Skin Trade (31 page)

We slowed to a walk. I looked at my watch.

Joe said, “You have an appointment?”

“I have a plane.”

“You want to get back to Lily, I know that.”

“Yes.”

“Take her home, Artie. She belongs at home. If there's anything you need, you know …”

“Thanks.”

After about a mile, Joe turned and we started back.

“Did you ever come across a guy named Levesque, Joe?” I asked, not wanting to talk about Lily.

“I don't think so. Who was he?”

“A case I was working. He's dead.”

“Tell me some more. Maybe I can help.” He laughed. “Mr Joe Fixit.”

“He was killed in a plane crash.”

“You making any progress?”

“Someone tried to forge a check on his account.”

“What sorry son-of-a-bitch would forge a dead man's check?”

“It's weird because I couldn't get much on him except a woman in Paris he knew.”

“Who's that?”

“A woman named Martha Burnham.”

“What else?”

“I don't know. Keyes dumped me.”

“And this Burnham?”

I said, “She thought Levesque was next door to God.”

He grunted. “Different strokes, man. I am sorry about the case, but there's other firms than Keyes you could work for. Better.”

“Gourad's dead.”

“Who?”

“The French cop on Lily's case.”

“You think all this shit's related, your case, Lily's?”

I got a cigarette out of my pocket. “He was executed. Gourad.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“What else?”

“I don't know any more,” I said.

We were back at the amusement park. In the snow, a tourist stood snapping pictures of the big wheel. Two hookers looked up hopefully. Joe Fallon didn't notice them.

“It's none of my business,” he said, “but I know you're hurting bad and I understand. Lily's in trouble. I've been there. I was in that place when Dede was dying. I went nuts, all I did was bawl, I wanted to sue everyone or kill them. It will get better.”

“Thanks.”

“I know good people. If you want.”

“I hear you.”

He loosened his scarf and said, “The only thing that
makes me feel better is if I keep moving. Something wrong with my knees. I had the surgery, but it's shitty. If I don't keep moving, I feel like it's going to stiffen up for good. You want to do another loop with me? Another couple miles?”

“I'll grab a taxi.”

Joe put out his hand and we shook, then he gave me a bear hug.

“You OK for dough? I didn't want to ask, and you can tell me to go fuck myself if that's inappropriate. Oh shit, I'm making a mess of this.”

“No. I'm OK. Thanks. Really.”

“I'll be in touch,” he said. “We'll catch up in New York.”

“Sure.”

“So long, Artie.”

I had half an hour left so I went to the wheel and paid for a ride. The place was almost empty. The guy who sold the tickets offered me the deluxe cabin, same price. I climbed in.

It had mahogany paneling, a table in the middle and lace curtains. I stood by the window. The cabin rose slowly. I thought about New Year's Eve and the wheel over London. I had tried to distract Lily by talking about
The Third Man,
her favorite movie. Nothing helped. Now I tried to remember the scene in the wheel here, but I couldn't call up the dialogue.

Down below I could see the frozen ground, the tourist taking pictures, the hookers. Vienna was spread out around me. Light snow was falling. Zhaba was dead.
I was going home. In the distance, I thought I saw Joe Fallon jog away into the park with the bare trees. He grew smaller and smaller and then he disappeared.

The church in Paris was full for Momo's funeral. It was two days after I got back from Vienna. I saw Monique, the wife who made the cheese soufflés, and the kids, and after a while it got to me. I went outside and tried to breathe the icy air.

Katya Slobodkin, in her fur coat and hiking boots, the blue cap on, came up beside me and put her hand through my arm, then slipped an envelope into my pocket and kissed my cheek. I asked if she wanted to go into the church with me, but she shook her head and walked slowly away.

Inside the envelope was one of Martha Burnham's crumpled snapshots, her name on the back. Seeing the picture, I knew it was Martha who had forged Eric Levesque's check, Martha who wanted to stir things up over Levesque because she found out about the prostitutes or she was bitter because he didn't love her or both. Probably both. But she couldn't give me the picture. I think she had planned to give it to me the night I went to her apartment, but she couldn't betray him that way.

