Rasputin's Bastards

THE GRAND INQUISITOR IN THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

There were five guys in the Emissary’s lobby when Amar Shadak arrived. They wore track pants and jackets and expensive running shoes with squishy balloons in the heels that were supposed to make high-impact athletics easier on the ankles. The balloons were wasted on these guys. For one thing, there were at least twice as many chins as guys here. For another, when they talked, they made a wheezing fat man sound. And finally, two of them were smoking, in defiance of what Shadak understood to be a rigidly enforced anti-smoking law in the new mayor’s New York City.

But smoking and morbid obesity would have been the least of their concerns if a New York policeman were to stop them on the street. All of them, Shadak expected, were packing guns.

“Hey,” said one of them as Shadak set his bag down. “We’re closed for business, buddy. New fuckin’ management — you got it?”

“I am here to see my friend Gepetto,” said Shadak pleasantly. “I have an appointment.”

“Do you now?”

“I am Amar,” said Shadak. “I called ahead last night.”

“Amar,” said another one of the guys. “From Istanbul, right?”

“That’s right.” This one was taller than his friends, with greying hair. He looked Shadak in the eye. “They said a guy from Istanbul would be showing up here this morning. Guess you’re him.”

“That’s right.” Shadak smiled.

“You just fly in? Shoulda called from the airport. We woulda sent a car.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Shadak, “it was better I take a taxicab.”

The grey-haired guy nodded. He didn’t take his eyes off Shadak. “Sometimes that’s better,” he said.

“Don’t know who you can trust these days,” said the smaller man. He looked over to grey-hair. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Grey-haired Jack nodded. But he didn’t take his eyes off Shadak. His eyes scanned down his torso — probably, Shadak thought, checking him out for weapons. He didn’t blame him. Jack was one of Gepetto Bucci’s boys — and the whole gang of them had just discovered the biggest mystery of their lives here: a ghost hotel. Lights on, sheets turned. But empty. Whole staff gone AWOL. Not a guest in the place.

Shadak remembered the argument he’d had with old Bucci, when he’d first asked him to send someone over to the Emissary Hotel on Broadway:

“What the fuck you want to go to a fuckin’ dry cleaner’s for?”

“It’s not a dry cleaner’s. I need you to go to the 14th floor of the Emissary and find an old Russian named Kolyokov. I think maybe he is gone. If he is — I want you to bring some people to me.”

“There ain’t no 14^th floor there. If it’s the address I’m thinkin’ of, it’s a fuckin’ dry cleaner’s. Not even Russian. I think it’s maybe Korean. Japa-fuckin’-ese. Fuck do I know? Does a shitty job and there’s no more than four fuckin’ floors in the whole building. Maybe you got the address wrong.”

“It’s the right address.”

“I’m telling you: you’re wasting a favour.”

“A favour is mine to waste.”

“Up to you.”

“A favour. You owe me.”

“Fuck. All right, but you’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

“It’s important.”

“I get that sense, Amar. We’ll take care of it. I’ll send Montassini this afternoon.”

The telephone conversation he had just before he got on the trans-Atlantic flight to New York, not two days after the first, had a remarkably different tone to it:

“You weren’t fuckin’ kidding.” Bucci was giggling, like a kid who’d just found pirate treasure. “It’s there all right. It’s a fuckin’ ghost hotel. Never fuckin’ heard of it before you called me. Must have driven past it a million fuckin’ times — never saw it.”

“I’m coming out. Where shall we meet?”

“You’re comin’ out? Well fuck — I’m at the hotel right now. Trying to figure out what the fuck’s going on.”

“We have something in common then.”

“Fuckin’ right.”

Jack got into the small elevator with Shadak. Pressed 18. “Mr. Bucci’s stayin’ in the bridal suite,” said Jack. Shadak took a step back — the old gangster was standing a bit too close, even for the tight elevator.

“You wear a lot of cologne,” said Shadak.

“You like it?” Jack gave Shadak a funny look.

“No,” said Shadak. He smiled, exuding all the good will and warmth that he could muster after seven hours in an airplane seat. “It makes me want to cut your fucking throat you piece of shit funnyboy.”

Jack took a step back and looked at his feet. Maybe, thought Shadak, he was thinking about the stories they told about him. The things he’d done to some of the others. That would be good.

The elevator lurched to a stop. Somewhere in its guts, a bell chimed. Then the door opened to the corridor of the 18^th floor. A brass plaque announcing the bridal suite was fitted on the wall opposite them.

“I can find the rest of my way without you,” said Shadak. Jack didn’t argue. The door slid shut, and Amar Shadak set off to meet his nominal partner Gepetto Bucci on his own.

“You okay? You don’t look so fuckin’ good.”

“I swallowed the wrong way,” said Shadak. He set his bag down by a pressed-board wardrobe, and smiled at Bucci. The Italian looked older today, and smaller. His white hair, normally plastered back over his skull, was a bird’s nest. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes floated in the middle of raccoon-dark pits. The spot on the left side of his skull where the hair wouldn’t grow anymore was white as bone. He didn’t smile back.

