about it. Listen to this next one.”

“What the fuck is Pel-flex anyway? Feels like fuckin’ nylon, what it feels like. I bought a fuckin’ Pel-flex jacket, and my fuckin’ loser nephew turns the garden hose on me, and I’m fuckin’ soaked to the skin, everybody’s laughing like I’m some kind of joke. Lemme tell you somethin’. Pel-flex is the fuckin’ joke. Why don’t you call it Kleenex? Extra-fuckin’ absorbent? In fact, that’s what I’m gonna call it. I wipe my ass with your Pel-flex. Send this to the top.
Top
. I’m fuckin’ pissed.