Tender Death (12 page)

I
DA WAS WAVING
at her. “Go avay ... go avay ... you make trouble ...”

“Poor thing,” someone said.

Wetzon opened her eyes and saw floating blue and yellow spots. She blinked. Her throat ... she had a terrible lump in her throat she couldn’t seem to swallow away.

“Poor zing.” The woman in blue taffeta rustled, bending over her, fanning her with the large blue hat. “You must have faint.”

Wetzon was lying on her back on the floor in the dark, narrow hallway to the bathrooms. “No ... no ... where is he? Did you see him?” Her voice came out in a croak.

“See who, dollink?” The woman rearranged her spectacular hat on her heat and stabbed it in place with a long pointy hatpin. “Vas no vun here but you on floor.” She smelled of face powder and Poison.

Wetzon pulled herself upright. God, her throat was raw. The floor was filthy. She brushed cigarette butts off her hands and clothes. Ugh.

“Okay?” the woman asked. “You vant I should bring someone to help?”

“No.” Wetzon stood up uneasily. Her backpack was at her feet. This wasn’t a robbery. “I’ll just go ...” She pointed to the ladies’ room. She shook herself. Her shoulders were tender where he’d gripped her. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone?”

“No vun, belief me.” The woman shrugged her fleshy shoulders. She was lying and she knew Wetzon knew it. Her bosom billowed. “I tink, dollink, you vear too much clotink. Body must breathe. No air ... faint.” She smoothed her puffy dress on her broad hips. “You okay now. I see that.”

A man, cigarette stuck in one corner of his mouth and a bottle of vodka in his hand, turned into the short dark hallway, and the woman in blue taffeta brushed by him quickly. He made a leering remark in Russian that sounded suggestive to Wetzon’s ear, and the woman cackled.

Wetzon picked up her backpack by the strap and went into the ladies’ room. She saw with relief as she slammed the door that the man in the hallway was clean shaven.

Her face in the mirror was pale and her eye shadow was smeared gray on her right cheek. Her throat felt awful. Gingerly, she rolled down the high neck of her sweater. Her neck was bruised red. She knew she was in over her depth now, but it was too late to wish she had never come here. Hazel was right. She should have left it to the police.

The woman in blue had lied. Was she part of a mugging team with the man who had attacked her? Or did she just not want to get involved? Maybe the woman had recognized him ... Oh hell. Her swallow was pain-filled, forcing tears to her eyes. She wet her face lightly and dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex, wiping away the smeared gray shadow. She redid her makeup as well as she could, thinking only about how long it would take them to get home.

When she came out into the restaurant, the dancers were stamping their feet and clapping. A balalaika had joined the other instruments and someone in a white tuxedo was sitting at the silver grand piano. Around the floor were a multitude of bearded men, short beards, long beards, curly beards, red beards, brown, black. It was bizarre. She had not seen the man’s face, so she would never be able to identify him.

“Miss ... miss ... vait!” It was the waiter who had stared at her. Instinctively, she shied away from him. He caught her by the arm. “No, vait ... please.” She wanted to scream, but there were so many people around her, she felt foolish being frightened. “You maybe help my brother,” he said in a menacing tone.

“What?” She tried to back away.

“He stockbroker.”

Wetzon stared at him. He didn’t look menacing at all. She stopped a nervous laugh. My God, Wetzon, you’re getting as batty as they are. “I’m sorry. What firm is your brother with?” She felt the pain in her throat as she spoke.

“Hoffman, Parker.” It was a penny stock firm of poor repute. “No so good place. Maybe you help him?”

“I’ll try.” She fished in her backpack for her card case and gave him her card. “Tell him to call me.”

“Tank you, tank you.” He put her card in his pocket and started away.

“Wait”—Wetzon touched his sleeve—“His name?”

“Roman Grodsky.”

Smith would laugh, Wetzon thought. She wished she could see and talk to Smith right now. Wherever Wetzon went she always seemed to meet a stockbroker. It was a standing joke with them that if Wetzon were shipwrecked on a desert island, a stockbroker would come out of the jungle and ask her to place him. For godsakes, Wetzon, someone just tried to kill you and a minute later you are politely handing out your business card.

