by Gina LaManna
“What?” Clay was shaking his head.
“Wait here, all of you.” I pointed my finger at Butch, lady friend and Clay. “I need to go check if he’s inside yet.”
I crossed the street quickly and hid behind the same bush where I’d peed a few nights before, being careful to keep far away from my marked ground.
The house appeared quiet, the front yard still except for one twitchy squirrel that seemed overly paranoid about his nuts.
I crept forward. There was movement in the upstairs window. That was good, I thought. He can’t be inside yet, or they’d be confronting him on the ground floor, most likely.
I ducked behind Andrey’s car which sat, still warm, in the driveway. A few dishes clattered in what I assumed was the kitchen.
Okay, if there were two of them in the house – then one was upstairs and one in the kitchen.
I stood at an awkward half-height and made my way around the car to the driver’s side, keeping both eyes on the front door. I ducked as I heard a noise, but it was just that damn squirrel shuffling acorns to and from his hiding spot.
I raised my head and peeked through the driver’s window towards the house.
Something caught my eye from inside the car. I clamped my mouth shut so hard my lip bled as bile welled in my throat. I backed away from the car slowly, suppressing the urge to scream, unable to break eye contact with a blank-staring, non-moving, completely dead Andrey.
Chapter 18
I drove straight to Meg’s bar.
“Give me a pint of whiskey,” I slid myself onto a stool.
Meg chewed on her lower lip, intent on staring at the other end of the bar.
“Hello?” I waved a hand in front of her face. “Just saw a dead guy, need a drink.”
“Do you see the cheeks on that guy?” she murmured. Probably, she thought she murmured the phrase, but in actuality Meg’s whisper voice is more like a normal persons speaking voice.
“Which ones?” I surveyed a man of mixed race. He was a light brownish black in color, three hundred plus pounds and about nine feet tall. The cornrows in his hair were so tight I was a bit worried his brains might start leaking out the seams.
She made a strangled noise in her throat, as she turned to me. “Good point. I wouldn’t mind getting me some of either set.”
I scrunched my nose.
“So, tell me what’s happening.” Meg poured me a tall glass of whiskey with a splash of coke on top.
“Can I get a cherry with that?”
Meg plopped a cherry on top.
I glared at her. “Don’t be stingy.”
“Start tipping, then, butthead.” She plopped a few more in the drink.
“Okay,” I sighed. Then I started spilling my guts to her, not stopping until I’d recounted everything: getting shot at, my suspicions that Anthony had something to do with it, my two failed meals with the Family – including car explosions and Carlos’ inquisitions and concluding with my encounter with a dead date.
“Wow.” Meg shook her head back and forth. “That man has it hot for you.”
“What?” I took a sip, wondering how that was her conclusion with everything that’d happened.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Meg popped an olive into her mouth and smacked her lips a few times. She glanced down the bar to make sure Hot Cheeks was still there before continuing. “Somehow sexy-nerd from the bar-”
“Michael-” I supplied.
“-he found out you were playing him. He heard about your little dinner rendezvous with this other Russian twerp-”
“Andrey-”
“And when he found out, he went right over there and killed him. Wanted you all to hisself.”
“Uh,” I said. “But how does that explain what why Clay heard Vadim and Michael talking together while Andrey was still at dinner?”
“Well, what did Uncle what’s-his-balls and skinny hipster pants say?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to Clay – I came straight here.”
“Well, that was stupid.” Meg slumped her shoulders. “You’re missing part of the gossip. I need the full story, yo.”
“My bad,” I said. “I should go talk to him anyways. I kinda just zoomed out of there.”
I paused. “Oh, shit. I was driving Butch and Layla. I have no idea where they are.”
Meg wondered aloud, “What if Uncle what’s-his-balls is dead, too. Maybe Michael popped them both. You check that?”
I suddenly felt extremely stupid. That would make sense. “I did not.”
