CHAPTER 30

If you want to hide a diamond put it in a tiara.

Eggy headed for the tiara. He dropped his crew off at Spice shopping centre and made a smooth-as-silk move right into the gorgeously decadent luxury car dealership off Lielirbes Street. He left the key in the ignition. Wouldn’t that be someone’s lucky day? A black Mercedes with tinted windows! More luxurious than even the president of Latvia could ever dream of.

Having dumped the Merc, Eggy headed back to his crew. A cab had just dropped someone off at Spice and the four of them descended on it like a murder of crows on fresh road kill. Vika, Svetlana, Simone and Eggy piled in. They had been getting increasingly more nervous, even scared. What would they find once they arrived back at Simone’s?

A turning point had been reached. This was no longer an exciting adventure but a life and death situation where one or all of them could fall victim to a gang land killing. The medical diagnosis would be that they were all in shock.

Simone rummaged in her purse for her flask, found it (luckily it was full) and passed it around to the women in the back seat. Eggy, in the front passenger seat, was about to light a cigarette when the driver sharply reprimanded him not to stink up the cab. Other than that it was dead silence. Outside the streets glittered, carpeted in snow which shone incandescent in the lamplights.

As they drove over the Vanšu Bridge the panorama of the old city stretched before them, the reflected light dancing on the river Daugava—a magnificent sight often depicted on post cards. Vika had shut down her mind and stared at the passing scenes as if she were watching a travelogue.

Out of an abundance of caution, they asked to be let out a couple of  blocks from Simone’s place. From there Simone called Aunt Velga. “Oh yes, an ambulance came and took away a man who was lying on the pavement.” That’s all Velga had seen. She had been busy in the kitchen when the incident had occurred. Simone was glad of that.

Eggy, free to light up again, took full advantage and inhaled smoke as if his life depended on it. He was worried sick. Had a neighbor seen what had happened? Seen him shove a man to the pavement, possibly killing him? Yet he consoled himself with the fact that he had probably saved Svetlana’s life.

The four of them seemed to be members of the less-said-the-better club. Here they were, standing on a street corner, uncertain about what to do next.

Eggy smiled a chilly smile. It was a cover for anxiety, or even panic.

“If the police question any of us, it was self-defense.”

Three pairs of wide eyes fixed on him. Heads nodded.

The snow kept falling and it was getting cold. Vika didn’t have the right shoes for this weather even though she still had on a man’s heavy jacket which she had used as a disguise.

Once they got out of the warm cab it didn’t take long for the cold to penetrate. They shivered, stomped their feet, blew into their hands. At the same time they were reluctant to move away from each other, needing comfort and support from the group.

Vika took the lead. “I think Simone and Svetlana should go home. It’s not a long walk from here. I know Eggy has a home.” Then she shook her head and gave a sad little smile, “But I’m not sure about mine.”

Eggy frowned. “You have to be careful, Vika. I hope the driver of the Merc didn’t get on the phone to one of his buddies and tell them about your apartment.”

Vika gave a short bark of laughter. “Ha! Remember, I’ve got the gun! And Bernie taught me how to shoot, how to defend myself. In his line of business, it was always best to be prepared.”

Eggy’s frown deepened. “ A gun. Yes, you picked it up. I’m no expert on guns. They’re not so easy to get. Not like in USA.”

“Really!” Now Vika’s laugh was genuine. “It was easy for me to get one right here in Riga. Besides, how do people protect themselves?”

“Pepper spray, usually.”

Eggy shrugged. He was freezing and losing patience. “Anyway, let’s go. We’ll take public transport. You’ll get to experience what a lot of tourists don’t. I’ll get you back to your apartment and from there I can easily walk home. My father will be waiting for me.”

Vika sighed. “Yes, your father…” she murmured.

Two gents, (one tall, one short) hopped on the trolleybus and headed for central Riga. No one bothered to glance at them. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. They spoke little during the ride, other than agreeing to meet again the next day.

* * *

At the front door of her apartment house on Valdemara street Vika pulled a wad of euros from her purse. “Give this to your buddy. Of course if he wants his clothes back that’s okay  too.”

Eggy made a snuffling noise, his version of a laugh. “I wish mine would fit you.”

Unbidden, a thought flew into Vika’s mind. She was no longer just a tourist. She had friends. She smiled. Then she stood on tiptoes and gave Eggy a heartfelt kiss.

* * *

Vika was back on track. Her mother. Bernie. But before she made a move to contact them she toured her small apartment. Nothing seemed disturbed. Still, she made sure the curtains were closed and the door had been double locked before she inspected her hiding place. Svetlana’s package was safe and sound.

When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn’t even remember. Of course there was no food in the house. The fridge was empty as were the kitchen cupboards. In New York she’d simply pick up the phone and order: Chinese, Indian, Italian. Could she wait till the next morning? Bending over to remove her shoes she noticed how easy it was. She had lost weight. Fasting was a great idea.

As she got ready for bed (thank God there was hot water) Vika worried.  She didn’t trust this seemingly peaceful interlude. Was this the calm before the storm? Or were they in the eye of the storm, waiting for the other wall of the eye?

She picked up her phone to call her mother but realized it would be late at night in New York. She texted, giving instructions. She needed her mother out of the grips of Bernie. Next she sent a loving text to her husband. Kill him with kindness was her modus operandi.

Chapter 29

Aina smiled at him. Her face was almost translucent. Nothing was hidden. Everything was in it. Her honest gaze made Arsy blush. How in the world could he go through with the sham Mademoiselle story?

“I’d be pleased to do the interview,” Aina said politely.

Arsy hesitated. Aina was different from any other girl he’d ever met. She had natural beauty. Yet she also had a a sense of style with her red boots and simple black dress and glorious reddish blond hair. Her eyes sparkled and there was humor in them.

Aina looked into Arsy’s handsome face—oh that smile!  The idea of being part of Mademoiselle intrigued her but getting to know this gent intrigued her even more.

The next moment, the very air they breathed became thick with romance. Arsy forgot all about Ivo who had peered out of the kitchen to watch the encounter.

“Would you have a bit of time? Say twenty minutes or so. We could go to the place across the street. It would be more private and we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Aina replied without hesitation. “Yes. Let’s go.”

* * *

Ivo felt a chill. He shivered. Could he somehow sense the Angel of Death hovering nearby? If he did, he quickly tuned out, kicked aside his bucket and mop, and followed the two as they headed for the front door. But once outside, Ivo stopped. His face contorted. His hand clutched at his chest. The next moment, he slumped to the ground.

A sudden shaft of light, left over from summer, bathed him in gold. Seconds later, the light vanished.

Arsy half turned, noticed a man lying on the top step of the stairs. He knew instinctively that he should keep walking. Luckily Aina hadn’t noticed anything. Arsy knew that she would have been horrified.

