“Two minutes. I gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” Bernie said. The agent didn’t laugh, but did leave. Bernie peed, for verisimilitude, washed his hands, and when he went for one of the paper towels, reached under the towel dispenser and found the ChapStick.
He looked at the door, then pulled the top off the ChapStick. The bead of poison was right there, a watery, fleshy pink. He put the cap back on, dropped the tube in his pocket, checked his hair—gave it a damp hand in back, where his hair tended to flare up—dried his hands again, and walked out.
The agent said, “Home?”
Bernie considered. “Let’s go see the old man, then I won’t have to go tonight. How come I don’t have one of your FBI females following me around? Somebody who knows how to get it on, on the dance floor? Do you even have anyone like that?”
“We asked, and none of the women volunteered,” the agent said.
Bernie said, “Don’t know what they’re missing.” The ChapStick in his pocket pressed on his leg like a concealed carry weapon, which, he supposed, it was. “How’s my hair look?”
• • •
They were onlyat the hospital for a few minutes. Leonid Sokolov had been mostly immobile since his operation, and when Bernie entered the hospital room—his two bodyguards remained in the hall—the two agents inside the room nodded at him, and one said, “He woke up a little bit, around lunch time and again around dinner time. Couldn’t eat anything. Doc said he could be more responsive tomorrow, when they start backing off the painkillers.”
“I’m always surprised you’re not dead from the boredom,” Bernie said.
“We’re okay,” one of the agents said.
Bernie nodded and moved to the far side of Leonid’s bed, and asked, softly, “How are you, Papa?”
Leonid Sokolov didn’t respond, but did snore, a little snortingsound. The two FBI agents were in chairs oriented toward the door, both of them were looking at laptop computers, and their backs were to the Sokolovs.
Bernie slipped the ChapStick tube out of his pocket, and, watching the agents, pulled the sheet loose along the side of the bed. Leonid was wearing a hospital gown, which left his legs exposed. Bernie took the top off the tube and dragged it along the exposed flesh on Leonid’s leg. The pink poison left a barely perceptible streak on Leonid’s skin, which Bernie had been told would fade in minutes. He put the top back on the tube, dropped it in his pocket, tucked the sheet back in, and said in his most depressive voice, “He doesn’t seem to improve.”
One of the agents turned in his chair and said, “Maybe tomorrow.”
Bernie bent over his father’s bed, kissed him on the forehead, then whispered in his ear, which the agent thought was touching, possibly some kind of Russian prayer, because he couldn’t hear Bernie say, “Suck on this, you miserable motherfucker.”
19
Bell, the second Russian they’d visited earlier in the day, called Lucas at six o’clock the same evening. “I have no specific information for you, but I’m now worried for myself. This is a very sensitive subject. Nobody will talk about it.”
“Do you know who specifically won’t talk about it?” Lucas asked.
“I spoke to five friends. Two knew nothing, except what they saw on television and in the newspaper. The other three have heard about the, what did you call it, the group…”
“Hit team.”
“Yes. The hit team,” Bell agreed. “All they know is that somebody is helping them, rumors only, and it’s best to not know who it is. Everybody is, how to say it, twitchy. I can promise you, they don’t know much.”
“Do they know a little?”
“They know that two more vehicles were delivered. They believethese are a pickup truck and a white van. That’s all. No description or license plate.”
“That doesn’t help much,” Lucas said, going into negotiating mode. “There are thousands of pickups and vans in the Cities…”
“I know. That’s all I could get without the wrong people becoming curious. But you have pictures of this hit team and so if you see a group with these vehicles…this is something. I will continue my listening, but now you must do something for me.”
“I’m not going to do much, because you didn’t do much for me,” Lucas said.
“You might not object,” Bell said. “There are three Russians who operate dating services in the Twin Cities: me, one in Saint Paul, one in Bloomington. I need you to search all three. Including me. I will give you names and addresses.”
“I see what you’re thinking,” Lucas said. “But that will draw some attention to you that you might not want…”
“I already have done that. That’s why I need the police to be my enemies, and for certain people to see.”
Lucas: “I would guess that you’ve already removed anything from your house that would be worth searching for?”
