Chapter 2
“Did I order this?” Misha frowned as the waiter placed a fresh drink in front of him. He didn’t expect an answer. He was asking himself. There was so much going on in his head, he couldn’t keep anything straight. A drink right now would put his mind completely out of commission—which could be a good thing. He craved oblivion, an escape, a vacation from his many problems. What he needed was not simply a drink but a bracer, a snort of coke, an anesthetic. But he knew that would solve nothing.
Sitting at “his” table near the kitchen, Misha looked around the restaurant and his frown deepened. The place was not as crowded as it should be on a Saturday night. He was losing business. He felt failure coming at him and was afraid to imagine how far he’d go for a much needed infusion of cash. Just thinking about it gave him the creeps. He picked up the drink in front of him and tossed it back in one gulp.
Misha had decided to take his own sweet time getting back to his filthy stinking rich American lady. She certainly was intent on throwing around her money—money she herself hadn’t earned. Mafia money. Besides, she wasn’t serious. Misha could tell she was just playing, just daydreaming, fantasizing. She had no idea what was involved in opening and running a business. Her whole life must be fantasy, her only worry being how to spend someone else’s money. Misha shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. So much money and she wanted to blow it all (although he had no idea how much that all could be) on something so totally useless and absurd as an art gallery! As if Riga didn’t have plenty of those. Hadn’t he himself just hosted Arsy and his art? Nothing to it. But there sure was no money in it.
What she really needed, Misha decided, was someone to manage all that beautiful money for her—in such a way as to give him a piece of that beautiful pie. He grimaced at the implication. That someone would have to do a lot of romancing. And here was the snag. Sure he could flirt with her but there was a limit. He toyed with possibilities. A handsome hetero man. A lawyer. English speaking. Someone he could trust.
He rolled his mental Rolodex. Ah! There was Ivars. The guy had cut his teeth on expat ladies wishing to regain property confiscated by the Soviets. Those had been largely naïve and unattached women. But would Ivars be up to it? This case was a bit trickier. Vika Zito was no fresh flower child. She was smart and canny and had already found friends. He knew Arsy (not a problem) but was a bit worried about the tall Latvian they called Eggy. Then there were the women. He sniggered remembering the ungainly Simone and the doddering old aunt. What did they know about high finance or anything important at all? It was too much to think about.
Misha couldn’t stand just sitting there and worrying for a moment longer. He left the table and moved towards the front of the restaurant. One of the few remaining guests nodded at him. Misha gave a quick answering nod. He wasn’t in the mood for schmoozing. He said goodbye to the bartender, put on his overcoat and headed for his car.
* * *
This wasn’t the kind of deal you could put together over a cell phone. They’d have to meet in private. Misha decided on a quick call to ask Ivars for a meeting.
Ivars had done well for himself. Fresh out of law school in the early nineties his clients paid him well—for consultation. Ivars hadn’t been able to pass the bar exam and had to be employed by another lawyer. And did he ever luck out! He had found the perfect partner. An expat female lawyer from Chicago. They made a great team until his partner succumbed to alcoholism and eventually returned to Chicago. By then Ivars had largely taken over her practice. Somehow he hadn’t been caught acting for clients even though he wasn’t fully qualified.
But then the lucrative work dried up. “Lady Luck has to step in and take my side,” he had told Misha the last time they’d met for a drink. “I’m almost broke.” As expected, Ivars was glad to hear there would be “work” and immediately invited Misha over for drinks, coffee, whatever.
Ivars was made-to-order for the job. Still youngish at the age of fifty, tall, fit, skilled in English and experienced when dealing with foreigners—especially with clueless females eager to start a fresh new life in a new (yet familiar) country.
The Latvian suburb of Marupe had reinvented itself. Formerly mainly farmland it had become a posh address for ambitious Yuppies and, while not exactly “young,” Ivars fit right in. In fact the neighborhood he lived in was called Old Captain Club Village. But how long could he afford to stay there? His entrepreneurial magic had waned as the chaos and uncertainty of the nineties was replaced by functioning laws and regulations.
What karmic unfairness, Misha muttered to himself as he parked his car in front of a well-maintained town house. He himself had more or less obeyed the law, had worked hard and yet all he had was a small apartment on the sixth floor of an un-renovated building in Purvciems. Maybe it was time for the tide to turn.
Ivars came to the door smoking a cigar. “How about a drink?” I’ve got some nice Glenfiddich single malt,” he said. “Go on into the living room. I’ll bring it in.”
“No, thanks. Just coffee for me.” Misha was a tad nervous. Coffee would steady him.
Suave was the best word to describe Ivars. Yet underneath the air of affluence and self-confidence Misha could detect shimmers of anxiety. They were, after all, both on the cusp of financial ruin.
Ivars blew a smoke ring. He had placed himself and his drink on a cream-colored love seat while indicating the sofa for Misha and his coffee. Misha dove right in.
“It’s a money managing situation.”
“Whose money?”
Misha made a noise which could pass for an abbreviated laugh. “Not mine. There’s nothing much left to manage but I do know someone…”
“Someone rich, I suppose,” said Ivars prodding the air with his cigar.
“Yes. A very rich American lady. Her heritage is Latvian—” Here Misha stopped for a few seconds. “But her background is basically Mafia.”
Ivars took the cigar from his mouth and studied the coal end. He was nodding his head and concentrated as Misha told him about Vika Zito, about her money and plans for an art gallery.
“She asked me to find her a lawyer who could help with the technicalities. As you can imagine it’s complicated. She can’t even speak Latvian, let alone Russian.”
“Interesting…” said Ivars as he got up to refresh his drink. He looked at Misha who nodded. He had made his pitch; he had earned the Glenfiddich. Misha took a long gulp of his drink and relaxed against the plump sofa cushions. This could work, he said to himself and closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them to find Ivars leaning forward with that damn cigar. It was beginning to give Misha a headache.
“I wonder if she’s still connected to the mob. That could get tricky,” said Ivars as he rested his cigar on a large cut glass ash tray where it continued to stink up the air Misha had to breathe.
“Don’t know.”
Ivars shrugged. “Ah well. Just a thought.”
Misha sat up straight. “Come to think of it, that could be a problem. Maybe. She was involved in getting mob boss, Juris Lapins, put away. She did the same to her husband back in New York. She has guts.”
“And she is still hanging around here? Lapins is sure to have set a price on her head.”
Misha gave a stunted sort of laugh. “Unless he has other plans… Still, all the more reason to get a move on. God only knows how many are out there interested in this ballsy little lady with all that cash.”
Ivars smile was more like a sneer. “But how the hell do you know she’s loaded. Up to now she’s eaten in your restaurant a few times. Must have left a big tip! And about those diamonds. How do you know they’re real?”
Misha paused, stopping the drink on the way to his mouth. “Hey,” he said. “Sounds like you don’t want the job. Should I look for someone else?”
Ivars rose to his feet. “You kidding me? I’m in!”