He hurried her across Raina Boulevard to the little coffee shop on the corner. Just before taking the stairs leading down into the basement, Arsy looked over his shoulder again and noticed a woman (it could have been Liga) bending over the slumped body.

A mixture of emotions coursed through him. Shock. Relief. Sadness.

He had been out of touch with his feelings for so long. Feelings were luxuries. He had tamped them down and just got on with the business of staying alive. Now they came flooding back as he looked at this lovely girl smiling across the table from him.

“I want to tell you a story,” he said.

Aina looked at him quizzically.

“It’s not about Mademoiselle. It’s about something much more important.”

Aina leaned closer. Arsy was glad she hadn’t glanced at her watch. This was going to be a very long story.

* * *

Snow had started to fall. Bunches of big weightless flakes slowly slipped from the sky, smoothing a fresh white eiderdown over the city. The first snow of winter was always a magical surprise.

Arsy and Aina left the café and started to walk along Raina Boulevard. A hush had descended. They were alone in the world. Just the two of them.

Dream images drifted in and out of Arsy’s imagination. The two of them snug as could be before a roaring fireplace, drinking tea and sherry, with a dog at their feet. There were more fantasies: the two of them in a flowering meadow with the sun shining on Aina, bathing her in golden radiance.

Real life interrupted.

“It’s late, Arsy. My grandfather’s driver always picks me up at five o’clock. I must go back to the Academy.”

Back to the Academy! Arsy certainly didn’t want to go back there. Ivo’s buddies could be hanging around. And Ivo himself could be alive and well after a dizzy spell. If indeed it had been Ivo. Arsy started to doubt himself. He had spilled his guts to Aina. He trusted her. But there could still be danger for them both.

“Call the driver, Aina. Tell him to pick you up right here in front of the café. I think it’s better. Let’s walk back and I’ll wait with you.”

Aina agreed and, some fifteen minutes later, was chauffeured back home.

* * *

After saying goodbye to Aina (with promises to meet again) Arsy decided to stop at a grocery store on his way home to buy pastries and a bottle of wine for Madame Zenunda. He didn’t forget Minka who also deserved a treat—a can of smoked lamprey.

Then he took the bus back to Maskava’s Street and his studio. Staring out at the snow still falling over the quiet city his mind started to flow with memories from his childhood. He was indeed an orphan. All alone in the world. His mother had died when he was ten years old; he never knew his father. His maternal grandparents had brought him up. Now they were both deceased.

His fascination with art had always comforted him. In the world of art anything was possible. Each painting he saw in the art galleries of Riga pointed to another reality—a more beautiful reality—a portrait of what life should be like. And could be like. If he worked hard.

While working as a waiter and at menial jobs (mainly in renovation projects), he taught himself to draw. His sketchbook had been his constant companion and, when he had saved a bit of money, he purchased oil paint and canvas.

Arsy had met Juris Lapins at one of the Jugendstyl building sites on Elizabetes Street. Juris had walked in as if he owned the place—and he probably did. At the time, Arsy was having a short lunch break and was working on a drawing. Juris had walked up behind him silently and Arsy had not even noticed. Juris had watched for who knows how long before he startled Arsy by saying, “Not bad for someone who never went to the Arts Academy.”

That meeting had been Arsy’s entrée into the world of crime. He had refused to do anything violent. He figured that working at art forgery was still working at art so that was okay. Of course he had no idea at the time that it was Juris Lapins, in his  KGB officer days, who had sent Arsy’s father to Siberia.

Nearing his bus stop, Arsy stopped daydreaming. He was pulled out of his reverie by loud sirens. His heart stopped beating. Firefighters didn’t turn up for no good reason. Clutching his shopping bags, Arsy raced towards his house.

Chapter 28

Two nicely-dressed gents, one tall, one short, entered the Hotel de Rome and approached the bank of elevators. They attracted little attention since a large tour bus had just disgorged a mass of Asian tourists who were streaming into the hotel and heading for reception. The lobby was cheek to jowl and so was the elevator which stopped at the fourth floor where the two got off.

Then it was as if they had grown wings. In a New York minute, they were inside room 407. Then it was only a hop, skip, and jump to get into the safe, raid the mini bar, and grab up everything else. Like thieves in the night, the two retraced their steps, glad to see the commotion in the lobby as yet another tour bus had arrived. Thank God for tour buses. Even in this off season.

A gleaming black Mercedes with tinted windows idled at the entrance. Not for the first time did Vika breathe I’m so glad I’m rich. It was one of the few times in her life that she had felt almost overcome by the knowledge that she had so many possibilities. It was certainly much more fun spending money this way than getting a face lift or buying obscenely expensive shoes.

Hands slapped in high fives as the Merc ferried the two a short distance to Vika’s new digs. She took it as a sign of good omen that the sun had just peeked out and the permanent twilight of Riga’s skies was momentarily ablaze with shafts of golden light.

For both of them this adventure was so much more exciting than visiting Latvia’s predictable tourist traps. Sitting beside her, Eggy too was wreathed in smiles. He felt like a character in a spy movie. Life was certainly interesting with this rich American—although Eggy no longer thought of Vika in those terms. She was cool. A friend.  And he was glad that a buddy of his had been able to lend Vika a suitable outfit.

Vika giggled. “I don’t want to give these clothes back, Eggy. I feel so free and, more importantly—I feel so invisible.”

Eggy snorted a laugh back at her. “For a few euros your wish can come true.”

“Deal!”

For a few sunny minutes, the friendly banter continued as both savored the success of their mission. Vika had previously consulted Air Bed and Breakfast on the Internet. She had rented a small apartment on Valdemara Street. On the third floor, which was important. Less desirable were apartments on either the first or the sixths floor. Elevators often malfunctioned and first floor was less safe. Vika had been delighted at what she considered low rent. Four hundred and fifty euros per months was a steal.

Luckily the apartment was furnished. When the limo deposited the two at the entrance Vika felt, for a brief crazy moment, that she and Eggy were moving in together. She felt light headed with fantasies and imaginings. There was everything here that she needed—except for a safe and a mini bar. Would there be room here for her mother as well?

“I’ve rented the Merc for the day. Anywhere special you’d like to be chauffeured to?” Riga was her oyster. She didn’t want to devour it on her own.

“Let me think,” Eggy replied, with a laugh as he rocked his hands in a comme ci, comme ça gesture.

“Take all the time you need. First, I have to go see Svetlana. I have some of her stuff and her briefcase. So, let’s go to Simone’s. Maybe she’ll enjoy a chauffeured tour of Riga as well.”

But before any of that, she’d have to find a safe place for the small package which Svetlana had been ordered to give her on behalf of Juris Lapins. And which she herself was meant to carry on to Bernie in New York.

The thought that the driver of the Merc could in any way be affiliated with organized crime didn’t occur to either of them. Their mission-accomplished moment was so intoxicating that they had thrown caution to the wind.