The smoke in the noisy room was stupefying. She could just barely swallow. She wanted to scream,
Someone tried to kill me
, but she was a stranger in a foreign land.

As she made her way back to the table, she saw Teddy was hunched over, talking to Misha. Ilena stood several feet away, shouting and waving a white silk chiffon scarf, directing her waiters. She turned to Teddy and Misha once and said something, shaking her head emphatically. Misha was gesticulating angrily, the ubiquitous cigarette that every Russian seemed to smoke attached to his fingers.

Wetzon slipped onto the banquette next to Teddy and he patted her knee, acknowledging but not looking at her. He was engrossed in his conversation with Misha. She could not hear what they were saying. The din was deafening. But she didn’t care about anything right now except her throat. Teddy seemed to be pleading with Misha. “ ... protect my sources,” she heard him say at one point.

Misha shook his head, smacked Teddy extra heartily on the back, and stood to look at something in the middle of the restaurant, a traffic problem of some sort that was making Ilena scream with frustration. Ilena stamped her foot. The music and dancing continued at a frenzied pace. Three men were
kazatska-
ing with more enthusiasm than technique while waiters continued to move precisely with trays of grotesquely heaped platters of food. On the periphery a quartet of people were fighting to get their coats. A brass coatrack toppled over, but it held so many coats, and the music was so loud, it made no sound. Misha, frowning, flung himself into the crush to take charge of the dispute.

Wetzon shivered. The room felt cold. The ceiling lights traveled around and around overhead. The music suddenly sounded hollow. Diners were demanding their checks. “What—”

Teddy turned away from the strange scene on the floor of the restaurant and stared at her. “What’s with your voice?”

“Someone tried—”

“What?”

She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. She rolled down the high turtleneck of her sweater. Teddy’s head snapped back. “Holy shit! How did that happen? Don’t talk. Shit! Let’s get out of here.” He touched her shoulder and she jumped.

“Jeeze, I’m sorry, Wetzi. Should have been paying attention. You were gone a long time—”

“What did you get out of Misha and Ilena? Do they know Ida?” She pitched her voice from the top of her throat.

“They say no, but they know everybody.”

“So what were you and Misha arguing about?”

He was evasive. “I asked him if he knew anything about that stockbroker and a scam.”

“Shit, Teddy.” She was upset. “That’s all confidential stuff—” The music grew thinner and thinner. Only the accordionist was still playing. Everyone was leaving the restaurant.

Wetzon looked questioningly at Teddy. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get Misha and find our coats. I want to know what’s going on—”

They walked out to the middle of the now empty dance floor. Misha was arguing heatedly in Russian with the accordionist, who was swigging vodka from a bottle next to his chair and packing up his instrument. When Misha threw his hands up in exasperation, Teddy moved in on him, pulling Wetzon along. The accordionist picked up his bottle and the accordion case and left.

Only the waiters, Ilena, and a few stragglers still remained. A drunk lay with his head on one of the small tables, a long arm dangling on the floor, out cold. The kitchen staff were grouped around the swinging doors, whispering among themselves. Finally, a spokesman was designated. A tall man in a chef’s hat and a dirty apron stepped forward, his cavernous face and red-rimmed eyes gave him a look of dissipation. He spoke to Ilena, who immediately began shouting and waving her arms. Misha looked helpless. Volumes of uneaten food were left on the tables.

“What’s going on here, Misha?” Teddy said, taking Misha’s arm.

Misha shrugged elaborately. “Zere vas accident. People get nerwous.”

“An accident? Here?”

“Not here. Down za street. Who knows? You leave now, Tuvya.”

What kind of accident would clear out a whole restaurant, Wetzon wondered.

Misha smiled a cynical smile as if he knew what she was thinking and went for their coats. Ilena was still arguing with the kitchen staff. Wetzon’s eyes teared. She was sorry now she hadn’t taken another sip of vodka before they left the table. It might have made her throat feel better.

