I'm fine with it. I'm not the kind of lady who likes any more commitments than she has to take on, and right now, I have enough pre-existing commitments to worry about as it is.
The rain is pattering on the glass floor-length window of my apartment. "Floor-length window" being singular — my place isn't half as ritzy as most of the other club owners' in Brooklyn.
It has a charm of its own, though. Cozy, hardwood floors, and a decent view of a park below from where the windows face out onto the streets of Brighton Beach. It's no dump, but it's easy to find better places to call home on this side of town.
None of them are anywhere near my price range, though.
I'm padding around the apartment barefoot with Natalie, making a mental checklist of some of the junk I have laying around the place and writing them down on the tablet in my hand.
I raise an eyebrow at a couple of old art pieces I bought a few years back, now hanging on the light cream-colored walls near the windows.
"Aw, come on, Katy, the room's gonna look like a hospital without a few odds and ends to make it seem lived in," Natalie protests when she sees me eyeing the pieces. "You couldn't get much for 'em, anyway."
"Right now, each of them doesn't mean much more to me than its price tag, honestly," I reply flatly.
I stroll around the house, perusing a few other odds and ends.
"Let's see...that old computer could be sold for scrap parts, probably. And these old car speakers, I don't even know why I have those laying around in the first place. Some dusty college textbooks I never got more than a few weeks' use out of, those are definitely going."
I'm selling my stuff. A lot of it. As much of it as I can live to part with, in fact. Just as I'd had to cough up for my debts three months ago, and each month after that, the time is here once again to pay my dues. My dad’s old debts on top of the ‘protection money’ which just means they won’t rough me up, add up to a lot.
And I don't have the money, I admitted to Natalie just a few hours ago over the phone. I stop taking inventory a moment to flop down on the couch — which I can also probably part with too, I decide.
Natalie is frowning at an old lamp in her hands.
"Tch, seriously Katy, you've paid your dues on time every month since this stupid debt fell into your lap. Won't they, you know, cut you a little slack? It's not like you can't pay, it'll just be a couple more days."
When Dad passed, I inherited more than just the Amber Room. Dad liked to gamble, and the Russian mob in Brighton Beach ran all the rackets. Turns out, Dad wasn't such a lucky guy.
"It's the mafia, Nat," I let out in an exasperated breath, "being late on payments is first on the list of things not to do."
Up until now, I've been able to scrape by. Barely.
But the debts are due soon, and I realized too late that I'm short. So here I am, pawning off my old stuff on my tablet and silently hoping that Natalie is right.
Hidden expenses rack up, running a night club. Sure, it seems like it's just a matter of balancing the monthly bills with the income from drinks and cover charges, but maintenance fees start building up in waves. Every few months, someone breaks a barstool or a window or there's a problem with the sound system and not only do you have to shell out for that but also the DJ you hired won't work under these conditions and you have to scramble to pay another one last-minute and...
My thoughts are spinning like car tires in mud, and I clutch my head, holding back the sobs I feel welling up in my chest.
"I can't live like this," I say in a thick voice to Natalie, refusing to let myself cry in front of her. I can feel her eyes on me, though. "Hell, I don't know if I will live like this when the mob finds out I won't be able to make my payments."
Sitting up on the couch, I fold my legs beneath me and reach for the glass of cheap wine I have on the coffee table. My eyes wander across the room to an open box of old sports paraphernalia. A few signed baseballs, team pictures, postcards, mostly Mets stuff.
Can't sell any of that. Those belonged to Dad.
I stand up and make my way over to the box, pulling out a baseball and tossing it up and down thoughtfully.
You piece of shit, why'd you leave me to clean up this mess? You knew Mom and Steve weren't gonna be around to help me with this. You really couldn't find one of your goddamned Good Ol' Boys to help you out with money? Nobody owed you any favors, really?
Maybe I should just sell this crap.
But tears start to well up in my eyes at the thought, and I tear my eyes away from the box, pushing it under the couch so Natalie won't bring it up later.
Unfortunately for me, she proves adept at finding sour memories on her own.
“Tragic accident?” pipes up Natalie from across the room. My heart sinks as I glance over to see her poring through a stack of wrinkled old newspapers. “Wow, August 27, 2012. Why do you still have this stuff? You pack rat,” she adds with a giggle.
“Uh, it’s just some personal stuff,” I say hastily, and step across the cluttered floor to try and take the pile of papers back. Natalie cocks her head and I can see the little cogs turning in her brain as she puts two and two together.
She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me an apologetic look. “What is it?”
I tuck the newspapers under my arm and turn away. I knew this would come up eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be now, while I have so much else going on. But when it rains, it pours, I suppose.
“I was in class when it happened. A summer class — intro to biology,” I begin quietly. The memory comes trickling back into focus. I was nineteen then, just starting out in college and totally absorbed with sorority life, with studying and partying in equal doses. “A cop came into the lecture hall and interrupted the professor to ask for me.”
“Oh no,” breathes Natalie.
“Yeah. They drove me to the hospital and I waited in the surgical ward for hours. All three of them were there. My mom, my little brother Steven, and my dad,” I say slowly, swallowing back the lump in my throat. It’s still hard to think about, even after a few years. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still remember the smell of the hospital.
