The name of the café was Grigorii’s. It was in a part of town I had never been to and saw no reason ever to visit again. Bo got out of the car, straightened his jacket, and buttoned it. He looked as if he’d gotten himself spiffed up for his first Communion. It wasn’t anything overt, but he wasn’t his usual awe-inspiring self. It made me nervous.
There wasn’t much to Grigorii’s. It was a dim space that smelled of bacon grease. The foam tiles that made up the low ceiling were stained with brown water blossoms. The predominant feature was a long bar along one wall. The tables had no cloths, and the chairs had no padding or upholstery. It had the look of a campus coffee bar but the feel of something else. Something defiant and political, as if the place itself resented even being in the United States. Almost an entire wall was draped with a yellow and teal flag, which I assumed was Ukrainian. Another wall was adorned with yellowed newspaper articles affixed with brittle Scotch tape. They emanated from a solid center like a newsprint sunburst. I was willing to bet they were not from the city section of the Boston Globe.
Every once in a while, a harsh blast of laughter would issue from a corner where a group of men who hadn’t shaved in a while sat around one of the larger tables. It wasn’t the fun kind of laughing but the edgy and wicked and loud kind. There had been an eruption when we walked through the door.
I leaned in toward Bo. “How do these men…how are women treated in this culture?”
“Not well, but they respect strength wherever they see it. I know of one Ukrainian hit man who took his wife along to do his murders.”
“Great.” I felt much better.
The opposite corner of the place was occupied by a wiry man sitting in a corner by himself reading a newspaper and smoking. He probably knew that smoking in a restaurant was against the law. He seemed to have mighty powers of concentration.
Bo approached the man behind the bar and spoke to him in a language I didn’t understand. I didn’t know if Bo spoke Russian or if the other man spoke one of the languages from the broken country of Yugoslavia. Either way, they communicated just fine.
As the bartender watched, Bo took the.357 from his shoulder holster and laid it on the counter. The two of them looked at me. I followed Bo’s lead and laid down my Glock, which looked puny next to Bo’s howitzer. The bartender tilted his head toward the smoking man. We were allowed to pass.
When we got to the booth, Bo did the talking. Again, I couldn’t understand, but it felt like some kind of tribute. He gestured first to himself and then to me. I tried to look less terrified and more honored, but it was hard, because at close range, Drazen Tishchenko was a terrifying man.
He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with a face made by God but substantially rearranged by man. His nose was too thick, his mouth was a grim, crooked line, and his ears seemed to be too low on his head, as if someone had grabbed them by the lobes and yanked. Most disturbing were the tattoos. They slithered out from under the collar of his tight black V-necked sweater, up both sides of his neck, and into his hairline. They covered both his forearms and even his hands and fingers. If murder was how you earned your badges in this Boy Scout troop, then Drazen Tishchenko was an Eagle Scout.
But I didn’t need the tattoos to tell me he was a killer. He told me with his eyes. I looked into his eyes and felt the value of my life drop to nothing.
“Step out,” he said in English. He made a motion with his hands as if he were reeling me closer. “Do not be afraid of me.”
I stepped forward so that I was next to Bo instead of behind his right shoulder. “Thank you for seeing us.”
“Do you speak Russian like my friend Djuro?” It took me a second to realize he was referring to Bo by his given name.
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“We will speak English, then, so you will understand. Please, sit with me.”
Bo and I sat on one side of the booth, Tishchenko on the other. I slipped in first, giving Bo the outside in case he had to make a quick move. It didn’t matter. If he did, we were both dead. Undoubtedly, everyone in the place was armed and dangerous and belonged to Drazen.
“What would you like?” he asked me.
“I’m fine.”
He sat back so that only his fingertips still touched the table. “What is your name?”
“Alex. Alex Shanahan.”
“Short for Alexandra?”
“Yes.”
“Sashen’ka.” He clasped his hands and pushed them forward on the table. “Please, Sashen’ka, you will order something.” It didn’t seem like a request.
“I’ll have a cup of tea. Thank you.”
“Yes. Very good.”
He called over to the bartender, held up two fingers, and pointed to his own empty espresso cup. He was ordering for Bo. Interesting. I wondered how well these two men knew each other.
“My friends, what can I do for you?”
I glanced at Bo to see if I was supposed to talk, but he took the lead.
“I lost a friend yesterday. Someone came into his home and took him away.”
“This is sad news.” Tishchenko shrugged. “But what concern of mine?”
“We made a mistake,” Bo said quietly. “We are here to ask your advice.”
“What mistake?”
“We took him back.”
Tishchenko’s gaze slid over to me. Whether he had known all along we had been the ones or whether he figured it out right then, I couldn’t tell. But he knew now. “What is this man’s name?”
He was looking at me, so I answered. “Harvey Baltimore.”
“And who is he to you? Is this man your father?”
“He’s my business partner. He’s also my good friend. He’s also…he’s sick.” I glanced at Bo. I wasn’t sure how much to say. “He has multiple sclerosis. We were afraid if we didn’t get to him soon, he would die.”
A small boy appeared from behind the counter. He had a sucker in his mouth and a tray in his hand. On the tray were two steaming cups of espresso, which he distributed to the men. He put the small carafe of milk, the little pot of brewing tea, and a cup and saucer in front of me. He handled it all like a pro, despite the fact that he couldn’t have been even seven years old.
He grasped the tray under one arm, put his other hand on Tishchenko’s shoulder, and casually leaned in toward him. Maybe he was there to pull a thorn from his paw.
Tishchenko put his arm around the boy, pulled him close, and kissed him on the top of his head. “My grandson.”
The boy’s face was vulnerable and mischievous at the same time as he whispered something in the older man’s ear.
Tishchenko laughed, spoke to the boy in his language, and shooed him away. As his grandson wandered off, Tishchenko called out to the bartender, who nodded in return.
“Such a smart boy. He wants ice cream, but he knows his mother won’t permit treats before school.”
I looked over. The man at the bar had an ice cream scoop out.
Tishchenko stirred milk into his cup. When he picked up his spoon, Bo did, too, but I let my tea steep. I was afraid to handle anything hot with my unsteady hands.
“Do you think this man, Harvey Baltimore, might have something of value? Is that why he would have been taken?”
“He doesn’t have any money.”
“Whoever took him, I do not think it would be for money. There are easier ways to get money, you know?” The corners of his mouth quivered into what might have been a smile. “Something he knows, perhaps?”
“We do not know why he was taken,” Bo said. “We know that if he had died, whatever he might know would have died with him. Perhaps the people who took him did not know that.”