Bad to the Bone, page 10
The only problem was that HEAVEN wasn’t on Brighton Beach Avenue, where it was supposed to be. And the people Moodrow asked only shrugged their shoulders and muttered something in Russian. Even the counterman at the pizzeria and the proprietor of O’Roark’s Fine Men’s Furnishings. It is at such moments that the exotic is transformed into the annoying and Moodrow found himself wondering if the good citizens of Little Odessa were making him for a cop. Perhaps from the KGB?
It was a question that never got an answer. Moodrow finally found a Korean greengrocer who willingly (perhaps because Moodrow was looking for a Russian and not a Korean) pointed out HEAVEN’s true location on Brighton 6th Street, a few yards from the main boulevard. Moodrow had never been inside a Russian nightclub, but he’d imagined the scene on the drive over. He’d pictured a small grimy room with an enormous bearded folk singer engulfing a battered guitar. The patrons would be huddled over glasses of vodka and rickety chess boards. A great, Russian soulfulness would permeate the room—the ancient wail of the oppressed made into flesh and blood.
From the street, HEAVEN met all of Moodrow’s expectations. The capital letters were a faded green against a faded gray background. A peeling steel door, painted the same color as the peeling brick wall, might have led into the basement of KGB headquarters. Moodrow, smiling to himself, pulled the door open and stepped into a Russian birthday party.
The tables were covered with small plates of food, the plates stacked on top of each other with the smallest empty spaces occupied by bottles of vodka. The walls were lined with strips of aluminum that moved with the air currents, reflecting the light from a dozen chandeliers. On the bandstand, a sextet in designer clothes sang, “She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Moodrow recognized the old Beatles’ tune immediately. In a way, he also recognized the men and women on the dance floor. They spanned every age, from eight-year-old girls unable to get a boy interested, to aged grande dames squired by adolescent grandsons. The men wore suits and smelled of after-shave. The women wore sequined evening gowns and sported diamonds and gold.
“It’s the fuckin’ Elks Club,” Moodrow muttered in disbelief. “They’re more American than I am.” His eyes swept the room, looking for some sign that the patrons of HEAVEN were Russian. There was the food, of course. He didn’t recognize anything on the plates. Then he saw a bone-thin, middle-aged woman in a low-cut satin gown fill a tumbler with vodka. Neither orange nor tomato juice was added, but the woman pulled on the drink as if it was a glass of lemonade. The gesture seemed purely Russian to Moodrow, even if the bottle of Absolut jarred somewhat.
A waitress in a gray T-shirt and plain black polyester skirt came up to him and shouted over the noise of the band. Unfortunately, she shouted in Russian.
“Alyosha Budnov.” Moodrow pronounced ‘Budnov’ like he was ordering a beer.
“Sorry,” the waitress said, throwing up her hands.
“The manager,” Moodrow persisted. “Al.”
“Al,” the waitress repeated, smiling this time. “Budnov.” She pronounced it ‘Boodnuv.’
“Yeah,” Moodrow said, handing the waitress a business card. “He’s expecting me.”
The music from the bandstand built up to a terrific crescendo, then stopped abruptly. The following silence was quickly filled with excited conversation. The only language was Russian. Then the bandleader, a platinum blond kid with hair down to his shoulders, announced, in English, that he was about to play, ‘The Russian Dinosaur,’ but first…”
The band launched into a slow, dirge-like rendition of “Happy Birthday” while the bandleader sang, in English. Moodrow smiled at the homey touch. Then the band repeated “Happy Birthday” eight times, the only variation being the name of the celebrant and Moodrow realized that the entire crowd consisted of birthday parties. Looking more closely at the tables stacked with food, he estimated the bill couldn’t be less than fifty dollars a person, even though the party closest to the bandstand consisted of more than a dozen people.
Russians must love birthdays, Moodrow thought. Followed by, Stanley, you shoulda been a detective.
