Love is a Bloodhound

by Reid Astor

  A gentle thunder clap unfurls into the air, muted by the glass and the tinkling of restaurant silverware.

  "Who are you." The words are flat, but then Niklas isn't asking; he's demanding. The menu forcefully slides on the table away from him, and the man looks at him and touches his lips again.

  “Who do you think I am?"

  He taps his fingers down on the surface of the table one by one and thinks that this man won’t talk any sense until he complies in some way. And so he says, "Old friend of Madam Morris's, but young, so you knew her when you were a child and she was in her prime. She must be helping you somehow, too, or you wouldn't be doing-" Niklas curtly mirrors the 'all this' gesture, and notes how those brown eyes actually follow his hand. "Hard smoker. Drinking in midday to quell the buzzing withdrawal in your head no less. I'm not forming a good impression of you. Answer my question with an answer."

  Lars leans over and steals his water glass in one fluid, natural motion, taking a long swig until it's done, then sighs as he sets it down on the table with a clink. "Right and right on the smokes and whiskey, but ever consider that I'm not doing this for profit?" He snorts. "I am Lars Verdura.”

  The way he says it, Niklas almost thinks it’s supposed to mean something to him. He doesn’t feel bad enough for the man to even try to look impressed.

  The man soldiers on without missing a beat. “I'm here to help you and Lana expand and renovate your business and mean nothing but good, Mister Baranov, so no need for all that hostility. Gives you wrinkles."

  "Renovation, or expansion, is unrealistic.”

  "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

  "I have no money. I barely manage to maintain the Ishmael as is. That's no secret with Madam Morris.” He adjusts the collar of his undershirt where it's itching at his neck. This all feels like a mistake and a waste of his time- they could have just done this back at his cafe, where he wouldn't have to dress in this jacket, and there he would have had the authority to kick this man right on out.

  Lars pulls his chair in and leans across the table, face coming far too close to Niklas' than he'd like. But he doesn't pull away- if the man's trying to intimidate him, let him try; he stares right back with his single eye, his right arm tense and ready should Lars pull anything on his blind side. "Little secret, Mister Baranov. It doesn't matter. This does, though." He nods towards Niklas- towards what, the barista doesn't know. "Lana didn't mention your face. What happened to your eye?"

  "Why should it matter?"

  The man massages his temples with a hand like there's an oncoming headache. "Because when you expand or renovate or do any kind of business, my Russian friend, the person you are makes an impression. People will ask things about you. Your reputation will matter. Not that it's a bad thing, in this case," he hastens to add. "But I'm curious about you."

  He frowns. "Let's say I tripped and landed face-first on a cake tester when I was twelve. Let’s say I walked into a naked nail in the wall. Does it matter? You don't strike me as a man who cares about his reputation."

  "What if I care about yours?"

  "You shouldn't. It's none of your business- don't- touch me." Lars has his fingers around his right wrist, just out of sight, and the muscles of Niklas' neck have wound up excruciatingly tight. His skin is hot to the touch.

  "Your whiskeys, sirs-...?" Theresa glides in, smiling that weary stock smile of hers and glancing between them. And they couldn't disentangle quicker.

  Niklas watches the amber drink slosh in the glass before him, and feels Lars's fingertips playing on the table just inches away from his own. Abruptly he yanks his hand at an angle, swings it under the table onto the armrest and sits back. He waits till Theresa's done pouring both their glasses, then takes his up and knocks it back before she's even moved.

  She smiles, but her eyebrows are hitting her hairline, and she honestly can't refill faster- only to watch as Lars does the very same thing. Niklas pities her a little, makes a mental note to leave a tip.

  He watches Lars knock back the next drink, and wave off Theresa with one hand as another wipes the trace of alcohol from his lips. He notes how he licks that droplet of excess from the side of his palm, a careless motion before he looks back up and comes back to the matter at hand.

  "You need to trust me more, Mister Baranov,” he says. “This fixing-up of your cafe won't cost you much and will make you more. If you let me, I'll make people forget what your father did in the world of legality.” He swirls at what remains of his whiskey. “I'll make all the bad shit go away."

  Niklas' hands tighten round his drink and he ignores the lump that has formed in his throat. He takes his shot and it stays burning in his throat like a halo of uneasy, scratching warmth. "Forget what?" Just what has Svetlana told this man, he wonders with a mixture of terror and rage.

  He shrugs, scoffs dramatically, and looks away. "I don't know. It's none of my business."

  In the muted chatter and tinging of silverware and the occasional grumble of a wooden chair sliding, the slam of Niklas's fists on the table is deafening. "Why do you know about my father?"

  He grabs the man's collar over the table and jerks him in closer. He's heavier than expected, but Niklas doesn't waver. He won't. With deliberation, he speaks in paces of words, in a measured tone- "What the hell do you know about my father?" That I don't? The last words go unspoken, but by the look on Lars's face, not unknown.

  The man is smiling, and up close Niklas can see the dilation of his brown eyes, the very drop of sweat that casts a sheen on his brow. "That sure got a rise out of you. What are you going to do to make me tell you?"

