On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  He felt tension radiating in his shoulders as Ricker smiled.

  “Speak now, or forever hole my piece,” Ricker added.

  “Just try it.” Tank ignored the giggles of Ricker’s minions.

  In an instant, Ricker pinned one of his arms behind his back, and Elf-Face and Ponytail seized the other.

  Tank strained against their hold, gaining some ground against the two boys but surprised by Ricker’s strength. “Get the fuck off me,” he panted, “or the family will kill you.”

  “The Barberis?” Laughter rumbled in Ricker’s voice. “Do not think so. They are not saving you now, are they?”

  To his consternation, he noticed Jewels and the other guy sticking to their spots, watching him and obviously aware of his predicament. Maybe they were testing him, seeing if he could keep his mouth shut about Enzo’s private affairs?

  Ricker laughed as Tank dipped his shoulder, trying to break free. “The family is real tight, huh? They don’t give a fuck about you. Madsen either, at first. Barberi was letting me have that beautiful ass, just handing him over to me. Too bad the door slammed shut once the boy got out of solitary. No idea why.”

  Tank pondered that, careful to keep his face neutral.

  “I repeat—why is Barberi in the hole?” Ricker wrenched his wrist. “You think you can fight us off with a shattered wrist?”

  “I don’t know why!”

  “Bullshit.” Ricker twisted harder.

  Despite the frigid wind, Tank felt beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Out with it!”

  “Why don’t you ask Madsen?” Tank managed.

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Grant…” Tank rasped. “He’s Enzo’s son.”

  The arm Ricker had been jerking back abruptly snapped free, and the others stepped away. The three con blonds circled around to stand before him. Ricker’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Madsen is the son of Barberi? Why the different last names?”

  Tank took a step back and pulled down his jacket, smoothing the crumples. “Grant’s uncle adopted him when Enzo came here, twenty years ago.”

  Ricker rubbed his hand down his chin. “He is his son. Of course. Very interesting.”

  Ponytail pouted, speaking for the first time. “Madsen ain’t here anymore—who cares about him?”

  Tank watched Ricker’s eyes cloud with hostility, and Elf stammered, “Shut up!”

  Ponytail’s mouth clamped closed.

  A loud buzzing noise preceded an announcement that yard time was over. Tank wasted no time returning to the cellblock.

  “You did not answer my question!” Ricker called after him. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he muttered, fighting the urge to rub his throbbing wrist. He could see Enzo’s men shuffling into line far ahead of him. Why the fuck hadn’t they come to his rescue? Had Madsen ratted him out to Enzo? That once-gnawing fear now exploded and chomped him in the ass. If Madsen sang, Tank would hang.

  ***

  Grant held the last note extra long, looking into the eyes of a platinum blonde in the audience. She gave him an alluring smile. Then she turned to her boyfriend and spoke in his ear, likely yelling to be heard over the roar of applause as he and Andy finished the set.

  “That’s Andy Beecham on piano.” He extended his arm, and Andy gave a little bow from the bench. “We’ll take a short break now—the perfect opportunity to try our special drink for a cold night: Russian coffee!” He held up his mug and took a sip as the applause dissipated. Only the bartender knew there was no vodka in his drink.

  “I’m gonna catch a smoke.” Andy ducked out to the rear exit.

  Grant barely heard the piano man, he was so keyed up. The blonde he’d sung to was Andrei Kebin’s girlfriend—this time he’d made sure not to miss the Russians when they arrived.

  At the bar, he met Larry the bartender’s eyes and lifted his drink.

  “Another Russian coffee coming your way,” Larry said, taking his mug.

  He slid onto the lone empty bar stool, wishing he could turn around to see what the Russians were doing. Then something touched him, and he looked down to find a manicured hand on his forearm. Next to him he found a brunette woman who applied makeup like Ben buttered bread: thickly and haphazardly.

  “You’ve got an amazing voice,” she said, removing her hand and cupping her mug. From her breath, he could tell she was a big fan of the Russian coffees.

  “Thank you.” Normally he would find an excuse to retreat to the broom-closet-slash-dressing-room at this point, but this was no normal evening. “What brought you out on such a cold night?”

