Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  “Jay got a Bronze Star,” Lamar said.

  “They certainly don’t give them out for sweeping the floors at Ft. Riley,” Mr. Duval said, wincing at the elbow jab from his wife.

  Mrs. Duval said, “It wasn’t Lamar’s fault he hurt his shoulder. I was glad he didn’t have to go to that godless country with that satanic religion. Anyway, tonight we’re celebrating.”

  “Bronze Star,” Kirk murmured. “Good for you, son, for giving it to those rag head bastards.”

  Jay clutched his beer so hard his knuckles whitened. He cleared his throat. “None of them ever did anything to me. I did what I was told.”

  During the ensuing conversation, Mai kept her expression neutral. The majority opinion of the older folks was the “A-rabs” weren’t “exactly niggers but they ain’t white neither.”

  The little girl seemed enthralled by the adult talk. This was how it started, the hatred of someone different, at a tender age. Mai wanted to tell them to shut up before they marked the child, but that wasn’t her mission. However, Carroll seemed as uncomfortable as she about the overt racism, though he said nothing to stop it. He did announce he needed to get dinner started so the sauce could simmer.

  “Siobhan, give me a hand?” he said, rising.

  “Sure.”

  “Can you two handle it?” Sharon asked.

  “Of course.”

  Back in the kitchen, Carroll stripped off his outer shirt, worn like a jacket, and revealed a shoulder holster with a Glock. He peeled that off and opened a kitchen cabinet, placing the gun and holster on the highest shelf.

  He turned to Mai. “Uh, are you carrying tonight?”

  “Something small. Why?”

  “Sharon’s not keen on guns around her folks. I promised I’d keep it out of sight.”

  Mai put her right foot on the seat of a kitchen chair, hitched her trouser leg, and undid the ankle holster, handing it to Carroll.

  Carroll smirked and said, “Well, that’s tiny.”

  “It’s for close quarters and loaded with hollow points. It’s a Beretta you’ll notice.”

  “It’s a really little Beretta.” He almost succeeded in suppressing his laughter.

  “All right, lad, there’ll be no making fun of my wee gun. It’s easier to conceal than that monster of yours.”

  “Okay, I promise to respect the tiny little gun.” He put it away with his and grew serious. “I’m careful around Ashley,” he said. “If she got hold of a gun… Well, she’s bound to come in and see what we’re up to.”

  His concern for the parents and his caution around the child were additional examples he wasn’t the usual gun nut she’d found in her research. Could a man demonstrating such empathy hate his government enough to want revolution?

  “I warn you,” Mai said, “the kitchen is not the scene of my best work. Back home, the lads would groan when it was my turn to cook. I’ll help however I can.”

  Carroll searched through the cabinets until he found a large pot. “Can you cut up tomatoes?” he asked.

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  He grinned at that and handed her a good-sized knife he’d taken from a drawer. From the refrigerator, he took the bag of vine-ripened tomatoes he’d bought. “Chop them into small pieces,” he said. “Take the pulp out but cut them up over the pot, so the juice goes in. Oh, wait a minute.”

  He glanced around the kitchen, went to the door, and called out to someone, “Is there an apron?” A voice responded, and Carroll said, “You’re a smart ass, Duval. It’s for Siobhan.”

  Another indistinguishable phrase and Carroll went to a drawer and retrieved a red and white, checked bib apron. “Here,” he said. “This could get messy, and you’ve got a white shirt on.” His eyes focused on the center of her chest until he looked away, blushing.

  Mai took it, glad it wasn’t frilly. A frilly apron would have meant weeks of teasing from Alexei after she told him. She donned the apron and got to work. After a bit, Carroll peered over her shoulder, close enough she felt the heat from his body.

  “Good job,” he said.

  “Really?” she replied, looking at the mess in the pot. “A friend used to say I was dangerous in the kitchen.”

  “What kind of friend?” Carroll murmured. “A boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have one of those anymore.”

