48. Delilah
DELILAH
I sit on the stool until the light through the front glass turns from gray to a weak kind of white.
Then I get up, go into the back, and open the safe again. The documents are in there, squared off and boxed, and underneath them is Osip Vetrov’s envelope, where I put it the night he handed it to me.
I take the envelope to the front and set it on the café table by the window. The same table. There’s still a faint ring of soot on the laminate where the sheet pan sat.
I open it.
Inside is a piece of paper that contains a typed summary of Vetrov’s deal, exactly as he presented it to me. His phone number is written at the bottom in neat blue ink.
It’d be so easy to take this deal. I could say to hell with all this nonsense, screw you to Kane, and sayonara to everyone I’ve ever known and loved. I could waltz off into the sunset with my pockets full and my conscience clear.
The more I think about it, the more tempted I am. Don’t I deserve a fresh start? Haven’t I been through enough? Again and again, I’ve been knocked down. At a certain point, a girl just gets tired.
And I’m so, so tired. Tired in a way I don’t think a thousand years of sleep will ever touch. I could replace that cot in the back room with the finest bed known to man, and it still wouldn’t make a difference in how heavy my heart is.
I look at those blue numbers. The lifeline I’ve been dying for is right there. One phone call and I’ll have my one-way ticket out of this nightmare.
Can I trust him? I’m not sure. I’ll say this: Osip Vetrov never lied to me.
He broke my curb and he told me he did. He fed my sister a folder full of documents and owned up to it before I even accused him of the crime.
He wants my building and said so in the first five minutes, which is more honesty than anybody else in my life has managed in one go.
Including and especially Kane Makov.
So that’s the question, really.
The devil I know? Or the devil I don’t?
I guess it comes down to this:
Only one of them has broken my heart.
I gulp.
I steel myself.
And then I dial.
“Mr. Vetrov, it’s Delilah Dorsey.”
There’s a pause, and then a sound I can only describe as pleased. “Ms. Dorsey. Happy Easter to you.”
“Same to you.”
“You are working today?”
“I’m always working.”
I put my back against the wall and look at my shop. The case, empty and clean. The chair by the window where he sat with his hat on the table. The floor where Kane stood with snow melting on his shoulders three hours ago.
“I’m calling with my answer,” I say.
“I assumed as much.”
“It’s no.”
Silence follows.
“May I ask why?” he says at last. “Not to argue. I’d simply like to understand.”
There’s a long version that involves me crying, and then there’s the short version. I’m done shedding tears for a while, so he gets the latter.
“Because I’m not trading my bakery to one rich man to get away from another one.”
“I see,” replies Vetrov. “That is admirably succinct.”
“I’ve had practice being unclear. I’m trying something new.
” I toy with the edge of the envelope, flicking it back and forth with my nail.
“You told me you weren’t offering a gift.
Just a transaction. I appreciated that, honestly.
It was the most honest thing anybody said to me in a long time.
But I looked at the deal, Mr. Vetrov, and what it comes down to is: I stop being Kane Makov’s problem and I start being yours.
And at the end of the day, some man owns the building at Forty-Fourth and Fourth, and it isn’t me. ”
“You would be paid very well, you know,” he reminds me.
“I know.”
“And still, no.”
“Yeah. Sticking to it.” I look at the deck oven with its bad left-side hot spot, and the walk-in with its wheezy compressor, and the plywood ramp out front where the curb used to be.
All the things that money could fix, if I had it.
“It’s not for sale to you. It’s not for sale to him.
It’s not for sale to the two guys in the suits, or the group they represent, or anybody who comes in here in June with a folder and a bad feeling about my insurance renewal.
It’s not for sale at all. It’s mine. It’s mine. ”
Another pause.
“There is still the matter of Mr. Makov’s lien,” he says. “You understand it will not vanish because you refuse me.”
“It already did.”
Oh, how I enjoy saying that.
“I’ve got all the paperwork right in front of me,” I go on. “Formalized as of Wednesday. The lien is released, the guaranty is voided, and I’m holding proof of intent to forge. The title is all mine, free and clear.”
I hear him move. A creak, and then a small grunt like the one he made lowering himself into my café chair.
“He gave it away,” Osip says.
“He gave it back,” I correct. “It was mine to begin with.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Hm. Ms. Dorsey… Do you understand what he has done?”
“He blew up his own thing. Yeah. I told him it was a waste and he agreed with me. But I’m not exactly gonna stop him.”
“No.” His voice takes a dark turn that sends chills skittering through me.
“Ms. Dorsey, listen to an old man for thirty seconds. After that, you may hang up on me and I will not call you again. Kane Makov spent twenty years and many, many millions on that corridor. It is worth ten times assembled what it is worth in pieces. Without your lot, it is essentially worthless.”
“I’m aware.”
“You are not aware,” he snaps. “People in our world will learn of this. And do you think that will be the end of things? Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. You sweet, naive little fool. He didn’t save you; he damned you.”
I feel cold and shaky. “What are you talking about?”
“He has told every man in Brighton Beach exactly what you are worth to him, and it is a number so large it embarrasses me.”
I hold my breath. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Vetrov?”
“No, my dear. I am valuing you properly for the very first time.” He laughs in a way I don’t like one bit. “We’ll be speaking again soon, I’m sure. Take care.”