Chaos, Desire & a Kick-Ass Cupcake

by Kyra Davis

  “Oh,” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, he also wasn’t really my type. My boyfriend’s actually really hot. Just so you know. He’s Russian and he served in the Russian and the Israeli army. He’s still in fantastic shape. So.”

  Gun just stared at me as if he was trying to assess if I was devious and trying to create a conversational diversion or just cognitively impaired. “What did Aaron tell you?” he finally asked.

  If I knew what London had been trying to tell me I wouldn’t have to be here. “He thought you were doing things at Nolan-Volz that weren’t quite kosher. Particularly when it came to research and development,” I improvised. But of course there was one thing London had been extremely clear on. I took my wine glass and pushed it a little further away from me. “He also thought that you were poisoning him.”

  Gun looked at me for ten, twenty, almost thirty excruciating seconds and then he just burst out laughing.

  Again, with the villainous laughing. Both Gun and Anita were doing a disservice to their kind with such stereotypical behavior. The only difference between the two laughs was that Anita’s sounded a little superior and judgmental. Gun’s laugh sounded manic.

  I tried to slyly look around the room. Was there an actual gun in this place? What were the odds it would be on his person now? I had faced down people with guns before. The last time had been in Vegas with Alex. Alex had been sort of charming about it in a I’m-Not-Really-Going-To-Hurt-You-But-I’ve-Got-A-Rep-To-Uphold kind of way.

  There was nothing charming about Gundrun Volz.

  “Nolan-Volz means a lot to me,” he said, his laughter subsiding and his face settling back into a scowl. “I have worked my entire career trying to develop drugs that will help people. I want to help people. You…you think we’re all a bunch of Martin Shkrelis trying to bilk sick, needy people for all their worth. That’s not what we’re about. That’s not what I’m about.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of Martin Shkreli,” I said, coolly. “Funny that you did.”

  “You think you’re the first outsider who has tried to expose the minor mistakes of my industry and use that to paint us as the enemy of those we serve?” he snapped. “You think that you’ll make a name for yourself that way? Rack up a few thousand more Twitter followers? I’ve dealt with people like you before. I won’t allow you to take your fifteen minutes at my expense.”

  “That NYU professor, the one who exposed the mistakes you made at Orvex, she got a little more than fifteen minutes, didn’t she?”

  “Those were not my mistakes!” he yelled. “I am not Orvex. She ruined them, not me. I co-founded Nolan-Volz because I wanted to show the world that I was better than the organizations I used to work for. I’m doing this for the people.”

  “For the people,” I repeated, pointedly looking around at our opulent surroundings. “You’re like Gandhi in an Armani suit.”

  “I make a good living, that’s true,” he leaned forward, fixing me with his glare. “I send my daughter to a top-notch private school. My wife gets to drive her Tesla and take a yearly spiritual journey with the Sherpas of Nepal. I’ve become a success by helping sick people. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No.” I scooted further back in my seat, ready for the lecture on the compassionate nature of the free market. It would be nice if he was working his way up to a confession, but I couldn’t imagine he’d make things that easy for me.

  “I’m sorry things went wrong for London. That wasn’t my fault.” I noted little beads of sweat breaking out along Gun’s frown lines. “That was his fault. I did nothing but support him. When he asked for my help I gave it. That’s all.” He stood up. For the second time in our brief acquaintance, he purposely loomed over me. “If you think you’re going to swoop in here like his avenging angel,” he growled, “trying to take me down, trying to take Nolan-Volz down, you are not only misguided but also stupid. There is nothing to avenge.”

  “Aaron London said--”

  “I don’t give a shit if he told you differently,” he interrupted although I had no idea what he thought I was going to say. “Aaron made his own fate. His wife made hers. And I’m making mine now. It would be wise if you chose not to try to stand in the way of that.”

  “I’m not sure anyone can stand in the way of another’s fate,” I said, with a wisp of a smile. “Destiny maybe.”