After a moment I continue. “Well, my dad was driving when the brakes went out on the bridge. He swerved so he wouldn’t hit the car in front of him but the car spun out and hit the railing on the left side. My mom was in the passenger seat and Steven was in the back behind her. They got the worst of it. Obviously, Dad pulled through after some stitches and a concussion. But my mom and brother… they didn’t make it.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Katy. I met your dad shortly before he died. He’s the one who hired me, and he was a great guy. But you know better than I do, he was all business. I had no idea what kind of stuff you guys went through.”
I shrug, rolling the newspapers up and out in my hands — a nervous tic I’ve developed. I always have to keep my hands busy with something. I know I’m strong, but I guess all that trauma has to come out some way or another.
“Yeah, Dad and I have that in common,” I admit lightly.
“Hey,” Natalie says with a gentle faux-punch to my arm, “you’re a tough kid. And maybe I didn’t know him for very long, but I can tell you without a doubt that he would be so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Nat,” I reply. But it’s hard for me to believe her words, knowing how close to falling apart I am, so close to losing everything my dad worked so hard for.
She sits down on the floor cross-legged and picks up a black binder full of baseball cards and photographs. A grin spreads across her face and she looks up at me.
“This all his stuff, I imagine?” she asks.
I nod and sit down across from her. “Yep. Dad was a huge baseball fanatic. I was eight when Steven was born and I remember my dad trying so hard to get him to say “Go Mets” as his first word.”
Natalie laughs. “But that’s two words!”
“I know! That’s what my mom said, too,” I reply with a chuckle. “But
his first word ended up being ‘Kate,’ much to my father’s disappointment.”
“That’s adorable. You must’ve been his hero, Katy.”
“Yeah. There was a pretty wide age gap, you know. Eight years. But he was still like my best friend in a lot of ways. We used to quote cartoons at the dinner table to annoy Mom and Dad. They could never figure out what we were talking about. I miss him a lot,” I say with a sigh.
“I can’t even imagine,” Natalie says.
“It helps being busy all the time, you know,” I reply, trying to brighten my tone.
“Well, running the club definitely keeps you on your feet.”
“That’s for sure,” I murmur. “I just hope I can keep it afloat. I kinda feel like the club and I are both running on fumes at this point.”
“Owning a business is a lot of pressure, Katy,” she replies, shaking her head. “But you gotta realize that you’re not alone in this, okay? We’re all here for you. I know it sucks that all those guys quit when your dad died because they couldn’t handle working there without him around. I get that. I can’t really blame them. They were all good friends and some people just can’t cope very well. Just know that they didn’t leave because they wanted to abandon you, alright? And either way, you got me, Ashton, Charles, and the rest of the crew on your side. We won’t let you or the club go down without a fight.”
“I know. I’m lucky to have you guys around,” I answer, beaming. Despite the burden on my shoulders and the dark cloud of an unpaid debt looming over my head, it really did feel good to know that my employees were in this for the long haul.
“So, weird question: is this on the list of things to sell?” Natalie asks, holding up the binder of baseball cards. I stare at it for a long moment, pondering what degree of guilt I would suffer if I were to sell my dad’s beloved memorabilia.
“I don’t know,” I answer uncertainly.
“Because I can tell you right now, some of these cards are probably worth a pretty good amount of money at this point. Nothing too insane, of course, but it could help,” she explains. “But that’s only if you’re okay with it. I know it’s hard to let go of stuff like this sometimes. No judgment if you decide to just hold onto it.”
I bite my lip and shake my head slowly. “I might have to put that on hold.”
“Totally understandable. We’ll put it in the “not today” pile.”
I start looking through the online auction pages on my tablet, checking the competition. “Maybe I could sell my body parts on the black market,” I muse aloud.
“I hear kidneys go for, like, ten thousand each or something,” Natalie says, playing along.
“Oh, that’s perfect. I don’t need my kidneys anyway. What have they ever done for me?”
“And ten thousand is enough for, what, two months? Best idea yet.”
“What about my liver? Surely I can do without that.”
“Katy, you own a club. Where alcohol is served. Your liver is very important.”
We both laugh and I get to my feet. “On that note, do you want any more wine? I know I could really use something to make this a little less depressing.”
Natalie yawns and slides her phone screen open, squinting at the digital clock. “Aw man. Actually, I think I need to head out. I’m supposed to meet my mother for dinner, unfortunately.”
“Oh, that sounds like a good time,” I say from the kitchen. I hear Natalie scoff in disagreement. I open the refrigerator and pour myself another glass of wine.
“Yeah, listening to my mom list the many reasons why she’s disappointed in me is always a real party,” she retorts, and I can almost feel her rolling her eyes.
“Do you want a shot or something before you go, then?” I offer, only half serious.
She laughs and waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t tempt me, Katy. The last thing I need is for her to accuse me of being an alcoholic, too!” She gets up and opens her arms to hug me before she plucks up her bag and sweater.
“Good luck with all this,” she says to me before she leaves.
