"Still pro bono?" Alex asked.
Marvin flashed a ruthless grin. "Not a chance."
Elena said to Marvin, quite firmly, "But you will forget your usual third. You'll take twenty percent or I swear I'll hire another firm tonight."
One look at her and Marvin had absolutely no doubt she meant every word. "Deal."
A mob of reporters descended and was driven off only after MP solemnly vowed he would stand on the courtroom steps all night. They could ask questions to their heart's content and he would bloviate until the moon came out. Before the night was over, he would be booked on five talk shows, and take calls from six book agents and five movie studio chiefs.
Marvin called the lawyers together into a tight huddle. They spent a brief moment trading ideas back and forth, planning what would be a very busy morning of filings.
When they turned around, Alex and Elena were gone.
34
The snow was three feet deep and dry, and though it was only fall, the snow machines were roaring full-blast and tourists in Aspen were at high tide. Neither Alex nor Elena had ever been near skis, much less on them. Both were good athletes, though. After three weeks of mastering the art, they were roaring recklessly down the black slopes like they owned the place.
Elena had argued vigorously for someplace warm. Her preferred option had been a small, pleasant, neglected Caribbean island where the natives were friendly and had no idea who they were, and wouldn't care a whit if they did.
Her preferred option two was one of those private, gated resorts in Florida. A nice one with a thick forest of palm trees, a thousand holes of golf, a well-stocked bar, and a beach where they could drink themselves silly on rum and pina coladas and roast themselves into shriveled prunes.
Alex had experienced enough heat and wouldn't hear of it. A federal prison in Georgia, followed by another in the heart of Chicago, and finally, the worst oven of all, a scorching summer in Yuma.
His Russian roots screamed for someplace where icicles hung off your nose. Exploiting her desire for privacy, he had briefly argued for an Arctic expedition, but Elena did not warm to that idea. The argument shifted slowly southward, working its way through Alaska, then, one by one, through the provinces of Canada, and refused to budge another degree once it hit Colorado.
At the end of the second week, MP called. Elena answered. Alex picked up the other line.
"Have you heard the big news?" MP asked them.
Elena happily informed him, "The only newspaper we've touched all week was the one we used to get a fire started."
"The attorney general quit this morning. Apparently the cows in Montana are calling her back."
"And Tromble?" Alex asked.
"Boy, you are out of touch. Fired, five days ago. He fled to Puerto Rico and is taking no calls."
"And how are you doing, MP?" Elena asked.
"Great. I have an offer right here from PKR. They're offering a partnership. They don't currently handle immigration law, and they'd like me to set up a new division."
"Will you take it?"
"I don't think so. Terry and I talked it over. It's almost ridiculously generous, but I doubt I'll fit in."
"You won't miss the money?" Alex, the practical one, asked.
"I think I'll be fine. With all the hooplah about you, I've kicked my fee up to three hundred an hour. Nobody's said no yet."
They promised they'd all get together for dinner after Alex and Elena got tired of Aspen, or ran out of money. Truthfully, neither of them was the least bit tired of it. It was such a playground, and the restaurants and bars were great and plentiful.
Bitchy had popped in for a visit two days before. He flew in from Chicago, where he had just closed on a North Shore home. The appellate court that reviewed his case had recently been joined by two new justices: a pair of rabid Giants fans who sincerely enjoyed the misery of their die-hard Jets brethren on the court. Neither was the least bit appalled by Beatty's assault. Besides, his letter to the court sounded so gracious and repentant the judges were all deeply affected. And, after all, it was Bitchy's first offense.
He showed up in a yellow taxi that brought him from Denver International, lumbering out in a three-piece, tailored Brooks Brothers suit, looking like a Wall Street banker-or more like four or five bankers squished into the same suit. He lifted Elena off the ground with one arm and gave her a huge kiss. After months in a cell with Alex, he knew all about her. He hugged Alex and started to kiss him also, but that's where Alex drew the line.
Over a long dinner, Bitchy happily informed them he was now in talks with the Bears, while his lawyers haggled with the football commissioner about having him reinstated in time for spring camp. Bitchy was optimistic. The commish was playing hard to get, but the inside word was that it was all show. Bitchy was a two-year All-Pro, after all, and an ex-con to boot. That combination always did wonders for attendance and TV ratings. He was also confident the Bears would kick in another million on top of his old three million contract. His reputation alone was worth at least that-what team wouldn't think long and hard before taking on a team with Beatty on the roster?
Elena invited Bitchy to join them on the slopes that day, but he demurred and was resting in his hotel room. The truth was, Bitchy wouldn't go near a ski lift. He was terrified of heights.
So Alex and Elena were alone, at the top of the big mountain, staring down at the valley. The sun was out. The snow sparkled and glistened. Hundreds of skiers below them were doing all the silly things people do when balanced on two thin boards-collapsing, racing, struggling to stay upright, occasionally producing bone-crunching collisions.
Alex was in no hurry to get down the hill. He sat down and watched the sun move lethargically through the sky. Elena sat beside him. They held hands. Both knew the time had come for The Talk. It had been put off for weeks while they slept, nearly killed each other with sex, drank too much wine and champagne, ignored work, and remembered why they loved each other so much. But they sensed the differences. More than two years of being chased and hounded, terrorized and threatened, and then the long enforced separation, had changed them. The marriage needed time to adjust.
The year alone had created a more self-reliant, more independent and stubborn Elena. She had lived by herself, started a thriving business, and outsmarted the people who wanted to kill her. It was impossible to shrink back to her former self; nor did she care to.
As for Alex, the vestiges of brutal torture and fourteen months in prison were hard to shake off. Elena wasn't certain he ever would. The smiles came slowly, the eyes never stayed still. He watched strangers with distrust, eyeing their hands first; Elena was sure he was looking for a shank.
"Do you want to stay here?" Alex finally asked.
"You mean America?" Elena replied.
"There are other countries. We could take a chance on Russia again."
"My family's still there. All our friends, too."
"Those are important considerations."
"It wouldn't be good for you, though, would it?"
"I think not. Russia's changing, Elena. The crooks and KGB are taking over again. Yeltsin's a failure, a placeholder until they're ready to make their move."
"And we might have to go through the same thing again?"
"We'll be smarter next time."
"But so will they."
"Yes, they will. You pick. I just need someplace where I can make money."
"That's your problem, Konevitch."
"I didn't know I had a problem."
"You're looking at this backward. Think of it as someplace we can spend money."
"We're not rich yet, dear. Only two and a half million in the bank. It's not enough to live on forever."
"The lawsuit might net another five to ten million."