  There's a clatter and tinkle of a shifting table cover and a displaced glass, but nothing falls. Niklas has his right arm jerked back and ready to strike on his mark or drag him outside when their waitress dashes out from behind an ornate screen and arrests the entire situation in place.

  Niklas sees a poorly-concealed anger washes over Theresa's features and suddenly he's backed down, and then he's aware of just how quiet the entire restaurant has gone. "Can you two. Please. Don't." The words sound mechanical. It's like she's grinding out the nicest things that come to mind and having a very difficult time with that alone.

  Once he's sat down and let go of Lars's collar, Theresa's smile looks a fraction more genuine, though it's still not reaching her eyes. "They always say a hungry man's an angry man. Makes me wonder about my sister, you know?" she says with false cheer.

  They greet her with silence and horribly affected nonchalance- Lars glancing to his knuckles as he flexes his hands, Niklas distantly to the window and the gathering storm outside. And with a final look-over, she hovers away.

  The second she's gone, Lars seizes his wrist and yanks him in, meeting him halfway across the table before he can say a word. His jawline brushes against his- he can catch the hint of aftershave and his warmth against his own skin. There’s an incline of heads, a turn in his wrist that is met by Lars’ gripping resistance, and the man whispers in his ear so close the air seems to be so still everywhere but against his lobe. It's hot, moist, and far too close. "How about we forget about that expansion, hmm? Let's have a deal, Niklas Baranov. I'll tell you about your father. And you..."

  Niklas turns into the man's face so they're almost nuzzling, watches as he draws away until their faces are inches apart. "What?" he whispers, playing along all with a look of fury in his eye. It's strange- he's never had a man this close to his face when he wasn't in a fight, but this still feels just like fighting.

  "We'll go back to your little cafe. You'll put on just your little apron... and get on your knees and suck my dick. And I'll tell you everything. Abso-fuckin-lutely everything about that dad of yours. Deal? I might even tip you. Help you towards that life sentence of a debt you’ve got.” Those almost-red eyes flutter close to his, and for a moment there is only sick, self-assured benevolence in his expression. “Won’t you like that?"

  It's not a commonly-known fact, but Niklas Baranov has not permitted hims
elf to be angry since his mother died.

  * * *

  He's not sure if he appreciates the fact that this happens- that on the tipping point he will always veer off the edge- but it's a natural fact.

  In this case, he doesn't even make it to dragging Lars outside before that coarse New Yorker accent fills his ears with the sound of laughter and he swings around to land a heavy one on the man's jaw. He vaguely remembers asking him What the fuck he just said- only in the wrong language. Things get a little clearer at the part where Lars grabs his arm and twists it and he almost crashes into the glass of the restaurant displays on the way down.

  Fifteen minutes later, Niklas Baranov is significantly colder from standing outside a restaurant in the rain while his waitress blasts fire and hell's fury at him from the door and then hurtles a raincoat at him in so much disarray it’s too wet to put on. From what she's saying, Lars Verdura has more than a nicotine withdrawal headache to worry about, and is probably sitting somewhere in the back of the Temple with a complimentary ice pack on his jaw.

  Niklas's wrist throbs where he was grabbed, and he's too slow to try to tip Theresa when she's slamming the door and storming away. When he gets home, there is still warmth in his face from the tide of whiskey, but his fingers are numb to the bone.

  * * *

  "Our friends are running a book on us."

  He looks up from the counter he's been scrubbing and tries valiantly to look interested. With this one customer, his efforts are usually rewarded in time. "And what are we looking at?"

  She purses her lips and her eyes drift to the side, where invariably one of the perpetrators is hunched in and gossiping with another in the far end of the cafe. They seem to think that the veil of darkness means that aside from being seen, they can't be heard, either. Niklas rolls his eye and looks at her, expecting an answer.

  Her lips quirk a little on one side, making a not altogether unpleasant sight. She's wearing peach lipstick today, he notices. Unexpectedly, it suits her. "They believe you'll have my number by the end of the week. I've already had someone put in for us that you would. Split the profits. It's surprisingly lucrative."

  He almost smiles. "Germaine, if this is your way of flirting, let me say I'm impressed."

  She looks almost amused at that. "No shame in it, Niklas. You make a bit of cash and you get a girl's number. All good fun." At this, she leans in, anticipating his approval in a boss-like manner and tapping her fingers along the counter.

  "That's not what they call it on the street." Weak protest. He can already tell by the gentle laughter she gives him for it.

  "Loosen up," she says, going for her purse before pausing, thoughtfully. "Do you have a pen?"

  Expectantly, he pulls one up from under the counter- the famous check-writing pen, withered and ready. He watches with vague amusement as she seizes it from him, as if she’s about to write some official statement or contract at a bank or firm, not copy her number down. The gossipers of the back corner have gone quite silent. Germaine Kartoffeln's varnished nails glitter faintly in the dim coffeeshop light as she scrawls the line of digits along the back of her receipt. "Consider it your tip," she says, kissing it lightly and staining it peach. "Use it if someone is giving you trouble. And give Svetlana my love, yes, Niklas?"