In the cold Paris morning, I looked at the picture and everything seemed clear. It was Levesque Lily had gone to meet at the Ritz the night she was attacked. Levesque who set her up and sent her to the apartment where Zhaba was waiting. Everything was completely clear. I played back the last two weeks: the London Eye on New Year's Eve; Paris; the borders; Vienna.

Zhaba was the enforcer, a thug who did the dirty work. The ugly little Balkan wars were good for guys like Zhaba. It gave them some kind of purpose and freed up their gangs to score. But he was just a pimp. Levesque owned him. I shivered from the cold and also because, the picture in my hand, I knew who Eric Levesque was.

New York
January 21

As soon as I called him on the day Momo was killed in Vienna, Tolya got Lily out of Paris and took her home. “Too many dead people,” he said into the phone. “Let me take her home now.” I let him. I wanted to go with them, but he said it was safer if I came separately. And for Beth. In case anything happened, she'd have one of us. I also wanted to be at Momo's funeral, so I waited. Tolya got Lily on a private plane, took a nurse and doctor and went with them.

After I got back to New York from Paris I sat with her most of the day and slept in her room at night. From her hospital room I could see the East River, the buildings, the city. New York. We were home.

“Are you Artie?” Lily looked up at me and tried smiling.

My heart lurched. “Yes, it's me.”

Sometimes she sank into a deep, soft fog, sometimes she lay in bed and looked up at the television suspended over the bed. She watched
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
and one night, when a contestant won the million, she got all
the answers right. She lit up. It made her feel smart again. “I won a million bucks,” she said. “I won a million.”

Other times, she was enraged because she forgot where she was. The rage swelled up in her, she was bloated with it. She remembered, then she stopped remembering.

“Not too much talk today,” the doctor said, coming into the room.

I looked down at her still-bruised face and held out a bunch of purple anemones, which she loves. I leaned over her and said, “Do you remember anything about Paris?”

“Paris?”

“You went to the Ritz for a drink after you met Martha Burnham. Do you remember?”

“I think so.”

“Who did you meet at the Ritz?”

She closed her eyes and Tolya put his hand on my arm. “Stop it now.”

“Was it a man, Lily? Was it?”

“I think so.” She opened her eyes briefly and said, “Who are you?”

I met Lily's doctor outside her room. White coat, Birkenstocks, sympathetic face, tired eyes, he listened while I pinned him to the wall. I was desperate. I told him about the old French doctor, Bernard Alpert, and his theories of confrontation. He listened carefully and I was surprised when he said, “I've seen this work.” He hesitated. “Are you ready to tell her what happened? You're completely sure?”

“Isn't it too late? Alpert said a week.”

“That's a little extreme, it's why people think he's cracked. I mean, why a week? Why not two, or three? If you want to do this thing, we'll try. Make sure you have it right, though, OK?”

“Give me another day.”

Emerging from Lily's room, Tolya leaned against the wall and took out his cigarettes, glancing up and down the corridor. On the wall was a no-smoking sign. He lit up a cigarette.

“You're not mad at me anymore?” Tolya's face was stiff with fatigue.

“You were there for Lily. Thank you.”

“Go home, get some rest, stay quiet for a few days.”

“I'll stay here.”

“No.”

“What? Why?”

“In case they know you're back in New York.”

“Who?”

“Whoever hurt Lily and killed the others, they know where you've been and what you've been doing over there in Bosnia. I heard something this morning, maybe something, maybe nothing.”

“He's dead.”

“Not him. The people he worked for.”

“How do you know?”

“Come on, Artyom. You want me to spell out how I get information? We'll just start yelling at each other again. We both know everything starts and ends in New York, this is where they pull the strings, where the power is, the money. Trust me this time.”

“I trust you.”

“Then stay away from Lily.”

“How long?”

“For a couple of days,” Tolya said. “Until I'm sure they're not coming here looking for you. Or her.”

“Will you stay with her tonight?”

“As long as you need me.” He kissed me Russian style, three times.

