Jove Brand is Near Death

by J. A. Crawford

  “You must tell me about your strategy,” Fedorov said. He focused on me, leaning forward, elbows on his legs, hands steepled.

  “If a guy has an injury, target it.”

  Fedorov didn’t acknowledge my cheek. “Very good.”

  I looked around but didn’t spot an ejector-seat button or hang glider or anything else that might save me from Anatoly. With the room I had to maneuver, I might as well have fought him in a coffin.

  “There has been a change of plan,” Fedorov said. “After your bout, interest is rising. I am giving it time to boil over. Tonight, you will be my guest. Tomorrow, you fight in the finals.”

  “Is Alexi staying over too?”

  Fedorov leaned back to get all of me in his eyeline. “There is no view from the showers.”

  “A crowd of Russians isn’t going to cheer their hero’s defeat.”

  Fedorov looked at me, looked at Anatoly, looked at the ocean. I would have had better luck guessing what a mailbox was thinking.

  “I was right about you,” Fedorov announced. “A true warrior.”

  “Alexi is going to wipe the floor with me.”

  “Only winter is certain,” Fedorov said.

  When we landed, Fedorov got out first, then Anatoly, then me. It was a short walk from the helipad to the witch’s house, which was good because it was as cold as her tit. Everything inside was dark wood, like it was finished and furnished from the forest that once stood around it. There was also a lot of wrought iron. It kept the elves away from the shoes.

  Fedorov led us into a starkly furnished den. The leaded windows radiated night. There was a barren fireplace and a lot of books too fancy to have titles on their spines. He poured the drinks himself, leaving both bottles. No one liked being the only guy with a bottle. Our chairs faced each other. Fedorov made an art out of awkward eye contact.

  I waited until he drank to drink. I waited until he refilled to refill. I waited until he talked to talk.

  “Any more predictions, Ken Allen?”

  “You’re setting up a limited broadcast, giving all the time zones a chance to buy in and place bets. I don’t remember signing away my likeness.”

  “There is always the prize money,” Fedorov replied. “And you may continue to bet on yourself.”

  “How did I make out?”

  “You turned your forty-seven hundred into forty-two thousand three hundred.”

  Eight-to-one against a guy with a broken hand. My odds against Alexi were going to smash the record.

  Fedorov looked at me the way I looked at aquariums. “Do you wish to leverage your winnings?”

  “Let me sleep on it.”

  “Yes, I should allow you rest.” Fedorov paused to give me time to stand with him. “Forgive me. You are good company, Ken Allen. We will talk at breakfast.”

  Fedorov muttered a syllable into his walkie-talkie and the doors opened.

  I scooped up my bottle. “Thanks for putting me up.”

  Yet another Russian girl in fancy underwear acted as my guide. She was in no hurry to lead me up the stairs. The temperature being what it was, you’d think she would have wanted to get her blood pumping. She gestured to my door like the prize I’d won was behind it.

  “I’m out of chips, sorry,” I said.

  She smiled because she had to. I didn’t so I didn’t. She didn’t offer to join me, seeing as there was already a girl in my bed.

  14

  “Turn that thing on,” Dina’s daughter said, nodding toward the fireplace. She was rolled up in the blankets like a little Italian burrito.

  I went over to the hearth and checked the flue. The logs had been sitting there long enough to host a feudalism of spiders. I pulled one of the books off the shelves. It was in Russian. From the way it was laid out it, it looked like a play.

  “Hope it’s not a first edition,” I said and tore a handful of pages out. There was a box of matches in a drawer with an ashtray. I shuffled the logs around to make an opening and crumpled a few pages in it, then set a match to the pages. The whole first act was up in smoke by the time the logs caught flame.

  “Your name is Diana, right?”

  She nodded from her blanket cocoon.

  “What are you doing here, Diana?” I asked.

  “Nat got us in. Don’t tell my mom, she’d freak.”

  “Was coming out here Nat’s idea?”

  Diana worked herself into a sitting position. “No, that was Pino, a guy I know.”