  “You, of course. Don’t you recognize me? I’ve seen you perform dozens of times.”

  Gulp. “Really? How kind of you.”

  Her hand snaked back to his arm. “I missed you when you were gone in December. How could you leave us like that?”

  “I, uh…”

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up to find Andrei Kebin nudging in between them, casting a shadow across the bar. The consigliore to the Russian don had slicked back his jet black hair and appeared tidy and confident in his maroon button-down shirt and black jacket. “Come sit with us, Mr. Saylor.”

  “Mick’s fine. And you are?”

  “Andrei. My girlfriend wishes meet you. And what Innochka wants, Innochka gets.”

  “Hey,” Coffee Breath protested, pouting her thin lips. “I was talking to Mick. Buzz off.”

  Grant watched Andrei bristle. She obviously had no clue who she was dealing with.

  “I was indeed talking to…um…” He looked at her for help.

  “Sandra.”

  “Sandra,” he said, looking at the Russian. “Perhaps I could meet your lady friend another time?”

  Any lingering pleasantness vanished from Andrei’s expression. “Now is best time. Bartender!”

  Sandra jumped on her barstool.

  “Another drink for lady,” Andrei commanded, looking at her with disgust, when Larry came over. “And send round of Stoli elit shots to table. Come, Mick.”

  Grant hesitated, glancing at Sandra, then shrugged. “Sure. Pleased to meet you, Sandra.” As he stood, ignoring her disappointment, he noticed he was a couple inches taller than Andrei.

  They weaved through the crowd. Before reaching their table, Andrei confided, “Not sure I introduce you to Innochka. I believe she quite taken with you.”

  He nodded with a plastic smile. The last thing he needed was a mobster thinking he might steal his girlfriend.

  “May I present Vladimir Federov?” Andrei nodded toward a well-built man with neat gray hair and piercing eyes. Vladimir stayed seated.

  Grant held his breath as he reached over to shake the don’s hand.

  “Good entertainer,” Vladimir said, elongating the vowel sounds. His roll on the “r” was more pronounced than Andrei’s.

  “Isn’t he so good?” Innochka gushed, batting her thick eyelashes.

  Vladimir’s girlfriend, a waif-like brunette, was less enthusiastic. “Some modern songs you sing next, yes? No more old singing.”

  Vladimir laughed heartily, gesturing to the open chair. “Sit.”

  As Grant and Andrei took their seats, Vladimir tugged his girlfriend from her chair onto his lap, where she barely made a dent. “You must excuse my Katya. She quite rude.” He snuggled his lips into the nape of her neck as she shied away. “Perhaps she need spank tonight.”

  There was a second of terror in her eyes, and probably nobody at the table caught it but Grant. Katya quickly recomposed her mask and wrapped her arm around Vladimir’s neck. “Promise?” she purred.

  Vladimir cocked an eyebrow, placing his hand possessively on the curve of her bottom. “She kinky too. Lucky me.”

  Innochka seemed to look to Andrei for permission before asking, “How long have you been singing, Mick?”

  He peeled his eyes off Katya, forcing himself to focus. Breathe. “Not that long, actually.”r />
  “Really,” Andrei said. “You seem like pro up there.”

  “I’ve got an excellent poker face.” He drummed up his most charming smile.

  Dumping Katya back in her chair, Vladimir studied him. “And you use poker face off stage also?”

  He thought for a moment. “I call on my poker face all the time. Gotta keep your cards close to your chest.”

  “Such wisdom,” Andrei said. “Ah, drinks are here.”

  Grant took one look at the waitress and realized she must be new. A strand of dark hair had loosened from her bun, and her hand trembled as she lowered a shot glass from the tray.

  Vladimir waited until she’d distributed the five shot glasses and departed. He raised his glass, and his guests quickly followed suit. His eyes shined with mischief. “To poker faces.”

  Expecting to knock back a shot of water, Grant almost choked when the sting of vodka drenched the back of his throat. As the heat of the liquor warmed his chest, he flinched when Andrei slammed his shot glass on the table.