  “You’re not as cute as you think you are.”

  “That’s becoming more obvious to me every day.”

  “If you walk away from this now, no one will suffer,” he said, his voice was low, gravelly with the slightest tremble, a cross between a plea and a growl.

  I glanced at my still full glass of wine. “What happens if I don’t walk away?”

  He didn’t respond but I could see him tensing, leaning forward, further into my space.

  But he was not very good at this looming thing. His increasingly shiny forehead and the wild look in his eyes undercut his attempt at a threatening demeanor. He looked scared.

  But then, people often commit desperate, violent acts when they’re scared.

  I pushed myself up to my feet. That in itself took some maneuvering since Gundrun didn’t budge from where he stood. My hand was firmly on my purse ready to pull out my knife at a moment’s notice. There was no more than a foot between Gun and I now. He was about five inches taller than me so even standing I had to lift my chin to meet his eyes. “I hear you, Gun. There’s just one problem.” I said, managing to keep my voice even and my gaze steady. “The suffering’s already begun. Just ask London.”

  I waited for Gun to reply but he just stared at me, his fists clenching and unclenching. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm, hard. My free hand slipped further into my purse and I grasped the handle of the knife. This was it. I would have to defend myself.

  But then he let go. I looked over my shoulder as he took a small step back, his face a mess of anger and anxiety. “All you can do is destroy,” he said, quietly. “Destroy the people and things I care about. Or you could give it up. The path leading away from this thing could be prosperous, Sophie. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I…I’m not sure that I do.” I shook my head, confused. “Are you offering me a bribe?”

  Gun managed a smile that implied I had interpreted his meaning correctly. “You can do what I do,” he went on, “work to help people who need it while profiting in that pursuit. Except for you, there will be no actual work involved. Just…walk away.”

  I hesitated. I so desperately wanted to know what he was talking about. If we were in the offices of Nolan-Volz I’d stay and try to manipulate the conversation a little more and try to figure all this out. But being here alone with this man in this house…the risks were simply too great. I had to leave quickly.

  “Please tell your wife I enjoyed meeting her,” I managed before turning and heading for the front door. Gun didn’t stop me this time and I left without looking back, wondering if my last words had inadvertently sounded like a threat. And if they had, would Gun respond with one of his own? Or would he skip the threats and just take action?

  I walked briskly down the sidewalk, replaying the events of the evening, every once in a while glancing over my shoulder to see if Gun was following me. I was going to have to tell Anatoly about this but…oh God that conversation was not going to go well. London was involved in some serious shit. Gun wanted to shut him up and now he wanted to shut me up.

  I looked over my shoulder again. The streets were unusually quiet. It wasn’t very late but this area of Pacific Heights didn’t have a lot of night traffic. No pedestrians in sight, only the occasional car going by. The advantage of that was that if Gun was following me I’d be able to spot him on the otherwise empty sidewalks. He wasn’t following me.

  I carefully stuck my hand in my bag, feeling the steel of the blade that was there before carefully taking out my cell. I could see my car now, just a little ways ahead, parked on the other side of the street. I was saf
e. I dialed up Mary Ann.

  “Sophie?” her voice chirped. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, I think I need to have another real talk with Anatoly and I was just wondering,” I said as I started to cross the street, “do you think you could get me that cupcake recipe? I may need it after all.”

  And that’s when a Zipcar came racing around the corner. I screamed, my phone went flying as I leaped out of the way of a car that was clearly aiming for me. I landed between two parked cars, just in time. The first thing to hit the pavement was my forearm, my elbow next, banging against the unforgiving surface. For a second I didn’t feel anything, didn’t hear anything but an odd ringing. And then in one rush, all my senses came back. I could hear the car, way down the street now, then gone. I could feel the pain shooting up my arm and less so the side of my leg that had hit the concrete. I could hear the faint screams of Mary Ann from afar, through my phone as she desperately tried to figure out what was going on. I crawled toward her voice, a good ten feet away.

