Just then, a small man in a leather jacket scuttled up to Pushkin’s side. He held a finger up for me to wait as the little man whispered in his ear. ‘Excellent!’ Pushkin boomed. ‘Bring him here!’
My eyes followed the little man as he scuttled away behind a door.
‘Two favours. Little Bremy.’ I watched as Mr Pushkin waved to a new man, emerging from the same doorway the small one had disappeared through. He was physically unremarkable in every way, but that was hard to see right off the bat, given all the piercings. Ears, eyebrows, lips, nose … not a single feature escaped the jab of metal.
‘Bremy, meet Andrei.’
The pincushion looked at me with dead eyes briefly, before sitting down.
‘Andrei, he is true artist,’ Mr Pushkin said leaning back and adjusting his belt. ‘He makes all my eyes.’
With that, Andrei placed a box that vaguely resembled a ring case onto the table. I took a steadying breath.
Mr Pushkin tilted his head back and used the fingers on his right hand to spread his eyelid open. ‘Bremy, show me your hands.’
‘Um—’
He slapped the table hard. ‘Show me your hands, or I kill you.’
A strangled yelp escaped my lips.
Mr Pushkin laughed and looked at Andrei, eye socket still pried open with his fingers. ‘She’s so cute, this Bremy. Always falling for the I kill you bit.’ Andrei nodded solemnly. ‘I would never kill you here, Bremy. Too much blood. Carpets, you know.’
‘Of course.’
‘Now, please, show me your hands.’
I slowly unclenched my fists and held out my hands as though I were about to have my fortune read.
‘Good,’ Mr Pushkin said. ‘Hold this.’ He plopped his fluorescent green eyeball onto my left palm. I knew he was going to do that! Now, I am not the type to get all weird about body stuff. In fact, growing up, people’s squeamishness about my sister’s disabilities really bothered me, but there was a time and place for this sort of thing … and the eyeball was really warm … and wet.
Mr Pushkin snapped open the little box, plucked out the new eyeball, and seemingly tossed it back into his head. He squeezed both eyes tightly shut for a moment, before opening them with a snap.
My jaw hit the floor.
The eye was made of bright red glass, and instead of a pupil, a silver skull glared out at the world.
‘What do you think?’
I gulped. ‘Horrifying.’
‘Good! This is good!’ he boomed, smiling brightly. ‘Andrei, you go back and see Sergei. He will pay you what we discussed.’ He then pointed his finger at him just as he was getting to his feet. ‘What we discussed, Andrei. You ask for one penny more. I kill you.’
He nodded.
‘Really kill you. Not like joke before. Kill you outside. Proper way.’
Andrei nodded again. As he walked away, Mr Pushkin whispered, ‘Do you think he believed me? I was serious this time.’
I nodded quickly.
‘Ah, I never know.’ He slammed both hands down on the table, making his old eyeball jump in my hand. ‘Now Bremy, the favour.’
‘Two favours,’ I corrected, before mentally slapping myself on the back of the head.
‘One is already done. I needed woman’s opinion on the eye,’ he said. ‘Now favour two.’
I so badly wanted to say, Why should I do you a favour? But I knew he would have an answer to that question, and it probably involved me losing a body part. I really needed to find a new apartment. ‘Actually, do not think of errand as favour to me,’ he said, placing his fingertips on his chest. ‘Think of it as favour to you.’ Oh, I did not like the sound of that at all.
‘You see, little Bremy, I have been thinking about you. I have special interest. I know job at Pink Beaver is not going well.’
My brow furrowed. Sure, I didn’t exactly like my job at The Pink Beaver, but that didn’t mean I didn’t take a certain amount of pride in my work. ‘What did Mr Raj tell you?’
‘Well, he says the girls … the girls don’t like you.’
‘They don’t like me?’
‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘They think you’re … what is the word?’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Judgey.’
‘Judgey!’
He nodded. ‘Yes, always with the judgey.’
I jabbed a finger on the table. ‘I am not always with the judgey.’
