The Boy Who Stole From the Dead (28 page)

“And why do you think he chose that name?”

“Because his mother gave it to him?”

“I sincerely doubt it. Even if she did he could have changed it.”

“Then why did he choose it?”

“So the word ‘boss’ rolls off your tongue and you buy more of his suits.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You keep saying it, next thing you know people will believe it. Only two things can happen to a boss. He can be fired or he can be assassinated.”

“That’s a bit extreme, Victor. Isn’t it?”

“No one ever plotted to kill the peasant.”

“What about Stalin?”

Victor tried to find flaw in the remark. “Have I told you I don’t like to be in the car with anyone smarter than me?”

“Besides, I don’t think there’s a designer named Hugo Peasant.”

Victor grunted. “Insolent child.” He could see the Gun smiling in the rear view mirror. He turned back to the Ammunition. “I can see the modest improvements in your chess game are going to your head. I’m going to have to start trying now.”

The twins laughed, hurled polite insults, and challenged him to matches as soon as they took care of business. They were good kids, Victor thought. Supremely talented with the computer, physically capable, and more clever than he originally thought. He hoped circumstances didn’t arise where they both had to meet a boss’s inevitable fate.

They drove to the Bronx to pick up the part-time security guard, part-time actor. When they exited off the highway onto a street called Fordham Road, the name struck a chord. Victor noticed the campus of buildings. He realized how he knew the name. It was the boy. Adam Tesla. He went to a private school called Fordham. In the Bronx, no less. Victor saw the sign for Fordham University. The boy’s prep school had to be nearby. Then he thought of his grandson, and wondered if Tara’s boy would turn out to be a good student. Remembering his grandson made him think of Adam as a human being. For the first time ever Victor actually felt bad for the boy. He was not used to sentiment and the sensation unnerved him. Yet at the same time, it energized him. Yes, he wanted the locket, but murder? Someone was framing the boy. A good Ukrainian boy. That was just plain wrong.

They picked up the actor in front of a small, red-brick house on a street filled with similar homes. All the buildings looked the same in the Bronx. Like the former Soviet Union only the houses were pretty. The Ammunition stepped out of the car and left the rear door open. The actor was in his fifties. Beer, steak, and potato chips, Victor thought. He watched and listened as the Ammunition smiled and stuck out his hand.

“Peter Slava,” the Ammunition said. “CEO, Carpathian Film Productions.”

The actor said his name but a passing bus drowned it out. He made a big sweep with his right hand and then drove it into the Ammunition’s. “Good to meet you, Pete.”

They shook hands and got in the car. The Ammunition sat next to his brother. The actor climbed in the back beside Victor. His head grazed the car’s ceiling and his body filled the seat.

The Ammunition turned. He glanced at the actor and opened his palm toward Victor. “I’d like you to meet the legendary Ukrainian film director, Andriy Shevchenko.”

Shevchenko was the best Ukrainian soccer player in the world. The twins idolized him because he’d married a Milanese model and was best friends with Giorgio Armani. They’d begged Victor to use the name. Given Americans didn’t know anything about soccer, and the actor didn’t know the name ahead of time, he didn’t see the harm.

Victor flashed his decaying yellow teeth, thinking they’d add gravitas to his vintage tweed suit. He stuck his hand out and nodded as though he didn’t speak English.

The actor’s eyes shone with desperation. He wanted the supposed role so badly, Victor thought. He had to hand it to the twins. They’d understood the man’s ambition from his website. The twins had been able to become intimate with the man without meeting him.

The actor shook his hand. “It’s a privilege, sir. A real privilege.”

Victor spoke to the Ammunition in Ukrainian. He vowed to beat him in four moves this afternoon. Not five. Four.

The Ammunition kept a straight face. Nodded with understanding. “The director says you look familiar. He would like to know if maybe you met at Cannes last year? He was there with his old friend, Terrence Malick.”

The actor’s eyes widened, then he lowered his head and chuckled. “No. Only in my dreams. He must have mistook me for someone else. Please tell him I appreciate the audition. And for picking me up like this.”