* * *

It was a fine late November day. Simone decided that Svetlana should start exercising outdoors. She had recovered well and longed to be out and about again. By four o’clock it would be dark and both women wanted to catch whatever precious bit of sunlight they could.

As they exited the house they were surprised to see a black Merc with tinted windows pull up in front of the house. Wide-eyed they stood on the spot and watched as the driver got out and went around the car, ready to open the passenger door. Who were these people? What was happening?

The next instant Svetlana let out a scream. She pointed at the driver.

“That’s him! He’s the one that tried to kill me!”

The driver wheeled around to see who had just screamed. He recognized who it was. Slowly he reached under his jacket and pulled out a gun. He raised it. But hadn’t noticed that Eggy had gotten out of the car and was behind him. Eggy lunged. The gun discharged into the air and simultaneously the shooter did a face plant on the pavement.

No one moved. This moment was their existential turning point. Nothing would ever be the same again for any of them. Absolutely nothing.

There were gasps of horror and Svetlana slumped to the ground. The driver lay motionless. Was he dead?

Vika was the first to react. Adrenaline fueled her. She grabbed the gun from the sidewalk and shouted.

“The key’s still in the ignition. We’ve got to get the car out of here. And now. Before police arrive.”

It was amazing good luck that the street was still empty. There was no foot traffic and the few cars which had passed by hadn’t bothered to stop.

They all knew that any minute now a crowd would be gathering.

“Get in the car right now! I’m driving!”

Vika was already behind the wheel and revving the motor as   Eggy and Simone lifted Svetlana into the back seat.

“We’re ditching this baby in some dark neighborhood. Any ideas, Eggy?”

“Just keep driving straight ahead and get out of this neighborhood. Then just pull over and I’ll take the wheel. We’ll be heading for Pardaugava.”

Chapter 27

Arsy smiled his signature lady-killer smile at pretty much every female he ran into at Riga’s famed Arts Academy. He wasn’t looking for love—at least not now and not here. Some goon had threatened to burn his place down if he wouldn’t agree to romance an art student named Aina Lapina. He had been told that Aina was the beloved granddaughter of mafia kingpin, Juris Lapins.  Juris had been Arsy’s boss. Until he wasn’t. Now Arsy had a new boss. A rival Mafioso fighting for Juris’ turf.

How he wished he had never become involved in this criminal world. He had been sucked in with the promise of art commissions and riches. He needed money. How else could he keep his art alive? It’s what he lived for, worked for. Now it was too late to simply walk away from the gangsters. He had become much too involved. So, here he was on this sunny fall day, scouring the halls of Latvia’s best art college, looking for a girl he had been ordered to seduce.

Swilling his beer in the café of the academy, Arsy had the insane notion that his girl would just appear. His readings with Madam Zenunda had reinforced his belief in magic. Somehow the one he was seeking would be drawn to him while he sat there, dejected and hopeless—and soon drunk. He wondered if he were to just give up and place his head on one of those café tables. Would someone come and give him a helping hand?

Someone did. But it wasn’t his girl. Liga was in charge of the café. She was also the wife of the vice-director of the Academy of Arts—having beaten off several ladies vying for that position. Even though she was well on the wrong side of forty, Liga’s vibe was still youngish. She was very talkative (actually a wellspring of gossip) and very ambitious. She wanted more out of life (deserved more out of life) than to cater to these spoiled kids who thought they were better than anyone else. But, for the moment, she had to stay put.

The rush at the café was over. Liga had wiped down the small bistro tables and emptied out overflowing ashtrays. Now it was time to relax.   She reached into her pocket for her cigarettes, fingered one out. And  was surprised when the handsome young man who was still drinking his beer leapt to his feet, pulled out his lighter and approached to light her cigarette. She smiled at him and inhaled the smoke as if it were heavenly ambrosia.

Her smile was not coy or coquettish but still laden with sensuality and promise. She was certainly not a student (there wasn’t an adult education program at the academy) but certainly had been demoted as spouse of one of the big shots at the academy. Why was she doing this menial job while her husband had such a good position? Clearly her husband wasn’t satisfactory—financially, for starters.

The sultry voice was both maternal and seductive.

“I haven’t seen you here before? Are you a student?”

Arsy felt like taking a brave risk. Telling her everything. And getting her help in locating the Mafioso princess. Still, something in Liga’s demeanor told him she couldn’t be trusted. And how did Ivo get a job here anyway? Arsy still heard him clattering pots and pans in the back kitchen. How did he get placed here? To spy on Arsy?

“No, I’m a journalist,” Arsy lied.

Exhaling a billow of smoke, Liga smiled indulgently (as if she didn’t believe him) and asked,  “Who do you write for?”

“I’m free-lance.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

Arsy had to think fast. He had to invent a story. He looked around the room as if for someone to come help him. Madame Zenunda?

“An American magazine has given me an assignment.” That was pretty noncommittal. Pretty general. He hoped she would back off.

“Which one?”

Arsy frowned. What the hell was her problem?  What does she want from me?

“At the moment my assignment is confidential.”

“What are you writing about? Is that confidential too?”

She was playing with him. “Yes, it is,” Arsy said firmly. He had to take charge of this conversation. “And who’s that fellow banging around in the kitchen? He looks out of place here.” A Mafiosi goon parading as a school janitor. That was a new one for Arsy.

“No, no he does a good job. By the way,” Liga said with a conspiratorial grin, “there’s still fresh coffee. With a shot of brandy? Are you interested?”

Arsy breathed a sigh of relief. “You read my mind but hold the coffee.”

As Liga got up for the coffee Arsy noticed her shapely body, encased in a tight black sweater and brown slacks. She was stacked—to use a colloquialism. But not his type. He thought fondly of Mrs Zito. She was no spring chicken either but was still warm and alluring.

Arsy was pleased Liga had decided to lay off—at least for the moment. He noticed that Liga had stubbed out her cigarette. Ever the gentleman, he rummaged in his pockets intending to offer her one of his. Damn! The crumpled pack was empty again.

Time for his lady-killer smile. Liga smiled back and reached into her purse. So few people these days enjoyed smoking. So many had quit. But these two hadn’t. They both fired up, blew streams of smoke at each other. Liga enjoyed her spiked coffee, Arsy savored the generous dose of brandy. They lifted their drinks, toasting someone or something. The mood had become quite companionable in this cozy, dark, little café.

But Arsy hadn’t eaten anything that day and the alcohol made him slightly dizzy. It was time to cut to the chase.

“Listen. Do you know the students here? It’s a woman’s magazine I’m working for and I’m supposed to interview several girls about lifestyles —how they feel about a career in art, about marriage.” Arsy couldn’t believe his own spiel, making up bullshit as he went along. At least he was able to think on his feet. No one had ever accused him of being the dullest tool in the shed.