  “A guy you met through Nat?”

  Diana nodded.

  I faced the flames. “Nat works for Fedorov.”

  “Oh come on. I’ve known Nat for years. Since like—”

  “Let me guess. Since like the last Jove Brand film was in pre-production. You met her while your mom was out scouting locations. You were bored and hanging out at the hotel. My second guess is it was on a summer trip to Europe.”

  “Shut up. Nat’s my friend.” Diana abandoned arguing with me in favor of arguing with herself. “And she’s Dean’s girlfriend. She’s like family.”

  “Since when?” There was no food in any of the drawers and no phone to call room service. There wasn’t even a little bell to ring.

  “Since she moved to California.”

  “After Sir Collin’s last movie wrapped?”

  Diana started running the timeline on their friendship. “Yeah.”

  “And—oh my gosh how cool was this—she was going to school not too far from you.” I angled my palms towards the heat. “It’s a classic spy trope. You should watch more movies, kid.”

  Diana shivered. The Calabrias weren’t built for the cold. “That fire isn’t doing much.”

  “Get closer to it. And bring the blankets with you.”

  Diana rolled out of bed and hopped over to toast herself. It was no wonder she was shivering. Her curls were jeweled with drops of water, same as when she escorted me into Calabria Cove.

  “How’d your hair get wet?” I asked.

  Diana peered into the flames. “Nat said you wanted to see me. You know, after you waved at me. So they took me back here in Pino’s boat. He drives like an ass. We didn’t bring extra clothes. All they had is what the girls who work here wear.”

  I poked at the fire. It didn’t need it, but I liked poking at fires. “Yeah, what a crazy set of coincidences. And seeing as Fedorov is running short on rooms in this enormous mansion we’ll have to share.”

  “It’s a dacha, not a mansion,” Diana said before going quiet.

  It was going to take Diana a while to sort through three years of false friendship. Not wanting to unwrap herself, she tried to blow her drying hair out of her face. When it didn’t work, she was forced to slip an arm out of her swaddle. Under the layers, she was probably wearing more than when I met her, but context was everything.

  I attempted to put her at ease. “Me and your mom used to know each other.”

  “Yeah, Dean told me. You were in Uncle Kit’s movie. Can I do that?”

  “Poke away,” I said, handing over the iron.

  There were logs in the wood box, which saved a shelf’s worth of books. I’d never been much of a reader, but throwing books in a fire didn’t feel right.

  “I’m sorry I thought you were like, pretending,” Diana said.

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking about when we met or my fight. Probably both. “I am pretending, Diana. Sometimes pretending is the best way to get through a tough time. Plenty of people do it their whole lives.”

  “Yeah.” Diana’s one-word reply was enough. Growing up where she did, it would be hard not to relate. She welled up but didn’t spill over. “You know, Nat told me she thinks Dean is going to propose. She used me to get to him. I feel like an idiot.”

  “That’s the sensation of growing up.” I fed a log into the hearth. “This is a bad place disguised as a good one. The girls who normally wear what you’re wearing are prisoners. They’re marooned on that casino. And they get paid in chips, which keeps them f
rom saving up.”

  There was fear and then there was horror. Diana was experiencing the latter. “What about Nat?”

  “Nat’s different. She’s allowed to leave. Either she’s a trusted part of the team, or they have some other leverage. Maybe a family member.”

  “Oh God,” Diana said. “Poor Nat.”

  “Yeah, poor Nat, but don’t let sympathy lure you back in. Nat will use that. She won’t be able to help herself. From where she’s sitting, looking at your life, she’s gotta be pretty jealous, maybe even mad.”

  When Diana didn’t say anything for a while, I asked, “You still in there?”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Diana steeled herself, nodding at whatever she was thinking. She sat up a little straighter. She’d be fine. Life hadn’t asked much of her, was all. But she was Dina’s kid. She’d catch up fast.

  “They’re watching us, aren’t they?” she asked after a while.