“Well, what’re you waiting for?” she said. She screamed behind the bar, “Julio, I’m goin on a case. Be back soon.”
“Uh, now?” I wasn’t too keen on seeing another dead body so soon.
“Uh, yeah.” She pointed at Hot Cheeks. “And you, sir. Don’t move. Mama’s got a little somethin’ for you when I return.”
We gracefully made our exit to the sound of catcalls and whistles.
** **
We pulled back in front of Andrey’s house, where Clay was still sitting in the van. I popped my head in the window, but he wasn’t waiting in the driver’s seat like I’d expected. He was in the back tinkering with some equipment, probably not even aware I’d been gone.
“How’d it go?” he asked as I wedged my head through the partway open window. “Did you get what you needed?”
“No, he’s dead.”
Clay looked up from his wires and cables. “What? He just got home.”
“Apparently someone was waiting for him.”
“Damn. Blitz attack.”
“Tell us what Uncle what’s-his-balls and Skinny hipster pants said when he was spyin’,” Meg called over my shoulder.
“Meg?” Clay’s face reddened. “When did she get here?”
“Wandered in,” I said. I tried to turn my neck, but I couldn’t move it in the cramped space between the window and the top of the van. I pushed forward – nothing. Pulled backwards – extreme pain and no movement. “Uh, Clay? Mind rolling this window down?”
“Sure, watch.” Clay pulled out a remote and pressed a few buttons.
The window rolled up even further, dangerously close to cutting off my circulation.
“Wrong way,” I squealed with what air I could manage to spare. My legs felt like they were spinning on an endless loop.
Meg grabbed hold of my rear end, touching places I’d never imagined her hands would go. She gave me a painful little pull. “Yep, you’re stuck.”
“Yagghahh,” I gurgled.
Clay putzed with the remote, muttering about how he thought he’d fixed that glitch.
“Help? Regular way?” I gestured.
“No. I’m going to get it to work.” Clay worked for a few more minutes while Meg lit a cigarette and I held onto all possible air in my lungs for dear life.
A buzzing noise hit my ear, and I started, knocking my head on the top of the car. But then I reached in to rub my head and realized there was space for my arm. I was free!
“Nice necklace. Natural. Though if you’re going that natural, I’d prefer a hickey. People get weird over strangle marks,” Meg observed.
I looked into the rear view mirror. My neck was indeed lined with a crisp red line that looked eerily like I’d been be-headed and reattached by a somewhat mediocre doctor. I rubbed it tenderly.
“Spill the gossip; I don’t got all day away from the bar. Hot Cheeks is only waiting so long.” Meg blew smoke rings directly into my face.
“How do you get those rings to be so perfectly… ring-y?” Clay stared, fascinated at Meg.
“CLAY.” I immediately regretted shouting as my neck throbbed with the effort.
“Okay, okay.” He cracked his knuckles, though he didn’t quite draw his eyes away from the rings of smoke. “It’s good. It’s really good.”
I cleared my throat, wincing with the effort.
Clay’s gaze finally cut to me. “I meant it – it’s good information. Michael showed up and Vadim
let him in like he was expecting company. Company with a capital M. Then they chatted about some people I don’t know – I have it recorded,” he said to my furious stare. “You can look it up later. It’s hard to keep track of all those Russian names. But the moral is the story is that Michael asked Vadim if Andrey had figured it out yet. That it was all fake.”
“What was all fake?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Clay admitted. “Do you want to just listen?”
“You just want to show off your equipment,” I said.
“I’ll check out his equipment,” Meg added.
I groaned. Clay blushed. Meg blew a smoke ring through the window.
“Get your equipment ready, honey. I’m coming in.” Meg lugged herself through the door and sat down in the passenger seat. I climbed in the driver’s side while Clay clicked buttons in the back.
The tape rolled and it was like we’d been transported to a surround sound theater. Meg even looked under her seat when Michael’s voice murmured a greeting in Russian.