“Sit down,” he said.

The old man was not alone in the bridal suite of the Emissary Hotel. There were three other guys there — two of them playing cards, another one back in the kitchenette, a cell phone at his ear. He was wearing a bright red Trekker’s Outfitting Co-op T-shirt. Shadak didn’t like it. He didn’t stop smiling, though.

“Can we talk alone?”

“Sit down,” said Bucci. “No. Ordinarily fine. But not today. This place is too fucked up. It’s like a fuckin’ horror movie this hotel. You gotta observe the rules. Send a guy off into the crapper by himself, he’s likely to get his nuts ripped off with a fuckin’ weedwhacker, you know what I mean.”

Shadak didn’t, exactly. But he was used to that with Gepetto Bucci. He sat down. The two guys playing cards ignored him. The idiot in the TOC shirt turned away and whispered into his cell phone. Shadak decided he would keep his eye on that one.

“This is not a haunted hotel,” said Shadak. “But it’s good to be careful. How long have you been here?”

“A day and a night. When I heard back about how things went with your job — couldn’t believe it. So I sent some of my guys out here. Take a better look.”

“And they found this place deserted.”

“Deserted.” Bucci snorted. “Ali fuckin’ Baba’s cave, that’s what they found. Yeah — no one was here. But we got into the safe — took a look at what they got goin’ on in the basement. Fuck, Amar. Who is this Fyodor Kolyokov guy anyway? How long did you know about this place?”

Shadak didn’t answer. The guy at the phone was writing something down now. He was shaking his head.

“No fuckin’ guests — no fuckin’ staff. But cash — cash by the fuckin’ boatload.”

“Did you find the isolation tank?” said Shadak.

“You mean that UFO. Roswell thing on the 14th floor? Yeah. It was in the room with the two people we got for you.”

“And Fyodor Kolyokov was nowhere to be seen.”

Bucci made a face. “No. Not exactly. But what with everything in that basement — it’d be easy to make him go away.”

Shadak looked at him.

“Acid baths,” said Bucci. “There’s this room next to the laundry — with big bathtubs like in hospitals. Whole wall covered in brown fuckin’ jugs of hydrochloric acid. Place stank, too. Easiest fuckin’ thing, to take your pal Fyodor Kolyokov down there and make him disappear.”

“Yeah — like almost happened with fuckin’ Leo,” said one of the card players.

Shadak ignored him for now. “So you think Kolyokov is dead then,” he said.

“Don’t you?”

“I do think that. But I value your opinion.”

Bucci steepled his hands and frowned. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think he’s dead.”

“What about Kilodovich?”

“Kilodovich?”

“Alexei Kilodovich.” Shadak fished into his pocket and pulled out the old Polaroid — taken in better days, in the back of a Soviet jeep outside Kabul. They were both grinning like schoolboys, and they weren’t much older than that either. Bucci finally cracked a grin when he took the picture.

“Look at you,” he said. “Little fuckin’ Amar. That is you, right?”

“It was some time ago,” said Shadak. “Kilodovich is the one beside me.”

“Figured that out.” Bucci handed it back. “Never seen him. ’Course, judging from the time that picture must have been taken, he could have grown himself a new face by now. But I told you—” the smile slid off his own face, like a sheet of ice from a sharp awning “—nobody was here when we came.”

The TOC man put down the phone. “Hey,” he said, to Bucci. “We got another message.”

“Yeah? Excuse me for a second, Amar.” Bucci shifted around in his chair. “Montassini?”

“Montassini.”

“Where is he now? He get to fuckin’ Halifax yet?”

“Didn’t say where exactly. But I don’t think he’s in Halifax. Said he was on some kind of satellite phone.”

“Satellite phone? Fuckin’ Montassini! On a fuckin’ satellite phone! So anybody could be listening! Where the fuck is he?”

Shadak leaned forward with interest. “Halifax,” he said. “Satellite phone… Montassini…” He snapped his fingers. “Ah! Wasn’t Montassini one of your Capos — one of the people we agreed you should send here for my favour? What has this to do with a satellite phone and the city of Halifax? Tell me what is going on here, Gepetto.”

Bucci turned to look at Shadak. He lips curled to say something — then he saw Shadak’s smile, the implicit menace of his Turkish associate’s chillingly accommodating demeanour.

“Take it easy,” said Bucci. “Don’t go fucked up on me, Amar. We’re talkin’, all right?”

“I’m not getting fucked up,” said Shadak. “Tell me about Montassini.”

“Yeah. Montassini. Complicated story. But I was gonna tell you about it. ’Cause I value your opinion on the tapes.”

Shadak raised his eyebrow in a question.

