Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  Stannis closed his eyes, inhaled a deep breath in his nose, and exhaled it out his mouth.

  Uh-oh. “Let’s go,” I said.

  Stannis turned, pulled a S&W .44 short from the holster riding at his lower back and placed it on the table with a clunk. Next came a seven-and-a-half-inch folded Buck knife from his front pocket. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

  And we’re off.

  They never saw it coming. Stannis hit with the ferocity and speed of a mongoose let loose among a nest of sleepy cobras. A throat punch and knee to the groin. Ringleader dropped to his hands and knees, wheezing. Reefer grunted and came at him. Stannis connected with a driving elbow to the eye socket. The gritty sound of breaking bone was unmistakable. Reefer reared back. Stannis whipped a vicious kick into his knee. Reefer stumbled onto a table, upending it. Glasses and bottles shattered against the floor.

  Stannis closed in on the last man standing.

  Cinder Block drew the pool cue back, tangling it in the bar stools. In a single, smooth motion, Stannis swept up an almost empty pitcher of beer and cracked it against Cinder Block’s head.

  In broken glass and beer, Cinder Block fell flat-out against the pool table.

  Astonishing.

  The bar was silent except for the overloud Bon Jovi cranking out “You Give Love a Bad Name.”

  Wearing a devil’s grin, Stannis walked back to the ringleader and kicked him in the face. He followed with a trio of savage rib-cracking punts.

  “Stop!” I said. “Enough!”

  The bartender racked and aimed a twelve-gauge Mossberg shotgun at Stannis’s head.

  He stared at the bartender in curiosity. “Is that to scare?”

  Without a thought, I raised Stannis’s gun to the bartender’s head. “Why don’t you put that down?”

  And because beating the tar out of three guys and sending them to the hospital wasn’t enough excitement for us, we went back to the site overlooking the train yard and cooled our heels watching Stannis’s recovered five-packer roll in.

  The wind hadn’t abated. It was cold and boring and I was getting the come-down shakes from the bar.

  Jaysus Criminey. The first time I pull a gun on the job I put it to the head of an innocent man. Just call me Super Cop.

  I pressed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works.

  Kon and Gorilla talked and made notes. Stannis monitored everything on the laptop while the crane hot-loaded the twenty containers onto five double-trailered semis.

  “The seals?” Stannis asked, “They appear unbroken?” Kon looked through the scope. “Clean from here.”

  Stannis grinned and elbowed me. “A little . . . hiccup?” He looked at me to see if the word was correct.

  I nodded.

  “And still, we have fun, yes?”

  Yeah, if you call an armed standoff and the demise of my career as a law enforcement officer fun. “Lots.”

  We watched the semis exit the CEC train yard, got in the car, and drove back to New York.

  Chapter 32

  Stannis had a suite at the Baccarat Hotel. A place where swank had to pawn swag just to get in. And like most big shots, Stannislav Renko had no time to enjoy it. Showered and changed, we were back in the limo fighting perpetual Manhattan traffic on our way to the Cetta Brothers’ Sparks Steakhouse. The Don Constantino’s regular hangout.

  Last to arrive, we were escorted through the saloon-like multilevel restaurant to the Violet Room. It resembled a Downton Abbey library with one exception: It was topped to the ceiling with shelves of wine instead of leather-bound tomes.

  The Don Constantino, Tony “Big Tuna” LoGrasso, and two other heavyweights were smoking cigars. Eddie had brought along his arm candy, Bobby Blaze, the singer from The Storkling. Vi Veteratti and her right hand, Jimmy the Wolf, rounded out the party.

  Please, God, don’t let them mention Hank.

  Stannis and the Italians exchanged boisterous back-slapping greetings.

  Vi and Jimmy didn’t bat an eye at my introduction.

  Maybe the red hair was a blessing after all.

  “Mr. Yastreb sent his regrets,” said the Don.

  “A disappointment, yes.” A small frown creased Stannis’s brow. He hadn’t known. And he especially didn’t like hearing it from Constantino.

  The Don nodded. “Your man shows respect.”

