The Stingray Shuffle полностью

They entered the Midtown Tunnel under the East River and came out in Manhattan. Then the fun. Thrills, spills, the driver bench-testing axle strength, better than any amusement ride back in Orlando. They headed north, their taxi joining a sea of yellow cabs weaving up the Avenue of the Americas. The Russians saw there were lanes painted in the road, but that was clearly part of an ancient custom from some long-forgotten people.

The taxi screeched to the curb, tossing the Russians into the partition. “There she is,” said the driver. “The famous Warwick. The Beatles used to stay there. And Cary Grant lived in one of the rooms for twelve years…”

The Russians dashed into the building and stomped their feet for circulation as they waited at the registration desk. They took hot showers and had the bell captain send up a clothier. They checked the time. Four hours until the meeting Mr. Grande had set up with Yuri.

“I’m hungry,” said Vladimir.

“Me, too,” said Dmitri. “But I’m tired of all this American food.”

Five smartly dressed men in new fur coats walked down West Fifty-seventh. The one carrying the silver briefcase gestured, and the rest followed him into a restaurant under a red sidewalk canopy. The Russian Tea Room.

“Get a load of this place,” said Alexi, slowly turning around. Bright red carpet and red leather banquettes, gold firebirds on the walls, gold on the ceiling, and gold samovars on the counters, for tea. The Moscow skyline carved in ice.

“Incredible,” said Vladimir, studying a scale model of the Kremlin.

Ivan watched a sturgeon swimming in a fifteen-foot revolving aquarium shaped like a bear. “Everyone back home should get a chance to see America. We certainly don’t have anything like this where we come from.”

They waited in the lounge for their table. The bartender came over. “What’s your pleasure?”

“What should we get?” Dmitri asked the others.

“When in Rome…” said Ivan.

“Manhattans?” said Dmitri.

“Try the Russian Quaalude,” said a stockbroker three stools down.

“Never heard of it,” said Ivan. “What’s in it?”

“Not sure,” said the broker, turning to the bartender. “Hey Bob, what’s in a Russian Quaalude?”

“One second,” said the bartender, walking to a wall phone by the stemware.

Alexi got nervous and stood up. “Who’s he calling?”

“Relax,” said Ivan. “This is America. He’s on the bartender hotline.”

The man hung up and returned. “Frangelica, Baileys, vodka, layered in that order.”

“Five,” said Ivan.

The bartender grabbed a bottle of vodka by the neck. “I was a technical adviser for the movie Cocktail.” He swung the bottle up quickly like he was going to twirl it in the air but didn’t release, for liability reasons. “The trick to twirling bottles is to pick ones with only a little liquor left. The cast tried to twirl full bottles. Liquor flew everywhere. Had to edit it out.”

Dmitri whispered to Ivan: “You meet everybody in New York.”

Their table was ready when they finished the drinks. They all got the hot borscht and Stroganoff, except Dmitri.

“How’s the chicken Kiev?” he asked the waiter. “I hate it when it’s tough.”

The waiter said it wasn’t.

Sevruga caviar and gazirovannaya vodka arrived, then the main course. The men ate with gusto as they admired winter paintings above their booth by Surikov and Kustodiev. Dmitri poked his chicken with a gold fork. “It’s tough. I knew it.”

In the back of the restaurant, a visitor from Florida sat alone, sipping tea, reading a paperback.

The check arrived. Ivan patted his full stomach. “We better get going for the meeting. Who has to take a leak?”

They went downstairs to the men’s room. After finishing business, Ivan set the briefcase on the floor and turned on the ornate gold faucets. The others lined up at adjacent sinks and turned more gold faucets.

Eugene Tibbs handed out paper towels.

Ivan lifted the lid off a jar. “Mint?”

“Take as many as you want.”

The Russians each took one of the round, hard, red-and-white mints. They liked those.

Ivan threw a five in the tip basket and picked up his briefcase.

The Russians started across midtown on foot, the temperature dropping fast. They picked up the pace, passing twenty consecutive windows with pictures of restaurant owners and Giuliani. Icy gusts blew down the Seventh Avenue canyon. More windows, more pictures. Pauly Shore, Ron Howard, Julie Newman, Goldie Hawn, Kim Basinger, Mike Tyson, Damon Wayans.

Ivan pointed across the street at a blue-and-yellow sign, LATE SHOW WITH DAVID LETTERMAN. “We’re getting close.”

They went around the south side of the Ed Sullivan Theater, over to Fiftieth Street and down the stairs into the subway.

“Where is it?” asked Alexi.

“Not sure,” said Ivan, reading his own scribbling on a Moon Hut matchbook.

“You said we were supposed to meet Yuri and make the submarine deal at a clandestine KGB document drop station.”

“That’s right. It’s disguised as a little subway bakery — bagels and stuff for morning commuters.”