by Kelly Oliver
“What?” Jessica asked. “You think Dmitry murdered Wolf?”
Chapter Ten
When someone touched his wrist, Dmitry woke with a start and sat up in bed. The stabbing pain in his ribs forced him back down.
“It’s just me, moya lyubov.” Sabina caressed his face. “You need to eat.” His wife pointed to a tray with strong tea, cabbage soup, and homemade black bread. She may have been only a teenager when they left Russia, but his lovely wife could cook like his Russian grandmother. His stomach grumbled when he realized it had probably been days since he’d eaten, and the aroma of the freshly baked bread nourished him even before he took a bite.
“Who did this to you, milyi?” his wife asked.
“I fell down the stairs at work,” he slurped a spoon full of soup and looked away.
“You fell down the stairs and no one took you to the hospital?” She shook her head and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
As he attacked the bread, he noticed his daughter sitting in the corner of the room with her book. “More English poetry, kotyonok? Why aren’t you at the University?”
Lolita stood up and walked to his bedside. “Dad, something has happened at Brentano Hall.” She took her father’s hand. “Professor Schmutzig was found dead in his office. Apparently, he overdosed on heroin.”
Dmitry dropped the bread and moved the tray to the other side of the bed. If the professor was dead, Bratva must have killed him. The Pope’s thugs were probably looking for the paintings when they ran into the professor. Dmitry never should have hidden them under the floorboards in the professor’s office. If he hadn’t, the professor would still be alive.
“Sabina, Lolita, my loves, we’re not safe here.” He threw back the covers and swung his feet out over the edge of the bed. “We need to leave. Now.”
When he tried to stand, shooting pain brought him to his knees. He crawled over to the dresser and used it to pull himself upright. His wife and daughter both got up and dashed to him, and hoisting him from under his arms, they steered him to a chair.
Bunin appeared in the bedroom barking like he’d gone insane, nose pointed skyward, his blue eyes blazing, and his black and white fur standing on end. He ran back and forth between the bedroom and the hallway, barking so much the sound turned into one loud howl. Except for the time he had wrestled a giant raccoon out of the house through his dog door, the middle-aged Siberian Husky was usually mellow. He’d never acted like this before.
“What in Heaven’s name?” Sabina asked, following the dog out of the room. The scream knocked Dmitry off his chair. He scrambled to his feet and jolted toward the screams. He smelled it before he saw it, the acrid stench of burning plastic, and billows of black smoke assaulted him when he reached the hallway.
“Run! Get out of the house,” he yelled. Trying to find Sabina, he staggered into the living room and found her dashing around the room snatching up family photos and pulling paintings off the wall as she went. Smoke was enveloping the living room, so he pulled his t-shirt over his mouth and nose.
Just as he reached Sabina and pulled at her arm, a monstrous boom threw him across the room. The explosion temporarily blinded him, and by the time he came to his senses, Lolita was pulling him out the front door. Once outside, frantic, he searched for Sabina, but realized she must still be inside the burning house.
“Sabina!” Standing on the front lawn, Dmitry was squinting into the smoke, choking on fumes.
“Mama, Mama, where are you?” Lolita was screeching at the top of her lungs, as she sprinted back toward the house. His ribs burned as he caught his daughter, held her with all of his might, and then hauled her into the minivan on the strength of sheer adrenaline. The van was parked on the street only fifty feet from the front door. He opened the van door and pushed his daughter inside. Minutes before he could barely walk, but now his family was in danger, he had the strength of taiga wolverine.
“Don’t you dare leave this van! Do you hear me?” he yelled, and then sprinted back towards the house. But it was too late. The house was engulfed in flames shooting fifty feet into the air and a cloud of toxic smoke mushroomed overhead. Dmitry collapsed on the sidewalk as his whole world collapsed around him.
Chapter Eleven
"Those rich guys make me itch. I think I’m allergic to them.” Jessica shifted her cell phone from her right hand to her left. “Anyway, I need to prepare for my meeting with Professor Van Dyke tomorrow. I’m going to ask her to be my new advisor. I guess no one’s found my reject thesis yet, so I’m going to quit before I get fired.”
