by Peart, A. O.
Yeah, I see that. Svetlana’s designer clothes and purse speak volumes. And are those Jimmy Choo’s she’s wearing? Ah, dammit, the curiosity is taking over, so before Ali can step in and end this rescue mission, I say, “Fine. Just tell us what happened.” For now, we’ll kinda pretend that dating a mobster is not a big deal.
“Andrei… my boyfriend, he runs the gang. They deal with old jewelry,” she’s having a tough time pronouncing jewelry, but I understand what she’s saying. “I don’t know where they get it, but there are nice things. Old, very old.”
“Probably steal it all from some poor senior citizens.” Ali frowns.
“I took the medalyon … pendant?” she’s testing the word, and when Ali and I nod, she goes on, “If he finds out the pendant is gone, he will figure out I took it. Nobody else has a key to his house and knows the combination to the safe. I’m in big trouble.” Her eyes fill with tears. I feel sorry for her. Poor girl, she got mixed up with the wrong guy. Seems so freakin’ familiar. Although my long list of loser ex-boyfriends does not include a gangster, I know all too well how it is to be in a fucked up relationship.
“So the cat ate the pendant. And then what happened?” Ali prompts.
“I put the pendant on the table right next to the open can of cat food. Lenochka jumped on when I went to the bathroom and started to play with the pendant. It was really tiny. Maybe it fell into her food and she ate it… I think by accident. I saw her eating it. I yelled at her, but it was too late.” Svetlana’s mouth curves down.
“The only way to get that pendant is to dig in her litter box.” Ali makes a face.
“But she’s gone now,” Svetlana says.
“Yes. So how did that happen? How did she get stolen?” I prompt.
A gust of wind lifts Svetlana’s hair, making it dance around her head. She pats it down with her hands, and I notice a really nice Rolex on her wrist. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus, I’m in the wrong business. My curiosity peeks even more.
“Let’s go somewhere inside. My ass is freezing off,” Ali complains.
We are standing in front of Starbucks, so I motion for the girls to follow inside. Each of us gets coffee, and we find a table away from prying ears.
SIX
“It’s the friends you can call up at 4 a.m. that matter.”
Marlene Dietrich
Svetlana tells us how she panicked when her cat swallowed that pricey pendant. Apparently, her boyfriend deals in antiques, jewelry, and God knows what else. She doesn’t have any girlfriends in the city, since nobody really wants to hang out with the mobster’s main squeeze.
I don’t know why, but I feel bad for her. Maybe it’s because I have Caroline, Ali, and Jena, with whom I’m very close. I can’t imagine not having them in my life. On top of that, Svetlana is practically a newcomer in this country—three years can’t be long enough to feel completely at home in a foreign land. I also have a feeling Svetlana’s family doesn’t live here, so she’s all alone. There is no way I could just not help her out. I glance at Ali and I swear, she must be thinking the same.
“I didn’t know who to ask for help. So I asked this one woman who often buys from Andrei. I know her well. I told her what happened.” Svetlana sniffs. “She said to bring the kitty to her so she will take it to her friend doctor… vyeterinar.”
“Veterinarian?” Ali offers. “Did you do that?”
“Yes. I go… went to meet with her. She took the kitty from me and ran. I couldn’t run in these,” she motions to her Jimmy Choo’s. No kidding.
“Do you know where she took it?” I ask.
“No. Maybe to her house. I don’t know.” She sighs.
“What’s that woman’s name?” Ali takes a sip of her coffee, watching Svetlana’s face.
“Catherine Tousignant. She’s from France,” Svetlana says.
Oh, no. Not another French woman from hell. Esther Bosarge comes to mind, and I inwardly groan. Why me? Ali glances at me with sympathy in her eyes. She knows what I’m thinking.
“So that Catherine just grabbed your cat and ran with it?” Ali asks skeptically. “Just like that?”
Svetlana nods.
“But if she’s your boyfriend’s customer, you can tell him, and he will get the cat from her,” I reason.