  “Yes, he is good. And lucky for me.” Stannis raised a hand and stroked my cheek. “I prefer my date not to shave.”

  That passed for high humor with this group.

  Two waiters popped bottles of Dom Pérignon and filled flutes. When everyone had a glass, Big Tuna raised his. “To our continued and profitable partnership.”

  Everyone drank.

  Stannis raised his glass again with a grin. “Or, as we say in my village, one devil does not scratch out another devil’s eyes.”

  Everyone drained their glasses, all wearing the smug smile of “I am above the law.”

  As the waiters refilled, Eddie came over with Bobby Blaze on his arm. He took her glass and set their empties on the waiter’s tray. “Bring me a Manhattan.”

  “Ma’am?” the waiter asked.

  “Vodka on the rocks.”

  “She’ll have tea. With honey,” Eddie V. snapped. “She has to watch the pipes.”

  The waiter nodded and left.

  Bobby’s lip curled. With deliberate motions, she took a long silver cigarette case from her clutch and slipped a cigarette into an ebony holder. Eddie V. frowned, but pulled a book of matches from his pocket and lit one with his thumbnail. “One.”

  She exhaled a thin wisp of smoke that seemed to last forever. “Naturally.”

  It should have looked ridiculous. Instead it made me want to start smoking.

  Vi Veteratti glad-handed her way over to the Don, past Big Tuna and the heavies. She whispered something in his ear.

  Eddie V.’s eyes went flat. He showed Vi his broad back and started talking to Stannis.

  Bobby’s bright red lips twisted in a friendly sneer. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Maisie McGrane.” I smiled. “Your stage name is better than mine.”

  “It’s not.” Bobby sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it toward the ceiling. “Eddie made me change it. Legally.”

  Ouch. Not really much to say to that. “Gee . . .”

  “Call me Paulette. Paulette Maslick.” She rolled her eyes. “You must be something to land Stannislav Renko.”

  “I do all right.”

  Across the room, Vi Veteratti let loose a sensual laugh. Eddie stiffened but didn’t turn around.

  With a sly smile, Vi snaked her arm through the Don’s. Laughing, he kissed her cheek.

  “Siblings.” Bobby tipped her head back and blew another languid rail of smoke over her shoulder. “You seem like a nice kid, so lemme give you some advice. Watch your toes around Vi. I may be a kitten with a whip, but she’s a cat with a chainsaw.” She sauntered over to her place at the table.

  As women were in short supply, Bobby and I ended up on opposite sides of the table. The Don took the head, Tony “Big Tuna” on his right, and—to Eddie’s extreme vexation—Vi on his left. Stannis sat at the opposite end, with a heavy on either side.

  Jimmy the Wolf held out my chair, then took his place at my side. “Like the hair. Now you’re lookin’ like the game you’re playin’,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Dangerous.”

  Less than four hours ago I held a gun to some guy’s head.

  I opened my mouth.

  But then again, maybe you had, too.

  “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I said.

  “Not this time. You like tough guys, dontcha? But maybe you’re starting to think you don’t wanna play so rough anymore.” He reached over and tapped his finger on the handle of my steak knife. “Like that night at The Storkling, am I right?”

  I dropped my voice
to a whisper. “Are you hitting on me, Jimmy the Wolf?”

  “Yeah.” He smirked. “I am.”

  “Well, knock it off.”

  He laughed. Which earned me a dirty look from Vi.

  Terrific.

  The Don had ordered in advance. Blasé waiters delivered exquisite lobster, steam-started and broil-finished, and delicately marbled NY strips. Everyone drank the Bordeaux—complex and firm—except Eddie, who poured more Manhattans down his throat than anyone was interested in watching.

  It didn’t seem to take his cocaine cowboy edge off, either.

  My steak was a gift from the gods, seared on the outside, rare on the inside. But as I cut into it, my mind kept flashing on Stannislav’s boot breaking the Jersey guy’s ribs.

  I forced the bite into my mouth. The image disappeared immediately.

  Nice to know I’m not squeamish.

  Eddie turned to the Don. “Your men get a look at the merchandise?”

  Big Tuna answered for Constantino. “We are more than satisfied with Mr. Renko’s attention to detail in our dealings.”