Misha came back and silently handed over their coats.

“Come on. I’m getting you out of here,” Teddy said, looking at her with concern. He helped her on with her coat and shook hands with Misha. Misha near-kissed Wetzon’s hand again with great ceremony. She pointed across the floor to Ilena and nodded at Misha.

“I tell her bye-bye, Vetski. Vee see again, soon, no, Tuvya?” He stood on tiptoe to kiss Teddy on each cheek.

On the street the frigid wind stung her face. Down the wide avenue in the direction of Tsminsky’s was a tremendous crowd of people and rolling lights in whites and ambers from police cars and emergency vans. A lot of lights and a lot of cars. Perhaps the whole clientele of the Cafe Baltic and Restaurant Odessa in glitzy array now milled on the sidewalk there. In the background was the steady crash of rough surf on the beach just beyond the boardwalk, and sweeping around them, the damp, salty, purifying blast of the ocean.

Teddy looked torn. “Listen, Wetzi, if I were any kind of friend I would get you the hell out of here, but I’m a repor—”

She put her hand on his arm. Nodding, she pointed toward the crowd and the lights. She was just as inquisitive as he was. What did another fifteen minutes matter now?

“Wait here a minute. I have an idea.” Teddy went back into the Baltic and returned quickly with a bottle of cognac. He pulled the cover off and took a swig, skimmed the mouth of the bottle with the palm of his hand, and handed it to her. “Sip,” he ordered, scanning the crowd, beginning to edge away from her. “Just wet the inside of your mouth and let a little dribble down the back of your throat, if you can. It’s great anesthetic.”

She did as he suggested and felt immediate warmth and then fire. Her eyes burned, her throat mercifully began to numb. She handed the bottle back to him. He recorked it and dropped it into a deep pocket inside his coat.

“Come on.” He kept his hand in the center of her back, pushing her firmly closer to the milling throng of people. A siren sounded; a police car pulled away from the curb.

“What happened?” he asked a bulky man with a large mustache, wearing a cap with earflaps. The man looked at him suspiciously. “Was there an accident?”

“A shooting, zere vas,” a woman next to the man said. “Vas a—”

The man muttered something harsh to the woman and she stopped talking. They moved away from Teddy and Wetzon.

Teddy looked around in the garish light. A CBS truck pulled up on the other side of Brighton Beach Avenue and stopped with a screech of tires. A Channel 8 van followed almost immediately.

“Hot shit,” Teddy said, jumping up and down with excitement, running to the van, leaving Wetzon. The pain in her throat was coming back with a vengeance. What was she doing here anyway? Peepsie Cunningham’s Fifth Avenue apartment and Hazel seemed so far away. This was another country. She wandered after Teddy.

“Hey, Ted. How’d you get here so fast?” A lantern-jawed woman scrambled out of the van. She didn’t seem happy to see him.

“Ear to the ground, Gretchen.”

Gretchen glowered, came around to the back of the van, opened the doors, and pulled out a hand-held camera. “Christ, what a cold mother it is out here,” she said. She was built like a bantamweight fighter.

“Let me help you,” Teddy said, reaching for the camera.

“This is my story, Lanzman,” Gretchen said, putting her face in his, “so don’t try to muscle in like you always do.” She had a mean, tough look on her face.

“I was here first.” Teddy gave her back mean.

“Don’t mess with me, Lanzman. I have a long memory.” She thrust the camera at him. “You can hold the camera while I cover the story.” When he didn’t take it, she dropped it.

“Fuck you, Gretchen.” Teddy grabbed the camera before it hit the ground. His voice was conversational, but there was a fury underneath.

Gretchen locked the back of the van. “Well, let’s have it, yes or no? I don’t have time for this crap.” Her eyes skimmed over Wetzon, who stood behind them, watching.

Teddy shrugged and hoisted the camera on his shoulder. “What went down here?”

“Couple of Russian immigrants offed in their store.” Gretchen took out a notepad and pen and began to elbow her way through the crowd.