He shrugged. ‘Mr Raj, he is going to have talk with you, but this got me to think. Maybe little Bremy needs career change. Maybe she like to work for Mischa,’ he said, placing his hand back on his chest. ‘Then Anton there, says why not ask this Bremy to get money.’
I looked over at the man Mr Pushkin then pointed to. He was talking on his phone, but froze in what looked like terror when he saw us looking at him. I closed my eyes.
‘You are happy, yes?’
‘Um, happy doesn’t feel like the right word. Why don’t we go with flattered?’
‘You are expert. We go with your word,’ he said nodding. ‘So I thought, being the nice guy, I help you, and you help me. I need errand girl. You need more money. Buy some clothes maybe. You look like you got jacket from street corner.’
I sighed. He had point … I mean a point. Whatever. ‘Okay,’ I said, drawing out the word. ‘So what’s the favour?’
‘Nothing big. Nothing that will get the smart girl like you killed.’
Great.
‘I need you to pick up rent money.’
‘I thought that was your favourite part of the job,’ I said. He usually dressed up for the occasion. Last month he wore a bowler hat and carried a cane.
‘It is. It is. I love to scare all the little tenants back into their holes.’ He laughed then stopped abruptly. ‘Except for your neighbour. What is her name?’
‘Queenie?’
‘Yes, Queenie. She is scary, no?’
‘Yes.’
‘No?’
‘Yes, I mean, no.’ I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake. ‘I agree. She is scary.’
‘You see the thing is, this money is from my ex-girlfriend.’ His face fell as his eyes trailed off to study nothing in particular. ‘Things are … awkward.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But surely I’m not the best person for the job. I—’
He brought his eyes back to mine. ‘I have lots of men to run errands, but I thought I would give you shot.’
‘Oh, Mr Pushkin,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Mischa, please. And little Bremy, you need to be smart now,’ he said, tapping his temple with his index finger. ‘This city, the winds of change, they are sweeping streets like hurricane. A great black hole of power is pulling us into the void. All the little players are blowing and skidding like pieces off of chessboard. You need to have family or you will fall onto subway floor where sticky urine is.’
‘Wow. That’s um …’
‘I pay you fifty dollars.’
‘Fifty dollars!’ My brain zoomed in circles like a cat chasing its tail. Oh, the things I could do with fifty dollars! I could buy a new bottle of shampoo, maybe some deodorant. I could get some new make-up. Oh, make-up. How I missed make-up that didn’t come from the kid’s section at the dollar store. I could buy food that didn’t have an expiration date five years from now. I c—
‘So you say yes?’
‘I say yes! Yes! Yes!’
‘Excellent,’ he said, once again slapping the table. ‘You go tonight.’
‘Tonight? I can’t go tonight. I have a date.’ Oh God, why did I say that? Bad mouth. Bad, bad mouth.
Mr Pushkin’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead, really showcasing his eye. ‘A date? Who is this boy? Should I meet him?’
‘Good God no,’ I said. I then took a breath and tried to de-widen my eyes. ‘I mean, it’s nothing.’
‘Are you sure? I could be scary father figure,’ he offered with an exaggerated grimace.
‘Thank you.’ I shook my head
and looked down at the eyeball still in my palm. ‘But it’s really not necessary.’
‘What time is date?’
‘Nine.’
‘You have lots of time if you hurry.’ He shifted back in his seat. ‘Do errand first. She is waiting. Then go on date. You bring me money tomorrow.’
I sighed. ‘Okay.’
He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Here is name and address.’
I looked at the paper. I knew this address. My gaze shot up to Mr Pushkin. Suddenly the fifty was making more sense.
‘It’s fine.’ He shooed me with his fingertips. ‘You see.’
I got to my feet. Somewhere in that conversation I had gone from being terrified to really put out. Life was so unfair sometimes. Or maybe the universe was still in payback mode for giving me twenty years as a princess funded by my father’s evil deeds. Either way, I was not a happy girl. I just wanted to spend the time before my date with Pierce doing girlie stuff and now—I looked back down at the address on the paper—now, I was going to do this.
I stood and took a few steps towards the door, when the man with the yellow teeth I had met earlier pushed his chair back to block my path.