  “Water!” he yelled. “What the fuck?” He shot out of his chair, scanning the bar for the waitress. Upon locating her, Andrei darted over and dragged her back to the table by the elbow. Several bar patrons stared, and Grant’s heart thumped.

  “What the fuck is this?” Andrei pointed to his shot glass. “You give me water, not Stoli!”

  “I’m, I’m sorry,” she stammered. Grant could see Andrei’s grasp digging into her flesh. The waitress gave him a pleading look.

  Andrei continued to fume. “You better damn well be. How the fuck you serve shot of water? You think I not notice? They fire you now.”

  Grant calmly looked over at the waitress, now close to tears. “Mr. Remington would want you to bring another round, on the house. Go get that for our guests.”

  She nodded shakily and disappeared.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he said. “I think she’s new.”

  “And useless,” Andrei seethed.

  “You know Alexander Remington?” Vladimir asked, eyeing him.

  Grant nodded, feeling a delicious buzz from the vodka. “He’s my boss.”

  “He like you?”

  “I think he has a soft spot for me, yes.”

  “What this means—‘soft spot’?” Katya butted in. The lines around Vladimir’s eyes tightened at the interruption, but crinkled with amusement when she added, “He goes soft?”

  Vladimir skimmed his thick fingers down her cheek. “My Katya not know word soft, of course. Means fond, darling. Mr. Remington fond of Mick.”

  “And why is that?” Andrei asked Grant.

  “He’s proud of himself for ‘discovering’ me. I started at this hotel as just a bellman, but he overheard me singing in the lobby one day, joking around with the guys. He asked me to try some Sinatra and Bennett. And here I am.”

  “What a story.” Innochka let out a dreamy sigh. “What song were you singing in the lobby?”

  He scrambled to think of a song. “Uh, ‘OPP’?”

  Andrei’s forehead creased. “What?”

  He swallowed. “One of the bellman’s girls had cheated on him, and we were giving him a hard time about it. The song just popped out…”

  “What this means ‘OPP’?” Katya asked.

  Grant blushed.

  Innochka started giggling. “Oh, I know this song! It means other people’s p—”

  “I’m so sorry for my mistake.” The waitress had returned, this time holding a tray of double vodka shots.

  Grant was thankful for the interruption. For a moment he hoped he’d get vodka again since the first drink felt so good, then he quickly chastised himself. He was on assignment. Keep it together, McSailor.

  “Please have this round on me,” the waitress offered, carefully passing out the drinks. “This is our finest vodka: Kauffman.”

  Andrei chuckled. “Oof, that will cost you.”

  Grant vowed to repay the waitress.

  Innochka gestured to the shot glass, looking at Grant. “Will this bother your singing?”

  “Please,” he replied. “I’ve already had three Russian coffees.”

  Andrei frowned. “They think Russians actually drink that shit?”

  “You don’t?”

  Vladimir leaned forward. “Never dilute vodka. Is sin.”

  “I’ll let Mr. Remington know,” he promised.

  “Budem,” Vladimir said, raising his shot glass.

  When Grant knocked back water this time, he was disappointed, but also relieved. Wiping his mouth, he noticed Andy returning to the stage. He met Andrei’s eyes. “Thank you for inviting me to your table—I’ve enjoyed it. But it’s time to get ready for the next set.”

  “Wait,” Vladimir ordered. Grant froze. “You come my place tonight.”

  “Really?” He forced a smile, swallowing the nausea pressing at his throat. He hadn’t expected the meet to happen so soon.

  “Tonight. After sing.”

  “We show you real vodka,” Andrei said.

  “And test poker face,” Vladimir added, winking.

  “I—I’d like that,” he replied. He was indeed about to be tested.

  ***

  “Texas Hold ’Em,” Andrei announced as he shuffled the cards. His eyes never left Grant’s.

  Grant hoped his slight smirk masked the panic he felt. He wished he’d paid better attention to the Navy guys’ games back on the aircraft carrier, but he’d been so disgusted by Logan’s gambling problem that he’d steered clear completely. Rules for all the games of poker swirled in his mind as he tried to remember the crash course he’d taken in Quantico.

  Vladimir muttered, “Girls better get butts back in here.”