“Wait, he speaks Russian?” I asked, a creepy feeling tingling my spine.
“Nah, he just pretends. They switch to English right away,” Clays said.
There were a few minutes of said small talk with lots of Russian names. I almost zoned out thinking about my complicated love life when Michael asked, “Does Andrey know its all fake?”
“Of course not,” Vadim’s voice replied. “Why would he know?”
“Are you sure? Are you aware he’s having dinner with the Luzzi’s tonight?”
There was a long, pregnant pause.
“Carlos Luzzi?” The question was heavy on Vadim’s tongue, laden with hatred.
“The one and only. Apparently Andrey met his granddaughter and she invited him for a ‘Family’ dinner,” Michael said.
I could hear the emphasis on the word family.
“How does he know about this?” I hissed to the van. “I never told him. Why is he not jealous of me and Andrey’s relationship?”
Clay raised an eyebrow.
Meg muttered, “Men. Pigs.”
“Are you close to securing the real stuff?”
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard a hesitation before Michael replied.
“Uh, yes.”
“That doesn’t sound confident,” snapped Vadim.
“We’re close,” said Michael, more firmly this time.
Maybe it was just me, but I thought his voice wavered, kind of as if he were crossing his fingers behind his back.
“Good. Because we all know what would happen if it we weren’t.”
Vadim’s clipped comment had everyone in the van shuddering and staring wide-eyed at one another.
“Is it Andrey?” Vadim asked. “Are we positive he’s the mole?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Michael retorted. “And I think his dinner with the Luzzi’s tonight proves it. He was about to tell Carlos something when I had to create a… distraction. He’s headed here as we speak.”
“The bastard! Michael’s the one that blew up my sweatshirt? Oh, I will show him,” I fumed, ready to get out of the car and show him who was boss ASAP.
“Do you have a gun?” Meg asked.
“Oh.”
“Cause they do,” she said.
I left my butt firmly in the van.
Clay stopped the tape.
“I think I understand a little bit more,” I said. “Michael is working for the Russians. Vadim assigned him to hide the ‘real’ good stuff so they could test to see if Andrey was the mole. Michael was responsible for tailing him, and then confirming that Vadim’s suspicious were true. They were, which meant Andrey had to go-”
“And he went,” Meg added unhelpfully.
“But he told Carlos it wasn’t him… why would he tell him that? Why do you think he ran?”
“Maybe he was being nice,” Clay said. “Michael sounds like a whack job and maybe Andrey was worried Michael wouldn’t stop the attack if Andrey didn’t leave.”
I sighed. “He really was a sweetheart.”
“There’s more where they come from. Plus, you got two honeys left.” Meg nodded.
“Michael?” I gaped. “I’m not sleeping with him now. He’s a murderer.”
“Then there’s the other one.”
“Which other one?” I asked, having a pretty good idea who she meant.
“Your hunky trainer.”
“I’m not sleeping with him either. That one tried to shoot up my house.”
Clay made a funny noise in his throat.
Meg hrumphed. “All I’m sayin' is a little mystery can spice up any stale relationship.”
“I don’t have stale relationships.” I crossed my arm. In fact, I obviously wasn’t even aware who I was in relationships with.
“So what’s next?” Clay asked.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m drinking heavily and falling asleep. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
Chapter 19
The new day dawned the opposite of promising. Rain came down in clumps and puddled in seconds on the ground. I sloshed through sludge and grime on my way to the gym. As much as I didn’t want to work out, I did want to find out why Anthony was shooting at me.
When I splashed into the parking lot I hit the biggest puddle on accident as usual, coating the shiny gold exterior of the Bentley with disgusting mud. I slammed my car door and prayed to the sky. “PLEASE RAIN, help me out. I don’t want to pay for a car wash!”
I headed inside. To my dismay, the sun seemed to choose this moment to peek through the clouds, just enough to cake my car in its filth. But as I did a double take at the evil sun, I took a few steps backwards. Was that Clay’s creep mobile? It had to be – no one else had one like it.