  “Good,” Eddie said, twitching and magnanimous. “’Cuz it’s time we talk expansion. Renko’s working more than this angle and—”

  “Now is not the time or the place, Eddie,” Vi said.

  “Shut your piehole, sis. Last time I checked, you couldn’t keep your own friggin’ house clean.”

  It was like dropping an electric eel in a puddle. “You dare to—” Violetta started. The Don put his hand on hers and she fell silent.

  Don Constantino, Big Tuna, and the heavies showed no emotion. Not even the barest hint of curiosity.

  Stannis’s voice sliced through the air. “I have no interest in expansion with you.”

  “Who the fuck are you to tell me no?” Eddie’s face darkened.

  “I am businessman, Eddie. And we do business,” Stannis said. “But I have many interests. I will do as I wish.”

  “You think you can shit in the nest, then go off on your own? You got another fuckin’ think coming.”

  “Goran Slajic pays much for Don Constantino’s protection.” Stannis wiped his steak knife off on his napkin. “I do not ask permission.”

  Eddie’s face turned pugnacious. “I friggin’ own Chicago. You don’t do nothing without my say-so. And I say—”

  Bobby pulled at Eddie’s sleeve. He yanked his arm away and for a split second, I thought he might backhand her. She blanched.

  Jimmy the Wolf glared at Eddie and muttered, “Asshole.”

  “I say ‘hop’ and you say ‘how goddamn high, Mr. Veteratti?’ Are you friggin’ hearing me, you Serbian fuck?”

  Stannis tapped the blade of the knife slowly against his palm.

  The cachet of having Mobster Paul Castellano gunned down in front of your steak house was one thing, but an eviscerated Eddie Veteratti in the Violet Room was something else altogether.

  And it wasn’t going to happen on my watch. Five Irish brothers gave me the coping skills of Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell.

  I picked up a spoon and tinged my glass three times.

  I wasn’t born yesterday, but thank God my parents were.

  Everyone turned to me in surprise.

  I pushed back my chair, got to my feet, and yawned. Not for effect, but from pure high-octane stress. “Don Constantino, before this becomes a business meeting, Bobby and I would like to thank you for this wonderful meal.”

  I raised my chin slightly at Bobby and smiled. Feeling a little desperate herself, she stood up.

  “Fly me to the moon,” I sang. “Let me play among the stars . . .”

  Bobby stepped in and took over, slowing it down and torching it up in honeyed tones as she sauntered over to the Don. “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.”

  A private floor show lasted all of two stanzas before Big Tuna and one of the heavies started belting it out.

  Because. Well. Frank Sinatra was a fecking God among men.

  Even Eddie was clapping when she finished.

  The Don’s enchantment with Bobby calmed Eddie, who ordered another Manhattan and started chatting with the heavy on his right.

  Stannis cocked his head to one side and shrugged at me.

  Not exactly a thank-you. More like a “there’s always next time.”

  Dessert was accompanied by old Mobster stories and easy banter. As it did with most addicts, Eddie’s mercurial anger with Stannis seemed to evaporate into the ether.

  Don said something to Big Tuna, who in turn came down to our end of the table and relayed it to us. “Miss McGrane, Mr. Renko? Don Constantino asks you remain at the Baccarat this weekend as his special guests.”

  Dear Emily Post, is it rude to bang one’s head on the table until unconscious?

  Chapter 33

  I was not a New Yorker. Dealing with the thronging mass of humanity for an entire weekend gave me a certain and desperate ache to move to the Utah Salt Flats and become a prepper.

  It was a relief to return to the penthouse. And not just because I was going to see Hank the next day. Although I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to be able to wriggle free of Stannis and his crew.

  As the only Russian in Stannis’s in-home team, Kontrolyor was an outsider, a perfect mark to befriend. Or so I thought.

  He was introducing me to Russian cuisine, and I was somehow choking it down.

  This morning, he made me his favorite part of a traditional breakfast. Kasha, a sort of porridge made from different grains topped with fruit with kompot, a non-alcoholic drink made by boiling fruit in water.