Despite Arsy’s brilliant account, Liga had turned away from him. She got up from her chair to greet a trio of lovely young things who had just sauntered into the café.

“Ciao ladies! Just in time to meet an international journalist.” Her smile was ironic. With a knowing look, she turned back to Arsy.

“What did you say your name was?”

Unfazed, Arsy replied, “I didn’t.”

The brandy had made Arsy surly and sure of himself. He almost shouted BINGO when he heard one of the girls calling the other girl Aina.

And, just like that, Arsy came out of his daze. He used his killer smile one more time. And his most persuasive voice,

“Aina, Aina! What a pretty name. I have a sister called Aina. She’s very pretty and intelligent. Tell me, Aina, would you like to be interviewed? It’s for a magazine called Mademoiselle. You may have heard of it. It’s American but with a French name. It’s a very sophisticated magazine.”

Arsy savored the fortunate stroke of serendipity which had led him to Aina. He would waste no time. He’d tell her what the goon was after. He’d warn this pretty girl. Who then would warn her grandfather. And God only knew what would happen then. But before that, he had to make sure he had the right Aina.

The pretty young woman blushed. Arsy was pleased he had pulled that out of his hat. Mademoiselle? How the hell had he come up with that? But no matter. It worked. He hoped Ivo had been watching from somewhere in the back kitchen where he was still banging around, washing dishes or sorting garbage.   

Chapter 26

Pervasive dream images from childhood cascaded through her mind. You’ll be late you’ll be late hurry hurry hurry…

She was running as fast as she could. She couldn’t be late. She’d be punished.

Heart pounding, Vika thrashed around, struggling against something tying her down, not letting her breathe, not letting her run. What was going on?

Wriggling around, she finally managed to extricate herself from a flimsy sheet and from a rough wool blanket. What happened to her duvet? Her two soft luxurious pillows? And it was so noisy. And cold. She’d have to complain.

Somewhat awake by now but still confused, Vika was surprised to find herself in a narrow little bed—a cot, really. Gradually her unconscious mind, with its storage of childhood dreams and nightmares, receded. She smelled coffee. Room service?

Trying to sit up, she winced. She was sore all over and stiff, having had to scrunch herself into an uncomfortable position on this hard narrow mattress. What was she wearing? Vika couldn’t believe she had on a long flannel shirt of some kind. How come?

Then it all started coming back to her. It was last night. Outside the Hotel de Rome. How could she forget Frankie’s words? “You must hide. Bernie’s business partner here in Latvia is looking for you. He wants some package. He’s dangerous.”

She had reacted immediately, jumped into a cab and taken refuge with Simone and Aunt Velga, joining Svetlana who also was a refugee and was still recovering from her near-death “accident.”

Vika felt bereft. All she had of her own were the clothes she had on her back and her purse. Poor Simone! What a sad end to her birthday dinner last night had been!

There was a soft knock on the door and, as if conjured up, Simone  came in carrying a cup of coffee.

“Did you sleep okay?”

Awkwardly Vika pulled herself up to a seated position, “Thank you for everything, Simone.” She gave a rueful smile. “Your apartment is getting pretty crowded. I’m sorry.”

“Oh nothing, nothing. Everything is okay,” Simone replied, flustered and at a loss for words.

Vika gratefully accepted the coffee. What supreme irony that she who couldn’t live without luxury was now sheltering in a crowded mule sanctuary!

Simone smiled over her shoulder as she softly closed the door behind her.

Vika had to get busy. Her first call was to the Hotel de Rome where she instructed reception not to release any information about her to anyone. “Yes, madam,” was the reply. “We have not done so.”

Minutes later her phone rang. It was a local call. Frankie.

“Just to let you know. Two goons turned up at the hotel last night. The same ones who had been guarding me. I didn’t follow them around but I saw them leave.”

Vika had so many people to thank. It was something new for her since she had always taken her security and her wellbeing for granted. So, she thanked Frankie profusely and took his cell number.

She dreaded the thought that she’d have to go back to the hotel and  retrieve her possessions and, most importantly, the contents of the safe. She had to plan how to do this safely.

Another tap on the door and she heard Simone’s voice. “Breakfast is ready. Please come.”

Where in the world was her soft fluffy dressing gown? Her slippers? Her cosmetic bag? How was she supposed to brush her teeth? Put on her makeup?

We’re all ladies here, Vika finally said to herself. She pulled her jacket over the night shirt and ventured out of the room. She was hungry.

Aunt Velga’s best china was on the small kitchen table. Four places were set. Small bowls of porridge, an egg, and slices of bread. Four ladies sat down. What a moment! Vika didn’t understand Latvian and, of course, not Russian, so the conversation was stilted. Still, all four women felt a sense of camaraderie. And all three of them were fascinated by Vika—the rich American, sitting at their table and not looking rich at all.

Vika stared at what was in front of her. Nothing could win her over like a bowl of porridge. She realized that she had to say something. “Thank you. Thank you,” she said summoning up her best phony smile. She felt as if she was on life support. Just the essentials to keep her alive. Some food. Somewhere to sleep.

Still, the porridge was a problem. She couldn’t make it go away. Couldn’t insult the people who had taken her in. Could she be allergic to porridge? That was a long shot. She tried distraction.

“Oh! I just love eggs. And this bread is so nice.”

Svetlana, sitting opposite her, looked puzzled.

Simone frowned. “Eat the porridge now. It is hot.”

Aunt Velga, who only spoke Latvian in her house, pushed the bowl a little closer to Vika. “Nu?”

Could she grin and bear it? She could.

She cursed this porridge-besotted breakfast table, shivered slightly and dipped her spoon delicately into the thick lumpy mass. Her eyes lowered, she tried for an ummm sound but instead a harsh hacking noise escaped her lips.

But there was a God. Her cell sounded. Saved by the bell!  Vika looked up from her bowl and the balloon over her head said Thank you, Jesus! 

Her gladness vanished two minutes later as Irena described what was going on in New York. Vika looked around the table, at the three good-natured faces, brows wrinkled with concern. My mother should be here. With us. Safe. She said all this to herself as she listened to an account of Bernie’s threats against her mother.

“Listen, mamma, you’re leaving. You’re out of there. I insist!” Vika’s voice grew loud and forceful. “You have plenty of money in your account. Get yourself a ticket to Riga. Promise me!”

All thoughts of porridge were forgotten. Vika wanted a drink. She wanted a cigarette even though she wasn’t a smoker. She wanted something. Drugs? If not drugs outright, Valium would do. But where in the world would she find any of that around here?

Her mother was the only person she had ever loved. Ever would love, by the looks of things. She settled for coffee. There were tears in her eyes. Tears of frustration and anger.

“Please. More coffee. I can’t eat right now.”

Aunt Velga rushed to the coffee pot. Refilled Velga’s mug. And gave her a hug. Even though Velga didn’t understand English, she knew the word mamma.