“Look, Jessica, you’ve got to help me,” Lolita pleaded over the phone. “My dad’s laid up and I can’t host the game tonight.”
“Why can’t you just cancel?” Jessica asked, even though she knew the answer.
High stakes games like Lolita’s took years to develop. She’d cultivated these guys. With her jet-black mane, alabaster skin, sage-green eyes, along with those angular bangs accenting her high-bones, topped off by purring Russian terms of endearment, and Lolita had the city’s rich and famous sitting up begging for more as she fleeced them. She may not be much of a poker player, but Lolita understood how to make rich men feel cherished and adventurous.
“I’m not the only game in town so if I cancel at the last minute, I’ll lose these guys to another game. And I need to keep this game to pay my tuition.” Lolita lowered her voice. “Milaya, darling, you won’t refuse me, will you, lyubjmaya?”
Jessica blew at her bangs. Nobody could refuse Lolita when she whispered in Russian. “Okay. I’ll try. Who’s on the list for tonight?” She was acquainted with the regulars who played every week, but there were always a few new players. The regulars liked to feed off of fresh blood, so Lolita recruited marks from the city’s hottest parties and clubs. She made sure they were flush with cash, a little bit star-struck but not too much, and not good enough poker players to piss off the regulars. The Russian beauty had a nose for men who had the gambling itch and she knew just how to scratch it.
“Who’s dealing?” asked Jessica.
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Bad news, my usual dealer, Raul, called in sick, so we need to find someone else to deal. Remember $5000 buy-in, $100 big blinds, $50 little blinds.”
Jessica heard Bunin barking in the background. “How am I supposed to find a dealer in the next five hours?”
“Call Jack or Michael. If they can’t do it, you’ll have to deal.” Lolita was all business. “Get there early to set up. Jimmy is on security as usual.” Jimmy was a security guard at Northwestern University who had a serious crush on Lolita, but he still took her “tip” money for standing watch all night. He’d been on guard at Brentano Hall every night since Schmutzig’s death anyway.
“Thanks Jessica, you’re a life saver. Call if anything comes up that you can’t handle.” Then she added, “I know what you’re like when you’re nervous. Whatever you do, don’t drink.”
“But, what if…” Jessica said to the dial tone. Lolita had already hung up.
Sigh. Now she had five hours to find a dealer and get herself ready. She couldn’t bear calling her ex, Michael. She hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since he’d smashed her heart into mush.
She remembered how the first line of his journal had made her want to retch: ‘Amy and I made love in the boat house.’ When Michael finally appeared at her place later that afternoon, he’d promised to make it up to her. His proposal had sounded more like a threat: “What? Do you want to get married or something?”
“No, of course not.” If it was a proposal, she’d just turned him down. That was the last time she’d seen him.
Obviously, she couldn’t call that lying-sack-of-dung Michael, so she called Jackass to fill in as dealer. Anyway, Jack owed her big time after the caper in her advisor’s office. She cringed, wondering if the police had found any other evidence of their break-in, besides Amber’s button. She had to find a way to smuggle her thesis out. But with the po
lice barricade and round the clock security, it was proving impossible.
“Jess, are you insane? I’d rather have a colonoscopy than deal for a bunch of rich assholes.” Jack sounded adamant.
“Please, Jackie. I’ll do anything you want. Do it for Lolita.” She figured like everyone else, he had a crush on the feline Russian.
“Anything?” he asked, his voice lightening. “Never mind. I’ll do it for you, because I love you.”
She did a victory dance waving her phone in the air. Dealer. Check.
Next on the to-do list, transform herself into a supermodel poker hostess. She bounded down to the bathroom on the second floor. Staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror, she realized she hadn’t washed her dishwater blonde hair in days, so it was a thick mess. Who came up with dishwater to describe a hair color anyway?
She’d hardly slept, so purple bags the size of ripe Italian plums hung under her swollen blue eyes. And her best dress, a vintage turquoise Queen Anne with sweat stains in the armpits, was crammed into the corner of a moldy cardboard box.
