The Day Putin Came to Get Me

Short Fiction by Kay Ebeling

*

I saw them across the street, one of the few times I opened my curtains.

The noise my neighbors make all day long suddenly came to a stop.  So I turned my own volume down and heard the familiar sound of law enforcement outside, voices over a police radio.  Only this time the voices were speaking Russian.

Through the curtain I could see shiny new black vehicles and guys who looked beefy and trained pacing, patrolling a parameter.  My neighbors in the courtyard were startled, standing with beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other, wavering on their feet, mouth opened gaping, grateful to see that this arrival of The Man had nothing to do with them. 

The Man was coming for me, the “retired reporter” in apartment nine who hardly talks to anyone, just exits and vacates the building as fast as possible when she goes out. 

One of the FBI-looking guys was soon at my front door knocking with the kind of authority that made you jump and answer without delay.

Two of them entered and spoke to me in Russian accents, a third guy was American, and I mean he looked very American, blond beefy straight arrow military veteran American.

“I'm seventy years old,” were the first words out of my mouth pleading with them to go easy on me, even though my seventieth birthday isn’t for a few more months.

“Don’t worry,” said the blond Russian with a glint in his eye, and I was immediately relieved, knew he was telling the truth when he said, “We aren't going to hurt you.  Take a half hour and pack a few suitcases, everything you'll need.  You're not coming back.”

“What about the rest of my stuff?” I asked pointing to mostly boxes of books I’d accumulated over the years.   

He was placing my laptops into protective cases: “A crew will pack the rest and ship it to you. You will have it in a few weeks.”

“Weeks? Where am I going?”

“Moscow,” he smiled.  “Please start packing.”

Lucky for me, since Trump got elected President, I've had suitcases and clothes ready to go, because I've sensed there might come a time when I’d need to get out in a hurry, even made exit plans, but none that involved riding away in a limousine. 

“Why me?” I wondered out loud.

The blond who looked disarmingly like my daughter's Russian father so had that edge he needed to get close to me got real close to me and whispered.

“I will tell you this and then you must not repeat it ever again.”

My heart was going a mile a minute as he continued.

“Vladimir Putin reads your blog,” he said, and I got real worried. Because I haven't exactly been complimentary to the Russians as they have seemed to take over the USA and I really haven't been nice to Trump on my little blog. But he continued:

“Not the web page you call ‘Pundit’ but the other one, about the Catholic priests who were pedophiles.”

I was quizzical, stopped shoving the contents of my closet into a backpack and stared at him. He continued. 

“Vladimir Putin was molested by a Catholic priest, Russian Orthodox, when he was a boy,” the guy continued in a casual tone. eyes averting for a moment. “He found the things you wrote back in 2007, 2010 and he has great respect for you, that from a studio apartment in L.A., you were able to help expose these black collar criminals, with a blog.”

“Oh,” I said and for just a second felt that old awful feeling. “I really never wanted to talk about that subject again. I mean I moved to Tahoe to pretend the whole thing never happened.”

“Still, Mr. Putin feels he can use your skills, based on your blog. He also feels his experience with a priest as a boy had a great effect on him," He stopped and became very serious to say, "but he never discusses what happened with the priest."
He got very close to me and continued.
"In fact, he has told me to tell you this one time, and then once I have told you, tell you to never repeat it or even mention it again.”

I nodded, “Like I said, I really never wanted to write about pedophile priests again.”

He nodded and with a firm arm on my back, almost lifted me towards the front door.

"We have a job for you,” said the Russian guy who weirdly no longer looked like my ex. “You're going to work on our troll farm in St. Petersburg,” he said grabbing the rest of the suitcases and pushing them out the door. 

I often daydreamed about the day I’d finally get out of my slummy apartment where as a little old lady with a small pension I'm forced to live among criminals and deadbeats whose hollering begins around 9 AM and continues into the day, getting louder and more chaotic as the sun crosses the sky so when I'm home I have to have my own loud music playing to drown them out.

As we pulled away in a limousine that had its own wi-fi bathroom and kitchen, I looked back at my neighbors.  Natalie, who seemed to keep the nonstop party going, stood watching us pull away with her back hunched, gray hair stringing beside her crusted face, tongue lapping inadvertently from her lips, as always. 

The American guy said to me, “They won’t be around much longer.  Trust me, you will be glad we came to get you.”

And I wondered.  

*
By Kay Ebeling
Producer of City of Angels Blog
not just L.A., the city of angels is everywhere