Rhapsody (39 page)

The young man turned off the engine and took
a deep breath. He wasn't looking forward to his meeting with the
older man. The Russian Neanderthal of the appalling bad manners.
Which went so well with the appallingly ugly

house he'd had built for himself and his
garish, equally uncouth wife.

He got out of the car and walked up to the
house's entrance. A videocamera was mounted above the door, as at
the club. He rang the bell and waited After a moment the door was
opened wide by the older man's wife, a bleached blonde who wore
lots of badly applied makeup and a skintight sweater with skintight
pants. She was smoking a cigarette.

She looked the young man up and down, then
blew a plume of smoke toward him. She had about her a superior air
that the young man found laughable. "Come in," she said with a
Russian accent

"Thanks," he said.

"He's in his den," she said. "Follow me." Her
high heels click-clacked on the entrance hall's marble floor as she
led the way.

The young man looked around. The house was
hideously decorated—a lot of cheap faux Baroque glittery golds and
silvers, with whites and reds—but immaculate, unlike the club, for
which he was grateful. They probably have an army of emigres
straight off the boat to clean for nearly nothing, he thought,
eyeing the abundance of artificial flowers and plants with
distaste.

She led him down a short flight of stairs
with white carpeting to a lower level, where he followed her down a
short hallway to a door. She opened it and stood back "In here,"
she said nodding her big bleached hair toward the room.

"Thanks," the young man said again. He
entered the room, and she closed the door behind him.

The older man's office had shiny jet black
pile carpeting and hideous black and white leather-upholstered
chairs and sofa, a gigantic black and glass desk. Out of the corner
of his eye, he saw a familiar-looking goon sprawled on the sofa. In
a white leather chair nearby sat his counterpart, flexing his fists
on the chair's arms. On the wall above him was a painting of a nude
woman, posed provocatively, one finger between her pouty red lips,
another between her thighs.

He approached the desk, where the older
Russian sat,

a cell phone attached to his ear as usual. He
didn't acknowledge the young man but eyed him as he continued to
talk.

The waiting game again, the young man thought
with irritation. And there wasn't a chair placed in front of the
desk where he could sit and wait. Another one of their ridiculous
tactics. You don't just keep them waiting, you keep them standing
as well.

After what seemed like an interminable length
of time, the older man finished his telephone call, snapped the
cell phone shut, and carefully placed it on the desk to the right
of him. He then placed his meaty paws on the desk, in the very
center, intertwining his sausage fingers. He looked up at the young
man with his wolfs eyes, then slowly began shaking his head from
side to side.

"You are becoming a great disappointment to
me," he said at last. "A great disappointment." He tapped the
desktop with a thick finger, his malevolent gaze riveted to the
young man.

The younger man stood silently, knowing that
nothing irritated the older Russian more than his silence, but he
didn't really care. Two can play his stupid waiting game, he
thought, returning the man's stare.

The older Russian finally exploded in anger,
spittle flying. "What do you have to say for yourself?" His face
had turned beet red, and the veins stood out in bas relief on his
face and neck.

"I have nothing to say," the young man
replied in a self-assured voice, "except that he has thus far
refused to listen to reason. As you well know."

"Nothing to say!" the older man echoed in a
thunderous baritone. "Refused to listen to reason!" He glowered at
the younger man as if he couldn't believe his ears. "You're going
to end up in a fucking body bag, and you don't have anything to say
for yourself?"

The young man just stared back, his
confidence not in the least bit affected. He knew, and the older
Russian knew, that Misha Levin was an extremely difficult man to
even get to, much less get close to. To convince him to sign any
kind of performance and recording contract—to unknowingly become a
part of their evil empire—would

be a feat well worth waiting for. If these
hooligans stood any chance at all of succeeding, they knew, and the
young man knew, that he was not only their best chance but their
only chance.

The older man reached into a rear trouser
pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, then proceeded to wipe beads
of sweat off his flushed face and from around his thick neck. When
he'd finished, he reached around and stuffed the handkerchief back
down into his trouser pocket. His breathing was an audible
wheeze.

