“I forced Kevin to agree,” Caroline said.
Kevin smiled. A sad smile that hid plenty behind it. “Marketing. Folding flyers and stapling brochures … you get the idea.”
“Kevin, please …”
It was only after the meal that Max found a moment to speak alone with his friend. “What does this mean?”
Kevin remained evasive. He’d been wanting to tell Max for a while but hadn’t dared.
“And what about your father? You always told me you couldn’t stand him.”
“We’ve made peace.”
He wasn’t very convincing. But, once again, Max wasn’t about to call his friend out on his lie.
That night, as he left, Max had wished good luck to the three of them. No, actually, the four of them. Caroline made him promise he’d come visit in Montreal. In only a few days, or so it seemed to Max, they packed everything they owned and got on the road. Max felt abandoned. All these years he’d been there, supporting the family from behind the scenes. And now, suddenly, they were gone from his life. He decided to not chase them to Montreal, to not show any neediness. What would it look like if he came to visit them? As if he were living the family life vicariously. Whatever the case might be, with their leaving, Max was bereft of the only genuine friendship he’d ever developed in New York.
Had it really been genuine? Once again, Max was being delusional. Caroline had known nothing of his true identity, what he did for a living. And she certainly hadn’t known what he’d dragged her husband into.
No, when it was all said and done, it was probably best for the Dandurand family to get far away from New York.
Months later, Max was sleeping soundly when his cellphone rang. Still half asleep, he’d felt Isabel turn and stretch out for his phone. Isabel, a secretary for a real-estate developer in Spanish Harlem — a bit player in the operation he was currently running. He startled awake and grabbed the cellphone out of her hand before she could answer. Isabel shrugged, mumbled an insult in Spanish, and got up to go to the bathroom. A few moments later Max heard the shower running.
“Robert? You’re with someone? Am I bothering you?”
“Caroline …”
She was calling from Montreal to give him the good news. It was a boy. Sacha.
Sacha-the-Red.
Max felt someone tugging on his sleeve. Toma Boerescu, his eyes insistent. Time for his medicine, probably. Instead, the former cop nodded at a small man seated alone a few rows away. Boerescu whispered in Max’s ear, “Petru Tavala.”
Confused, Max looked at Boerescu. The old man added, “He owns a café on Gabroveni Street. More of a restaurant, really.”
Max gestured for him to go on.
“Early in the morning last Thursday he served breakfast to your friend, Kevin Dandurand.”
Max glanced at the Tavala character, then back at Boerescu. The old dog had managed to pull a lead out of thin air, after all. He’d probably realized he was about to lose his cushy gig with Max.
The old man smiled. “Petru Tavala loves music. A shame these amateurs are just ruining poor George Enescu!”
Petru Tavala had no interest in confiding in two strangers he encountered in a church, but the café owner did love to talk. About this or anything else, why not? He didn’t have much time, though, only a few minutes. It was high season, after all. With this conference, with the holidays in full swing, all he had time for was working himself to the bone. But better that than starving, right? It could be worse; it’s always worse, or better! Who knows anymore! Anyway, sure, he’d seen a foreigner in his coffee shop early one morning.
“Kevin Dandurand?” Max asked.
“I only learned that was his name when the others came asking about him.”
“The police?”
“No, no. They were these guys who reminded me of the Securitate … you know what I mean? Serious, austere, looking like there was a conspiracy afoot! They snooped around, asking the same question ten different ways, as if to trick me.” They’d wanted to know whether he’d heard anything, overheard the conversation.
“What conversation?” Max asked.
“Dandurand was with another man. He had a moustache, the other one. I heard everything, but I didn’t understand a thing. They were speaking English together …”
Boerescu was translating for Tavala.
“Who was the other guy?” Max pressed.
“A Gypsy. That’s why I remember. They sat at the table farthest from the door. They ordered coffee and breakfast. They seemed on good terms. They started laughing all of a sudden.”
Old friends?
“Like I said, me and English …”
In any case, whether or not they were close friends, it was clear they weren’t strangers.
But a Rom who spoke English?
“They stayed, I don’t know, maybe an hour, maybe a little more.”
“And then?”
“Then they shook hands and the Gypsy left. The stranger seemed worried. He paid for the coffee and the breakfast. Then he left.”
“And you didn’t understand a word they said?”
“For years they forced us to learn Russian,” Tavala said. “And now they say English is the language that matters! Do you think that’s fair?”
The decline of Russian in Eastern Europe didn’t matter much to Max, but he was intrigued by the idea of Kevin meeting a Romani man in Bucharest. The guy from the Zăbrăuţi Street dwellings maybe, where Kevin’s personal effects had been found?
“I saw the picture of the man who died in the apartment,” Tavala said. “It wasn’t the same man at all.”
Clearly, Max would need to find this strange Romani man to understand what had happened. His meeting with Kevin had preceded the fire by a few hours at most.
They left the café owner behind and made their way out of the church. Once outside, Max turned to Boerescu. “Do you think the authorities are trying to hide something?”
“Because of the two agents?”
Max nodded.
“They weren’t police, according to Tavala.”
“Okay, besides the police, there might be other groups, no? More secretive organizations?”
“The Securitate doesn’t exist anymore, hasn’t in a long time.”
“Don’t you find it strange that some unknown organization is after Kevin? They weren’t cops, it seems. And what about the English-speaking Rom? Why hasn’t he come forward?”
“He’s a Rom. He’s got everything to lose by revealing any ties to Dandurand.” Boerescu sighed. “Does your friend, Kevin, have anything to hide? I mean, besides the murder of Gypsies?”
“Maybe.”
The weather had warmed a little, and a fine fog had replaced the previous night’s snow. Winter was a lost cause in Bucharest. Max raised his collar and began to walk toward Unirii Boulevard, followed by Boerescu.
“Did you know that, traditionally, Gypsies stayed away from multi-storey buildings?” his fixer asked. “Nothing worse to them then all living stacked one on top of the other.”
Which hadn’t stopped the poor souls from piling up in that hellhole on Zăbrăuţi Street.
“Are we far?” Max asked.
“What