29. NICK

Storm gives me a giddy wave as the Vette peels out of the driveway and through the front gate. It took me forever to convince her to just take my credit card and go shopping in the city; I finally had to give in and agree that she could buy me some clothes, too. Something tells me it won’t be the black T-shirts I asked for.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is she’ll be in Manhattan until seven o’clock, giving me the time I need to get into Brooklyn and do what I need to do. I wait a few minutes after she’s gone so that she won’t see the Mach 1’s grill in her rearview mirror. As far as she knows, I’ll be home all day waiting for her.

I’ll have to explain things to her when she gets home, of course. But for now, the less she knows, the better.

I spark the Mustang to life, listening to the purr of the 351 four-barrel engine for a while as my mind goes back to the days when it was barely running and scuffed to shit. The hundreds of hours Josef and I spent rooting around under the hood, sanding and painting, hunting all over the five boroughs for parts.

Those were simpler times.

Finally I back her out and head down the lonesome road that leads from the estate to the Long Island Expressway. The cloudy weather has turned even worse today, with the makings of another storm on the horizon. It matches my mood.

* * *

Mookie has to look closely before he finally recognizes me at the door.

“Nick?” he asks tentatively, peering at me in the dim light of the Moscow Palace’s lobby. “Holy shit, man, is that you?”

I extend a hand and smile. “Still working the door, eh, Mook?”

He blinks at me a couple of times before taking my offer and shaking. “Nick Fucking Chernenko,” he says with a grin. “Been a while.”

“Almost twenty years.” I nod.

He lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit, that must mean I’m an old man now.”

I laugh out loud. Mook was always a good egg. There’s a line from an old Billy Joel song about a guy who’s quick with a joke or a light of your smoke. That’s Mookie.

And like the guy in the song, I’ve always thought there was someplace that he’d rather be.

“Is he here?” I ask.

“Josef and the missus are just sitting down to lunch,” he says. “You want to go in, or maybe I should…?”

Like a lot of people, Mookie doesn’t know how things ended between Josef and me, just that they ended. He’s being polite by asking whether I’d like an introduction, which will give Josef the opportunity to send me packing if he doesn’t want to see me.

“I’d like to surprise him,” I say quietly, leaning closer. “For the Feast of Saint Igor.”

It’s a holiday I just made up, but Mookie, who’s not even close to being Russian, doesn’t know that.

“Oh,” he says, trying not to look confused. “Okay, then, I guess go on in. Good to see you, man.”

I clap him on the shoulder as I head through the thick brocade curtains toward the dining room. “Same here.”

The Moscow Palace is one of Josef’s longest-running money-laundering operations. Like his after-hours club, it works well because it’s an all-cash business, as evidenced by the sign on Mookie’s reception desk that tells you credit cards aren’t accepted. It also acts as a meeting space for business, plus he and his family members all draw tidy salaries for jobs they don’t do, which gives them some legal extra pocket money.

Its Old World charm has made the Palace a popular spot for years. The place is buzzing with Russian expatriates that I recognize, as well as some Millennials I assume are looking for some cool new cuisine. The private room is in the back, which is where I’m headed.

More than a few heads turn as I pass, and I hear whispers: “Holy shit, is that…” and “I haven’t seen him for...” There’s even a “boshe moi,” which is Russian for “Oh my God.” It helps prepare me for what I know is coming next.

Josef’s wife, Pamela, sees me first as I approach the table. She’s a little rounder in spots than I remember, but the black hair is still piled high in a ‘90s style, and she still wears that fire engine red lipstick that Long Island girls seem so fond of.

“Oh. My. GOD!” she crows, dropping her fork. “Josef, lookit who it is!”

Josef, who’s talking on his cell phone, gives her an annoyed look before glancing up at me. The color abruptly drains from his face and his thumb automatically hits the “end call” button without another word.

“Nicky!” Pam squeals as she extricates herself from the bench side of the round booth. Once she’s out, she grabs my cheeks in her palms and gives me a red-stained kiss on the cheek.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Pam.” I grin. “Still the most beautiful woman in the room.”

She preens. “Your eyesight obviously isn’t what it used to be. But look at you! And the beard! I like it! Look at him, Josef!”

“I see him, my love,” says Josef, finally rising from the table. He extends his hand to me, a passable smile on his face. He’s recovered from the initial shock.

“Nikolai,” he says as we shake. “It’s been too long, tovarisch.”

I nod. “Yes it has.”