“No!” Svetlana’s eyes get huge. “He would kill the kitty. I know he would… to get that medalyon.”
Great. A crazy French woman and a gangster psycho. What’s next?
Ali turns to me and lifts her eyebrows. “How do we find that Catherine whatever her last name is?”
“Oh, no. You’re not suggesting what I’m thinking you are suggesting,” I protest.
“Esther would know. She knows many people in the French community in this city. I’m sure she can find out who Catherine Blah Blah is and where she lives.”
I sigh and close my eyes. “Fine. But you will make that call, not me.”
“Of course.” She shrugs.
Svetlana watches us, her lips parted. “Who is Esther?”
“It’s someone we know. She’s French, and we think she can tell us where this Catherine woman lives,” I explain.
Ten minutes later we have the address. Esther was extremely cooperative, which makes me wonder if she’s plotting the next bout of dating demands. Although she emailed me this morning, saying that her last date was exceptionally interesting, which she’s never said about anyone before. Hell, maybe she finally found her match. Yeah, sure. Who am I kidding?
We formulate a plan. It includes driving up to Catherine’s house on Lake Washington in Svetlana’s car, which turns out to be a brand new XKR-S convertible Jaguar. Yep, I’m definitely in the wrong business.
The ride is so plush that I forget where and why we are going. Svetlana tells us how she came to the US. She was one of those mail-order brides, and found her previous boyfriend through an international dating agency. Interesting. Ali and I exchange knowing glances, and I know she wants to get more details from Svetlana. Maybe we could use some new ideas for Strong Connections.
“He was really sweet,” Svetlana says about the guy who brought her to America. “His name was Matvei. She smiles to herself, and from her expression I can tell she really misses him.
“What happened to him?” Ali asks.
“Got shot. We were in his apartment, and the other gang broke in. They shot him, but I escaped. He saved me… held them away from the bedroom as long as he could until I climbed out from our balcony to the neighbor’s balcony, and then to the next.” She wipes a tear running down her cheek and blinks rapidly. I offer her a Kleenex from my purse, and she carefully runs it under her eyes.
Ali and I briefly stare at each other. Hearing about gangs’ wars is so surreal, but this girl has witnessed it and escaped with her own life. Holy smoke. My brain is having a tough time accepting the veracity of this story, but I don’t really doubt it’s all true.
The GPS in Svetlana’s Jaguar takes us straight to Catherine’s house, but we park on the opposite corner of the street. Svetlana turns the car lights off. The house is impressive: three stories of beautiful architecture, sitting right on Lake Washington. Two big-ass columns frame the half-circle front stairs. Massive statues of snarling lions sit on top of the stairs, illuminated by discretely positioned lights. The house sprawls on a hefty chunk of land, which I’m sure costs a small fortune. Homes in this area go for millions, especially ones with an unobstructed view of the lake.
“Nice digs,” Ali whispers. “What does she do for living?”
“She deals the old things, pretty things. Expensive. Antiques?” Svetlana whispers back, testing the word antiques and looking to us for confirmation.
I nod, letting her know that she pronounced it correctly.
“She buys from your boyfriend?” Ali asks.
“Yes, from Andrei, but also from the others. The other groups… gangs,” she says.
“So that doesn’t piss off Andrei? That she buys from his competition?” I watched a few gan
gster movies, but I wonder how it works in real life.
“Catherine would buy from the others only if Andrei can’t get her something she’s looking for. She tells him if someone else has it before she buys it. But she always buys from him first, and Andrei knows it. They have some deal together. I don’t know. He doesn’t talk business with me. I don’t want to know anything anyway. These things… what he does… it scares me.”
“Why won’t you leave him?” Ali asks.
“You can’t leave Andrei. He’s too powerful. He would go after me.”
“So you stay because you are scared,” I conclude.
She nods, and then adds quickly. “He’s been good to me. He never hits me; never did anything bad. I think he’ll get bored with me and he will find another girl. That’s when I can go. Not before.”