“Leo Montassini’s a solid guy. Not too much up here, you know what I mean. But yeah — he led the team in to bring you your people. Took ’em to the landing strip — put ’em on the plane. Just like he agreed. Only thing was, when that was done, he tells Jack and Nino — the boys what were with him — he’s going to take a leak. Fine. Happens to the best of us. While they’re waiting, he fucks off in the van. Leaves ’em at the airfield, nowhere to go. I gotta send out a fuckin’ car to pick them up, same time as I’m sendin’ more people out to this place. All the time, I’m wondering what the fuck’s with Leo? I’m getting concerned, you understand — that Leo’s workin’ some kind of racket. Tryin’ to fuck me over. I don’t take kindly to that kind of thing.”

“Understandable,” said Shadak. “I don’t take kindly to that sort of thing either.”

“Fuckin’ right. So I put out the word that Leo Montassini should be brought straight to me should he turn up. Word comes to me just about right away, from a business associate of my son’s who runs a sandwich thing in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. That he sold Leo a pastrami eggplant deal just an hour ago. That Leo looked kind of messed up. And that he looked like he was on his way somewhere. Fuck, I think. Bastard’s leavin’ town on me. I’m just about ready to put out the word on him — when I get another call, from the Co-op — about a message on the Complaints Line.”

“The Complaints Line?”

“It’s a line we got in there in the, what do you call it?”

“The Collective Office,” said the guy in the red Trekker’s Outfitting Co-Op T-shirt.

“Fuckin’ Commies,” said Bucci. “Couldn’t just call it the Assistant Manager’s office, like every other camping store.”

“You were saying about the Complaints Line? What exactly is it?”

“Just what it sounds like,” continued Bucci. “Whenever a customer gets pissed that the Pel-flex on his coat leaks in rainwater or his Maglite let him down in a fuckin’ spelunkin’ trip, he calls that line. Gets a message where he leaves a number and says why he’s so pissed about our products. We got a guy who checks out those complaints regularly — makes ’em go away. He also checks for other messages, which me or one of mine sometimes leave. Who’s gonna tap a fuckin’ complaint line, right? It’s like that old rule — what is it?”

“Hide in plain sight,” said a card-player. “Right. Hide in plain sight. Get it?”

“Sure,” said Shadak.

“All the same, messages on that line intended for me or my associates shouldn’t go into too much detail. Short and vague. That’s supposed to be the rule.”

“And Leo Montassini, I take it, left you a message that was neither.”

“Fuckin’ mind reader,” said Bucci, looking levelly at Shadak.

“No.” Shadak folded his hands. “No mind reading.”

“Whatever. Yeah, he left me a message. A whole series of messages, all of them way too specific — went on for the length of the tape. I tell you something, if I didn’t see this place—” Bucci waved his hand over his head to indicate the hotel “—I’d have thought Leo just went off the deep end.”

“Do you have the tapes?”

Bucci nodded. “Yeah, we got some of the tapes here — the first tape. There’s more at the store.”

“What is on the tapes, please?”

Bucci made a small smile. “Nothing about that guy in the picture, that Alexei Kilodo-fuck, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I assumed that,” said Shadak, “because you would have said something earlier. But what was so strange on these tapes, that you think your trusted Captain went off, as you say, ‘the deep end’?”

Bucci snorted. “What wasn’t strange about them?”

One of the card players looked up. “Like a fuckin’ horror movie,” he said.

“What the fuck do you know?” said his opponent. “Deal.”

Bucci shrugged.

“I’d like to hear the tapes, please,” said Shadak.

“Yeah,” said Bucci, “I thought you might.” He turned back to the card players. “Hey! Get the fuckin’ tape deck out here. You heard our friend here! He wants the show!”

“I am calling,” said the disembodied voice of Leo Montassini, “to complain about these fuckin’ boots you sold me. They leak and shit, and they aren’t warm like you said they would be, and they don’t fit like they did in the store. You send this complaint straight to the fuckin’ top. You got that? Straight to the fuckin’ top. Top. You know what I mean, right?

“Okay. Now you listening, Mr. B? It’s Leo here. First off, let me say I’m sorry I had to leave Nino and Jack like that at the plane. Can’t fuckin’ explain it. Hope they got home okay. I couldn’t stay with those guys any longer. Like something’s callin’ me. Someone’s callin’ me. From the sea…

“Look. Main thing is, I think I’m on to something. I think I know where Kolyokov is. You want to pay attention to this, boss. Those guys — Nino and Jack — even you, B. — I don’t think any of you would understand. It comes from listening to the sea — inside that tank they got at the hotel, in that Russian fuck’s room. I stuck my head inside that tank, and it was like sticking my head outside the tank. Like it went on forever… And I heard him, boss. I heard him.

“I’m usin’ up space on your tape. I’m callin’ you from the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Just want to let you know where I am. Now I’m gonna tell you how I got here.