The Ammunition told Victor the actor was bigger than he appeared on the website. He reminded Victor he’d been a cop for a few years and that they’d have to be careful. Victor agreed, and randomly mentioned
Law and Order SVU
and
Blue Bloods
in English during their brief discussion.

The Ammunition turned back to the actor. “The Director says to tell you he’s seen your work on
Law and Order SVU
and
Blue Bloods
. Even though you only had a few lines of dialogue, he says you had presence. He has discovered several Ukrainian film stars in the prime of their careers this way. And no problem on the ride. He likes to get to know the stars of his films in a casual way. Like this. Off the set, you know?”

The Ammunition had called the actor two hours ago and e-mailed him pages from a make-believe script. Given him no time to check on anyone’s background, not that it would have mattered. There was nothing on the computer about the Ukrainian film industry. The only thing he’d done to whet the actor’s appetite was to plant a fictitious newspaper article online about Carpathian Film Productions’s plans to produce a Ukrainian-American gangster film. The article mentioned co-producing partner Peter Slava had arrived in New York last week to begin casting. The Ukrainian actress Mila Kunis was rumored to be auditioning for the role of the loving daughter.

They drove to the Ukrainian butcher’s shop on Second Avenue in the East Village.

When they got out of the car, the actor saw the store, smiled, and nodded.

“The director prefers to audition on the real set,” the Ammunition said. “It leaves nothing to chance.”

“Authenticity,” the actor said. “I love it.”

A butcher in a blood-stained apron came out and unlocked a pair of steel doors in the sidewalk. He opened them to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the basement. Victor led the way. The actor followed. After the twins descended, they guided the actor to the meat locker. Victor waited to make sure the butcher locked them in before joining the others.

Slabs of beef hung from hooks. Kielbasa dangled from the ceiling. The chill cleared Victor’s sinuses. Puffs of steam formed at mouths and noses. The biggest one hovered near the actor. Of course it did, Victor thought. He was the most nervous.

A chair occupied a vacant space front and center. It was a special chair Victor had designed to his personal specifications twenty-five years ago. It was an exact replica of the one he’d experienced in the forced labor camp in Siberia, the
gulag
, whenever some of the grain in the kitchen went missing.

“The director will begin the audition immediately,” the Ammunition said. “Time is of the essence. He has an appointment in an hour with the Ukrainian-American actress Vera Farmiga. She’s reading for the part of the psychotic daughter.”

The actor closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. “Ready,” he said.

“We will save the script for later,” the Ammunition said. He snatched the sheet of paper from the surprised actor’s hands. “The director likes to start with a little improvisation.”

“Improv?”

“Yes. There’s no substitute for it. Instead of the part of the mobster interrogating the liar, you will play the liar. The director calls it role reversal.”

The actor blinked as though trying to catch up. “I get it. To help me associate myself with the other side.” He smiled. “So I can understand the liar’s mentality.”

“Exactly. It’s important you understand what it means to be a liar.”

“I get it. I can do that.”

The Ammunition motioned toward the chair with an open palm. “To sit here, please,” he said.

The actor sat down. Fidgeted until he was comfortable. Rotated his neck in a circle to loosen up. “Bring it on,” he said.

The Gun approached the chair from the left.

“To make the scene authentic,” the Ammunition said, “the director prefers to use the same props he uses during the shoot.”

“What props?” the actor said.

“Please put your hands on the armrests and your feet against the legs.”

The actor appeared confused but obeyed. Of course he obeyed. A man who dreamed of seeing his name in lights would do anything.

The Gun slammed the left armrest. A steel cuff sprang from beneath. It wrapped around the actor’s wrist and secured it to the chair. The Gun kicked the chair’s leg. A leg iron snapped around his ankle. The Ammunition did the same on the right side.

Shock flashed in the actor’s eyes.

The Ammunition touched his shoulder. “Not too tight, are they? We can loosen them if you want.”

The actor started to answer.

“Action,” Victor said in Ukrainian.

The Ammunition repeated the word in English.

The actor closed his mouth.

The Ammunition circled to the back of the chair. Leaned into the actor’s ear. “Did you really think you would get away with it?”

The actor frowned. “Get away with what?”

“The murder.”

“What murder?”

