“See, Misha here likes the girls. But he is all about supporting the local economy, aside from the free samples he gets from Ana every week. Say, Mish, was she the one who tried to blow Vitali in the driver’s seat? Never safety first with that one.”
I was sick.
…and no longer felt bad about disliking her.
“But Vitali isn’t much for that. Which is why it was so surprising to me. I thought he was a faggot after all. Now, the question on my mind is—what do we do from here? We’re a family here, and we are very welcoming of new members to the family. Maybe little Maxim and Viktor’s son can even walk to school together since they go to the same one.”
My heartbeat was choking out the air in my lungs, so unlike his even tone. What had I done… oh God, what had I done to Mama and Maxim, getting caught up in this?
“You’re being very quiet, Katya,” Sergei noted. “Would you like something to drink?”
I began to shake my head, but Misha’s foot tapped mine, and I nodded instead. “Maybe some water?”
“You like apple juice? I just picked up some great apple juice. Never tried this brand. Always saw it on the shelves, you know? The label isn’t in Russian. Viktor, get Katya some apple juice.”
The accountant got up and never took his eyes off whatever he was reading as he reached into a mini-fridge set atop a stack of file cabinets. He slid me a juice box. The same kind Maxim liked.
“You have to pierce that little foil piece with the straw,” Sergei advised me. “We have rules here. The wives—they’re a separate club. Everyone knows not to ask questions, just take the money, go to a restaurant, buy yourself something while you’re out. Then, I have my girls. And they know what’s going on—to a point. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t like bitches because they’re liars. They aren’t loyal. So if there isn’t a service they provide, like Ana, I just don’t tend to have them around. You don’t fit either of those categories, do you? So we have to make a place for you, and I don’t really know what that place could be. See my issue?”
I nodded and sucked the straw harder until all that remained were thepft-pft-pftsounds of the emptiness inside.
“For now, I’ll think on it. I think we can figure something out. You watch the news, Katya?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“You see the dirty Chechens? What they did? Brought in whole shipments of watered-down vodka, used methanol because it was cheaper. It metabolizes as formaldehyde. All those people.” Hetsk’d. “Those poor families. To lose lovedones—and on New Year’s Day of all days. God forgive them.”
A door slammed somewhere, undoubtedly putting a hole through a wall.
“Vitali is here,” Viktor muttered.
“Anyone talk to him this morning?” Sergei asked, but both men shook their heads. He tapped his fingers together, squinting in contemplation. Then said, “Viktor, can you take Katya home? Through the loading dock, please. Emotions are high today, with the national tragedy and all. It was so nice to meet you, Katya.”
I didn’t want to go—I wanted to see Vitali. Or, I thought I did. My brain thought I should. But I followed Viktor out the door, only swaying a little, and not realizing how rude I was for not saying goodbye until we were already in the black Volga and pulling out of the parking lot. Viktor held the same tranquil expression of a person who would marry numbers if he could, and didn’t try to speak.
We drove for ten minutes (or it seemed like ten?) before he took a deep breath and sighed with his entire chest. The turn signal began clicking, and he carefully pulled to the side of the road. This was it. I was going to get shot and my body would be found in the field somewhere. Was ‘home’ or‘through the loading dock’the code word to put a bullet in my head? It was probably‘through the loading dock.’
Viktor kept both gloved hands on the steering wheel even after we stopped and looked ahead. I was trying to figure out what he was staring at when the knock came at my window. I yelped and twisted around to see Vitali’s hand a split second before he tore open my door.
“Sergei said,” Viktor informed him immediately, “I have to take her home.”
“I can see that.” Vitali’s voice was deadly, yet even. “What else did Sergei say?”
“That he’ll think on the situation.”
“Right. I have her from here. Katya, get in the car.”
I still hadn’t said anything and my mouth hung open, but I obeyed, awkwardly squeezing past him. The Mercedes (the one with the bullet holes no less) was parked behind us with a scary-looking set of tracks at its back. It hadn’t pulled over as smoothly as the Volga.
“Sergei said I’m to do it,” the accountant insisted, but not eagerly.
“Tell him I pulled a gun on you.”
I heard the click of a gun cocking, and threw the door open to shield myself, but there was no shot.
“Thank you,” Viktor said. Then the door slammed, and he carefully got back on the road.
Vitali stood in place, the gun slack against his thigh, and just observed me. Whatever danger surrounded him a moment ago was gone.