And even if she could solve the face problem, the hair problem, and the dress problem, there was still the shoe problem. She owned two pairs of shoes: classic cream Converse high-tops and scuffed black cowboy boots.
Luckily she and Lolita wore the same size, so she usually just borrowed some strappy designer numbers when she needed to dress up. But that would mean facing Lolita’s emo roommate, always a contact downer. She decided to deal with the hair and dress problems first and face the depressive Igor later.
Jessica lined up the things she needed to do and took aim. She had just enough time to stop at Nordstrom’s to buy a Little Black Dress on Lolita’s account. Although usually she did her shopping at Goodwill, speed shopping was one of her specialties.
She ran red lights getting to the mall, squealed into a parking space, and dashed across the asphalt into the department store. Once inside, she ran down the escalator to the evening-wear department, scanned a rack of dresses, pulled out half a dozen, and chose a flattering black embroidered lace sheath she hoped would make her boobs look bigger and her butt look smaller. For added ammunition, she seized a strapless Miracle Bra and some Spanx on her way out of the store. Only two hours until show time and she still had to get the shoes, shower, change, and help Jack set up the poker table and bar in Brentano’s basement.
When Emo answered the door of Lolita’s dorm room, Jessica ignored her, made a beeline to the closet, and snatched up a pair of open-toed Guccis with thin Mary Jane straps and cute little gold buckles that probably cost as much as her monthly stipend. She slithered into the sheath dress, wedged her feet into the 5-inch heels, and then stuffed her old high-tops, jeans, and t-shirt into a grocery bag. Rummaging around the bathroom, she found mascara and eye shadow and did her best imitation of Lolita’s smoky look. She even used the flat iron she found in a cupboard to straighten her hair.
“Thanks,” she said in Emo’s direction as she flew out the door. She left her crappy Impala parked at the dorm, knowing it would be quicker to walk to Brentano than drive around the maze of campus dead-end streets.
One last stop to get through the long night ahead. Caffeine! Walking as fast as she could on the towering heels, she headed straight for Starbucks. When she opened the front door, threw back her slick hair, and strode through the café, she could almost hear Mustang Sally playing in the background as she flaunted her new look.
“What can I get for you, gorgeous?” asked the hipster barista.
She ordered her usual warm weather drink, Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino. “Make it a double,” she added. Then she ordered a double dirty chai tea for Jack.
Rushing out the door, she wedged the hot beverages between one arm and her chest as she pulled on the door handle with her other hand. She almost got through the door when in a split second one of her spike heels slid out from under her, the lids popped off both drinks, and she was showered in double dirty Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino as her hip bounced off the metal doorframe.
A coffee-coated bruise started forming on her bare thigh. Crap. She should have worn black stockings. As she lay on the sidewalk just outside the door, a swarm of customers came at her, some gawking, and some extending hands. She picked herself up, and with both hands, dusted off her dress and her pride. The embroidered lace fabric absorbed the sticky liquid like a sponge and one of the straps had broken on Lolita’s right shoe. Only a half-hour until game time, she had no choice but to hightail her soggy butt straight to Brentano.
Chapter Twelve
Apresence came into focus, a pulsating glow in the corner of the room. Dmitry tried to speak, but the tube down his throat made it impossible. He swatted at the tubes and tape fastening him in place. Now he was sure of it, someone was sitting in the corner of the room. He screamed, but it was as if he were under water; he couldn’t make a sound or take a breath. His surroundings were going in and out of focus. Had Bratva drugged him? Was he being tortured? A soft voice emerged out of nowhere. “There, there, my son. Mama’s here now. Everything will be okay as long as Vassily and Natalia are safe.” Vassily? Natalia? The paintings. “Mother?” he mouthed, lips opening and closing around the hard tube.
In the sterile darkness, two red lights next to the bed glowed like the menacing eyes of a demon. A clamp pinched his index finger, and a machine hooked up to his feet rhythmically squeezed. His entire body hurt. His eyes burned, so did his throat. He tried to sit up, but he could barely move. Again, he forced his stinging eyes to scan the chamber. That’s when he realized he was in a hospital. Desperate to escape, he clawed at the bedding, but even if he could loosen the bindings and hoses from his arms and feet, he was too dizzy to sit, let alone stand.