“Like I was telling you, I went back to the Emissary. It was dark by the time I got back there. Lights were still on in the hotel. Nobody was at the desk when I looked in, but you never know, right? So I took the truck around to the loading dock at the back. Tried to get in through there. Door was locked. So you know… I do this and that… And I’m inside. Fuckin’ scary place, Mr. B. Like it’s got an echo in it, only the echo’s not in your ears it’s in your fuckin’ head. I can’t explain it. Just take my word. Fuckin’ scary place. So I make my way through the back, checkin’ things out. And everything’s, like, neat and tidy. But it’s like that movie your kid keeps watchin’: Marathon Man, right? Omega Man. I don’t fuckin’ know. Somethin’ like that. It’s the one with Charlton Heston, where the whole world’s like normal — but nobody’s there… . Well, it makes me feel like I’m Chuck in there, and it’s night, and the place is empty and nothin’s getting’ any better, so what the fuck? I pull out my piece.

“I make my way out through the back office. And there I am in the lobby, standin’ behind the fuckin’ front desk. The place is fuckin’ huge or that’s what it looks like. So I make my way into the lobby itself. Then I went back up to the fifth floor, where that guy Alexei Kilodovich slept.

“Didn’t feel right — just leavin’ that alone. Kilodovich was an important one, right? Right. So I went into his room and sat down on the bed. Closed my fuckin’ eyes and thought — where’d I hide shit. Under the mattress? So I pull up the mattress — start searchin’. Nothin’ there. So I think — if I was Alexei Kilodovich, what would I do?

“Right about then, there’s footsteps in the hall. So I get down behind the bed, hold my gun up — wait for the door to open — which it does. And just for a second, I’m feelin’ like an asshole. Because there I am, waitin’ to shoot this little cleaner, comin’ into the room. She’s got her cart with the laundry bag and a big fuckin’ mop handle stickin’ out. She can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds soakin’ wet. Stupid fuckin’ Leo, right? Jumpin’ at shadows.

“Well I should have done a bit more jumpin’ — because before I can do anything, bitch is on top of me. She’s knocked my fuckin’ piece out of my hand, straddlin’ me like a whore and jammin’ the handle of her mop into my mouth. Make a long story short I manage to get it away from my mouth, but she gives it a little twist or somethin’ and clocks me on the side of the head. Knocks me cold, no shit.

“Must have figured me for dead, ’cause next thing you know, I’m awake — in what I first think is maybe some kind of fuckin’ bathtub. And I’m thinkin’, fuck Leo, what’d I do, fall asleep and have a dream? I don’t think that for long though, because I look over the edge of this bathtub thing, and I see there’s that bitch cleanin’ woman haulin’ a big brown jug off a rack of big brown jugs. And I put it together: this ain’t no bathtub. It’s tiled and shit, and the drain’s pretty big, and it’s got marks on the tile that are all brown and smell like old fuckin’ batteries. And all of a sudden, Mr. B., I got a pretty good idea what happened to that Mr. Kolyokov we were supposed to be lookin’ for. Do I have to fuckin’ spell it out? He got liquidated, Mr. B. Liquidated. Those jugs were filled with acid — an’ the cleanin’ woman was gonna fuckin’ liquidate me with one of ’em now.

“She hadn’t noticed I was movin’ yet. She turns around with a big fuckin’ jug in her arms, and her eyes — they were dead, Boss. Like startin’ to fog over dead. She was like a fuckin’ zombie.

“So now it’s my turn to get the jump on her, and that’s what I do. I’m up and it’s like, bam! Take that you fuckin’ bitch! Bam! And she’s like, nothing — kicks me near the nuts but misses, so I’m like — Bam! An’ finally, she drops the fuckin’ jug in the bathtub an’ it cracks, an’ I’m like, pushin’ her, and then she’s the one in the bathtub, Mr. B., an’ I’m the one with the acid. Oh yeah. And that’s kinda how that went down. I cleaned up, you know what I mean, and on my way out from the basement, I find a couple of suitcases. They’re filled with, you know, lady shit. But one of the things I find there, is this bus ticket. Fuckin’ Greyhound ticket out of Port Authority, up to Halifax. It’s a special ticket — on this charter, it says. Weird name of the company. Here, I got it here: I’ll read it: Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga. One Way, it says. Leaves in a couple hours.

“So that’s how I get here, and how come I’m callin’ you from here. I figure, you know, maybe I go check out this bus shit, see what’s goin’ on. ’Cause I just couldn’t get that woman’s dead fuckin’ eyes out of my head. I’m thinkin’, it’s a mystery. Just go take a look right?

“So I get to the platform — we’re talkin’ just half an hour ago now. And it’s crowded — with all kinds of people. People I recognize. That I’m sure I seen when we went to the Emissary this afternoon.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get on that bus, and see where it goes. No one’s name’s on this ticket, you know what I mean? I got a piece if I need it. So I’ll call you again once I’m at Halifax — let you know what the fuck’s goin’ on with the Emissary and all ’at. ’Cause I gotta know, Mr. B.