  “Mary Ann,” I said, in a strained voice. “I gotta go. I think a Zipcar driving racist may be trying to kill me.”

  “I just want a man who listens to me as intently as my Amazon Echo.”

  --Dying To Laugh

  As I walked down the street toward Anatoly’s office I attracted my fair share of concerned looks. White had been an incredibly bad idea. My jumpsuit was torn and filthy, complete with bloodstains around the areas where I had skinned my elbow, arm and leg. A few people coming out of the restaurants and bars in the area asked if I needed help. I suppose that was considerate of them, but all I could manage was a scowl and to dismiss them with a few clipped words.

  When I did arrive at Anatoly’s office, I looked up at it from the street. The lights were on in there, but he had been right about the privacy that was afforded him. From the street, all one could see of his office was the ceiling.

  But that didn’t mean the man in the baseball cap hadn’t been there. It didn’t mean there wasn’t some evil, mysterious Big-Pharma henchman ready to poison whistleblowers and run down questioners in some sort of capitalistic, homicidal ride-sharing scam.

  I crossed the street and climbed the flight of stairs, feeling nothing other than pain, anger and a sense of complete intolerance. Intolerance for any more bullshit. I flung open the door to Anatoly’s office without knocking and found him behind his desk staring at his computer. He looked up surprised. Then his eyes went over my fucked up ensemble. “Another squirrel?” he asked.

  “Aaron London was murdered.” I slammed the door behind me for emphasis.

  Anatoly let out a loud sigh. “I won’t have this conversation with you again.”

  I walked across the office and shoved my bruised, scraped up arm in his face. “Aaron London was murdered,” I repeated. “And the person who did it just tried to murder me.”

  Anatoly stared at my arm and then looked up at me. “They tried to kill you just now?” he asked, a little too skeptically for my taste.

  “They tried to run me down in the street!” I snapped.

  Anatoly’s expression cycled through skeptical to shock to darkly angry. “Someone tried to run you over with their car?” he asked in the tone you would expect from a man on the verge of morphing into the Hulk. “Did you get a look at the driver? Do you know who it was?”

  “I didn’t see the driver and before you ask, no, I didn’t get a look at the plates. But I did get a look at the car.”

  Anatoly stood up and took my arm gently in his hands, examining my wounds. “What kind of car was it?”

  “It was a Zipcar.”

  He abruptly looked up, meeting my eyes, checking to see if I was serious. But oh my God, was I serious.

  “I went to see Gundrun Volz. I told you I had posed as a reporter before. Well, he wanted to meet again so I went. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  “You met him at Nolan-Volz…just now?” he asked, looking up at the wall clock. “At this time?”

  “I met him at his house.”

  Anatoly’s eyes zoomed back to me. Then he cursed in Russian and let go of my arm before walking to the window and staring down at the well lit, bustling street. “You know how irresponsible that was, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, well, I was feeling a little desperate. I needed information and my P.I. boyfriend wouldn’t help me get it.”

  Anatoly turned back around and gave me a warning look.

  “Okay, fine, that, was unfair,” I grumbled. “I know it was stupid. But his wife was there, at least for part of the meeting and then she left and then he told me that I needed to walk away from this or people would suffer.”

  “Walk away from what?” Anatoly asked

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I shouted, not even trying to restrain my frustration. “You know damn well what he wants me to walk away from! I’ve been telling you about this for days but you won’t listen!”

  “Okay,” Anatoly said, holding up his hands in a request for patience. But my patience had run out.

  “Less than ten minutes after I left Gun’s house someone was trying to turn me into road kill! This asshole with his super villain name and overly bleached teeth thinks London gave me information that could mess him up. I think it has something to do with Nolan-Volz…probably with the drug they’re testing now, this Sobexsol thing. But really, who the hell knows? What’s clear is Aaron London wasn’t as crazy as we thought he was. His death was not simple or straightforward. He came to us for help because he actually needed help!”

