In for a Ruble by David Duffy

problem—repeated patterns of running up huge credit card debt, carrying it for a few months or more, then paying it off—all at once—canceling the cards and starting again. The Basilisk served up a dozen cycles, going back seven years. Every eight to twelve months, he maxed out two, three, four cards at their $10,000 or $15,000 limits. The damage was done at designer boutiques and the Bergdorf Goodman men’s store—$500 shirts, $1,200 trousers, $2,400 sweaters, and $4,000 jackets—and Broadway theaters. When he went to a show, which he did once or twice a week, he purchased the premium tickets the theaters began selling a few years ago—at $400 a pop. None of which he was buying on his $42,000 teacher’s salary.
    Two months earlier, he was carrying $35,000. Debt service alone was running $700 a month. He didn’t appear to have any other assets to speak of, but in late November, his balances were paid off and the cards canceled. At the moment, he had new Visa, MasterCard, and AmEx cards, with an aggregate balance of $8,000. The foothills of the next debt mountain. The timing of the last payoff was too close to the bugging of Leitz’s computers to ignore. Nosferatu, if it was Nosferatu, had his choice of targets.
    I went two for six on phone calls. A standard not-here-right-now message from Pauline Leitz. A harried-sounding secretary at Julia Leitz’s office, with the lady in question shrieking in the background. She had no time to talk to me. A high-pitched recording announced Thomas Leitz was “out and about, but don’t pout, leave a message, don’t be a lout.” A slurry-voiced Marianna Leitz answered her phone but had a hard time grasping who I was and why I was calling, which had more to do with the brandy sloshing around her glass than my attempt to explain. It took a few minutes, but she agreed to see me the next morning at nine thirty. Jonathan Stern’s assistant took my name and number without comment. Jenny Leitz had a high, sweet voice. She said, “Sebastian said you might call. He told me I shouldn’t talk to you.”
    “I’m trying to help him, Mrs. Leitz. I told him I have to go about my job as I see fit.”
    “Yes, he said you said that too. I don’t see how I can help.”
    “I don’t either—until we chat.”
    Several seconds of silence before, “Sebastian can be very … Especially these days. Are you free tomorrow?”
    I said I was, except first thing.
    “Best not come here. Let’s see, I have … There’s a coffee shop on First Avenue and Sixty-sixth Street. I’ll meet you there at noon.”
    I knew the place from her Basilisk file. I told her noon was fine.
    It was a start. With a mental nod to Marianna Leitz, I fetched the vodka bottle and two glasses from the kitchen. Foos was tapping away at his keyboard, but he indicated yes when I held up the bottle. I poured two shots.
    “Want to get something to eat?” I asked.
    “Social invitation? Haven’t had one of those in months.”
    “Just trying to butter you up until you let me sic the Basilisk on Victoria.”
    “You track her down, she tells you to get lost. What’s the rush?”
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence. What about dinner?”
    “Can’t. Date.”
    “Krisztina?”
    “Uh-uh. Izabela.”
    “What happened to Krisztina?”
    “Nothing lasts forever.”
    Or in his case, more than a couple off months.
    “Izabela—let me guess. Czech?”
    “Close. Slovakian. Bratislava.”
    “Six feet, blond, legs up to her ears for a change?”
    “Jealous.”
    Foos is a certified genius, but a decidedly odd-looking guy with a personality to match. Yet he dates an unending series of models, all tall, most blond, most from Eastern Europe, each more drop-dead gorgeous than the last. It’s a continuing source of mystery—and envy—how he manages.
    “You and your pal Leitz ever discuss his family?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “They’ve got a lot of issues, as they say these days.”
    “Not surprised.”
    “Why?”
    He looked up.