Huh, just like in those gangster movies. I wish I could advise her something but I have no clue what. So I just say, “I hope you’re safe with him, Svetlana.”
She looks at me, her eyes unblinking then she smiles. “When he lets me go, he will give me money and protection. That’s how he does things. I’m not afraid of that. I just can’t leave now. He would get mad.”
“Sounds like you have it all under control,” Ali mutters. “So what are we gonna do now?”
I glance from Svetlana to Ali and back. “Svetlana, if you go and knock on the door, would she open? And if she does, can you get in and take the cat?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “If I say it’s me, I don’t think she will open the door.”
“No, no. I meant if you ring the bell, would she come to the door? Ah, wait. Doesn’t matter.” I scratch my temple, thinking of the best plan. “She might have someone else in the house like a housekeeper. Or someone who lives with her.”
“She’s not married. No boyfriend,” Svetlana offers. “But she may have a camera somewhere. All these homes have security cameras, I think.”
“Good point.” I frown.
“We need to creep up and check things out,” Ali says. “Cover your faces with scarves.” All of us are sporting scarves. “Svetlana, you can’t run in those heels.”
“I have my flat shoes.” Svetlana presses a button somewhere around the steering wheel, and the car trunk pops up. She gets out and quietly goes to the back of the car. She returns, wearing Prada sneakers. Geez, does she wear anything that doesn’t have a high-profile designer name attached to it?
Ali wraps her scarf around her face. Svetlana does the same. I snort, feeling like a complete douchebag. “Are you serious?”
“What if she has the security cameras? Do you want your face in the morning news?” Ali reasons.
I sigh. How do I get myself involved in the conniving activities like this? Okay, in the name of the Female Solidarity Club. I can do it.
SEVEN
“I think everybody’s nuts.”
John Depp
We creep out from the car and to the side of the house. There are no fences around any of the homes here, so getting close to Catherine’s residence is piece of cake. I tiptoe behind Ali. Svetlana is right behind me. We get to the nearest wall and plaster ourselves against it.
“Now what?” I whisper.
“Now we need to figure out if there is anyone home. I’ll go and ring the bell,” Ali whispers back.
I grab her wrist. “Did you lose your marbles? What are you gonna say?”
“Nothing. I won’t wait for the answer. I’ll run.”
Seriously? I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Just come back here quickly.”
Ali skulks to the front door, looks around, and then stands on her tiptoes, trying to see in the window to the left of the door. After a few seconds she glances around again and pushes the button on the wall. She presses her ear to the door, listening.
I squeal quietly. “Shit, Ali. Get your ass over here. Now.”
Svetlana steps away from the wall, trying to get Ali’s attention. She motions to Ali to return to us. My heart is beating so hard that I’m starting to hyperventilate.
“What the hell is she doing?” I whisper severely. “Ali! Come on!” I move closer to Svetlana.
Ali turns and gives us two thumbs up. Jesus, what is wrong with her today? Her adrenaline glands must be completely dried out.
Finally, she walks toward us, retying the scarf over her face.
I whisper-yell at her, “Are you out of your mind? I almost got a heart attack.”
“Chill, Davenport. Nobody’s home.” She gives me a pointed look.
“Are you sure?” Svetlana asks. Her big blue eyes are the same color as her scarf. “Did you hear anything?”
“I heard the cat. Not sure if it was your cat, but a cat nevertheless.”
Svetlana presses her hand to where her mouth is under the blue scarf. “Moya Lenochka malen’kaya. Aeta ona’, Lenochka.”
“Svetlana, English please.” I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Lenochka. It must be. She’s there, my little Lenochka,” she says. I think it is a direct translation.
“Ali.” I turn to my friend. “Are you sure there’s nobody there? Maybe she didn’t hear the door bell?”
“That fucking thing is like a monastery gong.” Ali snorts. “It shook the whole house. If she didn’t hear that, she won’t hear us.”
“That really doesn’t make me feel confident about sneaking into her house.” I make a face.
“Come on.” Ali pulls on my jacket sleeve. “We might not have much time.”