I said, “Thanks. Thank you.”

From the cab going home, I called Sonny Lippert and I was glad to hear the son-of-a-bitch on the other end. It was a cold, hard, bright day. Along the river, everything looked clean, the buildings in relief against a frozen sky.

The cabbie, whose name on the grubby license in the plastic partition read “Sunil”, said, “You look like happy man,” and I said, “Yeah. Happy to be home.”

Home.

I'd only been by my place to dump my stuff and pick up clean clothes after I came home; the rest of the time I stayed with Lily. There was a stack of bills on the desk, striped tulips in a jar, a note from Lois and Louise, my neighbors: Welcome Home. I glanced at the mail, the bills, the invites to parties that were long over. I put one invitation next to my keys on the kitchen counter. I'd noticed it when I first got home.

In spite of the cold, I shoved the window open, stuck my head out and saw Mike Rizzi inside his coffee shop across the street, shutting up for the day. Mike leaned over the counter, wiping it down with a cloth. On the street people scurried to the subway. Opposite my
window, in the sweatshop, the Chinese girls sewed wedding veils like they always do. The dog upstairs whined. The kids from next door had the bass up on some rap shit. I love the way my building has its own soundtrack.

I put Ella Fitzgerald on loud so I could hear it in the bathroom. Up to my neck in hot water, I let the heat soak into my bones. My shoulder was still hurting.

From Paris, before Momo's funeral, I had filed a report with Keyes. I told them it was Martha Burnham who forged Levesque's check. Unrequited love, I said, and left it at that. No one asked who had checked into the Vienna hotel under the name Levesque after Burnham was already dead. No one asked because no one even knew except Momo and me and maybe Martha Burnham.

It was a simple case of bad love, Keyes agreed; their client was satisfied, so was the bank. Stuart Larkin, I heard, went back to work.

If the customer was happy, everyone was happy. Eventually, in a couple of years, if no one claimed the Levesque money, no relative, no heir, the bank would turn the whole thing over to the government.

Lying in the bathtub, listening to the sounds in the building and the music, I waited for Sonny to call me with the information. Central Europe seemed far away, a dark, borderless place.

I dried off, climbed into jeans and an old sweatshirt, found a stale pack of smokes in the desk drawer. Sonny knew the guys in DC with the access, he'd get me what I needed. Where was he? I listened for the phone.

On my desk I laid out the pictures: Lily, Zhaba, Levesque. It startled me when a little tower of snow toppled onto my fire escape outside the window, but it was only one of the kids upstairs playing.

The answering machine cranked out the messages: the dentist about a check-up; Visa about late payments; Johnny Farone who is married to my cousin Genia in Brighton Beach to say they were expecting a kid, Happy New Year, come and see us. There was an old message from a real-estate agent asking if my loft was available for sale. Another from a woman I know who writes crime novels and who, if I wasn't already attached, I could be interested in. Sometimes I meet her over at Jerry's for martinis and fried calamari and talk to her about cop stuff. I went away, I came back, there were messages. I'd been in a different universe, but here life kept running on normal.

In the fridge I found a beer and waited, restless now, for Sonny's call. He called at nine.

“It's Lippert, man. I'm coming up on the last shuttle out of DC. I'm at the airport. I got what you wanted. You'll need back-up, so I'll meet you, OK Art? I'll be there. Sit tight. I'll have the information you need. You know what they say, man: Don't leave home without me.”

We fell out plenty, me and Sonny, and there are times I don't trust his ambition, which is rapacious, but I know who he is. He would be there.

Someone was buzzing downstairs and I picked up the intercom. “What?”

“Artie? It's me, Mike.”

“Hey, Mike. Come on up.”

“For a second, OK? I got something for you.”

I buzzed him in and shut off the answering machine. A few minutes later Mike appeared in my door holding a pie plate covered with a yellow checkered dishcloth. He came in, put it on the kitchen counter, shook my hand, hugged me. “Hey, how's Lily? How is she?”

“You heard?”

“I heard. Jesus, Artie. I heard.” “She's going to make it.”