Gulping her coffee, Vika said with determination, “I must get my stuff out of the hotel. I’ll find another hotel later but right now I need my stuff.”

Three heads nodded in agreement.

What was the plan? Vika couldn’t be seen going into the Hotel de Rome. Frankie seemed sure the goons would be back. Just to check.

Vika turned to Simone. At least Simone understood English. Vika brainstormed, doing all the talking herself, as Simone stared wide-eyes and bobbed her head up and down.

Plan A would have Vika in disguise. She’d ditch the glamor and reinvent herself. She hoped that there wouldn’t be the need for a plan B.

Chapter 25

Arsy was desperate to stay safe in a clearly dangerous situation. He was being shaken down but for what?

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’m just an artist—that is, when I have the time. Mostly I’m just a waiter.” Arsy didn’t like to sound pathetic but his voice came out as squeaky and beseeching. He was scared.

The visitor chortled. “Maybe this is your lucky day. Maybe you’ll get big tips or, better still, a nice commission. Become rich and famous.”

Arsy’s face brightened. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. He hauled himself up from the futon he had collapsed on. “I can show you some of my work.” He reached into his storage space and smiled his special smile. Not the seductive one he used on women but his own natural smile, which was sincere and likable. He clearly had great expectations.

“Look. You might like. Right here where—”

A raised hand interrupted. “I’m sure you’re brilliant. This commission is a little… well, special.”

“Special?” Arsy’s smile started to vanish.

“Here’s the thing. We know you’re an associate of Juris Lapins—”

“But…” This time it was Arsy’s turn to interrupt.

Again he was silenced. “Never mind. I must introduce myself. My name is Ivo. My friends and I have seen you with Juris. Pity he never invited you into his Jurmala mansion. It’s said to be full of original art work. But he hasn’t recognized your talent. Uses you as an errand boy—as a mule. That must be humiliating for someone with your talent.”

Arsy pulled out his cigarettes.

“No. Don’t do that. I’ve quit and don’t want to be tempted.”

Arsy’s shoulders slumped. What the hell did this guy want?

“We want to get to know Juris Lapins a little better. He has a nice family. A beautiful granddaughter.”

Arsy frowned. That’s it, isn’t it? Now I’m a gigolo. He sighed wearily, knowing what was coming.

There was a longish silence as Ivo organized his thoughts. How to make it so that the guy doesn’t refuse? He wanted this to go smoothly. He too had a boss who was watching every move.

“Look, she’s a fellow artist. Currently enrolled at Riga’s Art Academy. You’d have a great deal in common.”

“Except I never went there,” Arsy interjected. His tone was bitter. “That’s for rich kids and those with blats.”

“Okay, sure, but this is one rich kid you’d like. She’s only twenty or something. First year, we think. No matter. All you need is a name and the rest is up to you. We’ll even throw in some cash so that you can wine and dine the little lady. But just don’t disappoint us.”

Arsy answered with a tentative, “Well… I still don’t see…”

Ivo’s  smile was conciliatory “Now, we’re not asking you to marry her. Just make sure she falls in love with you. You’ve got what it takes.”

A brief mirthless laugh followed. Perhaps an attempt to downplay Arsy’s good looks. Although youngish, Ivo certainly didn’t have what it would take. He was short, fattish, almost bald and his teeth were deplorable.

Arsy was dying for a cigarette. He just had to get this over with. “What’s her name?”

“That’s the ticket. Good.” Ivo looked ready to leave. “Her name is Aina. Aina Lapina.”

The name meant nothing to Arsy. He was bamboozled. What the hell was he supposed to do with this Aina. He’d never set foot in the Art Academy. So, now he was ordered to find this girl and make her fall in love. And then what?

On his way to the door Ivo placed a wad on Arsy’s futon. And a photo of a very pretty girl.

“There will be much more if you follow instructions but if you do not…” Ivo trailed off. Narrowing his eyes, he gestured at everything in the room. “This place is an old fire trap. Old timber burns well. I’m surprised that the city hasn’t had it torn down yet.”

Arsy’s eyes went wild. “But just tell me. What are those instructions?”

Ivo was enjoying the panic he had created. The threat of fire usually did the job. “Don’t worry. Right now just make friends with this girl. We’ll get in touch with you after that.”

Arsy was getting even more nervous and started to pat down his pockets again, looking for his pack of cigarettes, knowing he was not allowed to smoke. What was he supposed to do? He paced around his small room while Ivo just smiled.

“Have fun,” were his parting words.

Arsy felt trapped. One hundred euros to seduce a young art student. How cheap! How cynical! He looked at the photo. A very nice-looking girl but not outrageously beautiful.

And what was he to get out of all this? It looked like the famous offer that you weren’t supposed to refuse. Luckily Ivo hadn’t heard about Svetlana and Arsy’s role in spiriting her to safety. And Arsy still had plans to sell Vika the Rozentals he had worked so hard to perfect. And which Juris had rejected—much as he had rejected Arsy’s art production as a whole. It still smarted to remember Ivo’s words: Juris has a house full of art but none of it is yours.

Before doing anything else, Arsy had to protect the meager belongings he possessed. Luckily he was able to insert a padlock on his door so no one would walk in.

* * *

Arsy hoped inspiration would hit him. How was he to proceed? Standing outside the magnificent old building with its red brick façade and majestic spires, he marveled at this artistic mecca which had gathered under its roof Latvia’s most talented art students—or so one was led to believe.

Arsy looked up at the sky. It was already darkening. And getting cold. He could just pop inside, look around. There was no law against that, was there?

He pulled open the heavy door, stepped inside and immediately felt at home. As the door shut behind him, it was as if he had stepped into another world. He loved the smell. Turpentine mixed with some other scents. He thought of his cat Minka. They probably had an Academy cat somewhere—sort of like a mascot. The place exuded decades upon decades of artistic creation, happy camaraderie and dreams come true.

Once past the entrance, Arsy spied a concierge in her cage to the left of him. Another smell. Some sort of liquor. And cigarette smoke. Heavenly! This place had it all.

He noticed a stream of students proceeding down a large staircase, right below a magnificent stained glass window. He followed, hoping to melt in. His Latvian was excellent so that, at least, wasn’t going to be a problem.

It must have been a recess. As Arsy followed, the group ended up in a little café. Cozy and crowded and jovial and friendly. Arsy pulled out his smokes and lined up at the counter. Boisterous chatter, laughter all around. It was heady. He could so easily imagine himself as an art student, discussing the latest trends in the art world over a brew or a coffee. And the girls were lovely. All of them. How in the world would he find Aina Lapina? All he had was a photo of a pretty young girl.

Arsy lifted his beer and sucked on his cigarette. He was cheek to jowl with the privileged—with the kids who had money and the blats (he was sure of that) to be admitted into this circle of happy campers.