“Mister Moodrow, hello to you.” The man rushing up to pump Moodrow’s hand was as tall and broad as Moodrow. He sported a thick, black beard that seemed to reach up into his eyebrows. Its color matched his double-breasted silk suit and tie. Moodrow, reading automatically, made the suit for a thousand dollars. The ruby tie-tack and the star sapphire pinky ring…probably another two. Of course, it didn’t matter to Moodrow, but curiosity is a given with good cops and Moodrow’s first glimpse of the new immigrants was having the same effect on him as Toys “R” Us would have on a two-year-old.
“Mr. Budnov…”
“Please, I have ask you before. Al is my name. And I will call you Stanley.”
“Moodrow,” Moodrow said.
“Pardon me?”
“Call me, Moodrow.”
“Ah. I have known such people who wish to be called as such.”
The band began to play again. Moodrow didn’t recognize the tune although it must have been “The Russian Dinosaur,” as promised by the bandleader. In any event, the music was too loud for conversation and Moodrow, watching Budnov’s lips move without understanding a word, shrugged his shoulders helplessly.
“We go to outside,” Budnov shouted, leading Moodrow through the crowd. It was cooling off rapidly, but neither man noticed the temperature.
“You want to know about Mister Davis Craddock. Here I will tell you the story and you will understand completely. One year ago my daughter calls me on telephone to say she has found true meaning to life and she don’t want to see her family no more. She is going into place called Hanover House where she will find inner self. Me, I am nearly falling down in faint. My heart is stopping in my chest. All time I was thinking she goes to the New York University where she will become doctor. Doctor is what I was to be until I ask for exit visa.”
Moodrow leaned back against the fender of his Mercury. He wasn’t going to have to push for this story, which probably meant that Al Budnov was proud of whatever he’d done.
“I understand that your daughter, Natasha, was in the commune for less than three months?”
“Three months?” Budnov snorted into his beard. “Is maybe more like three weeks. And even that because I have become soft American liberal. After I receive phone call, I am talking to everyone. Even great Russian Rabbi. ‘Relax Al,’ they tell me. ‘Don’t be doing foolishness. Daughter is twenty years old. She is free woman. Wait for her to come around.’ I hear this for two weeks, then I go to see Davis Craddock. You want to know what I say to him?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Budnov smiled, rubbing his hands together. “Is no big mystery. Davis Craddock meet me with big grin on face. I say, ‘Let me tell you simple life story. You don’t have to make comment. Just please to listen.’ He say nothing, so I go right away into life story. I say, When I was student in Moscow, my professors tell me to join Communist Party. This way I am certain to become doctor which is what I am wanting. Instead, I become refusenik. You know this word? I apply to state for exit visa and state respond by sending KGB. They come in black car and take me right off street. Down to Lubyanka Prison for beating. Not bad beating, just warning for foolish student.
“ ‘Next day, I demonstrate in front of American Embassy with fellow refuseniks. This time KGB only watch. Beating comes from Moscow police. Soon, I am expelled from university. I cannot get decent job. My wife and baby daughter suffer. I think this is worst thing that can happen to me. Then KGB searches my apartment. They find leaflets which the day before I was handing out in the street and they say I have done treason. I go to jail and wait ten months for trial without seeing lawyer or judge. Trial takes fifteen minutes. Five years in labor camp for being social parasite.
“ ‘Mister Craddock, are you knowing how cold it is in labor camp when you go out on January morning wearing only rags? You know how body feels when you live on soup which is water and half-rotting vegetables? Many people give up and die and sometimes I think they are smartest. Better to die than to live among people who kill each other for crusts of bread. But these things are not always according to will. I survive anyway. I return to Moscow and find my family living like worst families in South Bronx. My wife is washing laundry. Daughter is sick.
“ ‘I go to uncle who is in Party, borrow five thousand rubles. Then I find Americans with dollars and offer them two times regular currency exchange rate. At first, other money dealers are angry, but in Gulag I learn how to make my will felt and I am very large man, so I am accepted. I think all will be well, until I am given by informer to Moscow police and Lieutenant arrests me. He says, “Alyosha, why are you so foolish? Police know everything that happens in Moscow. You must learn to get along.”
