There was another name there.
Last week. Ira had another visitor. His first and only visitor besides, well, her. Ever. She frowned and read the name. It was wholly unfamiliar.
Who the hell was Manolo Santiago?
CHAPTER 10
THE FIRST SKELETON
MY FATHER’S PHOTOGRAPH WAS STILL IN MY HAND.
I needed now to make a detour on the way to my visit with Raya Singh. I looked at the index card. The First Skeleton. Implication: There would be more than one.
But let’s start with this one—my father.
There was only one person who could help me when it came to my dad and his potential skeletons. I took out my cell phone and held down the number six. I rarely called this number, but it was still on my speed dial. My guess is, it would always be.
He answered on the first ring in his low rumble of a voice. “Paul.”
Even the one word was thick with accent.
“Hi, Uncle Sosh.”
Sosh wasn’t really my uncle. He was a close family friend from the old country. I hadn’t seen him in three months, not since my father’s funeral, but as soon as I heard his voice, I instantly saw the big bear of a man. My father said that Uncle Sosh had been the most powerful and feared man in Pulkovo, the town on the outskirts of Leningrad where they’d both been raised.
“It’s been too long,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry about that.”
“Acch,” he said, as though disgusted by my apology. “But I thought that you would call today.”
That surprised me. “Why?”
“Because, my young nephew, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About why I never talk about anything over the phone.”
Sosh’s business was, if not illegal, on the shadier side of the street.
“I’m at my place in the city.” Sosh had an expansive penthouse on 36th Street in Manhattan. “When can you be here?”
“Half an hour if there’s no traffic,” I said.
“Splendid. I will see you then.”
“Uncle Sosh?”
He waited. I looked at the photograph of my father on the passenger seat.
“Can you give me an idea what it’s about?”
“It’s about your past, Pavel,” he said through that thick accent, using my Russian name. “It’s about what should stay in your past.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“We’ll talk,” he said again. And then he hung up.
There was no traffic, so the ride to Uncle Sosh’s was closer to twenty-five minutes. The doorman wore one of those ridiculous uniforms with rope tassels. The look, interestingly enough with Sosh living here, reminded me of something Brezhnev would have worn for the May Day parade. The doorman knew my face and had been told that I was arriving. If the doorman isn’t told in advance, he doesn’t ring up. You just don’t get in.
Sosh’s old friend Alexei stood at the elevator door. Alexei Kokorov had worked security for Sosh, had for as long as I could remember. He was probably in his late sixties, a few years younger than Sosh, and as ugly a man as you’d ever see. His nose was bulbous and red, his face filled with spider veins from, I assumed, too much drink. His jacket and pants didn’t fit right, but his build was not the kind made for haute couture.
Alexei didn’t seem happy to see me, but he didn’t look like lots of laughs in general. He held the elevator door open for me. I stepped in without saying a word. He gave me a curt nod and let the door close. I was alone.
The elevator opened into the penthouse.
Uncle Sosh stood a few feet from the door. The room was huge. The furniture was cubist. The picture window showed off an incredible view, but the walls had this thick wallpaper, tapestry-like, in a color that probably had some fancy name like “Merlot” but looked to me like blood.
Sosh’s face lit up when he saw me. He spread his hands wide. One of my most vivid childhood memories was the size of those hands. They were still huge. He had grayed over the years, but even now, when I calculated that he was probably in his early seventies, you still felt the size and power and something approaching awe.
I stopped outside the elevator.
“What,” he said to me, “you too old for a hug now?”
We both stepped toward each other. The embrace was, per his Russian background, a true bear hug. Strength emanated from him. His forearms were still thick coils. He pulled me close, and I felt as though he could simply tighten his grip and snap my spine.
After a few seconds, Sosh grabbed my arms near the biceps and held me at arm’s length so he could take a good look.
“Your father,” he said, his voice thick with more than accent this time. “You look just like your father.”
Sosh had arrived from the Soviet Union not long after we did. He worked for InTourist, the Soviet tour company, in their Manhattan office. His job was to help facilitate American tourists who wished to visit Moscow and what was then called Leningrad.
That was a long time ago. Since the fall of the Soviet government, he dabbled in that murky enterprise people labeled “import-export.” I never knew what that meant exactly, but it had paid for this penthouse.
Sosh looked at me another moment or two. He wore a white shirt buttoned low enough to see the V-neck undershirt. A huge tuft of gray chest hair jutted out. I waited. This would not take long. Uncle Sosh was not one for casual talk.
As if reading my mind, Sosh looked me hard in the eye and said, “I have been getting calls.”
“From?”
“Old friends.”
I waited.
“From the old country,” he said.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“People have been asking questions.”
“Sosh?
“Yes?”
“On the phone you were worried about being overheard. Are you worried about that here?”
“No. Here it is completely safe. I have the room swept weekly.”
“Great, then how about stopping with the cryptic and telling me what you’re talking about?”
He smiled. He liked that. “There are people. Americans. They are in Moscow and throwing money around and asking questions.”
I nodded to myself. “Questions about what?”
“About your father.”
“What kind of questions?”
“You remember the old rumors?”
“You’re kidding me.”
But he wasn’t. And in a weird way, it made sense. The First Skeleton. I should have guessed.