I shrug. “I got it. No big deal. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yep. I’ll be the one behind the bar.”
And with that, she walks out into the hall and gets into the elevator. I plop down on the couch again, swirling my glass of wine absentmindedly. Looking around the room at all the memories strewn about, I heave a sigh, realizing that I still don’t know what the hell I’m even going to do. I start researching how much I could sell my couch for, when suddenly there’s a sharp knock at the door. I glance over in confusion. It’s eight o’clock at night.
Then it hits me. It’s probably just Natalie. Maybe she forgot something — or perhaps she’s decided she wants to take that shot, after all. I smile to myself as I cross the room to answer it.
When I turn the lock, I'm knocked back from the door as it gets shoved open, and I hear the voice of the man in the back greeting me through my sharp cry.
4
Katy
"Katy, darling! How good to see you again!"
The three burly Russians who muscle their way into my home are Oskar, Nic, and Konrad, the mob's collections agents assigned to me. I scramble back, wide-eyed and heart pounding as they advance into the room, Nic taking a post by the door while the other two fan out and survey the place.
Oskar is the leader of the group, and he usually does all the talking. He's a shorter guy with blonde hair and a beard, and he's as insipid to listen to as he is to look at. He's not the most muscular of the three, but he's got the sharpest tongue by far.
Nic is the quiet muscle. He's a monstrous brute of a man, all muscle and stony eyes. I've never heard him say more than a couple of words, but he doesn't need to say much that his muscles don't say for him. He has cropped dark hair and a scar across his face.
Konrad is somewhere in between the other two, and he sends chills down my spine. He's tall and lean with light brown hair and a crooked nose, and he always looks at me with an unnerving hunger in his eyes. His tendency to move suddenly and make jerking glances when he's around me all tell me he wants me, badly. He doesn't seem to like taking orders from Oskar, but I know Oskar brings him anyway because of how vulnerable he makes me feel.
"Hard to believe it's that time of the month again, isn't it?"
“That’s right," I breathe, moving carefully around the coffee table, "and I'll have your money for you tomorrow before opening, just like always, you don’t have to worry about me forgetting the drill.”
“Of course not,” Oskar chuckles, no mirth in his heavily accented voice. Konrad advances into the room, and I back away as he moves, making room for Oskar to stride in and survey the disarray of my place.
“You’ve done a lovely job of picking up where your father left off, Katy, always on time.” He reaches a hand to me and pinches my cheeks condescendingly. “He’d be so proud! He was always the sort who knew when to do what was best for his little business.”
As the blood boils under my skin and I hold back the urge to claw his eyes out for daring to make light of the subject, Oskar flops down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and spreading his arms out over the back of the couch.
Konrad hasn’t moved since backing me up against the window. He’s standing uncomfortably close to me, and I can hear his breathing. Nic hasn’t moved from the door, standing there like a sentinel.
“This is just a courtesy call,” Oskar drones, checking his nails idly while he makes himself comfortable. “You know, we’ve had a few of our boys come through the Amber Room over the months.”
I know that some of the clubbers have been Russians, but in Brighton Beach, that’s about a third of the clientele anyway. Not all the Russians are with the mob, but there’s no way to check, either.
“Oh really?” I feign ignorance, “Can’t say I’ve noticed. I’ve got a lot of guys with hot accents that pass through, and it’s rude to ask all of them about their work.”
Konrad
likes my words a little more than I’m comfortable with, and I hear a rumble from his chest as he moves almost imperceptibly closer to me, as though he’s extending his creepy aura my way. Oskar is laughing.
“Maybe so, maybe so. Come, get comfortable.” The order is directed more at Konrad than me as he pats the couch cushion next to him. I feel Konrad’s eager hand on the small of my back, pushing me towards the couch.
Before I can react, he takes the opportunity to put his hands around my hips and spin me around, thrusting me down on the couch next to Oskar and taking a seat on the other side of me. His hand is itching to slide around my waist, but I don’t think he dares act out of turn around Oskar.
“You know, usually,” Oskar starts, tilting his head and looking at me as though he were a patron flirting with me at the club, “the boys, they have nothing but good things to say about your place. Good music, not too big, classy atmosphere, and let me tell you, some of my boys, they have expensive tastes!”
I don’t like where this is going.
Oskar flexes his hands, raising his eyebrows as though about to deliver bad news. “But lately, they say the crowds are a little thin, you know?”
“Really? From what I can tell, we’ve had outstanding retention with the regulars,” I half-lie. The club has indeed had more repeat customers in the past month, but Oskar is right, the spontaneous nightly crowds haven’t been out in force lately.
Konrad takes the opportunity to elbow me lightly. “Don’t interrupt the boss,” he grunts.
“You may be right,” Oskar continues despite our interjections, “my boys, their eyes are not always so good, you know? Could be that they don’t have good eyes like you.”
I know I can’t break the gaze he’s locked me in but there’s something in his eyes that makes me want to squirm as they bore into mine.
“But my thinking is that since baseball season is over, your business boom is dying down a little, no?”
I swallow and pray he doesn’t notice. “You can’t rely on a sports season to keep crowds all year ‘round, Oskar.”
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