Babayaga

Inside the small lobby, they found Red waiting. The musician filled them in as he led them up the stairs. “She has been going nonstop like a broken record. I thought one of the jokers staying here might have slipped her something, but the lady says Ned only came in yesterday and didn’t talk with any of her neighbors.” Red pushed open the door to the small hotel room. “Take a look.”

Inside, the small woman lay on the bed, curled up tightly in the fetal position, her eyes wide open. Flats was sitting beside her, holding her hand. The only sound in the room was her rattling on in a raspy voice, the words barely discernible. Flats got up and Oliver gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed and, leaning over, put his ear to her mouth.

For the next fifteen minutes, none of the men said a word as Oliver sat listening. Other than Ned’s noises, the room was as quiet as a Quaker meeting. Finally, Oliver sat up, shaking his head. “I don’t know why, but I had imagined she would be more lucid.”

“She was talking better earlier, clearer anyway, though it still didn’t make any sense,” said Flats. “It’s probably worse ’cause she’s tired now. It’s like she’s stuck under some spooky spell.”

“No need to be superstitious,” said Oliver, getting up. “There’s always a logical explanation.” He began poking around the room, opening the bureau drawers and digging into her pockets. In her small black purse he found some business cards. Will noticed him discreetly tuck one into his vest. “Has a doctor been called?”

“We were waiting for you.”

“Why was that?” asked Oliver.

“Well, if the doctor came and took her away we felt there was a solid possibility you wouldn’t pay us what you promised.”

Oliver grinned, took out his wallet, and started counting out bills. “My, my, Red. I’m sorry you ever doubted my word. I thought we were friends.”

“Yes,” Red said, taking the cash. “You are my friend, Oliver, that is true fact. A hundred percent. But that is only one thing you are. And I was raised never to trust white people, and never to trust rich people, which is another two things you happen to be.”

“Oh, you overestimate me.” Oliver smiled. “But I suppose you do make some sort of anthropological sense.” He looked at the woman lying on the bed. “In any case, there’s probably no harm done. She seems beyond any doctor’s abilities. Maybe a shot of adrenaline would wake her up. Any idea where we could find some?”

The black men shook their heads. Oliver got out his fountain pen and wrote an address down. “Okay, well, let’s try this. Since all our accounts are now squared, ask the manager to let you use the phone and call this number for an ambulance. Ask for Jerry, he can take her to the American Hospital over in Neuilly.”

Oliver gave Ned’s curled-up body a pat, then put on his hat and headed out the door. Trailing down the stairs after Oliver, Will suddenly felt like a young, earnest Dr. Watson scrambling behind a distracted Sherlock Holmes. Will had loved those detective stories as a boy, but he realized there was one significant difference: Holmes’s cases always involved a single mystery that he plucked apart with logic, grace, and wit, whereas Oliver never solved anything, each riddle only perpetuating deeper ones, which he clumsily fumbled at until they all came down on both their heads like piles of hatboxes tumbling off some great armoire. It was annoying.

As he reached the street, he saw Oliver striding fast down the block, past the busy sidewalk cafés and bars. Will ran to catch up.

“What’s the hurry?” asked Will.

“I have an appointment.”

“An appointment?”

“Well, a date actually.”

“Really?” Will was confused, there was still so much to sort out. “But—”

Oliver spun around sharply. “But what? You thought perhaps I’d be too lovesick pining for your precious Zoya? Really? Don’t get me wrong, she is a fine catch, easy on the eyes and exotically skilled in ways you’ve no doubt discovered by now. But, no, I wasn’t planning to mope about like some kind of sad Leporello to your lascivious Don Giovanni. Believe me, I have infinitely better ways to occupy my time.”

“No, that’s not what I meant at all,” said Will, slightly taken aback. “I was only thinking maybe we should sit down somewhere and talk about Ned. And Boris. And that file the Russian embassy has. And my knife. There’s a whole host of problems we have to sort out, Oliver. Especially since Brandon and his boys are not going to go away.”

“Oh yes,” Oliver said, quickly softening his tone. “I apologize. Don’t worry, we’ll attend to all that tomorrow, first thing. I can’t do it now, I’ve got to attend to my other responsibility, that poor, long-suffering little journal of mine.”

“I thought you just said you were going on a date?”