  Anatoly stood there, stock still as he took this in. Then he slowly pivoted back to the window. I stood there, cradling my arm, waiting, breathing a little too hard as I tried to resist the temptation to go into full tantrum mode. Yes, I had put myself into a ridiculously dangerous situation and maybe I had overestimated what I could handle but I would not stand here and let Anatoly deny the obvious for another second!

  The lights of the street flicked and danced, making the window a little lighter one moment then darker the next. Anatoly remained unmoving, a statue against the backdrop of the low-budget light show. The sound insulation in here was good but I could still hear the dim noise of the cars in the area, the occasional honk, the faint peal of drunken laughter.

  As Anatoly remained silent and still my frustration started to wane. I looked around the office, uncertainly. “Anatoly, what are you thinking?”

  He said something in Russian.

  “English please.” I switched the position of my arm, holding it over my head, hoping that elevation would blunt the pain.

  “I made a mistake,” he explained simply. “He came in here, ill, possibly suffering from the effects of poison, something I, having lived in Russia and having been associated with the Russian mafia, should have recognized. He asked for my help. He told me he was dying and I…simply sent him away. I sent him away to die.”

  The admission, one that I had thought I had come to terms with on my own days ago, knocked the wind out of me. “Anatoly…” I began, but for once I didn’t know what to say.

  He pivoted toward me and he looked…well…devastated. I’m not sure I had ever actually seen Anatoly look devastated before. “You were right,” he said. “I was in denial.”

  I bit down on my lip and studied my shoes. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I’ve always been a big fan of denial. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that away from you.”

  “His story didn’t seem to add up. On the face of it, it didn’t make sense.” He looked past me, seeing something I couldn’t, a memory perhaps, maybe even the memory of London, how he had looked standing in that doorway, weak, sick, hopeful. “But I’ve heard more outrageous stories that had a lot of truth to them.”

  “We couldn’t have saved his life,” I said, with begrudging tenderness. Now that he was facing up to things I wanted to tend to the wound not pour salt in it.

  “I’m a good judge of character. That’s always been true. I don’t make these kinds of mistake
s…at least I didn’t until now.”

  “Well, to be fair,” I said, shuffling my feet a bit, “when we first met you did think I might be a serial killer.”

  “That was different,” Anatoly said, waving off the reminder.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he paused as he tried to come up with an excuse for that one. After a moment he just shook his head. “There were extenuating circumstances, that’s all. And you thought I was a serial killer too,” he reminded me.

  “Yeah, I did. I occasionally make bad judgment calls, just like you.” I sat down in the chair before his desk, still keeping my arm raised above my head. “I mean, come on, you gotta know that everybody thinks they’re a great judge of character, right? Everybody who used to like Bill Cosby thought they were a great judge of character.”

  Anatoly didn’t respond but I thought I saw a wisp of a smile pulling gently at the corners of his mouth. “From what I can tell, the only truly good judges of character are dogs,” I continued. “If we all listened to our dogs more we’d be able to consistently make solid judgment calls about the people we meet in our day to day life.”

  “What about cats?” he asked. His smile, while small, was now clearly visible.

  “Cats will throw you under the bus for sneezing the wrong way. If we listened to cats, we’d hate everybody.”

  Anatoly pulled out the chair behind his desk and sat across from me. “I didn’t believe you,” he said. “I wasn’t listening.”

  “To be fair, I was kind of acting like a crazy person,” I countered.

  “Things are going to change now,” he assured me, leaning forward in his seat. “I’m going to get the information on Anita London and Gundrun Volz. I’m going to figure out what they did to London, if anything, and why.”

  “Thank God.”

  “And that means,” he continued, “you can now back off from this whole thing.”

  “Right…wait, what?” I cocked my head to the side so that it rested just below my raised, sore elbow.