He looked up at the young man and shook his
head again. "You've got till the end of the year," he said in an
even tone, making an effort to check his explosive temper. "If you
haven't gotten him to sign on the dotted line by then, you're both
in trouble. Got that?"

"I've got it," the young man said with a
nod.

The older Russian began scratching out
something on a pad of paper. When he was finished, he ripped the
sheet of paper off of the pad and held it out.

The young man took it from him and looked
down. He could barely restrain a smile. He's upping the offer, he
thought with amusement. He'll pay almost anything to get Misha
Levin to sign a contract with his production company.

"This is the final offer," the older man
said. "Make that clear to Levin, but don't make any threats." He
looked over at the goons, who had sat silently watching the
exchange. "We'll do that if and when the time comes."

The behemoths half smiled, as if in
anticipation of being able to exert their brute force.

The older man returned his gaze to the young
man. "We want Levin's willing cooperation if at all possible.
That's the ideal situation, and that's your department. Leave the
rest to us."

The young man smiled evilly. "It would give
me great pleasure to convince Misha Levin that he must sign with
you," he said. "I have immediate access to him, his wife, his
child, anyone, and I could be very, ah .. . convincing."

The older man eyed him shrewdly. He knew the
young man was a brilliant manipulator. But it hadn't occurred to
him that he might actually be capable of anything physical. Now he
thought he recognized a kindred spirit of sorts. A man who would
use any means possible to get what he wanted.

"Just do as we say for the time being," the
older man said "If and when the time comes, I'll decide how we'll
go about convincing Misha Levin that he must cooperate with
us."

The young man nodded

"And keep in mind that time is becoming
increasingly important," the older Russian said "There are
political and economic changes in Russia every day, so go to work
on him."

The young man nodded again.

"Now get out of here," the older Russian said
"And don't miss any Saturday night calls."

The young man turned on his heel and started
toward the door. He nodded to the goons, who had been watching him
with indolent expressions. One of them cracked his knuckles and his
lips became a smirk

The young man restrained a smile once again
They think they're in control. Well, let them think it. I'll show
them who has control. Who knows how to get things done. They don't
have a clue who or what they're dealing with here.

"Look, Grandma!" Nicky cried "Look!" When he
was certain that he had her undivided attention, he carefully
positioned his foot over a bright red balloon, then gave it a
gleeful stomp. It burst with a loud pop!

Sonia's eyes widened in a semblance of alarm,
and she threw her hands to her heart, as if mortally wounded. "Ah!
I 'm shot!" she wailed. "Your poor old grandmother is shot!" She
slumped to her side, and her eyes fluttered shut.

Nicky shrieked with laughter and tore off in
search of more mischief. Sonia opened her eyes and straightened up
in her chair, a smile on her face as she surveyed the chaotic scene
before her.

Hundreds of balloons, all in colors that
bobbed about the apartment's high ceilings, their long streamers
dangling temptingly. Their deflated counterparts, victims of
innocent child play, lay mute on the floor after loud and startling
explosions. The apartment's spacious rooms were still filled with
the squeals of laughter. She heard the encouragement or
admonishment of several doting parents, and saw that Olga, Nicky's
efficient nanny, was busily searching out the missing in
action.

Birthday cake and ice cream were generously
smeared on faces and clothes. Nor had some of the furniture and
rugs been spared, Sonia noticed. But it didn't matter, she thought,
judging that no irreparable harm had been done. Besides, it was
Nicky's fourth birthday, and the party, to her and Vera's immense
satisfaction, had been a boisterous, messy, and completely
delightful affair— and, thankfully, was drawing to a close. Clivo
the Clown had come and gone, after enchanting some of the children
while simultaneously terrifying others with his age- old slapstick
shenanigans. Manuel the Magician, his tatty old cloak and Hispanic
accent notwithstanding, had departed to pleas of "More! More!
More!"

