House of Secrets - v4 (6 page)

“Look at what people do with the pool halls and the bowling alleys. Leonard and I can create a demand, and soon we will have to open up a second center. This is how it is done. You attract the best players. You become tournament level! You have no limit to what can happen.”

While working on his dream, Dimitri had wearied of trying to work for other people and had gotten his hack license. He calculated that within months of his and Leonard’s Ping-Pong parlor opening he would be able to quit his taxi job. This had proved an ambitious calculation. Before the first year was out, Dimitri had
added
a number of shifts. Dimitri and Leonard had lined up several silent partners to help with their initial financing. There were several bank loans as well, but the preference — mainly Dimitri’s — had been to accept the services of certain “community leaders,” as the local newspaper liked to call them, men whose philosophy was that countrymen should look out for countrymen. One such person in particular, a mobster named Aleksey Titov, had taken a special interest in Dimitri and his brother. Against Leonard’s protests, Titov had arranged for the brothers to procure a liquor license for their establishment. The original plans had not called for the serving of alcohol, or even much food beyond light snacks. But Titov had convinced Dimitri otherwise, even arranging free of charge for a set of plans to be drawn up that would include a full-service tavern in the rear of the parlor. Titov arranged for the extra loans to cover the additional costs. He brought in some people who, he told Dimitri and Leonard, could do the construction work in half the usual time. An exaggerated claim, as it turned out. In fact, a second loan had been required — this one also choreographed by Aleksey Titov — to help finance the unfortunate overages.

Dimitri’s smile had made fewer and fewer appearances as the construction and the money hemorrhaging had dragged on. The grueling schedule of his taxi shifts and his time spent overseeing matters at the parlor — he and Leonard had come up with the name, Paddles — left him punchy and increasingly irritable. The balance on the loans never seemed to be budging. Equally discouraging, the quality of play at the tables was hardly screaming “tournament!” People came to play, yes, but mostly it was just for fun. They were not taking the game seriously. The night that Dimitri and Leonard had their first really ugly argument, Dimitri stormed out and went home confused and angry, and before he knew it he had slapped Irena in the face. Then he cried. He also cried the next time it happened, though not any of the times after that. Irena took to telling herself,
Dimitri does not hit me. He loves me. It is his beer. His beer hits me
.

Irena loved her husband. She knew that the real Dimitri was in there somewhere. Irena had miscarried three times over the past five years, and Dimitri had not handled the incidents well. Irena knew that her husband was taking their failure to have children as his failure: yet another of Dimitri’s forestalled visions. The fault, of course, if that was the correct word to use, resided in Irena’s nervous body. But then, Dimitri had chosen her for his wife, so perhaps it was for this reason that he took the blame onto himself. How else to explain his irrationality and his sullenness after each of the miscarriages? Irena worried for him. He was under so much pressure. If only the pressure could just lift a little, maybe the old Dimitri would return. She had faith. She prayed daily for his return.

A
fter dinner, Irena convinced Dimitri to take a walk with her along the boardwalk. First, he bought a baseball cap from a souvenir shop, pulling it down low over his face. Dimitri had ordered too many beers at dinner, and his feet shuffled somewhat. But the air seemed to revive him. Studying him closely ever since he had arrived at the hotel and again through dinner, Irena knew that the secrets he was withholding from her were something new, something different from the usual pressures that had become so commonplace over the past several years. What alarmed Irena the most was that Dimitri was not asking about Leonard. His brother had been admitted to the hospital the day before with chest pains, yet the topic didn’t seem to find any space in Dimitri’s mind. Other thoughts were crowding it out. They could not be good thoughts.

The breeze was coming in briskly off the water. The night was cool and briny. Irena hooked her arm in Dimitri’s elbow and set her head lightly against his shoulder as they walked. She hummed a made-up tune in the slow rhythm of their steps. A volleyball game was under way on the sand, the ball barely visible in the night air, just a faint little moon arcing through the air. Laughter carried over from the sand, and Irena became sad. Spring and summer had not proven to be nearly as good a time for business as Dimitri and Leonard had once predicted. People wanted to remain outdoors, not come inside to hit the Ping-Pong balls. The sound of laughter on the beach was not always something that lifted her husband’s spirits.

Dimitri and Irena took a seat on a bench, facing the water. Dimitri was still lost in his private thoughts.

“Wait here,” Irena said, and she backtracked over to a pizza place and bought a pair of coffees. When she returned, Dimitri was on his cell phone. Irena slowed and then stopped altogether some twenty feet from the bench.

Dimitri’s voice was harsh and more than a little slurred.

“No! This is what I am trying to tell you! It is no longer enough money, no way. I am thinking of you, too. Do you understand? You are also being cheated. This deal must be renegotiated, Aleksey. I am telling you,
everything
has changed.”

Irena’s heart sank. Aleksey Titov. Of course. It was always Aleksey Titov, the man who owned her husband and her brother-in-law. Aleksey Titov was in the business of owning people. Once upon a time, Irena had prayed for Aleksey Titov’s soul, but no longer. If God wanted to work with Aleksey Titov, that was his business. But the man was destroying Irena and Dimitri’s happiness. He was an evil man with a heart of coal who rejoiced in the miseries of others. That was the mark of evil. There was no more to be said on the matter.

Irena inched closer to the bench. Dimitri had risen to his feet. He was still facing the water.

“No, you must listen to me, Aleksey. You will understand when you see what I saw. A man making love with a woman is a small potato. But a man like
this?
Excuse my opinion, Aleksey, but two thousand dollars for me is ridiculous. You do not know who this man is. But I know. It is all different now. Your client does not have this man by the balls.
I
have your
client
by the balls. You see? I have this file, Aleksey. I am putting it on the flash drive, where it is safe. And I tell you, no stupid two thousand dollars will do. Not now. Not for this!”