  I nodded. If Fedorov had cameras in his club, it fell to reason he would have them everywhere else. Operation Casino Kompromat. “And listening, in hopes of me doing something stupid. Then they would have something over me and over your mom too.”

  “Oh God.”

  “There’s a reason why your mom didn’t do business with Fedorov when she had the chance. It’s a bad idea to make a deal with the devil when the devil is an atheist.”

  “You talk weird, Ken.”

  “You don’t watch enough movies. I watch too many.”

  Diana sack-raced to her bag. When she came back she waved a tablet at me.

  “Pick something for us to watch, then.”

  I took the tablet from her at the farthest possible point. “Does this get reception out here?”

  “No I tried, but a ton of stuff is downloaded already.” Diana gave a mischievous smile. “Nat swiped it off Dean. Just for the weekend.”

  If the window opened, I would have hurled the tablet into the sea. Diana had enough on her mind, so I didn’t tell her Dean’s tablet was likely going home host to a herd of Trojan horses.

  The tablet had cellular service, which meant along with emails, there were texts. It also had a messenger app. I grappled with my conscience. What kind of detective respected people’s privacy? In the end, I decided my invasion was for Dean’s own good.

  All the histories were deleted. No call record, no email archives. Why did Dean feel the need to wipe out his tracks? I went through his email search bar one letter at a time, letting the past addresses auto-complete. None of the five email addresses that appeared gave a hint as to the identity of their owners. Dean had the same number of contacts in his messenger app. CoachCrushem must have been Stavros and Nat_4_U was Nat. Niles_to_Go must have been Niles Endsworth. With Dean about to inherit, it was no surprise he was buddying up with the next Jove Brand. The last two contacts had handles that would have made great passwords. I tried to message them to see what happened, only to be reminded there was no service.

  Having broken the creep seal, I went through the files next. There were no documents or pictures, but the tablet was crammed with videos.

  “This has a ton of fights on it.”

  Diana let out a long sigh. “Dean’s obsessed with guys in tight shorts groping each other. Can you imagine what would happen to the movie rights if Goldpecker ended up being gay? Mom’s head would explode.”

  There were thousands of thumbnails to browse. Then I had the bright idea to search for Alexi Mirovich. Dozens of videos resulted, which was no surprise. Dean liked the guy enough to have a shrine dedicated to him. Which made me wonder where he had gotten Alexi’s personal possessions in the first place.

  “Did Nat ever give Dean a really nice present? Something one of a kind?”

  Diana made the same face I made when asked about a sequel to Near Death. There were some things you didn’t want to consider. “Are you asking if they’ve done it? Gross.”

  Rubbing my eyes helped erase the image. “No, like fighting stuff. A pair of shorts, some gloves, a big gold belt.”

  Diana thought about it. “Maybe. Nat brings a bag when she stays over and they’re always sneaking off to make out.”

  Though I had access to every bout Alexi ever fought on camera—even his Sambo matches from before he went pro—there wasn’t much. Alexi had logged less than three hours in the ring over twenty-one bouts. Such were the fortunes of being the unstoppable force.

  “Is there literally anything else we can watch?” Diana asked.

  “Sorry kid. We’ll have a movie night another time, but this is research. These fights might save my life.”

  Diana drifted off next to the fire, her head resting on a cushion stolen off one of the chairs. I used the bottom sheet and mattress liner to bundle up and sat with my back to the hearth, studying Alexi’s bouts until I had to dig the charger cord out of Diana’s bag. I brought her clothes back with me and hung them over the mantle.

  The fight footage only made me feel worse. Alexi had no weaknesses. His timing was razor sharp. His efficiency unrivaled. There was no wasted effort in his technique. His footwork was tight. In twenty-one fights he never kicked and never shot for a takedown. It was all punches and Greco-Roman style wrestling—body locks and throws. When he attacked, he went all in. There was no halfway, no hesitation.

  There was a bathroom in what looked like a closet. I let the sink run for ten minutes before refilling my empty bottle. The water was as cold as water got without being ice. I dunked my head for a pick-me-up and watched the fights again.