The terror of the abandoned Hospital and the gruesome image of his brother’s face flashed up from darkness. Dmitry flinched. He had seen too many men broken by Bratva at the Hospital. Some pleaded for their lives, some cried like babies, some prayed to God, while others spit in the face of death. Dmitry wasn’t the type to spit, but he wasn’t a crier either. He would face death if it meant keeping his family safe. Except his brother. It was too late for Sergei. At least he wasn’t the one who’d pulled the trigger. If he had, he might be living a life of luxury in Russia now instead of being tied to a hospital bed awaiting god-knows-what.
The florescent lights flickered on, shocking him into full consciousness. Stunned, he surveyed the room. A cheerful nurse’s aide with a nose ring, pink hair, and matching Hello Kitty scrubs said, “Morning, Mr. D.” Even her rubber clogs were pink. Soon the room was alive with white lab coats and blue nurse’s scrubs moving into his field of vision and back out again.
“Mr. Durchenko, are you ready to breathe on your own?” a doctor asked. Apparently, not expecting an answer, the doctor ripped the tape from his face. Each breath clawed at his scorched lungs, but as soon as he could, he whispered “my family.” His voice was hoarse and weak.
“Relax, Mr. Durchenko,” the doctor said. “Your daughter is fine. Right now you need to concentrate on breathing. In and out. That’s right,” the doctor encouraged him. If the Pope had really wanted him dead, he wouldn’t be on life support.
“All in good time, Mr. Durchenko. All in good time,” the doctor said, as if he could read his mind, and then disappeared.
Hello Kitty said, “You have a visitor, Mr. D. There she is, our lucky Miss D.”
“Daddy.” He heard her before he saw her.
“We’ll leave you two to visit. But don’t stay too long sweetie,” the nurse said as she pulled a brown curtain across the doorway as she left.
His throat hurt from the intubation, and his face stung where the doctor had ripped off the tape without any warning. A sadistic streak must be a prerequisite for doctors. For his daughter’s sake, he hoped he didn’t look as bad as he felt. He was afraid to ask about Sabina, so he tried to read his daughter’s face. Her sage-colored eyes were swollen and red, and her beautiful pale skin seemed sunburnt. She wa
s wearing a hospital gown over sweat pants, a telltale plastic bracelet around her wrist.
“So they’ve got you in here, too.” His voice broke. She bent down to hug him, but there were too many gadgets in the way, so she took his hand instead. “I’m fine. I’m being discharged later this morning.” At least his daughter was safe, but what about his wife?
As he did so often, he wondered what happened to his mother. She’d risked her life to help him escape with a million dollars worth of rubles of his father’s money. Damn. The money. Hidden behind the false back of the dresser in his burned up bedroom, now it was nothing but ash. He hoped the paintings were safe. A tremor of guilt and longing seized him. How could he think about the paintings when he didn’t even know if his beloved Sabina was dead or alive? Hot tears rolled across his temples onto the plastic pillowcase. How could he go on without her? He couldn’t move his arms to wipe away the tears, or get the hellish smell of smoke out of his nostrils.
He must have dozed off. It was dark again and he was alone with the beeping and blinking machines. He stared into the darkness waiting for his eyes to adjust, and then scanned the room again. He was fully conscious this time, but he still sensed the presence. He slid up on the bed so he could get a better look around. He saw it again, the pulsating glow from the corner of the room. Maybe the smoke smell was the remnant of the fire. No, someone was sitting in the corner of his hospital room smoking a cigarette.
“Who’s there?” He tried to sit up, but got tangled in the tubes and wires. He recognized the earthy, robust smell of the strong Russian cigarettes. “Vanya is that you, you smokestack sonofabitch? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Dima, I’m so sorry,” Vanya said in Russian, moving into the chair next to the bed, his boney knees vibrating up and down as he fidgeted in the chair.