The anger in his voice was beginning to spike. Irena worried that Dimitri would turn around and see her standing there listening in on his side of the conversation. Dimitri continued.

“Aleksey, I risked my
life
to go back into that house to get my equipment. This crazy man, he could have come back. So, now you listen to me. I am not just a person to push around here. I need you to understand this. This is too big. I am dying in that fucking taxicab. I am dying in that fucking
hole
that my brother and I should have never climbed into. That is all over now. When I tell you who is this man, Aleksey, you will see. You will have your client by the balls. But what I am saying is that right now I have
you
by the balls.”

Irena started.
No! Oh Lord. Please, no. Do not say such words. Not to Aleksey Titov. Please. No
.

But people did not call Dimitri Bulakov stupid for nothing.

Dimitri was yelling now. “You tell him this! One. Million. Dollars! Nothing less! It comes from
him
or it comes from the man himself, I do not care which it is. You and I will get this money, Aleksey, and you and I will shake hands and drink a toast, and we will go home and make love to our wives. It will all be good.”

Dimitri turned his head abruptly and saw Irena standing there holding two cups of coffee. To Irena’s surprise, he did not scowl at her.

“I am hanging up now,” Dimitri said into the phone. “You will thank me when you hear who this man is. We will laugh, and we will all be rich.”

Dimitri flipped the phone closed. Behind him, the ocean and the sky had become an identical midnight blue. Indistinguishable.

Irena’s knees were shaking. “Dimitri. Please do not play around with Aleksey Titov. He is dangerous.”

Dimitri started toward her. “I have something he wants.”

“Give it to him!” The cry choked in her throat.

Dimitri reached her and lifted one of the coffees from her. The glow of neon lights from the amusement park rides were playing over his face. He looked like a mad clown.

“I have Aleksey Titov by the
balls
, Irena. This is our chance!”

The shaking moved its way through the rest of Irena’s frail body. Coffee splashed onto her wrist.

“Oh, no. Dimitri. Do not say that. Please. Do not do this thing.”

A
ll through the weekend, the drumbeat grew louder: the vice president needed to make a clear accounting of his activities while he’d been serving as New York’s attorney general. On Saturday, traditionally a slow news day, a new story had emerged concerning the renovation of a severely fire-damaged theater in Ithaca and possible links between Chris Wyeth and the contractor who had been awarded the project. A sweetheart deal involving one of Wyeth’s financial supporters. The Republicans smelled blood, and on the Sunday talk shows the thirstiest of them showed off their gleaming incisors.

“I think maybe the vice president of the United States has reached his expiration date. Chris Wyeth owes it to the country to step aside.”

“Look. President Hyland’s honeymoon has already been undermined. That’s over, folks. Sorry. The only question now is, will he let blind loyalty do the same to his presidency?”

“Vice President Wyeth is a heartbeat away from the presidency and a heartbeat away from indictment. It’s not Chris Wyeth anymore, George. It’s Crisis Wyeth.”

Andy monitored the news programs from the study in his apartment. Dressed in gray sweatpants and his faded navy blue sweatshirt, he sat in his swiveling black leather chair, his chin planted on his two thumbs. Christine had fashioned a less intrusive bandage for the wound over his ear, but there was nothing she could do about the headaches. And certainly nothing she could do about the pulsing pangs of guilt and anxiety that were inhabiting her husband’s gut. These he was keeping to himself.

Christine and Michelle were in the kitchen, making brownies. Forty-plus hours essentially off her feet, and her ankle was sufficiently functional again. To be safe, it was wrapped in a small Ace bandage. Michelle had enjoyed the game of “taking care of the invalids” all day Saturday.

The smell of the brownies wafted down the narrow hallway and into Andy’s study. Christine and Michelle were singing a silly song, or attempting to. Peals of laughter kept interrupting snatches of the actual melody. Normally Andy might have eased the door closed or simply turned up the volume on the TV. The Sunday chatter was required listening. But this morning he wasn’t really focusing on the particulars. The general tone was clear enough. The specifics themselves were either talking points that would be repeated ad nauseam by the loyal foot soldiers over the coming days or else predictable personal hyperbole. Andy wasn’t in the mood to hear either. The TV simply gave him cover for not conversing with his family.

Doc lay in a heap at his feet. The old boy was snoring and twitching lightly every several seconds. Probably dreaming of a younger and pre-arthritic Doc, chasing cute cocker spaniels or comely collies. Doc was a cross between a Great Dane and a German Shepherd, which essentially meant a German Shepherd the size of a small horse. He was only several months older than Michelle. In dog years — at least for a hybrid mutt of this size — AARP time. His hips were going, and when he walked, his rear end traced painful circles. Andy and Christine both knew that an irretrievable layer of their daughter’s innocence was poised to be peeled back any time now. The Death Discussion was looming. Doc in Dog Heaven, and all that. Andy and Christine had discussed the matter. Michelle had a lively imagination. Already she sent the dog postcards whenever the family traveled. The two had no doubt that soon after Doc’s inevitable demise, their daughter would be asking them for the zip code for heaven.

Michelle came into the study holding a plate stacked high with brownies. Even though the plate wasn’t hot, Michelle was wearing a pair of oven mitts that came halfway to her elbows. Doc raised his head, and a thin line of drool fell onto one of his paws.

Michelle announced, “I made brownies.”

Andy straightened in his chair. “I see that. You made the brown kind.”

“They’re
brownies.”

“I see that,” Andy said again, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You made the brown kind.”