  “Which means you did. Where is he?”

  Mai looked him in the eye. “Dead.”

  Carroll took a step back. “I’m sorry. I…”

  “No, you brought it up. Ask.”

  “How… What happened?”

  “Ever hear of Bobby Sands?”

  “Yeah, that happened when I started high school. Wait, your boyfriend was Bobby Sands?”

  “No. He was a hunger-striker like Bobby, and he died, like Bobby.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated and looked away.

  “Why did you ask?”

  “If I’d known, I wouldn’t… I mean, I wondered. You’re attractive and all.” He looked in her eyes this time, showing her some emotion, which she easily read as lust. “Are you looking for one?”

  “Have someone in mind, do you?” she asked, smiling.

  He smiled back. “Maybe.”

  “Jay, I’m a bit older than you.”

  “So? I’m twenty-six.”

  “I’m thirty-six.”

  “Oh? Oh. Uh, you don’t look…”

  “Old?”

  “No. You don’t look thirty-six, and why should that matter?”

  “It doesn’t, when the man’s older and the woman’s younger.”

  “I had the impression you were one of those liberated women. Why would it matter what other people think?”

  “It’s not what they’d think of me, Jay. It’s what they’d think of you.”

  “That I’m with a really good-looking woman?”

  He smiled again and dumped the onions, peppers, and garlic he’d chopped into a pan coated with olive oil. They began to sizzle, filling the kitchen with a smell that brought Alexei to mind.

  “I’m serious, Jay.”

  “I am, too. You’d be the first woman I’ve known who worried what people thought of me. My mother ran around on my dad, and I’d hear people talk about it, laugh at him.”

  He gave her such a longing look, she was the one wanting to retreat, but he turned his attention to the frying pan.

  “I’d be willing to take the chance,” he said.

  “Jay, you don’t know me that well.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. I want to get to know you better.”

  “Remember I’m on the run. I can’t offer anyone a normal life. I can’t even hope for one. I won’t risk getting you mixed up in my mess.”

  “I don’t care about that either.”

  “You should. What if I lose my sponsors’ protection? What if you’re around when the INS comes?”

  “You think that worries me?”

  “Jay…”

  “Can you… Will you think about it?”

  “I can, but let’s take it as it comes.”

  “That didn’t sound like a total no.”

  “If it were, you’d know.”

  He stirred the sautéing vegetables with a wooden spoon. “All right, take it as it comes.” He looked at her. “For now?”

  “For now.”

  Maybe she’d censor all this when she gave Alexei a report.

  Carroll leaned toward her, tilting his head down. He was a breath away from kissing her when the door swung open. Duval’s daughter rushed in.

  “Jay! I hungwy!”

  Carroll scooped her up and balanced her on a hip. “You are? Let’s see what we have for a snack.” He opened one cabinet and looked over several boxes.

  “Jay, I want skeddy,” the child said.

  “It’s not ready yet, kiddo. There’s crackers.”

  “Wits kwackers?”

  “That we have.” He took out a box of Ritz Crackers, opened it, and gave the girl a handful. �
��Can you take those outside?”

  The little girl shook her head. “Wanna watch you make skeddy.”

  “Okay, but you have to stay out of the way. The stove is hot.” He carried the child to the adjoining living area and set her on the sofa.

  Mai decided Terrell was wrong. Carroll couldn’t have been the killer of Jerry and Corazon Parker’s son.

  21

  Introductions

  Kansas City International Airport

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Alexei walked off the TWA MD-80, up the Jetway, and into the gate area. A woman in her thirties, dressed in tight jeans and a clinging, dark blue tee shirt held up a sign reading, “HEBAHCKИ.”

  Alexei walked up to her and said, “I am Sergei Nevansky.”

  She blinked and gave him a vacant smile. “Hi, I’m Charlene. Come with me.”