“ ‘He takes my day’s supply of rubles and shoves it in pocket. Tells me please to call him if other police ask me for money. Otherwise he will see me each month. Soon, I branch out. I buy American products, blue jeans and radios and tapes of forbidden Beatles music. Möscovites are going crazy for such things. They buy and buy and police come only once each month to give me beating for show. My family now lives well. We have large apartment, like party apparatchik, and it is no trouble to get exit visa if dollars are passed on to proper commissar.
“ ‘Now, Mister Craddock, I am in America. I am part owner of nightclub. I also have taxi fleet and operate limo service. Last week, Mayor of New York comes to my nightclub looking for votes. He shakes my hand and tells me I am wonderful man. Inspiration for whole generation of Russian Jews. Only one dream left for me, Mister Craddock. That daughter become American doctor. You will help me to get this dream. In three days you will bring daughter back to me. You will not tell her that I come here. I have made so much friends in America. Believe me, friends are very, very necessary in nightclub business, because of so many commissars who must be made happy. I have discussed this with them and they are agreeing when I say I have not come all this way, from gulag to America, only to lose dream.’
“Three days later Stasha come home. Craddock has told her she is unacceptable candidate for new world he is building. I am not fool. I find proper therapist for Stasha and now she is back in school. See how dream can come true, if human being does not give up?”
Moodrow, his arms folded across his chest, smiled patiently. Budnov’s tale came as no surprise. Any South American illegal could tell stories of fierce determination in the wake of enormous obstacles. Budnov, who thought he was fleeing to a new world, had brought the old one with him.
“Craddock did nothing? No threats? No explanations?”
“He look me straight in the eye whole time. He is smart, Moodrow, not afraid. I think he is thinking why he wants so much trouble for one Russian girl. When I finish story, I leave without one word passing between us.”
The door opened and a young woman stepped out of the club. Short and slender, with thick black eyebrows over deeply set black eyes, she approached tentatively, like a child expecting a punishment. “You called for me, Daddy?”
“Yes, Stasha. This is private investigator I am telling you about. He wishes to be asking you about someone you knew in Craddock House.”
“It’s Hanover House, Daddy.”
She spoke with so little accent, that for a moment Moodrow thought her father had been putting him on. “Ms. Budnov,” he began. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.” He kept his voice very soft, his tone sincerely questioning. “I know you’re busy.”
“No,” she said, glancing at her father, “I will help you. My father told me you were asking after someone at the commune.”
“Right, Florence Alamare. They may have called her Flo.”
“She was a Therapist.”
“You mean a psychologist?”
“The Therapists were the ones closest to Davis Craddock. They took their therapy directly from him. There were lots of regular members giving therapy. We all did that. The Therapists kept the commune running.”
“Does that include internal discipline?”
Stasha looked up quickly. “Yes,” she said. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought they were there to protect us, but now I know they were there to control us.”
“Florence Alamare was one of these Therapists?”
“She was very close to Craddock. She’d been with him a long time.”
“Did she have a kid, by any chance?” Moodrow deliberately failed to mention the child’s sex.
“Yes, a son, Michael.”
“Do you know his age?”
“Four or five. I’m not sure. I left Hanover House nine months ago.”
“And that was the last time you saw Florence Alamare.”
“That’s the last time I saw any of them.”
“One more question, all right?” Moodrow smiled and got a smile in return. “I really appreciate what you’re doing. Answering questions like this. I’m a complete stranger to you. You could tell me to take a flying leap and I’d have to walk away with nothing…”
Natasha Budnov blushed. Moodrow was making a point of suggesting that her presence was not commanded by her father and she was grateful. “Please go on.”
“Did you ever observe anyone using drugs in the commune?”
“Never. Drugs were forbidden.”
