Chapter 9
Aaron Katz had a million things to do, but the relief of having his father taken care of for a while somehow broke his focus, and he gave himself over to the rare delicious pleasure of goofing off. There were shrubs to be planted, but he didn't want to plant them. There were red and black and yellow wires poking out of walls, needing to be sorted, but he didn't want to sort them, didn't want to jump at unexpected sparks. He sat down on the porch swing meant for guests, and for some few minutes tried to imagine he was a guest himself, enjoying the blessing of an uncluttered mind.
Thoughts of contractors and invoices and canceled reservations fell away, and what was left when the annoyances receded was a vivid but ambiguous recollection of Suki Sperakis kissing his cheek.
A mystery, that kiss. So sudden it might almost have been an accident, a spasm rather than a choice. Was it sexy or just sisterly? An offer of more and slower kisses or just part of her apology, a conciliation between new friends? If it was nothing more than friendly, why would she have rung the bell?
But how available was she, really? There was that cultivated toughness to contend with. Then too—Aaron recalled in spite of himself—there was that other involvement. Not romantic but getting deeper. Whatever that meant. This Lazslo person, this big-shot in a dinky little town. He probably had a fancy spotless car. Pastel silk shirts, perfect for the climate, casual but pricey. Got sucked up to in restaurants, was given the best tables. Had all the things, in short, that Aaron used to have, and now told himself, maturely, he could do without. He told himself they were jerky things, trivial, he didn't need them anymore; and he hoped like hell he really meant it.
He rocked on the porch swing, tried to claw his way free of the slime of jealousy. He steered his mind back to Suki herself. Her eyes. Things she said. Plate of macaroni.
He found himself on his feet and heading into the office. The piece of paper with her number on it was in a cubbyhole behind the desk. Stiff-legged, his chest a little tight, he was moving toward it, but not directly. He arced, he dodged, he was circling the phone number like it was something dangerous—a ticking suitcase, a big dog sleeping. Finally he slipped behind the desk and seized it.
There were two phone numbers on the little piece of paper. Aaron tried the home phone, got an answering machine, didn't leave a message. At the second number a bored male voice answered, said, "Island Frigate." Aaron asked for Suki and she soon picked up the line.
"Suki? Aaron Katz."
For a second she was flustered. She'd been reading on a computer screen about the Russian Mafia. Criminal chaos in a society come unmoored. The violent disorder that had all along underlay the veneer of Soviet authority. The switch to peaceable, mild Aaron Katz was a little befuddling, and she said a somewhat distracted, weak hello.
Aaron didn't know what to make of it. Was this the same bold woman who had rung his bell? Tentative in turn, he said, "I was wondering if I could take up your offer on my offer."
Suki said, "Excuse me?" No one knew how or if the Russian Mob was organized. If there was a mastermind, he was very, very brilliant. More likely there were a thousand separate cells grabbing shreds of wealth and force...
Aaron said, "Will you share a meal with me sometime?"
In Russia it was looting on a national scale. As if the entire country was blacked-out and the police had gone away. There was nothing too big, too small, too sacred, too egregious to be stolen. Suki said, "Yes. I'd like that."
There was a pause. She hoped he wouldn't ask her for tonight; she didn't want to have to tell him she was busy. Nor did Aaron want her schedule, clearly fuller than his own, thrown up in his face. He played it safe and gracious. "When's good for you?"
Suki bit her lip and thought. Tonight at Lazslo's place would be a war. She would have to smile through her distaste, probe while trying not to be pawed. She deserved an antidote to all of that. "How's tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow's great," said Aaron. "How about Lucia's?"
"Lucia's," Suki said. "We're not talking macaroni now. Lucia's, that's pasta."
"Eight o'clock?" said Aaron.
"I'll be there," Suki said.
"I do not like it," said Ivan Fyodorovich Cherkassky.
He was sitting in his living room, which was modern and beige and spare, its paintings empty of figures, its furniture undented by humanity. The room lacked a fireplace and a cart of liquor and was altogether less grand than his old friend Markov's. His windows looked out at a less expansive view of patio and sky and dredged canal. Sourly he said, "The mouth opens when one tries to open other things."