  She linked her arm through his and pressed against his side as they walked. Outside the terminal, she led him to a black Lincoln with heavily tinted windows. He checked the license plate. Though the rest of the car was immaculate, the license plate had a thick layer of mud hiding most of it. Charlene opened the rear door for him, and he slipped into the cool air of the back seat. A privacy screen hid the driver, but the car didn’t move when Charlene got in.

  She slid across the seat and again pressed against him, crossing her leg over his. “Sergei, honey, there’s this one little favor you have to do for me,” she said, her tone coy. She took a ski mask from a seat pocket. The mask’s eyeholes were sewn shut. “You’re going to have to wear this for a while.”

  “And if I do not want this?” he asked.

  “You go back inside for your return flight.” She smiled again. “Honey, it won’t be so bad. I’m real good at slipping stretchy things over big, old heads.”

  Not the best double entendre he’d heard, but what the hell; it was better than a hood. He nodded to her. She put the mask on him, adjusting it so he could breathe, and tapped on the privacy screen. The car began to move.

  He tried to see something through the weave, but it was tightly knit.

  So, Pinkus… No, he couldn’t think of him that way yet. Here and now, he was Lewis.

  Lewis had a need for secrecy, and Alexei figured the driver would take a convoluted route to disorient him. That wouldn’t be difficult; he’d never been to this part of the country before.

  After they’d been underway for several minutes, Charlene said, “I understand you’re from Russia.”

  “Ukraine. Part of Russian Federation. Flat, with many farms.”

  “Nothing’s flat where we’re going, Sergei.” She put her hand on his leg, halfway up his inner thigh.

  He’d reached the point in his life—some time before—where he wasn’t interested in sex with anyone except Mai, even for the sake of a mission. However, a warm hand close to his privates was a bit much to ignore. He removed her hand.

  “American women are too fast,” he said.

  Her laugh was low and sexy. Her hand returned to his thigh. “I can be slow, honey. However you want it.” Her hand slid up to his crotch and rubbed.

  Alexei thought of dead things. That must have worked because her hand left him. Her voice held a hint of concern when she said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “War wound. From Afghanistan,” he said, the first thing to come into his head.

  “Oh,” she said, her breath coming a bit fast.

  What was she afraid of?

  “Lewis told me to take care of you, but snuggling is okay,” she said.

  She was scared of Lewis.

  And this could be a test to see if he could resist temptations of the flesh.

  “What is snuggling?” he asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Charlene took his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, making certain his hand rested against the curve of her breast.

  “America is good country,” Alexei said.

  “Amen, honey, amen.”

  Patriot City

  Alexei dozed at some point and woke to find Charlene’s head resting on his shoulder. He stirred and sat up straight.

  “It’s a long drive, honey,” she said. “I let you nap.”

  “What is time?”

  “Late. That’s all I can say. We’ll be home soon.”

  By counting his heartbeats, Alexei estimated ten minutes passed before the car slowed and made a sharp right turn onto a gravel road. Maybe two minutes later, the car stopped, this time on pavement.

  Charlene put a hand on his arm. “Now, honey, don’t be nervous. A couple of my brothers in Yahweh are going to take you from the car and walk you inside. Relax, and everything will be fine. You’ll have a chat with Lewis, and maybe, if you’re a good boy, I’ll see you later.”

  The door opened on the side next to him. A man took his arm and helped him out, where a second man took his other arm. Alexei stiffened from instinct, but when they urged him forward, he cooperated. A few steps later, a soft voice with an Australian twang said, “Three steps up.”

  Alexei nodded and let them walk him into a structure. A door opened, and cool air hit his face. His shoes resounded on hardwood floors. Ten paces inside, and the men stopped and frisked him. They removed his wallet, and someone was going through his duffel.

  “There’s a chair behind you, mate,” said the Aussie, and Alexei felt it pressed against the back of his calves.

  With the Aussie guiding him, he sat, and the two men pulled his arms behind the chair back.