I marched forward, fully intending to find out why Clay hadn’t offered to take me with to confront Anthony.
“What are you doing here?” I spotted Clay speaking in low tones to Anthony and shouted from across the room.
Clay shut his mouth and turned bright red. “Uh, um. Ha, good to see you here. Just getting an early start on the workout.”
“Really? Nice outfit.” I nodded at his jeans and sweatshirt. “Decided to opt out of the spandex?”
“Mr. Luzzi was just stopping by for a nutritional consultation. He’s been working out but worried about his lack of weight loss. I suspect it has something to do with the amount of beef bowls he eats on an hourly basis.”
Clay’s cheeks could’ve been a pair of red delicious apples. “Right.”
I glanced suspiciously between them. On one hand – it was totally believable. On the other hand – I didn’t buy it for a second.
I flicked my head towards Clay. “Go eat a stick of broccoli or something. I’ve got to talk to butthead over here.”
Anthony looked behind him.
“No, you.” I pounded a fist on his chest.
He barely flinched as he rolled his head in my direction. “Doll.”
“Doll? Don’t start with me.”
Anthony leaned forward and rested one hand on my waist, his thumb brushing somewhere near where I assumed my ovary would be, or maybe my spleen – either way, it was a sweet spot. I shivered under his touch.
He grinned and breathed words against my neck. “I’ll start what I want.”
It took me a second to regroup my thoughts after getting this close to Anthony.
You stop it, Lacey Luzzi I told myself. No having the hots for murderous men who want to kill you.
I took a step back and gave a shuddering breath. When I spoke, I thought my voice was relatively even despite my thudding heart. “Then stop friggin’ shooting up my apartment!”
I stomped my foot for added emphasis, then immediately regretted it as he looked at my foot with a wry smile and slowly, painstakingly dragged his gaze upwards: past my lady bits, over my hips, a pause at the boobs and a stare at my lips.
By the time his eyes reached mine, I was feeling quite tingly all over and rather like I eith
er needed to do something about it or get out of that gym ASAP.
“I didn’t shoot at you.”
“You liar, I saw you outside before you came in!” I crossed my arms. “There’s no mistaking those…”
I was about to say muscles, but I didn’t want him to get too cocky.
“That fat head of yours,” I finished lamely.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Doll. I was helping out. I live in the neighborhood. Heard shots. The presence of my fat head scared the guy away before I could catch him. You’re welcome.”
I gave him squinty eyes. “Then why haven’t I ever seen you in the neighborhood before? I would’ve remembered…”
Again, I paused where I was initially going with that thought. “I would’ve remembered someone of your size.” I slapped a hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”
Anthony’s twitching lips turned into a full on, teasing grin.
“Don’t be so sure,” he said.
“Do you promise it wasn’t you in there? Do you pinky swear?” I asked.
“I’m not pinky swearing.”
“Then I think you tried to kill me and I’m calling the cops on you.”
“Doll.” He started to shift his weight, probably more out of exasperation, based on the sighs coming out of his mouth.
“Pinky swear, then.” I gave a pouty lip and stuck my pinky out defiantly.
He did the biggest eye roll I have ever seen (does working out help even your eyes?), before glancing at my chest. Then once more at my lips before, returning his gaze to my extended hand.
“Fine.” He clasped his pinky around mine, his skin much softer than I expected, and we shook up and down. I kissed the outside of my hand.
“Kiss it,” I said.
“I’m not kissing it.”
“KISS IT. Or else.” I glared at him.
“I’ll kiss something else.”
I shot my gaze at him, and despite a little flurry in my stomach which I tried to push away, I shook my head resolutely. “You gotta seal the pinky swear.”
A mischievous look shone in his eyes, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure this pinky swearing business was a good idea.
“Fine.” It seemed to be his phrase of the morning.