Free Londongrad by Reggie Nadelson Page A

said.
    Glass in hand, Tolya got up and leaned on the parapet, looking out at the city. Suddenly, as he turned to look at me, I saw a look of pain cross his face, of sudden sharp physical pain held in. He put his hand to his left arm.
    “What’s the matter with you?” I said. “Tolya?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Tell me.”
    “I drank too much,” he said.
    “What? Talk to me. Sit down, for chrissake.”
    Sitting in the chair, he pulled up his pink silk socks.
    “Come with me. You can be part of it, you know what is happening in London, how much money, how this lovely adorable government takes just teeny little taxes, and how they are civil and have good courts. Money, you can scoop off trees. This is stupid, still being a cop, Artemy, what for? Big stupid people are cops. You know what they call them in London? Detective Plod.”
    “Pick,” I said.
    “Pick what?”
    “Pick money off the trees. Not scoop.”
    “Ha ha. So your English is better than mine, I am younger than you. You’ll be fifty before me. You won’t come, will you? So you’ll watch out for Val, yes?”
    “She’s not going to turn into a pumpkin, she’s twenty-four.”
    “You’ll take care of her, won’t you? Artie? This is not some joke.”
    “Yes.”
    We drank and watched the sun come up.
    “Good.” He got up. He held the bottle of Scotch out. I took a glass and poured a shot for myself. “Mr Pettus will ask you to watch me. This is why he came to my club, Artemy.”
    “Why would he want me to watch you? Tolya?”
    But he didn’t answer, just watched the sun coming up over Manhattan, and then fell asleep.
    At six, Sverdloff dozing in his chair on the roof, I went home through the glorious New York dawn. I’d been up all night. I was exhausted, but edgy, the girl on the swing, Tolya going to London, Val trying to keep him here.
    At home, I thought about the case, I made notes, I went out for a walk to clear my head. I wasn’t sure at all how long I walked along the East River, trying to get a fix on things. That evening when I got home, I got into bed and fell dead asleep.
    Some time after dark—I leaned on one elbow trying to see a clock—the buzzer rang. It was Valentina. I let her in. Without a word, she took off her jeans and shirt, and slipped into my bed, and it was early in the morning before she left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Sunday morning, Tolya left New York. He called early. He was waiting for me outside the yellow brick loft building where he lived in the old Meat Market. His black hair still wet from the shower, he looked sober.
    “Why do I feel you have a case, that you’re working on something and you don’t tell me, Artemy? In Brooklyn? Val asked you about it at my club. You ignored her.”
    “It’s a homicide Bobo Leven is working. I gave him the benefit of my wisdom,” I said.
    “You don’t want to tell me?”
    “It’s fucking grim, a young girl murdered. Just enjoy your trip, okay?”
    “Take care of Valentina. I trust you with her only in public places.”
    We laughed, but I felt sad and I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the early morning, the soft balmy summer dawn, the kind when we had so often staggered home from parties together.
    “I’ll try,” I said. “What airline are you on?” I added, making stupid small talk to change the subject.
    “You think I am flying commercial? Please.”
    He smiled. He seemed okay. He said that Valentina was still asleep at home and he had checked on her, and in her sleep, she had smiled at him. I didn’t say she had been with me. Somehow, I would redeem myself with him, one day, some day.
    “You have keys for my place? In case,” said Tolya.
    “Yes.”
    “And all my phone numbers?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You’ll think about coming with me in business, in restaurants? You promise?” He looked at his big gold Rolex. “What’s the date, Artyom?”
    “July 6. You okay?”
    “Please, I just want to set my watch, you think I’m getting senile?” He adjusted his