“First, though, I gotta get a sandwich. I’m starvin’. Hey, does Vinnie still run that stall down here? Makes a mean Pastrami. I’m gonna go check. Seeya.”

A duvet of cloud had spread itself over Manhattan, and as the tape beeped to the new message, thick splatters of rain crossed the Bridal Suite’s window. Gepetto Bucci clicked off the tape machine. He massaged his hands together and looked across the table to Shadak.

“That’s Omega Man,” said Shadak.

“What?”

“He’s referring to The Omega Man with the ridiculous vampires with ’fros. The Marathon Man is the film with the dentist. Charlton Heston is not in that one.”

Bucci squinted at Shadak. “You sure you want to go on with this?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You appear agitated.”

“I am not agitated.”

Bucci shrugged. “Up to you,” he said, and pressed the play button.

“Your kayak is a piece of shit. I take the fuckin’ thing onto the water, and whattaya know? Dip my fuckin’ paddle in the water and the fuckin’ thing turns upside down — and I’m halfway drowned. My kid has to fish me out of the fuckin’ lake. I want you to take this complaint to the top. The top. I’ll wait here.

“Okay. Mr. B.? You listening? Good. I am calling you from just past the border in New Brunswick, Canada. I’m at this little diner we pulled into outside a shitheel little town called Edmunston. I’m out back. Using a fuckin’ pay phone — my cell won’t work here. We just ate this fuckin’ great meal. It’s a Canadian thing — french fries and cheese and gravy, all mixed up in like a paste.

“I’m over the fuckin’ border. Got through without any shit from the customs guy — but I tucked my number under the seat anyway, because you never know. I got it out again now. These fuckin’ people, I don’t want to be walkin’ without some protection, you know what I mean?

“Fuck — these people I’m on the bus with. I can’t figure them out. It’s like the fuckin’ Peace Corps with piano wire. They all know each other. Like, from the start. I get onto the bus platform and join the line, and there’s five of ’em, hugging and crying like they were long-lost family. Me, I just get in line. Mind my own business. After a couple minutes, this old lady steps in line. Looks me up and down. So I look back at her, ask her ‘What the fuck you lookin’ at?’ Not like that — she’s an old lady, and I’m not disrespectful. More like: ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

“‘Sergei?’ she says to me. And I’m all, ‘What the fuck?’ And she’s all, ‘Sergei, it is you!’ And then before you know it Grandma is givin’ me a big hug right around the middle. ‘I haven’t seen you since you were this high. Don’t you remember? We were together a year in Berlin! You were just a little boy and I was a young girl.’

“I gotta be honest with you, Mr. B., I almost blew it right there. I mean, what am I supposed to think? Some old whore who sleeps with little boys in Berlin gets me mixed up with some other guy she diddled while he was in short pants? Fuckin’ pervert, I’m thinking. But before I say anything, I start thinking some more. That maybe I have a better chance lasting it out with these freaks if Grandma Walton here thinks I’m her little boy toy Sergei, than if they work out I’m Leo Montassini. I’m thinking, one of them already tried to waste me knowing who I was. Maybe being Sergei from Berlin isn’t such a bad idea. So I say, ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Mrs… .’

“‘Kronstein,’ she says. ‘That’s what I call myself these days. It used to be Olga. That’s how you remember me. But when we went into deep cover, I became Mrs. Kronstein. I know that I’m Olga Vilanova. But Kronstein’s the name I’m most comfortable with.’

“What the fuck? is what I’m thinking. What’s this shit about deep cover? And she’s looking all… intense. Common sense says I should just get the fuck out of there. But curiosity killed the cat, right? I just let her talk.

“Well it turns out that Mrs. Kronstein used to work in publishing. Oh fuck, Mr. B., she knows everybody to hear her tell it. Stephen Fucking King babysits for her when she and the husband go out for brunch. John Irving’s her tennis partner. She got to know everybody. She says she was part of some ‘cultural operation.’ She says she and some others were there to feed the decadence of the West. All the time she’s telling me this, she’s giggling.

“And then, I can’t take it no more. ‘You’re a spy, is what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘For the Russians.’

“Well that just sets her off. A couple of other people, this bald guy in a leather jacket and his girl, say, ‘What’s so funny?’ And Mrs. Kronstein wipes her eyes.

“‘I’m a spy!’ she goes, still laughing. ‘Sergei here thinks I’m a spy!’

“They all get a really good laugh at that. Big fuckin’ joke as Sergei’s expense. Fine. I laugh too. I mean, if I’m going to find out what the fuck’s going on here, I can’t go doing the first guy who pissed me off. And I’m thinking, we found ourselves a whole new arm of the Russians here. Bunch of crazy ex-fuckin’-KGB agents, right? Smart enough to hide a fuckin’ eighteen floor hotel in Manhattan. Maybe I should have run then. Just gotten the fuck out of there. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. B. — you stick your head into that fuckin’ UFO on the 14th floor of the Emissary, catch a whiff of that weird — fuckin’ alien sea. Hear the voice. The voice…

“See if you can give up the scent after that.

