Chapter 15

Vika felt as if she were in a film. Here she was, a damsel in distress in a melodramatic noir. She herself couldn’t believe what was going on. It seemed so unreal. She found herself outside a restaurant in Riga, with a man she didn’t know, going off to search for a woman she didn’t know. Crazy! Yes, it was really crazy of her. She thought about that a moment, but quickly banished any apprehension. Oh, but the unknown was so exciting! She felt more alive than she had been in ages. Certainly it was more thrilling than trudging through tourist sites in the company of a paid tour guide–no matter how riveting his eyes. Or lounging on her comfy daybed in Manhattan, staring aimlessly out the window at a park with a lot of  trees and bushes.

The film cut to the other lead character. Arsy was taking charge. He reached an arm out to her. “Come. Let’s sit in the park. I’ll make phone calls.” He pulled out his cell and his pack of cigs. He allowed himself an extra today. Just to calm his nerves.

“You say a Svetlana was hit by a car on Elizabetes Street yesterday?” Vika nodded, shuddering at the memory.

Arsy looked at her earnestly. “I will help you.”

She gave him an uncertain smile. She knew absolutely nothing about this guy. Could she trust him? Well, she had to. There was no one else. She listened intently as Arsy continued,

“One of my relatives could give me information. It could take a bit of time but I think we’ll be successful.”

Vika relaxed.

It was a mellow afternoon. Most of the trees were bare but a few colorful bushes still blazed in the fading gray light. How eerie and mystical to see the dark coming on this early. She pulled her pashmina tighter around herself. November had always been a grim month for her. A touch of depression, a feeling of futility. How strange that she actually felt quite exhilarated, sitting here in this pretty little park with a perfect stranger. She grinned to herself. Perfect all right. This Arsy was a hunk. And this park was so much more intimate than Central Park.

Arsy looked intense as he talked on the phone. Vika could tell it was Russian and not Latvian. She had no strong political views even though her mother had told her stories about the brutal Soviet occupation and her family’s flight from the Bolsheviks. It seemed such a long time ago to Vika. She had never been what one would call a “thinking person” but, just recently, thoughts were stirring and she loved the sense that she could learn something—something about the country of her ancestors.

She pulled out her phone. She should text her mother–but didn’t get to do that as Arsy had finished his conversation and was turning to her.

“Now we must wait. They will call back.”

Vika frowned. “How long will we have to wait?”

“Fifteen minutes. Half an hour,” Arsy replied with a shrug

“But it’s so cold!” Vika shivered and rubbed her hands together. She certainly wasn’t dressed for the weather.

“Oh sorry,” Arsy grimaced sympathetically. He began to take off his jacket. “Put this on.”

Vika waved him away. “No, no. I have a better idea. Please come back to the hotel with me. I need to put on warmer clothes.”

“Nice to have a cup of coffee too.” Arsy gave a half smile. He had been on duty at Sam’s since early morning.

“You bet!” Vika smiled. “And with a nice shot of liquor,” she added companionably.

* * *

Coffee with a jigger of whiskey was just what the doctor ordered. Vika, wearing soft faded jeans and a quilted jacket, had joined Arsy in the café of the Hotel de Rome.

Arsy was wide-eyed at what to him seemed like splendor and opulence. It was a palace There must be lots of rich people here, he said to himself. It would be great to get a job at this hotel. Job? He didn’t really want to think about that. He really wanted nothing more than to get back to his painting.

The whiskey had done him good and he thought of the fake Rozentals. And he thought of this nice rich American who could be talked into investing in a Latvian masterwork. He hoped to get to know her better. This was an excellent beginning.

For her part, Vika had raided the well-stocked mini bar. Just some extras for the road. She wasn’t going to do the driving and she had already enjoyed a mini bottle of a new wonderful brew. Balzams.

Now, let the adventure begin! She hugged herself, almost giddy at the thought of the escapade which lay ahead. Not for a moment did she think of any real danger. Once she was in, she would have no way of getting out. Real life was not a movie. Oddly enough, she had no inner voice warning her to be careful.

Earlier she had examined the contents of Svetlana’s briefcase and, aside from the package destined for Bernie, had found her personal belongings. A packet of cigarettes, a cosmetics bag, keys, and an appointment diary. Where was her money and her ID? Perhaps in a pocket.

Sipping her coffee, Vika wondered if this place was the the famous Otto Schwarz café her grandmother had spoken so much about. That’s where the beautiful people had once congregated, shared romances and intrigues. The thirties were indeed the golden age of Latvian society and Vika had listened spellbound. Elegant ladies, spiffy gents, artists, and poets and what were then called gay Paris types. Looking around, she sighed. All that had seemingly vanished. What remained were a bored waiter, a barman aimlessly polishing glasses, and a few remarkably inelegant  patrons, apparently killing time.

Vika’s reverie was interrupted by Arsy’s cell phone’s brring. He spoke a few words, then eagerly gave Vika a thumbs up.

“We have located a Svetlana in the Trauma Hospital. It’s quite far from here. We can’t walk.”

“No worries,” Vika said cheerfully. She mentally reviewed the wad of euros in her handbag. “We’ll get the porter to call a cab.”

Vika was enthralled by the dark that had crept up on them. It surprised her as it was only a little after four. Yet, it was a pleasant surprise. And only added to the delicious anticipation. She couldn’t wait.

Fortified by their spiked coffee, the two of them headed to the exit. And as fate would have it, something significant happened. Striding through the door, Arsy collided with a man coming the opposite way and almost knocking him to the ground. “Ah ti sukin sin!” Arsy spat in annoyance.

Even though he didn’t understand Russian, the short Italian understood being cussed at. But he swallowed his anger. He had to stay focused. Brushing himself off, he wondered, Who’s the dude? The Rolodex in his mind took a whirl. Nothing there. Maybe the bruiser’s a gigolo. The thought made him give out a brief snort.  Good for Mrs Z. And, by the way, what’s she doing here?

The Italian was left to watch in annoyance and puzzlement as the couple got into a taxi and were whisked away. He didn’t even get a chance to catch the cab number

Trying to compose himself, he looked around. What to do? He approached reception and inquired as nonchalantly as he could if Mrs Zito was a guest at the hotel. He was met with an icy stare.

“I can’t give you any information. There is no Mrs Zito staying here.”

Anyone passing nearby could hear his angry muttering. “Damn! I’m tired of this. Bernie should have planted some sort of electronic bug on her so he could track her movements himself.”

The next time Frankie Caputo would talk to Bernie Zito he would tell his boss to track his lovely wife from her phone. A lot easier than sending Frankie on these harebrained missions.

He hated being here. The people were four times his size and he couldn’t even carry a piece. He had no connections. Frankie was more at home in New York or even in Napoli where he understood the language. And they understood him.

* * *

The cab dropped them off at the hospital entrance. Vika paid the fare, delighting the driver with a generous tip. She was busy counting out the euros and hadn’t seen Arsy glancing covertly at her,  noticing the tip. She was bracing herself, hoping that Svetlana would not be severely injured.

A hospital visit seemed straightforward to her. They’d both be going into the main entrance and checking in with the staff on duty.

But Arsy had other plans.

“My cousin, Vera, wants us to meet her at the service door. It’s better that way,” Arsy explained. “And we’ll have to give her something for her trouble.”

Vika was puzzled. What trouble?

“You know the word blats?”

She shook her head.

“Here you find nothing without blats. Nobody knows anything unless you pay them. And sometimes you have to pay people so that they don’t know anything.”

Vika threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh! Just like New York!”