Without wanting to, Arsy had attracted attention. He was someone new. Someone so handsome. A bit older than the rest. A lecturer? Sometimes the Academy employed guest teachers. Perhaps Arsy was about to lead a class on Roman Romanticism or something more esoteric like Art Forgery.

Arsy felt that he had a narrow window of opportunity. He had to take a chance and start talking to someone. Any minute now the recess would be over and the students would be filing back to workshops and classrooms.

He was ready to engage eye contact. Start up a conversation. His mind had been busy making up a story. He was looking for a cousin, a friend, a someone…

The next instant Arsy’s mouth opened in astonishment. The caretaker emptying the refuse in the café looked familiar. God! Could it be Ivo? Would there be some creep looking over his shoulder as he searched for the elusive Aina Lapina?

Chapter 24

Vika was getting to be a royal pain in the ass. “We must have balloons and cake and presents,” she said breathlessly.

Eggy rolled his eyes. “That’s not how we do it here in Latvia.”

“Well, bully for you!” Vika shot back. “We’re going to change all that. We’ll have a real birthday party. Simone deserves nothing less. How many candles?”

Vika didn’t wait for an answer. She supplied her own. “Just one single candle. That’s how we celebrate for women of a certain age.” She stopped to give a coy little burst of laughter, remembering that, in France, “certain age” had an erotic meaning. It did give her pause to realize that they were all (including Vika) in the forty-to-sixty age range, although she herself self-identified as being thirty.

Now she was all business. “I’m calling Sam’s. I want a good table, a nice dinner, champagne and a cake. I’ll leave the balloons and clowns up to you. So, toodle-loo. I’ll see you tonight.”

Eggy laughed and rang off with a simple ciao.

* * *

Vika had tried to keep her mood up-beat, using this dinner party to distract her from worrying about her mother back in New York—with Bernie standing over her like a jailor.

She liked to spend money lavishly. Money hadn’t been a problem since her marriage to Bernie. In fact, it was the very reason she had married him in the first place. She had wisely salted a large amount into her own private (secret) bank account and she was determined to spend it now. On others, as well as on herself.

* * *

Vika wasn’t disappointed. The table she had reserved was decorated with a vase of fresh flowers and candles. She had made sure to arrive first. A floral masterpiece, she was at her best, wearing a multicolored embroidered jacket over a dove grey silk blouse, coupled with dark slacks. Her gift to Simone was a fat envelope stuffed with euros which she planned to drop  into Simone’s pocket at just the right moment.

Misha, bobbling and smiling, hovered around with his silky friendliness. He especially liked this rich and attractive American lady and couldn’t do enough to make her happy. Would she ever consent to a rendez vous?

His romantic musing was interrupted by the arrival of the guest of honor, on the arm of her escort. Misha beamed a huge smile in their direction. He was ready with his happy birthdays both in Latvian and in English. It was hard to outshine Vika. And Simone certainly didn’t. She was wearing a heavy knit sweater over a dark blue turtle neck and dark pants. Eggy was equally turtlenecked and sporting his signature tight-fitting trousers.

Brushing aside Misha’s greeting, Simone scanned the room. Where was Arsy? This was every girl’s dream birthday party but the most important person in her life wasn’t there.

The waiter (who wasn’t Arsy), pulled out two chairs and invited the guests to sit. The dinner was the best the chef had to offer— Chateaubriand and assorted vegetables. Tender red meat was still a delicacy in Latvia and it had been prepared to perfection. Happy ummm sounds all around. The meal was delicious.

When the cake was brought out, with one candle blazing, the entire room clapped and burst forth with Happy Birthday!—both in English and Latvian.

Simone was blushing with the surprise and the attention she was getting. But where was Arsy? Could he be late for work? She hadn’t asked about him yet.

Misha was prowling around the table, hoping to ingratiate himself, when Simone motioned to him. She couldn’t wait any longer.

“Where is Arsy?”

Misha shrugged. “Arsy? I don’t know. He gave his notice, then changed his mind, then disappeared.”

Simone looked at him with suspicion. “Disappeared! That can’t be. He was with us when—”

She stopped, alerted by Eggy who had given her a swift kick under the table. To distract her, he refilled her glass. Toasted her once again.

Swallowing her disappointment, Simone drained her glass in a few rapid gulps. Arsy! Why aren’t you here? It’s my birthday!

Vika was the one who got up first. On her way to the ladies’ room she stopped to settle the bill. She was pleased things had gone well and she was especially gratified by Simone’s squeals of surprise as she clutched the envelope Vika had secreted into her pocket. It felt good to make someone so happy.

* * *

It was a pleasant night. Nice big moon. Stars too. And not terribly cold. Eggy and Simone had decided to walk Vika back to the Hotel de Rome. Maybe some cognac at the hotel bar. That would make a nice nightcap after a successful celebration.

A squeal of breaks. A car almost up on the sidewalk. All three of them stopped in their tracks. Vika clutched at her mouth not to scream. They had almost been hit.

A man leapt out of the car and, running up to Vika, grabbed her arm.

“Mrs Zito. Don’t go back to the hotel!”

Vika pulled back and gasped in amazement. This was that same short Italian she had seen on the flight. The same man she had recognized in Osiris the other day. Tonight he looked pale and disheveled.

Vika’s heart was beating like a drum. “What’s going on?”

“Oh. you must…” Frankie was out of breath. He could hardly get his words out. “You must hide. Bernie’s business partner here in Latvia is looking for you. He wants some package. He’s dangerous.”

The cab driver honked, which made Frankie run back to pay him. Then back to Vika and her friends.

“Please go somewhere else. It’s not safe for you. I’ll hang around. See who goes into the hotel. I’m good at following people.” At that he let out a choked laughter which bordered on hysteria.

Vika’s mouth dropped open. “But what about my stuff? Do I have to just leave everything? Where am I supposed to stay?” She thought with a sense of panic about Svetlana’s briefcase and the contents of her safe.

“No, no. Don’t worry. Here’s my phone number. Call me and I’ll let you know what’s happening.”

Both Vika and Eggy turned to look at Simone. A pocket full of euros and champagne bubbling in her brain, she shrugged and stretched out her hands in a “whatever” gesture.

The mule ranch would be pretty crowded. The whole gang would be there—the whole gang without Arsy.

Without hesitation, Eggy let out a sharp whistle and waved his arms. Luckily he had caught the cab before it  pulled away.

No one looked back at Frankie who was was left behind, panting, clutching at his heart and wondering if there was a witness protection program in Latvia.

Chapter 23

Juris’ goons had no trouble dumping Frankie. They had chosen a deserted stretch of beach in Jurmala and, once it was dark and no one was around, they had set him free. Frankie had gotten off pretty lightly—that is, he was alive.

