“She gets married with Zim. Tito is unhappy. After a while he returns to the United States.”
“How unhappy?”
“Very unhappy and angry. I didn’t like to be near him,” the girl said. “One time I found him punching the wall with his fist until it is covered in blood.”
“And Masha?”
“I never saw her again.”
Masha was dead. Dravic was in Belgrade, refusing to talk to anyone, which was as good as dead.
Had Masha first gone to the Brooklyn club to get help from him? To tell him it was over with Zim? That she only used Zim to get to America?
It was a dead end. What I wanted was the son of a bitch who killed Valentina.
The manager told the Russian girl to go back to her work, then said to me, “Is your friend looking for someone to replace Masha Panchuk?”
“It’s for me,” I said. “I’m going to be living in London for a while and I need someone good.”
“You’d like a Russian girl?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t ask why, just made a phone call, wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to me.
“This is the agency we used for Masha. They have good workers. They supply many of the important Russian families living here.”
“But you’re not Russian?”
“No, just plain English,” she said.
“A lot of Russians come to the hotel?”
“Yes,” she said. “We have a marvelous chef, two stars in Lyons before he came to us, absolute genius, and a very fine wine cellar and the Russians want only the best. Many come here to stay which is why we hire quite a few Russians as maids and waiters. Many of the wealthiest Russians have country estates quite close by. We cater parties for them, and the houses are marvelous, and the best art.”
“So it’s okay? You’re happy about it?”
“Of course we’re happy,” she said. “The Russians come and they are wonderful tippers. As long as it lasts,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“One of these days the whole thing will come crashing down.” She shifted her glance from me to the wall and back, and I realized she was not just uneasy, but on edge and maybe a little bit nuts.
Was she afraid of her world crashing? Of the Russians fleeing? Of the wave of money receding and leaving her stranded on some imaginary beach?
“How do you know?”
She looked up at the ceiling.
“I hear things,” she said, and I didn’t know if the woman meant God talked to her or she got messages through the fillings in her teeth or she eavesdropped on the Russians in the hotel.
“Can I trouble you for a light?” said the man in jeans when I got back to the terrace.
“Sure.” I handed him the gold lighter I had borrowed from Tolya. He shook a cigarette out of a pack and lit up, then handed the lighter back.
“Nice,” he said. “I noticed it earlier.”
“Right.”
“I was just wondering where you got it.”
“Why?”
“I’ve only seen one other lighter just like it. It belongs to Tolya Sverdloff.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’m Laurence Sverdloff,” he said, “Tolya’s cousin. It’s his lighter, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said, and told him my name.
“You have another name, Mr Cohen?”
“Artie,” I said.
“In Russian you are Artemy Maximovich?”
“I’m not Russian,” I said. “But, yeah, once it was my name.”
“Good, yes, like Tolya told me,” he said. “Then it really is you. I’m sorry to make a fuss, but this horrible thing with Valentina. It makes you look in the rear-view mirror twice, you know?” His accent was neutral, stranded somewhere between America and England.
He was in his mid-forties, tall, wiry, and comfortable in his jeans and t-shirt, though I was guessing he was the kind of business guy who went everywhere first class as if he owned it. When he smiled, I saw the resemblance with Tolya.
“My real name is Laurence Sverdloff Antonovich” he said. “In America, they called me Larry,” he said. “Somebody picked this ridiculous name when I went to grad school at Stanford. God, I loved California. Name stuck. Whatever, but then Artie’s not much better,” he said, smiling, making his charm work hard for him. “Have you heard from my cousin?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted this Larry to fill the silence, tell me something.
“I bloody worry about what he’ll do to find out who killed Valentina. Nothing matters to him anymore except that. I wish you were with him.”
“He wanted me here.”
“He thinks it’s all about London,” said Larry.
“Is it? You could go to New York,” I said.
“It would make things worse. People watch where I go.”
“What people?”
He didn’t answer the question, just said, “Tolya and me, we grew up together, his father and mine were brothers. Both dead now,” said Larry, picking up his own lighter from the table as he reached for a cigarette. I’m afraid I only use my old Zippo.” He lit up. “I’m scared for him, when we were kids all I wanted was to be like him, my cousin Tolya, my idol, this daring guy. He had every illicit book under his bed, he was very rock and roll and for real. I wanted to call myself Ringo, but my father threatened to send me to the military academy, he said, we named you for the great British actor, and you want to call yourself for a what? A Beatle? So I gave in. I didn’t have Tolya’s balls.”
“I asked who’s watching you.”
“People who I offend,” he said, and went on to recount how his father had been a director, like Tolya’s.
“How’d you make the money?”
“You assume I have money?”
“Come on.”
“I went to Stanford, my English was already pretty good, made some money in Silicon Valley,” he said. “I played the game in Moscow. Made more. Back to California. So I go all the way to America, which I love, to marry an English girl who’s a doctor and wants to come home to work in the National Health Service here.”
I tapped my fingers. I wanted the meat and this guy was giving me the empty bun.
“I married a socialist.” He laughed. “What comes around, eh? You know my grandfather went to high school with Trotsky,” he added. “Seems like they were always fighting because grandpa’s pop was in the fur biz. Sable.”
“You’re not here by accident, are you?” I said to Larry.
“No,” he said. “I knew you were coming to London, Tolya told me, and before he left, he called and said I should keep an eye on you. I’m sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff, but my driver saw you leave Tolya’s and
