The Con Man's Daughter Read Online Free Page B
Coney Island were still closed. Summer businesses were a tough gig. You needed sixteen good weeks to break even, and bad weather killed you. Here and there, a few doors were wedged open, the owners blowing out the musty stink of a seaside winter. One hardy soul slapped mustard-colored paint on his hot dog stand. Only the optimistic entrepreneur who ran the Cockroach Circus had opened for business. The ringmaster stood out front, hawking the attractions inside. Eddie wondered what he was really selling. A precinct cop on a bicycle rumbled over the boards, a female voice squawking in his radio's static.
"See over there," Lukin said, pointing to a clapboard shack with plywood nailed over the windows. "First place I worked in America. Minimum wages." Eddie knew the story, but he believed you should always listen to the stories of old people, no matter how many times they told them. "Sweating my brains out over an outside grill," Lukin said. "Cooking sausage and peppers for sandwiches. Onions, everything smelled like onion. My clothes, my hair. Keep the grill perfect, move the food evenly, that is my secret to grill cooking. Like this, I learned…" The old man demonstrated his grill technique, sliding an imaginary spatula under imaginary food and moving it four times, a quarter turn each. The setting sun spread orange onto the slate blue Atlantic.
"Car thieves are creatures of habit," Eddie said. "They return to places where they're comfortable working. This car was stolen from a gated storage facility in Elmsford. Not every street junkie has the skills to pull that off."
"More than you think," Lukin said. "But I will ask my source to narrow the list. We will find your baby girl safe and sound. Very soon. I have three more days to shake the bushes."
"Three more days?"
"In three days, I am going home," the old man said, the shell of a sunflower seed clinging to his thick lower Up. "I want to be buried in the dirt where I was born."
"Odessa?"
"Not so loud, please. Only you and I can know. Not even my idiot nephew behind us."
"Are you well enough for this?" Eddie asked.
"What is well enough? All I do these days is go to my doctor. Every Tuesday, he says the same thing. 'Eat well, exercise, stop smoking, see you next week, pay cashier, thank you.' It's this Medicare; they keep you going around the revolving door. We should have been doctors. They are the real moschenniki ."
"The swindlers," Eddie said.
"Doctors swindle the swindlers."
Eddie offered to drive him to the airport, but Lukin said he'd call a taxi. It would be the first time he'd ever ridden in a taxi. The old man stopped and leaned against the wooden rail. A V squadron of geese flew high above the water, following the coastline north.
"If you were me," Eddie said, "what would you be doing now?"
Lukin spit sunflower seeds, which he claimed were the only luxury of his Odessa youth. "You know why they call this Coney Island?"
"Because of ice-cream cones," Eddie said, although he knew the real answer. Lukin had told him this story many times.
The old man kicked feebly at a seagull who swooped down to pick the seeds that had just landed on the boardwalk. "Coney Island used to be a real island," he said, "until a storm joined it to the rest of Brooklyn. Nineteenth century this happened. Sand filled in the channels. Before that, the Dutch took boats out to the island to hunt rabbits. The island was full of rabbits. The Dutch word for rabbit is konijn . 'Konijn Island,' they called it. 'Coney' it became in the American tongue. Coney Island is Rabbit Island."
"You have a moral here?"
"Simple lesson, Eddie. You are smart like Russian. This is time to think like Russian. The Russian survived because he put his faith in himself, not the police, not the government. My lesson is this: Be the hunter, Eddie, not the rabbit. The rabbit never wins."
Chapter 4
Monday
5:00 P.M.
After leaving Lukin, Eddie Dunne drove the five minutes to Brighton Beach Avenue. The
"See over there," Lukin said, pointing to a clapboard shack with plywood nailed over the windows. "First place I worked in America. Minimum wages." Eddie knew the story, but he believed you should always listen to the stories of old people, no matter how many times they told them. "Sweating my brains out over an outside grill," Lukin said. "Cooking sausage and peppers for sandwiches. Onions, everything smelled like onion. My clothes, my hair. Keep the grill perfect, move the food evenly, that is my secret to grill cooking. Like this, I learned…" The old man demonstrated his grill technique, sliding an imaginary spatula under imaginary food and moving it four times, a quarter turn each. The setting sun spread orange onto the slate blue Atlantic.
"Car thieves are creatures of habit," Eddie said. "They return to places where they're comfortable working. This car was stolen from a gated storage facility in Elmsford. Not every street junkie has the skills to pull that off."
"More than you think," Lukin said. "But I will ask my source to narrow the list. We will find your baby girl safe and sound. Very soon. I have three more days to shake the bushes."
"Three more days?"
"In three days, I am going home," the old man said, the shell of a sunflower seed clinging to his thick lower Up. "I want to be buried in the dirt where I was born."
"Odessa?"
"Not so loud, please. Only you and I can know. Not even my idiot nephew behind us."
"Are you well enough for this?" Eddie asked.
"What is well enough? All I do these days is go to my doctor. Every Tuesday, he says the same thing. 'Eat well, exercise, stop smoking, see you next week, pay cashier, thank you.' It's this Medicare; they keep you going around the revolving door. We should have been doctors. They are the real moschenniki ."
"The swindlers," Eddie said.
"Doctors swindle the swindlers."
Eddie offered to drive him to the airport, but Lukin said he'd call a taxi. It would be the first time he'd ever ridden in a taxi. The old man stopped and leaned against the wooden rail. A V squadron of geese flew high above the water, following the coastline north.
"If you were me," Eddie said, "what would you be doing now?"
Lukin spit sunflower seeds, which he claimed were the only luxury of his Odessa youth. "You know why they call this Coney Island?"
"Because of ice-cream cones," Eddie said, although he knew the real answer. Lukin had told him this story many times.
The old man kicked feebly at a seagull who swooped down to pick the seeds that had just landed on the boardwalk. "Coney Island used to be a real island," he said, "until a storm joined it to the rest of Brooklyn. Nineteenth century this happened. Sand filled in the channels. Before that, the Dutch took boats out to the island to hunt rabbits. The island was full of rabbits. The Dutch word for rabbit is konijn . 'Konijn Island,' they called it. 'Coney' it became in the American tongue. Coney Island is Rabbit Island."
"You have a moral here?"
"Simple lesson, Eddie. You are smart like Russian. This is time to think like Russian. The Russian survived because he put his faith in himself, not the police, not the government. My lesson is this: Be the hunter, Eddie, not the rabbit. The rabbit never wins."
Chapter 4
Monday
5:00 P.M.
After leaving Lukin, Eddie Dunne drove the five minutes to Brighton Beach Avenue. The
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