The man who was standing behind him was very tall, and very broad, and very tired—tired in the way only immigrants are tired, with that bone-weary defeatedness that comes from struggling every day to do the very simplest things. Gregor was sure he’d seen him before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember where. He was sure he wasn’t one of the new Armenian refugees Tibor and the women of Holy Trinity found room for every week. The man saw Gregor watching him and shifted slightly on his feet. He was wearing a heavy jacket that was worn at the hems and the elbows but still serviceable, the kind of thing that had been expensive once because of its utility, not its elegance. Gregor cocked his head.
“Yes?” he said. “I wasn’t going to disturb anything, if you were worrying about that. I was just looking around. I suppose I shouldn’t have been.”
“You are Mr. Gregor Demarkian?” the man asked.
“That’s right.” The accent was indecipherable, Gregor thought—not Armenian, surely. Possibly Russian. Possibly from one of the old Soviet Republics. “Can I help you?”
“I am Krystof Andrechev,” the man said.
Gregor thought—yes, right, Russian.
“I have now the store there.” The man jerked his head down the road.
Gregor brightened. Now he knew where he’d seen him before. “The newsstand? The one Michael Bagdanian used to own?” Gregor never went in there. He had his paper delivered, and he didn’t read magazines unless Bennis subscribed to them or he got stuck in an airport.
Krystof Andrechev shifted again. “Yes. I have bought this store from Mr. Bagdanian. I have—you will come with me, please? I have now in my store something, something—” Gregor didn’t know if he was straining for words or for courage, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it. “I have now in my store a very large problem, a difficulty. You will come with me, please, and see this thing?”
“Sure.” Gregor came back down the front steps and stepped back over the yellow barrier onto the sidewalk. “Are you all right? You look—”
“I am upset,” Krystof said. “I am also angry. I do not know what to do about this, and I am being afraid it will make me—make me—” He threw his hands into the air, frustrated. They were walking down the street toward the newsstand. Gregor could see some of the women looking out their windows at what was going on—after all, Krystof was their mystery man at the moment. They all said he never talked, and wondered who he was, and where he came from. Now that they’d seen Gregor with him, he’d never get any peace.
“I am hearing that in this country you trust the police, but I am not sure this is sensible. I am not sure. You understand?”
“Yes,” Gregor said. “I do understand. If you want my opinion, you should usually trust the police, but you should always make sure you’ve got your ass covered.”
“Ha.” Krystof smiled, and stopped moving. They were at the front of the store. It was shuttered as if he had closed it for the night. It was also locked. “Covering my ass, yes. This is what I was looking to do. I was not sure how it could be done. I go for a walk. I see you standing there. You are an investigator, no?”
“No,” Gregor said firmly. “I work as a consultant for police departments on homicide—murder—cases, when I’m asked.”
“Fine. You know the police. They know you. Everybody here—” Krystof looked around Cavanaugh Street. “Everybody here thinks you are a good man. So with you I cover my ass. I do not know who this woman was. I never see her before. Come inside.”
Krystof finished unlocking the door and swung it back on its hinges to let Gregor in. When they were both in, Krystof shut the door and locked it again.
“I do not want somebody coming in,” he said. “It would be dangerous. See there on the counter next to the cash register.”
Gregor went to the counter. Even in the gloom, it took no time at all for him to see what Krystof Andrechev was worried about, and to think that, if it had been him, he would have been worried too. The gun in front of him was enormous, black and polished and deadly-looking—a .357 Magnum, possibly, or one of the knockoffs that had flooded the black market a few years ago.
“Good God,” he said. “What are you doing with that thing? Do you have a permit for it? Having something like that in a neighborhood like this can be—”
“No, no. You do not understand. This is not my gun. I own no gun. This she left here, this woman who came today. I have not touched it. Not once. Not even with a handkerchief.”