They drove to the Bronx to pick up the part-time security guard, part-time actor. When they exited off the highway onto a street called Fordham Road, the name struck a chord. Victor noticed the campus of buildings. He realized how he knew the name. It was the boy. Adam Tesla. He went to a private school called Fordham. In the Bronx, no less. Victor saw the sign for Fordham University. The boy’s prep school had to be nearby. Then he thought of his grandson, and wondered if Tara’s boy would turn out to be a good student. Remembering his grandson made him think of Adam as a human being. For the first time ever Victor actually felt bad for the boy. He was not used to sentiment and the sensation unnerved him. Yet at the same time, it energized him. Yes, he wanted the locket, but murder? Someone was framing the boy. A good Ukrainian boy. That was just plain wrong.
They picked up the actor in front of a small, red-brick house on a street filled with similar homes. All the buildings looked the same in the Bronx. Like the former Soviet Union only the houses were pretty. The Ammunition stepped out of the car and left the rear door open. The actor was in his fifties. Beer, steak, and potato chips, Victor thought. He watched and listened as the Ammunition smiled and stuck out his hand.
“Peter Slava,” the Ammunition said. “CEO, Carpathian Film Productions.”
The actor said his name but a passing bus drowned it out. He made a big sweep with his right hand and then drove it into the Ammunition’s. “Good to meet you, Pete.”
They shook hands and got in the car. The Ammunition sat next to his brother. The actor climbed in the back beside Victor. His head grazed the car’s ceiling and his body filled the seat.
The Ammunition turned. He glanced at the actor and opened his palm toward Victor. “I’d like you to meet the legendary Ukrainian film director, Andriy Shevchenko.”
Shevchenko was the best Ukrainian soccer player in the world. The twins idolized him because he’d married a Milanese model and was best friends with Giorgio Armani. They’d begged Victor to use the name. Given Americans didn’t know anything about soccer, and the actor didn’t know the name ahead of time, he didn’t see the harm.
Victor flashed his decaying yellow teeth, thinking they’d add gravitas to his vintage tweed suit. He stuck his hand out and nodded as though he didn’t speak English.
The actor’s eyes shone with desperation. He wanted the supposed role so badly, Victor thought. He had to hand it to the twins. They’d understood the man’s ambition from his website. The twins had been able to become intimate with the man without meeting him.
The actor shook his hand. “It’s a privilege, sir. A real privilege.”
Victor spoke to the Ammunition in Ukrainian. He vowed to beat him in four moves this afternoon. Not five. Four.
The Ammunition kept a straight face. Nodded with understanding. “The director says you look familiar. He would like to know if maybe you met at Cannes last year? He was there with his old friend, Terrence Malick.”
The actor’s eyes widened, then he lowered his head and chuckled. “No. Only in my dreams. He must have mistook me for someone else. Please tell him I appreciate the audition. And for picking me up like this.”
The Ammunition told Victor the actor was bigger than he appeared on the website. He reminded Victor he’d been a cop for a few years and that they’d have to be careful. Victor agreed, and randomly mentioned Law and Order SVU and Blue Bloods in English during their brief discussion.
The Ammunition turned back to the actor. “The Director says to tell you he’s seen your work on Law and Order SVU and Blue Bloods. Even though you only had a few lines of dialogue, he says you had presence. He has discovered several Ukrainian film stars in the prime of their careers this way. And no problem on the ride. He likes to get to know the stars of his films in a casual way. Like this. Off the set, you know?”
The Ammunition had called the actor two hours ago and e-mailed him pages from a make-believe script. Given him no time to check on anyone’s background, not that it would have mattered. There was nothing on the computer about the Ukrainian film industry. The only thing he’d done to whet the actor’s appetite was to plant a fictitious newspaper article online about Carpathian Film Productions’s plans to produce a Ukrainian-American gangster film. The article mentioned co-producing partner Peter Slava had arrived in New York last week to begin casting. The Ukrainian actress Mila Kunis was rumored to be auditioning for the role of the loving daughter.
They drove to the Ukrainian butcher’s shop on Second Avenue in the East Village.
When they got out of the car, the actor saw the store, smiled, and nodded.
“The director prefers to audition on the real set,” the Ammunition said. “It leaves nothing to chance.”
“Authenticity,” the actor said. “I love it.”
A butcher in a blood-stained apron came out and unlocked a pair of steel doors in the sidewalk. He opened them to reveal a narrow staircase leading to the basement. Victor led the way. The actor followed. After the twins descended, they guided the actor to the meat locker. Victor waited to make sure the butcher locked them in before joining the others.
Slabs of beef hung from hooks. Kielbasa dangled from the ceiling. The chill cleared Victor’s sinuses. Puffs of steam formed at mouths and noses. The biggest one hovered near the actor. Of course it did, Victor thought. He was the most nervous.
A chair occupied a vacant space front and center. It was a special chair Victor had designed to his personal specifications twenty-five years ago. It was an exact replica of the one he’d experienced in the forced labor camp in Siberia, the gulag, whenever some of the grain in the kitchen went missing.
“The director will begin the audition immediately,” the Ammunition said. “Time is of the essence. He has an appointment in an hour with the Ukrainian-American actress Vera Farmiga. She’s reading for the part of the psychotic daughter.”
The actor closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. “Ready,” he said.
“We will save the script for later,” the Ammunition said. He snatched the sheet of paper from the surprised actor’s hands. “The director likes to start with a little improvisation.”
“Improv?”
“Yes. There’s no substitute for it. Instead of the part of the mobster interrogating the liar, you will play the liar. The director calls it role reversal.”
The actor blinked as though trying to catch up. “I get it. To help me associate myself with the other side.” He smiled. “So I can understand the liar’s mentality.”
“Exactly. It’s important you understand what it means to be a liar.”
“I get it. I can do that.”
The Ammunition motioned toward the chair with an open palm. “To sit here, please,” he said.
The actor sat down. Fidgeted until he was comfortable. Rotated his neck in a circle to loosen up. “Bring it on,” he said.
The Gun approached the chair from the left.
“To make the scene authentic,” the Ammunition said, “the director prefers to use the same props he uses during the shoot.”
“What props?” the actor said.
“Please put your hands on the armrests and your feet against the legs.”
The actor appeared confused but obeyed. Of course he obeyed. A man who dreamed of seeing his name in lights would do anything.
The Gun slammed the left armrest. A steel cuff sprang from beneath. It wrapped around the actor’s wrist and secured it to the chair. The Gun kicked the chair’s leg. A leg iron snapped around his ankle. The Ammunition did the same on the right side.
Shock flashed in the actor’s eyes.
The Ammunition touched his shoulder. “Not too tight, are they? We can loosen them if you want.”