“The murder of the businessman.”

Confusion washed over the actor’s face. He wasn’t half bad, Victor thought.

“What businessman?” the actor said.

Victor stepped forward. “The British businessman,” he said. “The man who went by the name of Jonathan Valentine.”

“You speak English—” The actor grimaced. “Damn. Sorry. I didn’t know you spoke English. That caught me off guard. Can we take it from the top?”

“No need to,” Victor said. “We can pick up where we left off.”

The actor nodded. “Where was that again?”

“The British businessman in the Meatpacking District,” Victor said. “Jonathan Valentine. Why did you kill him?”

The actor blanched. Recognition shone in his eyes. “Who…who are you?” he said.

Victor remained mute. The actor was the witness to the killing. The twins had gotten his name from Johnny Tanner’s file. Victor had no reason to suspect the witness was the murderer. But the suggestion flowed with the script. It elevated the stakes and served notice to the man he was in trouble.

The actor glanced from Victor to the twins and back to Victor. He tried to stand. The shackles clattered. He snapped his wrists. The cuffs restrained him.

“You’re no director,” he said.

“But you really are an actor,” Victor said. “You seemed like a good man a minute ago. But now you will tell us the truth, won’t you?”

“Screw you, asshole. Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is what your motive was for killing Valentine. And why you accused an innocent boy of something you did.”

“Innocent boy. Right.” Fury mixed with laughter. “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with, Trotsky? I’m an ex-cop. Did you know that? Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“You should look at your wrists and ankles again.”

“Listen, asshole. If you hurt me in any way, that’s witness tampering. Any judge is going to see that.”

“I’m not going to hurt you in any way. Why would I want to hurt you? I need you in perfect condition when you walk into the police station in one hour and tell them the truth about how and why you killed Valentine.”

“I killed him?” The actor sounded and looked sincerely appalled. “That’s a joke, right?” He raised his chin. “I’ll make you a deal. Stop this now and I’ll let this slide. I don’t know who you are, maybe you’re the boy’s grandfather. Or godfather. I can respect that. Uncuff me and we’ll call it a day.”

Victor smiled. “You don’t play chess, do you?”

The actor frowned. “What?”

“Chess,” Victor said. “You don’t play, do you?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Chess is to life as integrity is to a policeman. It helps you make the right decisions before you need to make them.”

The actor stared at Victor. “You made more sense when you were speaking Russian. And I couldn’t understand a word you were saying then.”

“Why did you kill Valentine? Why did you accuse the boy? Tell me now and I will spare you the worst possible agony a man can know.”

The actor laughed. “That’s funny. You agreed you can’t hurt me or it’ll be obvious someone tampered with me. And then you told me yourself you’d never do me no harm. So you see, that threat doesn’t carry much weight. You got no play here.”

“My play is in your wallet,” Victor said.

“Excuse me?”

“You will speak the truth in exchange for the safe return of the contents of your wallet.”

“I hate to break it to you, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m no Rockefeller. I got two credit cards, one’s maxed out, and about forty-three bucks in my pocket.”

“It’s not a matter of money.”

“Oh no? What then? The ten dollar cowhide?”

“No. The picture I am certain I’ll find inside it.”

The Gun reached into the actor’s front pant pocket for his wallet. He struggled to pull it out. The actor appeared stunned, as though processing the implications of Victor’s statement and realizing he couldn’t contemplate it. The Gun handed Victor the wallet.

Victor searched the compartments until he found what he was looking for. A picture of two teenagers. A boy and a girl. The girl had her arm around a third person who’d been cut out of the picture. The mother. Another American divorce.

“Keri and Tommy,” Victor said. “Did I get the names right?”

The actor strained to free himself. “Don’t even think of touching my family.”

“I’m not going to touch your family,” Victor said.

The Gun showed the actor a computer that looked like a child’s sketching toy. He played videos of the actor’s two children leaving school an hour ago.

“The men who took those videos will,” Victor said. “And there will be nothing you can do about it. Because it’s going to happen before you get home unless you go to the police immediately and tell them exactly what happened. If you place a phone call, try to alert a friend, do not comply with my demands in any way, you will never see your children alive again.”