“And that definitely doesn’t improve your previous statement.” I grunt.
“Maybe the back door is open?” Svetlana offers.
Both Ali and I turn to look at her. I nod. “Let’s try it first.”
We creep around the back. The house is massive, so it takes us a while to get to the backyard. There are dim outdoor lights on. A bit of light also filters through the half-opened blinds from somewhere deep inside the house. Huge windows in the back allow the view of the Lake. I look toward the water and see a speedboat moored by a nice chunk of the waterfront. I whistle to myself, thinking of how nice it would be to take it for a spin.
Carefully, we peek in the windows, but that part of the house is unlit. There might be someone in another part though.
I tap Ali on the shoulder. “Let’s hide in the bushes by the corner of the house and throw a pebble at the window.”
“Okay.” She nods.
I tell Svetlana what we’re going to do. The two of us tiptoe back. Ali bends down and picks something up—must be a pebble. She throws it at the first floor window, swings her arm back again and throws another pebble at one of the second floor windows. Bent at the waist, she runs in our direction. We grab her, and the three of us peek from around the corner, listening.
Nothing. We look at one another. Svetlana motions to Ali and me to follow her. A moment later she’s by the back door, picking the lock. Fuck! Really?
“Svetlana!” I whisper-yell. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s easy. Look.” She shows me how to pick the lock. O-kay. Should I add this to my resume?
We hear a tiny meow. Another. I try to see where it comes from, but it’s too dim inside.
“There!” Svetlana points.
I follow her finger and see something wiggling by the kitchen counter. Must be the kitten. Is she tied up to the bar stool under that massive granite island in the middle of the kitchen? At that point, Svetlana pushes the glass door open, and all three of us freeze. No alarm, no beeping of any kind. Phew, we are in luck. We get in and close the door behind us.
Svetlana rushes to the kitchen island and squats down. “Maya malen’kaya,” she coos in Russian, picking up the tiny bundle of red-and-white fur.
The kitten meows repetitively. Svetlana continues to fuss with it. Ali and I look around the amazing kitchen in awe.
“Look what money can buy,” Ali says under her breath, or, rather, from under her scarf.
“I could get use to this.” I
grin, running my fingers over the subzero fridge. “But we better go. Svetlana, get the cat and scoot.” I turn to look at her and right behind her see something peculiar. “What the…”
Ali follows my eyes and quickly walks into the adjacent room. In the corner, by the ornate fireplace stands a statue of a giant-proportioned black phallus. Ali and I stop in front of it and lift out heads to see to the top. The freakin’ thing is more than eight feet tall.
“Where the hell do you buy something like this? On the internet?” Ali asks, amused.
“Imagine the delivery guys setting this up.” I chuckle. “I would pay to see that scene.”
Next comment from Ali makes me avert my eyes from this oversized manhood on pedestal. Although, I do it somehow reluctantly. “Crap. Look around, Nat.”
There are dozens of phalluses of various sizes, shapes, and colors all over the room: on the fireplace mantel, on the shelves, on the side tables by the sofa. Heck—even right behind the sofa stands another gigantor. This one is multicolored and it looks as if someone splashed a bunch of different paints over it.
Svetlana stands next to me, holding the kitty in her arms. “Would you say this is art?” She points to the colorful dick.
Ali smirks, and I grin at her. “It might be to you and me. But something tells me Catherine likes her art practical, to be blunt.”
Ali hoots and claps her hands. She wants to go wander through the house to see what other man-part-inspired art we can find in Catherine’s possession. But I grab her by the elbow and drag her toward the door. “We have to go. Come on, we are freakin’ trespassing.”
She backs away from me and straight onto the black phallus. The thing wobbles. Ali turns and grabs it to steady it. Her arms are around the questionable object. Svetlana and I burst in giggles, and Ali joins in. I take my cell phone out and snap a picture of her. She poses for me, and I laugh so hard, the tears start streaming down my face.
And then we hear the front door open, and people talking.
“Oh shit,” I whisper and frantically look around for a place to hide.