“So the bus comes. It’s a Greyhound. Got Halifax written on the sign. Door opens up, driver steps down. Creepy fucking guy. Thin as a rail. Looks about a hundred. Name’s Orlovsky. Found that out later. Looks me in the eye, takes my ticket — and there I am. On the bus. I went to sit by Mrs. Kronstein, but she picked a seat by this other old bat. Doesn’t even meet my eye when I say hey. Fuck that, I take a seat at the back by the can. Everybody else sits further up near the front, so I got a few seats between me and the rest. Suits me fine. I got my piece. They should leave me in peace. Heh heh.

“So we get going. Takes a while to get out of the city — you know how it is. And before we’re out of the Lincoln Tunnel, the bald guy’s got a blaster with some tapes. Starts playing this Russian singer, some guy with a deep voice. He’s singing about some broad called Natascha. In Russian. And fuck if everybody doesn’t join in. Laughing and singing along like they grew up on this shit. Orlovsky the driver yells for them to shut up but they don’t hardly hear him. They’re singing too loud. And pretty good, too. All in tune. Like they been practising — which of course is impossible, right? Finally, we get to the toll gate. And the driver stops the bus and gets up. Turns around like fuckin’ Count Dracula, and fixes his eyes on the sleepers.

“‘Manka!’ he says. “‘Vasilissa! Baba Yaga!’ And they all stop singing.

“‘The song,’ he says, ‘that kind of thing, is one of the things that will put you all back to sleep. You cannot go to sleep again. We are paying a toll. We will be crossing the border in a few hours. Now is not the time to retreat to your Safe Place.’

“Whatever, I think. And then — that’s when I learn Orlovsky’s name. Because he fixes me with this look — and squints — and comes back, hand over hand over the seat backs like some fuckin’ spider. And stands over me.

“‘I am Pavel Orlovsky,’ he says. ‘Who are you, who does not sing?’

“‘Sergei,’ I tell him. ‘I’m Sergei.’

“‘Well, Sergei,’ he says, ‘you are a strong one, then.’

“He might have said something else, but traffic was moving and the cars behind us started honking. So Pavel Orlovsky the bus driver turned around and went back to take us through the toll. Tell you what, I kept to myself after that. Hardly slept through the night or rest of the day. Kept my fuckin’ hand on my gun.

“So here I am, outside Edmunston, New Brunswick. We’re gonna drive through the night and then some to Halifax. But I hear there’s a couple stops along the way. I’ll try and call you with more then. Maybe I’ll see if I can talk to Mrs. Kronstein more — find out about where we’re going. What’s with the ocean in the tank. The fucking ghosts in the hotel.

“Okay. That’s all for now. Gotta run. I’ll call.”

“What does he mean,” said Shadak, “about the ocean in the tank? That’s the second time he’s mentioned that.”

Bucci shrugged. “Tank’s filled up halfway with salt water. Maybe it reminded him. How should I know?”

“He doesn’t seem right in the head.”

“Tell me about it. Listen to this next one.”

“What the fuck is Pel-flex anyway? Feels like fuckin’ nylon, what it feels like. I bought a fuckin’ Pel-flex jacket, and my fuckin’ loser nephew turns the garden hose on me, and I’m fuckin’ soaked to the skin, everybody’s laughing like I’m some kind of joke. Lemme tell you somethin’. Pel-flex is the fuckin’ joke. Why don’t you call it Kleenex? Extra-fuckin’ absorbent? In fact, that’s what I’m gonna call it. I wipe my ass with your Pel-flex. Send this to the top. Top. I’m fuckin’ pissed.

“Mr. B? Fuck, Mr. B., I can’t talk long. They’re scratchin’ around my ears, trying to get into my fuckin’ brain. Fuck. Fuck. I’m a little teapot short and stout. This is my handle and this is my —

“Okay. I think it’s okay now. We are clear. Mr. B.? All right. It’s like nine o’clock now. I’m calling you from outside a place called Rimouski, at a truck stop called — Huskie. Like the dog. Fuckin’ Canadians. They like their fuckin’ dogsleds and cheesy french fries and come to think of it half of them speak French.

“Half the ones you can find that is. This place is barren. Nothing but crappy little trees and big wide rocks. The highway’s the shits. I can’t fuckin’ believe that this is the road to Halifax.

“Anyway that’s where I am. I don’t know how long it’s going to take — but I got to tell you, this is feeling like forever. I’m half tempted to just jump here, make my way back however. Because weird shit’s been happening. You wouldn’t believe it.

“People are crying. They’re crying and talking in weird languages and sometimes fallin’ over like they’re getting seizures. And they stare at me, Mr. B. They’re staring at me like they know. So what the fuck? I’m cryin’ too.

