SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria Page A
Authors: Lawrence de Maria
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bought.”
“I didn’t know you could buy mistletoe in pecks,” she giggled.
“I’m cutting back this year. In this economy, a bushel seemed extravagant.”
***
That night, in her bed, we made the best love of our lives, and that was saying something. Later, as she lay in my arms, she said, “You will visit me, won’t you?”
“As soon as I get out of the hospital,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Might be a couple of months.”
She punched me.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I think you broke something.”
“Alton!”
I kissed her.
“Wild horses won’t keep me away.”
She fell asleep. I lay there. After sex, they say men are often sad, diminished. Something to do with the post-coital effect of oxytocin, the so-called pleasure hormone, on the brain. The goddamn French call the feeling “la petite mort,” the little death.
I was sad. But it had nothing to do with oxytocin.
CHAPTER 6 – LUNCH ORDER
I needed something to keep me occupied, rather than dwell on Alice’s looming departure. Father Zapo’s case, if that was what it was, fit the bill. Hopeless and non-paying, my stock in trade.
Just to make it interesting, I thought I’d work backwards. That meant starting with Marat Rahm. I called his son.
“Thanks a lot, Arman,” I said.
“I presume the priest has been to see you.”
“I would like to talk to your father.”
“He won’t be able to add much more than what Zapotoski told you.”
“It’s how I work, Arman. I need to get a feel for this.”
“I admire you, Alton. Just about anyone else would blow the old gentleman off. Why don’t you?”
“He said I was his fifth choice and couldn’t pay me. How was I supposed to say no to him?”
Rahm laughed and said something in Russian to someone on his end. I heard a sound like a rusty lawn mower. I presumed it was Kalugin’s version of a laugh.
“I’m in New Jersey at the moment, but am having lunch with my father at home. Meet us there at 1 P.M.”
It was less an invitation than an order.
***
I had been to the Rahm mansion on Todt Hill on more than one occasion. The first time was the most memorable. That was when underworld doctors patched me up while Marat Rahm debated whether to kill me. But even then the Rahms set a good table and I was looking forward to lunch.
Not every visitor walked away from the mansion. In certain circles it was rumored – hell, it was established fact – that one of Staten Island’s most notorious second-story men, Plasma Joe Menucci, didn’t. Plasma Joe, who got his nickname from his uncanny success in removing even the largest televisions from a target home, had boasted that no domicile, with or without a security system, was impervious to his flat-screen talents. On a dare from some of his peers after a night of heavy drinking, Plasma Joe vowed to creep the Rahm manse. This was before the Rahm family had fully established itself on Staten Island, and was barely holding its own against the long-entrenched Italian Mafia. Drinking and daring aside, Plasma Joe, while an independent contractor, was possibly motivated by ethnic pride.
He chose a snowy night when the Rahms went to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn to attend a wedding. Amid worsening weather reports, and suggestions that the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge might have to be closed, the family decided to leave the festivities early. That was three years ago. No one has seen Plasma Joe since.
Things changed after the Rahms rose to the top of Staten Island’s crime pyramid. Now there were security cameras in every alcove and thin wires ran along the windows. I was sure the electronic security was at a C.I.A. level now.
The Norman-style limestone and slate house itself was stunning. Its most distinguishing feature was a two-story copper-clad turret just to right of the front door. Arman told me his father added the turret because it made the house look a bit like his old dacha in the Crimea.
Kalugin
“I didn’t know you could buy mistletoe in pecks,” she giggled.
“I’m cutting back this year. In this economy, a bushel seemed extravagant.”
***
That night, in her bed, we made the best love of our lives, and that was saying something. Later, as she lay in my arms, she said, “You will visit me, won’t you?”
“As soon as I get out of the hospital,” I said, still trying to catch my breath. “Might be a couple of months.”
She punched me.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I think you broke something.”
“Alton!”
I kissed her.
“Wild horses won’t keep me away.”
She fell asleep. I lay there. After sex, they say men are often sad, diminished. Something to do with the post-coital effect of oxytocin, the so-called pleasure hormone, on the brain. The goddamn French call the feeling “la petite mort,” the little death.
I was sad. But it had nothing to do with oxytocin.
CHAPTER 6 – LUNCH ORDER
I needed something to keep me occupied, rather than dwell on Alice’s looming departure. Father Zapo’s case, if that was what it was, fit the bill. Hopeless and non-paying, my stock in trade.
Just to make it interesting, I thought I’d work backwards. That meant starting with Marat Rahm. I called his son.
“Thanks a lot, Arman,” I said.
“I presume the priest has been to see you.”
“I would like to talk to your father.”
“He won’t be able to add much more than what Zapotoski told you.”
“It’s how I work, Arman. I need to get a feel for this.”
“I admire you, Alton. Just about anyone else would blow the old gentleman off. Why don’t you?”
“He said I was his fifth choice and couldn’t pay me. How was I supposed to say no to him?”
Rahm laughed and said something in Russian to someone on his end. I heard a sound like a rusty lawn mower. I presumed it was Kalugin’s version of a laugh.
“I’m in New Jersey at the moment, but am having lunch with my father at home. Meet us there at 1 P.M.”
It was less an invitation than an order.
***
I had been to the Rahm mansion on Todt Hill on more than one occasion. The first time was the most memorable. That was when underworld doctors patched me up while Marat Rahm debated whether to kill me. But even then the Rahms set a good table and I was looking forward to lunch.
Not every visitor walked away from the mansion. In certain circles it was rumored – hell, it was established fact – that one of Staten Island’s most notorious second-story men, Plasma Joe Menucci, didn’t. Plasma Joe, who got his nickname from his uncanny success in removing even the largest televisions from a target home, had boasted that no domicile, with or without a security system, was impervious to his flat-screen talents. On a dare from some of his peers after a night of heavy drinking, Plasma Joe vowed to creep the Rahm manse. This was before the Rahm family had fully established itself on Staten Island, and was barely holding its own against the long-entrenched Italian Mafia. Drinking and daring aside, Plasma Joe, while an independent contractor, was possibly motivated by ethnic pride.
He chose a snowy night when the Rahms went to their old neighborhood in Brooklyn to attend a wedding. Amid worsening weather reports, and suggestions that the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge might have to be closed, the family decided to leave the festivities early. That was three years ago. No one has seen Plasma Joe since.
Things changed after the Rahms rose to the top of Staten Island’s crime pyramid. Now there were security cameras in every alcove and thin wires ran along the windows. I was sure the electronic security was at a C.I.A. level now.
The Norman-style limestone and slate house itself was stunning. Its most distinguishing feature was a two-story copper-clad turret just to right of the front door. Arman told me his father added the turret because it made the house look a bit like his old dacha in the Crimea.
Kalugin
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