SIREN'S TEARS (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 3) by Lawrence de Maria Page B

answered the door. I wondered if his was the last face Plasma Joe ever saw.
    “Nice to see you, Maks. How are the Pilates lessons going?”
    He shut the door behind me and then walked ahead without a word. I followed him past the winding marble staircase that led up the turret to the rooms on the second floor. Arman Rahm came out of a room halfway down the hallway from which I heard construction noises.
    “Ah, Alton. Perfect timing.”
    I glanced into the room, in which workmen were installing shelves along a far wall that had walnut paneling and hand-carved detailing.
    “Another library,” Rahm explained. “We Russians are great readers.”
    “Have one of your girlfriends buy you a Kindle for Christmas, Arman. It’s cheaper.”
    “But not as beautiful, my friend. Look at those shelves. A new design. No visible means of support.”
    “In keeping with the family tradition.”
    Arman laughed.
    “Come, my father is waiting.”
    Marat Rahm were already seated at a dining room table. The room was dark and a maid was lighting candles in its center. She was young and very pretty.
    “Sit,” Kalugin said, pointing to a chair, “and behave yourself.”
    He walked over to the wall behind Marat, who was at the head of the table, and stood there. The maid soon joined him on the wall, but at a safe distance. I sat. Arman smiled across the table at me.
    “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Rahm.”
    The old man nodded.
    “I’m glad you could join us for lunch, Rhode. Please forgive the lighting. The drugs I am taking have made my eyes very sensitive to light. I’ve been told that the condition is temporary. I could have the electric lamps turned on if you like, and I can wear sunglasses.”
    The idea that I would ask one of the most powerful mob bosses on the East Coast to put on sunglasses for my convenience was humorous.
    “This is fine, Mr. Rahm. In fact, I prefer it this way. It might throw Kalugin’s aim off.”
    Both Rahms laughed and Marat said, “I almost forgot why I liked you.” He coughed and I caught a look of concern in his son’s eyes. “I know you have questions for me, but perhaps we can eat first. I am hungry, a rare enough occurrence these days, and I don’t want to waste it. Lara, please tell the chef we are ready.”
    The maid went through a door.
    “Lara, a lovely name, Mr. Rhode, don’t you think? You’ve read Doctor Zhivago ?”
    “No, but I saw the movie, with Julie Christie as Lara. She was Zhivago’s lover. Your maid could give her a run for her money.”
    Marat Rahm laughed.
    “Yes, I believe she would. But don’t get the wrong idea. She is the daughter of a distant cousin in Kiev. I am putting her through school. NYU. But I want her to learn how to work when she is not in class. She also does some secretarial chores for me.” He turned to his son. “Arman, why don’t you open up a good cabernet. We can drink wine, eat and talk movies for a little while. I would like that.” He turned back to me. “You know my daughter, Eleni, is an actress. She has appeared in several European films.”
    I stared at the old man. Was it possible he didn’t remember I knew all about Eleni’s acting ability. Indeed, I had been a victim of that talent. And he had to remember that she had slept with me, likely with his approval, if not urging. But I could see no sign in his face that he was being cruel or disingenuous. I looked at Arman, who shook his head slightly and shrugged. I let it go.
    Marat continued, “What did you think of Omar Sharif as Zhivago?”
    He was very knowledgeable about American movies, although he insisted that Russia’s Serge Eisenstein was the greatest director who ever lived. I made my case for John Ford and William Wilder and we agreed to disagree, which considering who I was dealing should have earned me the dinner-table equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Honor. I was initially surprised at his film expertise until I remembered that prior to becoming a Russian mob