Pamela grabs me and pulls me to the seat next to her, almost scratching my arm with her inch-long nails the same shade as her lips. She’s still a stunning woman, if you can look past the gaudy make-up and hair. And the fact she’s Greek, not Russian, which irked the hell out of Josef’s family.

“You’ve gotta eat with us, Nicky, I insist.”

I glance at Josef. He blinks a couple of times, then says “Of course. This is a rare occasion.”

“It is!” Pam squeaks. She flags down a passing waiter in a white shirt and bow tie.

“Petey, bring my friend a Miller Lite and a menu, will you? And a bottle of Green Mark from the VIP bar.” She turns to me. “We’re gonna do shots!”

“All right,” I say. “But just one. I’m driving later.” I turn to face Josef. “The Mach 1. Remember?”

He looks uncomfortable. Good.

“You still have that?” Pam says, incredulous. “That baby made me weak back in the day, I’ll tell you. I always wanted Josef to buy it off you, but he said you wouldn’t sell.”

“He was right,” I say. “I still won’t. Josef and I worked together to restore her. She’s a symbol of our friendship.”

Josef’s gaze drops to the table and fresh blood creeps into his cheeks. I’ve shamed him.

Good.

The drinks come and I order holubtsi, meat and rice wrapped in cabbage. The head chef at Moscow Palace uses his own baba’s recipes, and they’re incredible.

Pamela pours us each an ounce of vodka and we touch glasses.

“To old friends!” she says.

Josef and I nod to each other and repeat the toast. The discomfort in his eyes is supremely satisfying as we toss back the liquor.

Pamela is a bit of a ditz, but she’s not stupid. With some vodka in her, she works up the nerve to ask the question I’m sure is burning in her right now. Her husband, of course, already knows the answer.

“So what brings you here, Nicky?” she asks. “It’s been a long time.”

Part of me wants to simply tell her to ask her husband, but I honestly like Pam. I don’t want her getting caught between me and Josef. She doesn’t deserve it. Then again, she’s the one who raised Arkady. But I suppose she was hamstrung by the lifestyle the family leads, and all the other influences on her son.

She’s always actively turned a blind eye to the family business. That doesn’t excuse what she’s let her son become, but maybe it helps explain it. Not that it matters. I deal with things as they are, not as they should be.

“Just wanted to let you know I still exist,” I say with a shrug. “Been thinking about you guys a lot this last little while. And the kids. They’re all grown up now.”

Pam beams as she taps her smartphone to show me a series of photos showcasing an adorable but serious-looking girl, about a year old, with dark brown eyes and chestnut hair.

“Our first grandbaby,” she says proudly. “Marta’s. She married the oldest Vaselly boy, Christopher. I ask you, do I look old enough to be a baba?”

I grin and kiss her cheek. “You don’t look anything like my baba, that’s for sure.”

“Flatterer,” she says with a grin. Then a shadow crosses her face. “And Arkady is… doing well. Learning the business. Playing the field. You know how young men are, always chasing after anything in a skirt.”

Josef looks like he swallowed a bug, and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. His own wife is doing a better job of making him squirm than I could.

“I wish he’d shave that stupid beard, though,” says Pam. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Nick, on you it’s distinguished. But his is just ridiculous. I’m sure it turns off far more women that it attracts.”

I imagine his habit of shooting at them when they refuse to be raped by his friends turns a few off as well, I don’t say. Instead I shrug.

“His father was a ladies man, too, before he met you.”

Pam smiles and turns to Josef. “Speaking of my hubby, he’s being awful quiet.”

She knows enough not to bring up anything about our split all those years ago. I don’t know how much detail Josef went into when I left the business, but she’s clearly not going to scratch old wounds. It’s just a gentle prod for her husband to be a little more hospitable to an old friend.

Josef manages to smile. “You seemed to have it well in hand, my love.”

The waiter arrives with the food, and for a few minutes we talk about the incredible aromas and how they bring back memories of the old days. To a casual observer, it would seem completely normal. Just old friends catching up.

To some of the people in the Palace, though, it must seem like some kind of a summit meeting. Nick and Josef, together again for the first time in years, what’s going on?

My eyes close as the first forkful of holubtsi hits my tongue. Fatty and meaty and just a hint of sweetness… heaven.

“Am I right?” Pam says with a grin. “Isn’t it the best?”

I nod, and suddenly I want to make sure I finish my meal before I do what I came here to do. Great food should never go to waste, even when you’re staring across a table at an old friend you might end up killing later on.