Misha glanced at me, noting the pause. “Some of the showy ones take on Russian names so more social clubs are open to them, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Elena knew Dmitri…”
“I swear to Christ, Katya. Now you don’t get to hear the funny part. Hang on…”
He slowed, the full whites of his eyes showing underneath the heavy brows—staring. A police car had pulled over a green Moskovich on the side of the road, and the driver was outside, standing between a policeman and the trunk. The other officer was pacing with a phone to his ear.
“Sykinson…” Misha muttered and grabbed his cell, dialing impressively fast with just his thumb. It only rang once. I couldn’t hear who was on the other end. “Ey, one of ours?”
He read off the Moskovich’s license plate, then listened.
The driver spread his hands defensively, and the policeman shouted.
“Aha,” Misha said, and hung up.
The officer’s back was to the pale-yellow, Soviet-era-painted building with bare, frosted birch branches arching overhead. Small birds hopped to and fro across them, and flew off all at once when Misha’s gunshot knocked the cellphone out of his hands and took half his face with it. The next came just as suddenly, taking the second policeman down. Our car was moving before his body hit the snow, and I didn’t want to look in the side mirror because there was nothing good back there.
“I suppose that means‘one of yours?’” I said quietly.
“Rule one.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, Sergei bought Elit so Musa couldn’t go and pay his respects.”
“Was that the funny part?”
“Supposed to be, but you ruined it.”
We made two more stops, and I waited in the car while Misha ducked in and out of shops, the plastic bag in his hands getting heavier and heavier. Stacks of money greeted me when I peeked inside. There was something comical about him using a bag with a cartoon dog on the side to do his‘collections.’
When we finally pulled up to our destination, I had a baggie of fried chicken and a bottle of Pepsi in my lap, and just enough patience left to revisit why I’d come as we made our way down a foul-smelling staircase into a basement set of apartments.
This visit wasn’t nearly as official, but Sergei still knew I was coming. He just didn’t deem the appointment worthy of putting on real clothes. So, my reception with a crime mogul featured a stained wife-beater and over-tight Adidas stuffed in a chair at a paisley kitchen table. No sign of the two families he supposedly had hidden away somewhere.
I set the chicken down as a peace offering, but kept the Pepsi because I didn’t want him deciding I needed more juice. The only person who could tell me what to drink was Vitali.
There had to be a mental illness connecting that thought to the shiver between my legs.
“Long time no see, Katya,” Sergei greeted me. “And how are you doing? How is the family?”
“Doing well,” I said, and Misha nudged me to sit down. To my relief, he didn’t leave me alone and plopped down on the chair to my right.
“Ah, good, good. I was a bit worried about you for a minute. I heard what happened. Your bruises are healing nicely.”
“Thank you, I’m fine, really.”
“Wrong place, wrong time, isn’t that what they say?” Heinspected the chicken, then took a loud, soggy bite, and didn’t bother to finish chewing before he said, “What can I do for you?”
“No one has seen my friend in three weeks, and I know you have resources to find things out,” I started, “so I wanted to ask if there was anything you could do to help me?”
“Mrrpf…” He chewed, ending with a slurp of fat. “You’re not asking Vitali? I’d think repayment is a bit more… worked out between the two of you.”
“He’s gone, and I just found out.”
“A hurrying broad is a laughing stock, Katya,” he said. “Ever hear that saying? I don’t entertain requests.”
“Misha said—”