‘I got vodka,’ he said, pointing to a double shot on the table. ‘You get bigger boobies?’
I fixed him in my gaze. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Catch.’ I tossed him Mr Pushkin’s eyeball then swiped his drink, knocking it back. I wiped my hand across my mouth and slammed his glass back down on the table.
‘Hey!’ he shouted.
‘Now everybody’s disappointed.’
I stomped out the front door with Mr Pushkin’s thick laughter at my back.
***
Minutes later, with my windbreaker flapping at my sides, I was stomping down the street towards the address Mr Pushkin had given me. I was pumped. Normally, I hated walking anywhere. I really missed my old driver. What was his name? Miguel? Marcus? I had been a terrible person. I should send out I’m sorry cards to everyone from my past, like a making amends step for recovering socialites. Focus, Bremy. But I’d had an awesome moment just now—and some vodka, which had done a great deal to relieve the night’s earlier humiliation—I needed to strut. Sure, I could focus on the fact that I was now running errands for a mafia boss, but that seemed really stressful.
‘Yeah, now everybody’s disappointed,’ I said, giving the night air a vicious punch. Okay, maybe the words hadn’t made complete sense, but that didn’t matter. It had been cool.
‘You alright?’ a man huddled over a subway grate asked.
I startled. I had momentarily forgotten that talking to oneself while walking down the street wasn’t exactly normal, but not entirely abnormal either in this city. ‘Just reliving a moment of greatness.
He nodded. ‘Go team.’
‘Exactly,’ I said, resuming my swagger. Minutes later, I was standing in front of a rundown theatre. I could hear shouting from the inside. I took a deep breath before wrapping my hand around the door handle.
At the very least, this should be interesting.
Another primal roar thundered from the inside. Maybe I should have asked Mr Pushkin for a hundred.
Chapter 4
I flung open the door with a here goes nothing attitude and stumbled into the building. Stupid doorjamb.
I straightened and saw a woman dressed as a cigarette girl wearing a tiny hat sitting in an old-fashioned ticket booth.
‘You here for the fight?’ she asked, snapping her gum. ‘Participant or spectator?’
‘Neither,’ I said, walking towards her. ‘I’m looking for Lana Sharapova. I believe she’s expecting me.’ I raised my eyebrow knowingly.
‘Are you drunk?’
I smiled. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Me,’ she said, curling a lip. ‘They make me clean up the vomit.’
‘I see. Well, fear not. I am tipsy at best.’
She gave me a sceptical once-over with some heavily make-upped eyes.
‘What do you want with Luscious Lana?’
I leaned on the counter of her ticket booth. ‘I believe that is for me and the Lana … I mean, the Lana … I mean, the lady to discuss.’
She shook her head and sighed. ‘She’s getting ready for her match. Go down that hall, turn the corner, and it’s the first door on your left. You’d better hurry. She’s up next.’
I nodded my thanks and headed down the hall.
Suddenly I felt very aware of myself. Perhaps the vodka had hit me harder than I thought. I tried to focus on walking normally, but that only made things worse. I needed to get this job done and have a coffee before my date with Pierce. I turned the corner of the hall, banging my shoulder against the wall. Up ahead an entourage of people in shiny black tracksuits was shuffling through the first door on the left, headed in the opposite direction. In the middle of the scrum was a blonde woman in a pink satin robe, two L’s embroidered on the back.
‘Lana!’ I called out. ‘Lana Sharapova!’
The group didn’t stop.
I scurried after them. ‘Lana! Mr Pushkin sent me!’
The group stopped in one solid mass. Then Lana twisted her head and grimaced, revealing a large gap between her two front teeth. Her gaze met mine, and then she spat on the floor.
I scuttled forward. A few of the men surrounding her backed away to let me into their group, then moved back around to swallow me in the swarm.
‘Um, hi,’ I said with a little wave. ‘I’m … actually, never mind who I am. I believe Mr Pushkin told you I was coming? He said you have something for me?’
She looked at me. Her eyes felt heavy on my face. Finally, she said, ‘Walk.’