Now parents, nannies, and au pairs were
arriving to pick up the little ones, and between good-byes she'd
decided to get off her tired feet.

The explosive pop! of yet another balloon
meeting its end gave her a start, and she saw that Nicky was the
culprit She looked at her grandson with unabashed pride.

He's so much like his father was at that
age
, she thought. The same raven black hair framed his angelic
face, and the same beguiling eyes, so dark brown they appeared to
be black, begged for your attention. Even in his child's plump
little face, she was certain that she could discern his father's
handsome features slowly emerging. He's going to be a heartbreaker,
she surmised. And that, too, is just like his father.

"It's been a wonderful party, hasn't it?"
Vera said, patting her mother-in-law on the shoulder and sitting
down next to her.

"Oh, yes, Vera," Sonia replied, "it's been a
fabulous party. Nicky and all the children have had such a good
time." She looked at Vera with a wistful smile on her face. "I was
just thinking how like his father Nicky is," she said. "Of course,
you've heard that a million times, and not just from me."

"Oh, yes," Vera said with a laugh. Her alert
blue eyes shifted to her son. He was racing about the room in a
frenzy of youthful delight, grasping at the balloon streamers
within his reach. "But it's true," she said. "He's so like Misha,
it's uncanny. And he idolizes his father."

"Where is Misha?" Sonia asked. "I thought he
was going to stop by for the party."

"So did I," Vera said. She sighed and shifted
uneasily in her chair. "I don't know what's held him up." She gazed
off into the distance a moment, as if searching for an answer, and
unconsciously began nudging her wedding band and engagement ring
around her finger with a thumb.

She tinned to Sonia. "I'm just glad that he
made a big production out of Nicky's birthday this morning," she
said, "and gave him his present after breakfast."

Sonia knew her daughter-in-law extremely
well, and she could see that Vera was annoyed with Misha. Even
though she was making an effort to conceal it, her beautiful
daughter-in-law was obviously nervous. She had a strong suspicion
that it was more than Misha's missing the birthday party that had
upset her.

What could it be? she wondered, wishing that
she could ask Vera what was troubling her. They have everything,
she told herself. A beautiful home, successful careers, and plenty
of money. Best of all, they have each other and an extraordinary
child. But something was definitely amiss. She didn't want to pry,
however. Vera, she knew, felt free to discuss her problems with her
and would talk to her when and if she needed to.

It's strange, she thought. Vera comes to me,
but never goes to her own mother. But then Tatiana Bunim, for all
her good qualities, was hardly the type of woman that one would
feel comfortable confiding in. She wasn't even motherly, Sonia
thought, let alone grandmotherly.

She turned to Vera and gave her a gentle pat
on the arm. "Maybe," Sonia ventured, "our Misha will still make
it." She didn't herself believe it, not now that the party was
virtually over, but she wanted to do what she could to bolster up
Vera's flagging spirits.

"Probably not." Vera smiled ruefully. "But I
appreciate your efforts to make me feel better," she added.

Misha's failure to show up was just one in
what was becoming a very long string of more and more frequent
absences. After their marriage and during the first six months of
her pregnancy, she'd traveled with Misha to almost every
performance, be it far-off Tokyo or nearby Pittsburgh. Then, after
Nicky's birth, she'd quite naturally stayed in New York for the
first few months, running the household and helping raise their
son. She hadn't quit her job altogether, but had worked out an
arrangement with the auction house whereby she acted as a
consultant and worked on special events. That way she could work at
home and would be free to travel with Misha at almost any time.
Theoretically, at least.

It hadn't worked out that way however. The
demands on her time in New York made traveling with him more
difficult than either of them had imagined. Should Nicky be sick,
for example, she wouldn't even consider leaving him at home alone
with Olga, no matter how efficient she might be. Then, too, her job
required that she entertain very important clients, a
responsibility that Vera didn't take tightly. As a result, Misha
often traveled alone nowadays.