He had always been a pretty good liar. He had told his captors everything he knew—even everything he didn’t know. Trying to ingratiate himself, he had invented some stuff. Mrs Zito is staying at the Hotel de Rome. He himself didn’t know this for sure but hoped that it would be enough to stop the inquisition. It had worked. In fact, Frankie had been surprised by how amiable the whole process had been. He shuddered to think about the treatment he would have had to endure from the New Jersey side of the “family.”

Compared to past experiences, this had been a walk in the park. He had been brought to an elegant old house with a high fence and an electric sliding gate, guarded by two monstrous dogs (he couldn’t make out the breed) patrolling the yard. Once escorted inside, Frankie had been made to sit on a stool in the middle of a large room, a man on either side of him. Juris Lapins, the boss man, had positioned himself behind a massive desk.

Juris had gotten up to offer cigarettes all around and Frankie had noted the still-muscular body of this tall and lean old man. Partially bald, he was clean shaven and had a tanned, rugged face with high cheekbones and light colored eyes. Frankie imagined these eyes could tear right through any bullshit and stop any rival in his tracks. He was a born leader. Ex KGB.

Juris fired up a match, lit his cigarette and regarded Frankie through the haze of smoke.

He had a deep husky smoker’s voice and heavily accented English.

“You work for Bernie Zito?”

Surprised that his mouth hadn’t gone dry with fright, Frankie squinted up at the ceiling as if the answer lodged there. He decided on humor. “Ah yes. Bernie Zito. That name does ring a bell. Where have I heard it before?”

A braying noise, supposedly a laugh, escaped from Juris.

“We have a comedian here!”

The goons guarding Frankie joined in with loud boisterous guffaws. The ice had been broken. Tensions eased.

Juris started in gently. He liked to do that. Killing them with kindness. “We’re all on the same team, Frankie. We need to know what happened to a package which was delivered to Mrs Zito.”

Frankie started to fidget. “Look. Sure, I know Bernie. He asked me to keep an eye on his wife. That’s all. I don’t know about any package.”

The fun was over.

“I’ll call your boss and, if you’re lying, we’ll kill you.”

Frankie started and almost fell off his stool. He knew Juris meant business.

It hadn’t seemed to matter what time of day or night it was. Business always trumped sleep or any other activity. Juris had no trouble getting through. Minutes later, he offered Frankie a reprieve.

“Bernie says you’re useless. Tell us where Mrs Zito is and we’ll let you go.”

Frankie did not hesitate. “She’s at the Hotel de Rome. I don’t know the room number but she’s there.”

* * *

Frankie looked up at the stars and at the moon rising over the tall pines. The waves lapped against the beach which looked endless to Frankie. He was glad it wasn’t raining or, worse, snowing. Still, there was a stiff breeze and he hugged himself for warmth as he walked away from where he had been left—discarded.

It was not his first rodeo. Things could have gone differently. He could have been on a beach in New Jersey where he could have barely escaped with his life. This time he hadn’t even been searched. Not even roughed up a bit. But, still, he was older now, less flexible and felt that he couldn’t go on living this sort of life forever.

His adventures (or misadventures) had brought him this far. He was alive for a reason. For a purpose. He didn’t know exactly what that purpose was. All in all, looking back at his life, Frankie could attest to the fact that what hadn’t killed him had truly made him stronger.

He looked up and down the beach as far as he could see. He still had a lingering fear that the goons could come back or that the dogs could track him down and tear him to pieces. The beach remained completely deserted.

He was lucky. He still had his watch, his wallet and his phone. The sea air was bracing and his power walk along the seaside had made him warmer. And had energized him. He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t begin a new life. Start all over. Away from Bernie and his life of crime.

But what had just happened? He had sicced Juris on Mrs Zito. Why had he done that? To save himself, of course but also because he wasn’t sure she was there. Now he prayed that she wasn’t at the Hotel de Rome but somewhere safe.

And what was he going to do about it? He was going to warn her, of course. There were really bad people out there looking for her. It would take more than a clutch of diamonds to keep her safe.

He couldn’t stay on this beach forever. He used a boardwalk to access a road and consulted his phone to see, on GPS, where he was. Next, he called a cab and managed to make himself understood.

His big worry now was how to get to Mrs Zito before the goons could find her. A horrible thought crossed his mind. Maybe they already had.

Frankie couldn’t keep the panic out of his voice as he told the cab driver to go faster. This was an emergency. The driver looked back with a surly mad-at-the-world expression.

“Camera,” he said pointing at the roadside. The guy wasn’t interested in getting a fine or losing his license.

Frankie’s adrenaline shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Faster. Faster. He felt like jumping out of the cab and running all the way to the Hotel de Rome.

He had to save Mrs Zito.

Chapter 22

It was well past Halloween and even past Martin’s Day but Madame Zenunda’s parlour still had that spooky vibe. The small room was steeped in darkness with a few candles flickered on window sills and a weak electric fire casting a feeble glow. Thick velvet curtains muffled street noise and soft eerie background music put visitors in the right mood for her readings and séances.

Arsy fired up a cigarette. Exhaling a thin stream of smoke he reached for the coffee cup Madame Zenunda had just refilled. He frowned. The words she had for him were hardly reassuring.

As the Moon transits Neptune there could be trouble.

But he hung on to the words “could be”. Madame Zenunda was kind. She minimized danger, especially for someone she liked. And she never charged Arsy for a reading. She saw the value of having a nice, strong, young man living close by—even though their two cats (Minka and Noir) fought like fiends, hissing, clawing and mauling each other whenever they got a chance.

His eyes glowing in the dark, Noir sidled up, rubbed himself on Arsy’s shanks then jumped up on one of the chairs, yawned and lay down. The cat’s job was to look menacing, to add a sense of mystery and magic to the whole mise-en-scène  but he managed to simply look bored.

Arsy popped another cig from his pack and lit it from the butt. He was no longer rationing. The stress of the past days had turned him into a chain smoker—not that he could afford it. He wished Madame would cast a spell that would attract euros or dollars and cause the evil spirits that he sensed lurking around him to recede into the shadows.

The tiny lady, hunched over her cards, sighed heavily. Her penetrating black eyes, peered up at him. “I wish to help you my friend. You must sell your art work.”

“Art work? What art work? How do you know about—”

She raised her withered, ring-encased, claw-like hand to silence him. “Madame Zenunda knows everything.” Closing her eyes dramatically, the old lady continued, “I sense that you have produced a masterpiece. A beautiful and very expensive painting.”

“How interesting!” Arsy exclaimed with mock sweetness. “You’d like to buy it?”

A quirky cackle escaped her lips. “We gypsies have no money, my friend. I make only a few kopeiki.”

Arsy managed an ironic smile. “So, you who know everything, tell me who will be the buyer.”

“Aha! But if I tell you, you will have to give me something,” she returned Arsy’s smile with a coy  little smile of her own.

Arsy gave a short bark of laughter. “What’s your take? I will give you a commission. Ten percent.”

Silence.

No one was going to call him stingy. “Okay. Twenty percent.”