‘Well, you see I’m kind of in a hurry. I have this important date. Well, it’s not really a date. But it has the potential to be a kind of a watershed type moment with—’ Lana had already walked away. I felt some man’s breath on the back of my neck, so I hurried to catch up.
When I reached her shoulder, she asked, ‘How is he?’
‘Who?’ I furrowed my brow. ‘Mr Pushkin?’
She stopped and spat on the floor again. At least I hoped it landed on the floor. ‘Oh, I get it,’ I said. ‘You do that every time I say Mr P—’ I caught myself just in time and wagged a finger at her. ‘Cool. I guess everybody needs a thing.’
Silence.
‘Um, he’s fine.’ She resumed walking. ‘He got a new eyeball today. That’s fun.’
We stopped before two large doors. I looked around the group. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something.
Lana reached a hand into the deep front pocket of her robe. She pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to me.
‘Oh, great!’ I gave her a big smile. ‘This was easier than I thought.’
She rolled her head around on her shoulders, giving off a few snaps.
‘Well, good luck with the fight,’ I said with a chuckle. ‘Hope yours goes better than mine did.’
I turned to leave just as Lana said, ‘Hit it.’
The doors banged open and deafening music that could only be described as the love child of death metal and hip-hop, rocked the air.
The entourage swept forward, carrying me into the throngs of screaming spectators. My eyes darted around the room. It was larger than I thought. Two levels of screaming fans filled the stripped-down auditorium that circled what looked to be an authentic retro wrestling platform. I had known going in that this was an underground fighting hall, but I hadn’t really believed it until this very moment.
‘Um, Lana?’ I shouted. ‘Now that I have the package, I’ll be on my way.’
An elbow caught me in the ribs.
‘Hey!’ I said to the man beside me. He didn’t meet my angry gaze, which left me glaring at his cauliflower ear.
‘No talking,’ he replied. ‘Look forward. Give scary face.’
I quickly looked around the entourage. They all had the same deadpan look, as though they couldn’t actually hear the music and sc
reaming that would leave us all deaf by the end of the night. I sighed and caved in to the scary-man peer pressure.
A moment later, I found myself actually feeling pretty cool. The power of the entourage! I curled my lip a little to show some teeth.
‘Too much,’ the man beside me said, looking at me from the corner of his eye.
‘Right.’ I shut my lips. A few seconds later, we stood at the edge of the ring, and Lana’s music died, replaced by some hard country.
I wanted to look behind to see Lana’s opponent, but I didn’t want to disappoint the man with the cauliflower ears, so I kept my eyes on the view in front. It was a fairly typical crowd, I guessed, for this type of match. Everyone looked properly rowdy and drunk. But a group on the second level stood out. Actually, it was the man who stood out.
From this distance, he looked attractive enough … but … but … just no. I could have forgiven the slicked back hair. I could have forgiven the tuxedo with the open dress shirt and the bowtie, unravelled and hanging loose. I maybe could have even forgiven the fact that he was surrounded by a gaggle of girls in shiny jewel-toned dresses that squeezed their bodies like blood-pressure cuffs. And I only could have forgiven him for that because, really, what were those girls thinking, fawning over any man in a horde like that? But what I could not forgive was the aviator sunglasses indoors. Nothing spelled douche like sunglasses inside. Medical conditions excluded.
I jabbed the big man beside me with my elbow. ‘Who’s that guy?’ He followed my gaze up to the second level.
‘He’s Big Shot.’
I laughed. ‘Tuxedo and sunglasses does not a big shot make.’
He looked over my outfit. ‘What does dirty windbreaker on scrawny girl make?’
‘Hey,’ I said, furrowing my brow. Then my hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Oh my God what?’
‘I just realised something,’ I said, trying to speak over my horror. ‘I am judgey.’
The man screwed up his face. ‘You not pudgy. You bony like starving chicken.’
‘Judgey. I’m judgey.’ The man nodded and looked away.
This really wasn’t turning out to be a very good night, and if this match didn’t get going soon, I was going to be late for my date.
Sidekick Returns Page 3