She blows out her cigarette smoke and cocks her hip. “On what?”
"Only if you want to make some easy money."
Her eyes light up. "I'm listening."
"Not here. Come with me."
She doesn’t hesitate. Olga nods and follows me to the car. I drive us to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. It’s been bankrupt for months, empty and quiet, the perfect place to talk. I park around the back and grab the duffel bag from the trunk. Olga opens her jacket and starts unbuttoning her shirt. I pretend to look interested, let her think that’s why she’s here. I lead her through a door with a missing lock.
Inside, I point to one of the chairs scattered around the room.
"Sit down.”
She does, glancing around and wetting her lips. She’s nervous now, realizing from my tone this has nothing to do with sex or money. I need her to relax, though, so I pour two glasses of vodka, filling hers to the brim.
"Let’s have a drink."
She grabs the glass and takes a big gulp. Her eyes roll back slightly as the alcohol hits her tongue, dulling the itch.
I sit across from her but don’t touch my drink.
"Tell me something, Olga. You've been working at the brothel for what, four, five years?"
"Five."
"You like it there?"
She laughs. "Sometimes. Money’s decent.”
I arch a brow. "That’s funny. From what I hear, you’re open for business twenty-four seven.”
Her face goes paper white. "Ivanov. That’s not true. I swear."
"You don’t have to lie to me. I don’t care if you infectevery man in that place. Not my problem. What I do care about, is if you're smart enough to be honest with me."
She stares into her glass, letting out a long sigh. "Fine. It’s true. What’s it to you, anyway?”
"Nothing. I just need to know if I can trust you.” I pour her more vodka. "Keep drinking."
She obeys, swallowing again.
"I need information, Olga. About the brothel. About something Belova keeps secret in there."
"What kind of something?"
I look her dead in the eyes. "The basement."
Her hand trembles around the glass. "I don't know anything about the basement."
"You’re lying again. I think you do know. I think the girls whisper about it when Belova’s not around."
She laughs, thin and nervous. "Really, Ivanov. I don’t know anything."
"Olga,” I warn. “You can tell me the truth, oryou can refuse and deal with Belova knowing you’re a walking STD. Wonder how that conversation will go?"
She swallows more vodka, one gulp after another. "What do you want to know?"
Now we’re getting somewhere.