“And there were no rumors?” Moodrow noted Natasha’s surprise. The question had been totally unexpected.
“None.”
Moodrow nodded his acceptance, then abruptly changed the subject. He described Florence Alamare’s present situation, as he had earlier in the day, then asked if she would sign an affidavit that she had seen both Florence Alamare and her son at Hanover House within the last nine months. Moodrow wasn’t surprised when she quickly agreed. Not with her father towering above her, as fierce as old Stalin himself.
ELEVEN
from The Autobiography of Davis Craddock
RIDDLE: WHEN IS A poochie not a poochie?
Answer: When he lives entirely in the company of other poochies.
When a poochie lives entirely in the company of other poochies, he becomes a relative poochie. And a royal pain in the ass.
Another, equally exciting point of view?
Most of my poochies “studied” with someone else before they came to me. They’d been Zen Buddhists or Born-Again Christians or Hindu Hare Krishnas or Sufi Muslims or all of the above.
How they loved to go on about the esoteric teachings imparted to them in the course of their studies. “Well, Muhammad says…”
I usually put these rantings down. It was part of the confrontational technique: “Religion is bullshit. If it weren’t bullshit, you wouldn’t have had to drag your sad ass into therapy.”
By carefully differentiating between Hanoverian science and every other form of salvation, I made my poochies feel special.
We weren’t a cult. We didn’t refer to heaven and hell or God and Satan. We were a scientific investment in the future. We were the shining path to Utopia. We were the…
(What a bore. The only things more pitiful than Hanoverian theories are the assholes who swallow them up.)
One day a patient of mine was rattling on about his experiences with some guru or other. We’d been in Hanover House for a couple of years and by that time I rarely paid attention to what they said. I let this one go on until his bullshit passed the point of no return. Then I exploded on him in typically aggressive Hanoverian fashion. “What’s the point?” I demanded. “What’s the goddamned point?”
He took it the wrong way. Naturally. He said, “The point was about the development of our efforts. Nothing proceeds in a straight line. We make real progress in the beginning, but sooner or later we come up against a stone wall. Usually, we just stop what we’re doing, but if we force ourselves to continue, the line bends and the qualitative nature of the project shifts slightly. No matter how hard we try to pursue our original goal, these shifts continue periodically. If we persist over a long period of time, it’s quite possible to have a project become its opposite.”
He gave Christianity as an example. Christianity begins with simple, communal spirituality, then gradually becomes the Inquisition (a far more amusing enterprise, by the way).
Another example: the guru named Rajneesh. What began as a spiritual quest by sincere and motivated seekers became an armed camp wherein spirituality was maintained by assault rifles.
As it turned out, the name of the guru putting forth this idea was George Gurdjieff. The changes he described were in accordance with a (what else?) cosmic law. All human beings are bound by this law. Unless they (like Gurdjieff) have developed a soul. Once a human has a soul…
When is an obsession not an obsession? When it leads to a decision. When it resolves itself in action.
I couldn’t get the Gurdjieff garbage out of my mind. Like the Jonestown massacre, it became part of every waking moment.
There were other problems, too. We were being investigated (to no avail) by the New York State Attorney General. (Doesn’t that look imposing: New York State Attorney General. How ’bout, The United States of America vs. Davis Craddock?)
While the investigation proceeded, I discovered a completely unexpected by-product of my efforts. Some of our poochies had shed their poochiness altogether. Isolated from the pit bulls of this world, they’d developed the confidence to assert their pitiful individuality.
Most of them were content to split into factions. (Marilyn, of course, was leading the faction that repudiated…Guess who?) Others announced their intention to reenter the real world. After a year of vicious attacks (by themselves) on the weaker poochies, they felt completely confident.
This sudden resurrection should have been useful as part of the winnowing-out process described earlier, but a few of the poochies (for reasons I can’t imagine) retained a certain amount of resentment over the methods used to effect their cure. The hope of revenge, of course, made them even stronger and there was talk of lawsuits and tabloid investigations.