  It was just the three of them at a round table in a dimly lit room, waiting for the promised “real vodka” from the Russians’ girlfriends. Red velvet curtains draped over the windows but otherwise the room was rather Spartan, the poker table stealing the spotlight. One bodyguard had driven them from the club to this house in West Town, and he was now perched in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette. Grant was sure several more bodyguards made their residence here. He hoped the tiny button recorder embedded in his shirt was working, transmitting to the FBI.

  Andrei finished shuffling and looked up at his boss.

  “No,” Vladimir grumbled. “Need drink first.” He glared at the bodyguard and spoke to him in Russian.

  As the large man went to the kitchen, Innochka and Katya emerged carrying shot glasses of an amber liquid.

  “Something different, you say,” Katya told Vladimir, placing the glass in front of him.

  “I wanted to make margaritas, but Katya said they weren’t strong enough for you,” Innochka added.

  Grant paled, realizing the drink in front of him was the dreaded tequila. He hoped he wouldn’t start singing after a few more shots.

  “My girl know me well,” Vladimir said, winking at Katya as he held his glass aloft. “Na zdorovie.”

  As the three men downed the burning tequila, he remembered the feel of Sophie’s skin during their unforgettable body shots. His smile faded when Vladimir tossed two blue chips into the kitty. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

  “Bring bottle, then leave us,” Vladimir ordered. The women complied.

  For the small blind bet, Grant added his own two blue chips, and Andrei followed suit before scooping the six chips toward him and dealing two cards to each of them, face down. Grant peeked at his cards: a seven of hearts and an ace of spades.

  Andrei dealt three cards to the middle of the table and with a flourish turned them over. A four of hearts, ten of diamonds, and ace of clubs.

  A pair of aces! He tried to conceal his excitement, feeling Russian eyes on him, trying to read him.

  Vladimir pushed two red chips to the middle. Grant had a sense the red ones were worth more than the blue ones, though he had no clue about their true value. He wasn’t about to ask. Calling the bet, he added two red chips of his own.


  Andrei paused, seeming to think for a moment, then slapped his cards on the table face-down. It was just him and Vladimir left. Picking the top card from the deck, Andrei discarded it and turned over the next community board card in the middle of the table: a seven of clubs.

  Vladimir shoved another red chip toward the pot.

  Go big or go home, Grant told himself. He nudged two red chips to the pile.

  One of Andrei’s eyebrows lowered. He stared at Grant. Vladimir’s face was like a still pond as he tossed one more red chip into the kitty. Andrei burned another card, then turned up the final card in the middle of the table. It was a six of diamonds.

  Vladimir glared at the five cards on the table, and Grant hoped the don didn’t have a five and an eight for a straight. But a three of a kind would also beat him. The Russian turned over his cards, first showing a five of spades. Grant held his breath. Vladimir’s next card was a king of clubs, and Grant exhaled.

  He turned over his cards and tried not to smile, showing his two pair. Maybe gambling wasn’t all bad.

  “Aces over sevens,” Vladimir said, frowning.

  Andrei shrugged, corralling the chips and pushing them to Grant. “Beginner’s luck.”

  “Almost five thousand dollars of beginner’s luck,” Vladimir growled.

  Grant’s face froze. Counting the six blue chips and eight red ones added to his pile, he struggled to calculate. “The red chips…they’re worth…five hundred?”

  “Da,” Andrei answered. “Blue chips one hundred each.”

  He nodded. The FBI had only given him five thousand, and he didn’t even know how much the green chips were worth. He hoped his beginner’s luck would continue.

  Andrei poured another round from the bottle Innochka had left, and Grant knocked back the next shot. He was going to need it.

  5. Con Tequila

  “THANK HEAVEN that’s over,” Kirsten Holland muttered, collapsing on the sofa.

  “It’s great to live in the same building again,” Sophie said, handing her former roommate a glass of rosé. “But you’re not allowed to move ever again.”

  “Cheers to that!” Kirsten grinned as she clinked Sophie’s glass. “Moving is exhausting.” They each took a sip. “I just couldn’t stay in our old place by myself, you know? Even though the management company cleaned the stain…”