  Alexi rarely initiated. If his opponent refused to lead, he shuffled into range until the guy either threw something or they were in the clinch. He ate shots that would have shifted me into an alternate dimension. On only two occasions had he been rocked. The first was a head kick that came at the end of a crazy sequence. His opponent threw a Superman punch, fast and deep. Alexi slipped it, and the guy flew right past him. As they spun to face each other, the guy landed a kick right on Alexi’s temple.

  The other time was also a fluke. Alexi hit a picture-perfect throw, but his opponent’s feet bounced off the ropes and gave him space to slip out the back door. As Alexi stood, he turned into a right hand that would have stopped a truck. He was going down when the follow-up left hook set off his alarm.

  In both instances, once Alexi regained his composure, it was over quickly and viciously, his deliberation replaced by desperation. Alexi didn’t seek to recover, to gather himself and restart. He pushed to end it as soon as possible.

  I watched both moments again. Each time Alexi got tagged, he was getting up and turning. It would have happened to anyone. It was a vulnerable position. But Alexi weathered every other vulnerable position flawlessly.

  A theory was forming. I watched all his post-fight interviews. He said little, while staring at the mat, unmoving. He never answered questions and made only brief, general statements. It was all very Russian.

  Alexi’s father stood close, always watching him, but they never touched. For a coach with an undefeated fighter, his father never looked happy. Never slapped Alexi on the back or shook his shoulders in celebration. Again, being Russian could explain that away.

  I paused on a close-up of Alexi’s ears. They were like horns, swollen and curling. Cauliflower ear. Wrestlers got it from having the cartilage crushed over and over, day after day, year after year. From lockups, from the exploratory slaps, from having your head ground into the mat. You saw a guy with those ears, you didn’t get within grabbing distance. If you did, he was going to twist you into a pretzel.

  Except Alexi never scrambled on the ground. There was a vast palette of grappling techniques Alexi must have been skilled at, or at least aware of, and his whole game revolved around avoiding them at all costs.

  One of the fights was preceded by a video bio, detailing Alexi’s humble upbringing in a wolf-infested forest. There was a yellowing still of him at ten years old, wearing a singlet, facing off against his father. Alexi’s ears were already starting to curl. A polaroid s
howed Alexi at thirteen, looking much like he did now, those ears already in full bloom.

  There wasn’t much video of Alexi training. He worked out in the wilderness with the same three guys, none of whom were fighters and all of whom looked like they escaped from the zoo. He liked kettle bells. His rowing machine and bike looked homemade. There wasn’t any sparring footage.

  Alexi was a man of the people. He took the train instead of buying into the capitalist automobile fad. My Japanese was rusty but the narrative voice-over was more appropriate to a Godzilla film than a documentary.

  I went through all the fights again, watching how Alexi defended every attack ever thrown at him on film. Every time he got hit, I studied how it happened frame-by-frame. Alexi loved the hooks. Hooks stopped guys from circling. Alexi never kicked. Kicks left you on one foot.

  It had been a long day. Visions of Russian bears were dancing in my head. But my theory held up.

  Alexi Mirovich was keeping a big secret.

  15

  Diana shook me awake. She was back in her clothes, which might have kept her legs warm but couldn’t have done much for her midriff. It was sinking in that she wasn’t free to leave.

  “I’m hungry but I’m scared,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  I got up and did what could be done in the bathroom, then helped Diana into my blazer, which had never failed to keep me warm. Also, its swaddling effect could be comforting. One of Fedorov’s guys greeted us at the stairs. He smiled like he learned how in a video tutorial and led us into a dining room set in the back corner of the dacha.

  The three walls unconnected to the rest of the house were entirely leaded glass. The glass must have been custom stuff, because it looked overcast outside without a cloud in the sky. The offshore platform was out there. The waves were hungry. It was a good day to throw yourself off a cliff.

  The room was colder in early afternoon than it should have been with all the windows. Stacked logs waited in a barren hearth.