Arsy waited to see how Madame would reply. There was more silence. Which was interrupted by soft snuffling sounds. Haggling with Arsy must have exhausted her. Madame Zenunda had dozed off.

With a sigh Arsy got up, shooed away Noir who had awakened and was now marking him again. He too felt suddenly sleepy but made sure to blow out the candles before taking his leave.

* * *

Feeling his way up the unlit back stairs, Arsy had to hold on to the walls not to fall over. He felt very tired.

Arriving at the door to his studio Arsy stood still, key in his hand, and stared. The door to his studio had been jimmied. Normally Minka would be greeting him at the front door but she was nowhere to be seen.

What had happened? He had left the Twilight Zone only to stumble into his own real-life Horror Show.

He was completely unarmed. His body felt unable to protect itself.

The lights were on. His eyes were not fooling him. There was a man sitting in his one and only easy chair. Arsy surprised himself by not falling down in a faint.

“You should get that monster declawed. And you should not depend on magic spells to solve your problems. You look tired. Sit down and talk to me.”

Arsy just stared, unable to cough up a response.

“I myself performed some magic with the coffee pot downstairs. She’s a nice old woman. Reminds me of my grandmother,” he said and gave a mirthless laugh which sounded more like a snarl.

“Where’s my cat?” Arsy asked feebly as he collapsed on his futon.

“Never mind your cat. Let’s talk seriously. You may not know it yet but there’s a new show in town. New players. Jurmala Juris will soon be history. Here’s your chance to do the right thing.”

Is he making me an offer I can’t refuse, Arsy asked himself. He had seen the Godfather and also the Sopranos on TV.

“Yes. Sure. I do. I mean… I will.”

Chapter 21

Frankie let out a gigantic sigh of relief. “Whew! That was close.”

But, on second thought, maybe he should have hung around, talked to her, tried to find out where she lived. He needed more to tell Bernie. A whew wouldn’t cut it. Bernie would want to know who she was with and what was going on. This was the second time Frankie had seen Vika with a man. This latest one was not as young and handsome as the goon who had knocked him down at the Hotel de Rome. Either way, he knew Bernie wouldn’t like it.

Making his way back to the Radisson he kept kicking himself. What was he? Some kind of chicken running away like that? He wasn’t thinking on his feet. All he wanted to do was get out of this cold wet Nordic country. He didn’t have the language and he couldn’t even read other people’s body language. He was lost. He thought he could drink but there he had been—one drink in a restaurant and his mind had shut down. All he wanted to do was to lie down.

But first he had to call Bernie, something which he always dreaded. He had his own bottle of lousy vodka—everything was lousy here—the coffee, the drinks, the women… the women. That’s how the hell he had landed in that crowded restaurant after all. Following a blonde. Strange thing was, the blonde disappeared. Into the washroom. Frankie guessed it was the washroom but maybe not. Maybe there was a back door and the blonde didn’t like him trailing her.

He had decided to wait for the blonde to reappear. But then those two took a seat right next to him. He didn’t like to think about it. Had he missed a chance to get news for Bernie? Well, he could make something up. Hell, he’d have to make something up. Starting with  Vika’s romances. That would drive Bernie crazy but it also meant that Frankie didn’t have to offer anything else. He could claim he had been trailing these two all day as they walked hand in hand, stopping for a kiss… But he couldn’t get too carried away.

Frankie took off his shoes, poured a good measure of vodka into a tumbler and sat down on his bed. He could get Bernie any time on his special personal cell. Drawing a deep calming breath, Frankie punched in the numbers.

“Good news. I finally caught up with Vika. She’s got a guy.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello? Bernie are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I don’t give a fuck about her love life. Does she still have the stuff? Who has it? This Svetlana?”

Frankie was at a loss. He had hoped to drive Bernie crazy but here he was, wanting information Frankie didn’t have.

“I’m working on it, Bernie.”

“What do you mean working on it? I need answers now. You gotta tell me if this Juris is double crossing me. He’s telling me he can’t find Svetlana so you better find her. And fast.”

Bernie didn’t wait for a reply. Frankie was left with nothing—with nothing but fear, that is. How the hell was he going to find some Svetlana?

He searched his memory. Yes, he did remember seeing Vika and some tall blonde (weren’t they all tall blondes?) on Elizabetes Street. Right before an accident which had virtually shut the area down. It certainly wasn’t Vika who had been hit. Could this be the Svetlana Bernie was looking for? No way could Frankie get a hold of any information about the accident. He didn’t speak the language. Knew nothing about how things worked around here. He’d simply have to make something up to tell Bernie. Like, maybe… Svetlana was killed in an accident. End of story.

This didn’t make Frankie feel any better. He felt all alone as if he were in a cold dark ocean in a small boat that was sinking—sinking fast and he didn’t even have a life preserver.

Shit! And his bottle was almost empty. He’d get more. And besides, he needed some fresh air. Then, as if the gods looked down for a good laugh, he said out loud, “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

* * *

There would be no jiffy.

Striding along Barona Street Frankie was still grinding his teeth. Unable to relax. Maybe if he walked faster, or if he ran, he could get rid of his mounting anxiety. It was colder now, wind blowing wet snow in his frowning face. Frankie shivered, not only because it was freezing but also because of the waves of near panic flooding his brain. What was he so afraid of? Bernie couldn’t send a goon all the way from New York, could he?

The streets had emptied, people celebrating at home or in restaurants. Frankie felt vulnerable. He didn’t even have a switch blade or his brass knuckles. Trying to get those on the plane at JFK could have been a felony charge. He had kept his nose clean these last years so he wouldn’t be on the Department of Homeland Security’s “no fly” list.

He had tried to steer his kids away from the kind of life he had led so that they wouldn’t always have to look over their shoulder to see if someone was about to take them down.

These last years Frankie had tried to tap dance around those “heavy” jobs. He had taken this job with Bernie thinking there’d be nothing to it. A trip with all expenses paid just to follow a dame around. What could be dangerous about that?

Ever since his wife had died of breast cancer, Frankie had lost all drive for adventure. There was nobody at home to bring “the goods” back to. The kids were grown. Had their own jobs but were not married yet. No grandkids.

Now here Frankie was on the dark streets of Riga. There was nothing flashy about him. Nothing to attract a mugger. Still, he didn’t want to stop even to light a cigarette. He’d quickly pick up a bottle of booze and head back to the hotel. Booze was everywhere in this town. There had to be a store coming up soon.

From the corner of his eye Frankie noticed a car pull up. He started to walk even faster. Until he froze. He heard a gruff voice just behind him. “You Frankie Caputo?”

Frankie supposed that the terrified sound deep in his throat was a yes.

The next second an arm gripped his shoulder. God! There were two of them!

“We’re going for a ride. Ever been to Jurmala?”

The guttural sound coming from Frankie’s mouth could have meant anything.