“Okay. Look. I gotta go. They’re in my ears, man. Fuck. I’ll call again when we get to Halifax. Fuck.”

“He never got to Halifax,” explained Bucci. “We started checking maps after this call. Turns out there was a reason half the people spoke French. The stupid fuck went up into Quebec. Didn’t even fuckin’ know it. Halifax is the other way. Rimouski’s a little town on the Gaspé Peninsula.”

“The Gaspé,” said Shadak. “Is that significant?”

“In-significant,” said Bucci. “Like my boy said. Nothing but shitty little trees and rocks. Not too many people. The whole thing runs up the south side of the St. Lawrence River and then out into the Atlantic.”

“So why—” Shadak paused as the room was illuminated by a nearby flash of lightning, and a deafening thunderclap. “Why do you suppose they were going there?”

“You’d think my boy Leo would be able to figure that out, wouldn’t you? Instead of giving me shit like this.”

Bucci pressed “play.”

“One of your people on the floor of your stupid fuckin’ store was rude to my mother, all right? She comes in to buy one of your fleece ponchos because you know she ain’t getting any younger and she likes the way fleece feels on a cold day — and your little fuckin’ miss mountain-biker makes her feel like a fuckin’ Grandmother, which she is not, for complainin’ about the fact that the fleece poncho is goin’ for a hundred and eighty nine dollars, which it should not. Mom cried an’ cried after what that fuckin’ bitch said to her, and lemme tell you, if you guys don’t take care of it then I may just have to. I want you to send this to the top. The top.

“Okay, Mr. B. This is probably going to be the last call you get from me for a while. The road’s running along the fuckin’ ocean right now and there’s nothing along here but grass and darkness. Nothing. It’s like we’re goin’ into the fuckin’ sea, into the sea in the space capsule… . It smells like that.

“We’re stopped at a gas station right now, and the driver says — he says we’re not going to be stopping again. Until we get there. Halifax. Fuck. Sorry. I’m scared out of my fuckin’ mind I don’t mind telling you.

“Everybody’s gone like the fuckin’ maid now. Like zombies. I can see ’em from here — all sittin’ up straight in their bus seats waitin’ for the driver to finish pumping. Someone’s put on the fuckin’ tape recorder again. That same guy. Deep voice singing in Russian about some woman called Natascha. Probably a fuckin’ stripper, right, Mr. B?

“Fuck, Mr. B. — they’re getting just like that bitch in the hotel — you know the one of whom I’m speaking. Like anything inside them is gone, you know? Think they’re goin’ to try and do me? I don’t —

“—Fuck. That fuckin’ driver Orlovsky is coming over here. He’s got a look in his eye — like — fuck. I gotta go.”

A scuffing noise, as if the telephone receiver was rattling on the side of a phone —

—a deep voice, mumbling in Russian: “Sergei,” was the only word that came through.

Leo spoke at a great distance. “What the fuck?” he said. And the line beeped again.

“That’s all on the tape,” said Bucci. “Assistant manager picked up the messages when he came in to work this morning. We figured maybe Leo was dead by now, being as we had not heard from anyone. But now it turns out he’s not dead — right?” He turned to the red-shirted TOC-er.

“He said he was on a boat,” said the TOC-er.

“That’s right,” said Bucci, “using someone’s satellite phone.”

“Your man,” said Shadak, “is incompetent. He allowed himself to be captured. Gave himself away. Incompetent.”

Bucci stood up and went over to the window. Water streamed down the glass as black clouds blotted out what remained of the sunlight. Bucci tapped on the glass. “Hmm. Stupid. On some weird fuckin’ midlife crisis jag that I don’t understand. But he’s not dead. Now he’s on a boat. And he’s using someone’s satellite phone. Flavio?”

“Yeah?” said the red-shirted Flavio.

“You got a tape of the guy?”

“Nuh-uh. No tape. He talked with Neil direct.”

“Neil?”

“Neil Walberg,” said Flavio. “Your new Assistant Manager. Skinny fuckin’ kid. Got a big metal stud on his nose. Tattoo of a whale or some fuckin’ thing on his back. Hair like a fuckin’ fetus, which is to say none.”

“Right. Fuckin’ little Commie.”

“So Leo made Neil write down what he said. Word for word. Neil read it to me over the phone. Said he was going to fax it.”

Shadak gave Bucci a look.

“Go get it,” said Bucci.

Dear Mister B,

I am in a boat out in the ocean, It is a freight boat. Its carrying me and the other people on the bus, and boxes of expensive food. We got on the boat in a town called Cloriform Cloridorme. They have docks and a post office and shitty little houses but no where to eat and no people at least not out at night, The guys on the boat speak Russian. We are not going to Halifax I found out. We are going to a place called New Pokrovskoye. It is where everybody’s Grandmother lives. That is all that they say when they talk in English which they hardly ever do now.