  It was beyond dreadful.

  Easy to see how Russia produced so many sharp cheek–boned models. They grew up having no interest in food.

  A river of furious Serbian spilled out of Stannis’s office into the hallway.

  Oh God.

  I tried not to flinch. My shoulders locked above my ears in a semipermanent cringe.

  Had Special Unit moved on the chopped parts?

  I pointed my spoon in the direction of the office—miraculously, it didn’t shake—and shot Kon a questioning look.

  His mouth moued. “Mr. Renko is upset.”

  “The containers?”

  “No. That is very good. The Italians are happy. Mr. Slajic is happy.”

  “Then what’s the trouble?”

  Kontrolyor shrugged. “I do not know. Only Russian or English for me.”

  Stannis strode into the kitchen, back rigid, jaw set.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Yes.” Stannislav’s mouth stretched in an unhappy grimace. He turned to Kon. “Take her out. Get her whatever she wants.”

  This was what the McGranes called a “defining moment.” The moment you either stood your ground or accepted grunt status.

  “Hey.” I rapped my knuckles on the counter. “Don’t do this.” I threw Kon the thumb and he lit out of the kitchen.

  Sometimes men, like horses, just needed a smack on the nose and to be led back to path.

  “C’mon,” I said. “Let’s go for a run. See if you can keep up.”

  Stannis folded his arms across his chest.

  Jaysus, I sure hope it works this time.

  “Please,” I said softly. “Moj đavo.”

  The effect was electric. He threw back his head and laughed. “My devil? Where did you learn this, Vatra Anđeo?”

  “Gorilla.” I winced. “I mean Ivanović.”

  “No, is okey. He is ape.” Stannis touched my cheek. “I change. We run.”

  Stannis hit the elevator button to the lobby. Only instead of going outside, he turned left and led me down a hallway into a pristine and overequipped workout room.

  “But I thought we were going for a run. After I beat you, I was gonna buy you lunch.”

  He wasn’t having any part of it. He grabbed me by the elbow and marched me to the treadmills. “Are you such . . .” He huffed a breath through his nose. “What is babe?”

  “Innocent?”


  “Yes.” His finger came up in my face. “The shooter. Either you very lucky or he is very bad. He will try again. Or there will be more.”

  I nodded.

  Stannis walked to a table with books and magazines. He picked up the TV remote and handed it to me. “Choose show.”

  We watched five miles worth of The Thin Man on TMC and got off sweating. We walked over to the gym mats.

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked.

  Stannis dropped onto his stomach and knocked out fifty push-ups.

  I matched him for thirty, waiting for him to say more.

  “Goran asks me for thing I do not like.”

  I flipped on my back and started doing crunches. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Maybe.” Stannis laughed, rolled, and crunched with me. At 150, he quit, got to his feet, and gave me a hand up. “You know how to steal cars?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” I gave him a playful shove.

  “New cars?” He pushed back. “Expensive ones?”

  I dropped into a boxer’s stance. Did a little bob and weave. “I’m sure I could think of something.”

  Stannis threw a fist at my face. He purposely didn’t hit me, but he was so fast I dropped my hands in shock.

  “No,” he scolded. “Never lower hands.” He unleashed a quick, but light, series of six punches. Each one hit me. Toying with me like a cat on a blind baby mouse.

  Goddammit.

  I pretended to pout. He relaxed. I threw a couple quick jabs. He took my tags with his palms and stepped in with his left foot.

  Gotcha.

  I threw a left hook and swept his leg out from underneath him.

  He stumbled but kept his feet, laughing and shaking his head. “Muy Thai. Did not expect.”

  “A girl’s gotta do . . .”

  He grabbed me to him for a hug. “I like. I take you to lunch, yes?”

  Driven by Raw Chicken, Stannis and I were accompanied by Kontrolyor, who vanished once we were safely inside Tru. The restaurant, as before, was minimalist wonderfulness, only today it was jam-packed with power-lunchers.

  I was more than a little surprised when the maître d’ greeted us like old friends and escorted us to a primo table.

  Don’t let the grass grow beneath your feet, do you, Bik?