Korvutz saluted the air above his head. “Finally, dog.”

I said, “The Safrans only interest me because—”

“Good night and good luck. Only reason I talk to you first place I don’t want you bothering my kid no more. Also, I got nothing to hide. You gonna be back in L.A. soon?”

“Soon enough.”

“Say hello to the palm trees.”

“Talking about the Safrans really bothers you.”

Keeping his mouth shut, he blew out air, ballooning the skin around his lips.

I said, “If you’ve got nothing to hide—”

The air escaped in a hiss. “Maybe they fly to the moon. Maybe Ass-kiss do something to them. Do I give a shit? Not even a little one — not even a Gigi shit.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “don’t put words in. Why I gonna cry for them? They fight me just to fight me. I run away from all that.”

“From fighting?”

“From communism — little slow dog, finish finish aready.”

“The Safrans were communists.”

“Bother someone else, mister.”

“Is Sonia in town?”

“I should know?”

“Call her. If she can talk to me right now, I’m finished with you.”

“You finished anyway.”

“Call her.”

“Why I do you a favor?”

“Your kid and your dog like me.”

He glared. Laughed. “Why not, Sonia recommend stupid ass-kisser to me, I recommend you to her.”

He left me outside his building, handed the Pomeranian to the doorman, used the house phone. Brief chat; thumbs-up okay.

I mouthed, “Thanks.” Korvutz gave no sign he’d noticed as he crossed the lobby.

The doorman followed. Impassive, as the dog licked his face.

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER
24

Sonia Glusevitch lived in a fortress of yellow brick that hogged a third of a block on East Ninety-third.

The doors to this lobby were wide open. Mirrored walls alternated with panels of gold-flocked velvet. Ailing palms yearned for something other than track lighting.

Two hatless doormen in white shirts sat behind a Formica counter ignoring a bank of closed-circuit TVs. Sonia Glusevitch’s name evoked a wave-through as they continued to study an offtrack betting brochure.

“Which apartment?”

Laborious consultation of a black plastic-bound book.

“Twenty-six eleven.”

A metal-clad elevator griped all the way to the twenty-sixth floor. The hallways were papered in shiny copper splotched to resemble patina. Rust-colored carpeting had long lost its bounce.

I knocked on Sonia Glusevitch’s door. The woman who opened wore a lime-and-orange kimono and gold, high-heeled sandals.

Early forties, fleshy and pretty, with long too-black hair, tarantulous eyelashes, and crimson lips. Her face was coated with a fresh application of powder. Vanilla-laden perfume breezed out into the corridor.

“Ms. Glusevitch? Alex Delaware.”

“Sonia.” Two soft hands clasped mine. More vanilla as she kneaded my knuckles. “Come in, please.”