I kind of got into trouble with Orlovsky, but it is okay now. I am just doing the zombie thing all the time and that seems to be good enough for the rest of them. Orlovsky thinks I am just more messed up than usual. He keeps saying these words to me: “Mango Vasaline Bubba yaya.” I do not know what they mean but his eyes go all wide like he expects something from me so I just make my eyes go all blank and mumble like the rest of them. It seems to be working so I am sticking with it.

I am calling you now from a satellite phone that I found down below. The battery is no good though so I do not know how long I can talk. But I’ll call you again when no one’s

Shadak put down the paper.

“All right,” he said, “where is this New Pokrovskoye? This Cloridorme? Do you have a map?”

“Just use the Internet,” said Flavio.

“Fuck off with your fuckin’ Internet,” said Bucci. “That’s for porn and gambling. This is serious shit. Get our guest a road map. This is a fuckin’ hotel, there’s got to be a road map in here somewhere.”

Flavio nodded, and turned to a card player. “You!” he said. “You heard ’im. Go!”

Lightning flickered like a short circuit through the blinds. Bucci steeple his hands and peered over his tall middle fingers at his thick pinkies, like they held some clue. The card players put their cards down and stared under the table at their feet the same way. Amar Shadak stood by the window and stared out into what was turning into a very angry day.

Shadak felt himself, his own anger, growing ever closer to the surface. He looked out the window, at his faint reflection in the glass. His eyes were blazing — his mouth, thin and quivering. He rolled his shoulders — straightened his back — and tried to force his lips into a pleasant smile. He looked like one of those vampires from The Omega Man, all crazy and hungry for blood. Shadak much preferred the look of the old Nazi dentist — calm and pleasant, a consummate professional who applied his craft at the diamond-tipped end of a drill. But that wasn’t coming. Not today. Shadak stopped smiling and tried to relax.

The door opened and the map guy came back. He had a little blue American Automobile Association book called Drive North America. Gepetto beckoned the map guy and Shadak to join him at the table, and they spent a while flipping through the road Atlas. They found Cloridorme quickly enough — the Gaspé Peninsula was indeed like a tongue, and all the towns on it were cankered along its outer edges. Cloridorme was out near the end, on the north coast.

New Pokrovskoye was another matter. It didn’t show up in any indices, and wasn’t marked anywhere they can see. Finally, throwing up his hands, Bucci said, “Fine! Try the fuckin’ Internet!”

They had to go downstairs to the front desk for that. The little office in back of it had a big old computer with a tiny little monitor, and a screeching little modem hooked up to the telephone jack. Flavio seemed to be the only one who knew what he was doing, so they all waited while he started going.

“There ain’t no New Pokrovskoye anywhere that I can see,” he said finally. “All the references are Russian.”

“So is there a New Pokrovskoye in Russia?” said Shadak.

“Just a Pokrovskoye.” Flavio tapped the screen, which showed a list of names next to advertisements for casinos and cars and cellular telephones. Shadak squinted at them.

“Those are web sites,” said Flavio.

“Shut the fuck up — he knows that,” said Bucci.

“Most of them,” said Shadak, “reference ‘Rasputin,’ I notice.”

“Yeah,” said Flavio. He moved the arrow to the first of them. “Let’s see why.”

The screen went white for a moment, then after a certain amount of waiting started to fill up with words and pictures.

“Rasputin’s Lair,” read Shadak, then scanned down. The web page appeared to be concerned with an elaborate fiction about the mad monk Rasputin, and his adventures in the boudoir of a Russian noblewoman called Tanya. The picture, as it loaded, showed a crudely manipulated photograph of a black-bearded man in monk’s robes, mounting a plump young woman from behind.

“What I tell you — gambling and porn,” Bucci snorted. “Fuckin’ Internet.”

“Where is Pokrovskoye in all of this?”

Flavio typed quickly. “There,” he said.

The computer had highlighted a single sentence:

“‘Ah, my lovely vixen, if you are very good, I shall return you to my harem, in the town of my birth Pokrovskoye,’ said the amply endowed monk as Lady Tanya squeeled in extatic delight.”

“Ecstatic delight?” Flavio shook his head. “Who writes this shit?”

But Shadak moved away. For the first time in days, he felt a genuine smile creeping across his lips.

“Rasputin’s birthplace,” he said, and reached into his jacket pocket — where the photograph of the bastard Alexei Kilodovich rested. “New Pokrovskoye.” He turned to Bucci. “Who do you think was born there?”

Bucci shrugged.

“I need to go upstairs,” said Shadak.

“Back to the bridal suite?”

“No. The 14^th floor. I need to see the tank. And then—”

“Then?”

“Then,” said Shadak, “we need to go north, I think.”

Bucci looked at him quietly for a moment. “You know about this shit, don’t you?”

“I know about this shit,” said Shadak gravely and Gepetto Bucci nodded. “So north,” he said, “it is.”