  Niklas almost doesn't mind that when she collects the money from a smug-faced woman in the back, she doesn't give him a cut. She disappears beyond the door, into the sun, and becomes just a figure of the street, one more actor in the shadow-puppet dance past his cafe. With distance, she is as normal as the next striking silhouette on the street.

  Germaine Kartoffeln is one of the few reasons in the world Niklas is glad he never made it to the position of prosecuting attorney. That would have meant risking crossing the likes of her; whatever she does, he’s almost eighty percent sure it’s not legal. And God how she must know he knows it.

  The bet-placers- two women and a man that Niklas had tagged as drifter regulars- clear away eventually, giving him sheepish looks on the way out and muttering to one another. He makes a point of putting Germaine's number in a neat fold in his back pocket, sitting down, and watching them go with a half-lidded, consistent stare. No smugness- just a mental note that these two can't mind their own business.

  He takes a seat behind the counter and distracts himself with reading her number until he finds a strange rhythm in the digits, and then he puts it away again. An arid breeze occasionally reaches the stagnant insides through a swinging, semi-broken front door and Vivaldi strains through the old speakers- this he could call peace and turn off his thoughts to.

  * * *

  Niklas almost has a good day at the café. Almost. The tables are bussed and ready for rush hour hours before rush hour is due, it’s slow, the classical music channel is doling out pensive but relaxing tunes for him and if he tries, he can almost relax and stretch the tightness out of his muscles. No other employee is due to help for an hour. And for once the sun has deigned to shine on Couer.

  His semi-peace of mind does eventually throw itself out a window as the chime comes in, he falls back to the cruel world and he lays gaze on the next customer wandering on in.

  Lars Verdura is in only white shirtsleeves and slacks today, sauntering through the door and bringing a zephyr of wind and the sun in with him like some kind of action movie star. He walks like he thinks he is, anyway. And it gives Niklas the smallest satisfaction to see the gentle blotch of dark purple swollen and etched across his left jaw, setting everything off balance.

  Niklas sets both fists on the counter and sets to measuring the depleting distance between them. And as soon as the man makes it to him, the words tumble out on schedule: "We reserve the right to not serve you at this establishment, and-"

  "Wait, wait." Lars' hand shoots up and an exasperated look crosses his face. "Yeah, and privyet to you too. What in the hell makes you think I want any of those in my body?" he asks, cocking his head to The Menu.

  Fair enough, Niklas catches himself thinking, I wouldn't either. "Then what do you want?" he says, trying to not sound like he's actually holding back from crossing the counter and dragging the man out by the collar. He works in service. It isn't that difficult to banish an all-too-fresh memory of the man saying 'suck my dick' from less than a week ago. No, it isn't.

  ...Actually, it is. What he really wants is to remedy the affliction of that man's well-defined face with a red hot baking tray, and then go back to his normal routine of hating his job and hating his customers more.

  "You never told me how you lost your eye. Or, yeah, those earrings, what's the story with those earrings?"

  He breathes in. The man is very lucky that this is a slow hour, or else Niklas would just kick him out and continue business. Actually, he's still sorely tempted to do that.

  Lars doesn't notice the enmity aureating off of his barista, and continues, "After our little altercation, Niklas, I'm determined to know everything there is to you. More than you know yourself, perhaps."

  "Why." Niklas steadies himself against one of the back machines and stops his teeth from grinding each other to dust. If this man talked like this to him only a little less than a decade ago, he would not be so lucky as to remain standing. He's still irritated with himself for losing control when he'd been proud to have that behind him for years. It had taken some serious prayer to regain his footing. "Tell me why it would be a bad idea to make you leave. Other than the fact that you're a piece of shit, I know nothing about you, and I'm content to leave it at that. Madam Morris can send another associate."

  The man leans against a pillar, casually adjusting his collar for the warmer shop air. "First of all, you want to know more about your father. And it just so happens, Mister Baranov, that I'm a private investigator. Used to dabble with law, just like you-" he grins- "but I consult now, pull string for friends, gather whispers- you know the deal. And as for why, well, you fascinate me."

  "Private investigator..." Niklas can hear himself snort. "That d
oesn't mean you know anything about my father. You're bluffing on the wind of something Madam Morris told you."

  "I know all the shit that Lana never wanted to talk to you about."

  He sighs and thinks, I should make myself a coffee. Yes. When is Viola's shift? In two hours? How will this man look with two cake testers shoved up his eyes? "Fuck me," he mutters, and, before the man can intercede, adds, "Yes, maybe you do know something. And maybe I can go hire an investigator myself. So why should I bother with a man who'll only do it if I play whore for him?"

  "You really don't forgive easily, do you." Lars' expression softens. "Because he's an idiot who didn't realize that you have jack shit for a sense of humor. And he thinks you're cute as hell and for that he's offering you his services for practically free."