  Alexei decided it was time to resist, until the muzzle of a gun pressed against his temple.

  “No one has to get hurt, mate,” said the Aussie. “This is only for a short time.”

  Alexei didn’t relax but let the men fasten his hands with a plastic tie. Footsteps left the room, and he heard someone breathing. “Are you Lewis?” he asked.

  Someone limped to his side and jerked the mask from Alexei’s head. He blinked in the bright light and peered up at a man who leaned against a desk.

  A man who matched a computer-aged photo of Pinkus von Hollenbrand.

  “I thought you would be younger,” Lewis said.

  “I am forty-five,” Alexei said, the age matching Sergei’s information on the green card.

  “That is good. Men are better commanded by someone older they can look up to. How is it you are in America?”

  “I left army. There is no work in Russia, except gangsters, and gangsters die every day. I found sponsor in Baltic League,” Alexei said, referring to a Russian ex-pat group in New York. “He said I could find job here but nothing. English not good enough. Enthusiasm too much.”

  “Too zealous for someone’s convictions? People want the dirty business done, but they do not want to see it happen. They do not want to associate with people like us. We frighten them. They look at us and realize they are not far from barbarism.” Lewis picked up Alexei’s wallet and thumbed through it. “You have plenty of cash here for an unemployed man, Sergei.”

  “There is convenience store on every corner. Very convenient.”

  “I thought you did not want to be a gangster.”

  Alexei shrugged and said, “Criminals here go to fancy prisons, not get shot down in street like in Moscow.”

  “I see. You’d like something more secure and which pays well?”

  “Da. I am good robber. I am better soldier.”

  “You said you were from Ukraine.”

  “Da, da.”

  “What side did your family fight on during Operation Barbarossa?”

  “Most of family died in Holodomor. We were glad when Germans came.”

  “You resisted Charlene. Is it true you have a war wound?”

  If he said yes, Lewis might look for evidence of it, and he doubted he could keep his cool with this man’s hands on him. “No, but I did not want to fuck strange woman. I do not want AIDS.”

  “Smart man, but Charlene is clean. We do not allow diseased women here. Those who are here use prophylactics.”


  “Your advertisement said job is to train soldiers. Women are distraction.”

  “I admire a man with self-control, Sergei.”

  I wonder if you will when my hands are around your throat, Alexei thought.

  Lewis tossed Alexei’s wallet into his lap and limped behind the chair. Alexei heard a knife open. Either he was about to be set free or get his throat cut. I love you, Mai, he thought. The plastic binding fell away from his hands, and Lewis went to sit behind his desk. Alexei rubbed the ligature marks on his wrists.

  “I will take you on for a one-month trial,” Lewis said. “If I like what I see, you are hired. If you do not work out, you will use the return portion of your ticket.”

  If he didn’t work out the only way he’d use that ticket was in a coffin in the cargo hold, unless a shallow grave awaited him here. “My salary?” he asked.

  “You are on probation, Sergei. We will give you room and board. That is it. If I hire you, you’ll receive ten thousand a month, plus expenses if you travel for us. You will have a bungalow here, and you will have exclusive use of one woman. Charlene if you want. While you are probationary, you may have as many as you like, but you must use prophylactics. We have no unplanned pregnancies here; only the best warriors may procreate. Do you have any attachments in this country? Anyone who is likely to wonder where you are for the next month?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

  “Nyet. You said tell no one. I told no one.”

  “How did you pick my ad?”

  “At recommendation of man named Cutter. He gave this place high praise. I humbly ask if I may have advance on salary?”

  “I have not hired you.”

  “I am good at what I do. I will please you.”

  “You said you left no one behind. Why do you need money?”

  “For Cutter. He called it finder’s fee. I gave him my word.”

  “Cutter is a useless piece of shit.”

  “Perhaps, but I give word.”

  “How much?”

  “Half month’s salary.”

  “Cutter could have been had for half that, but keeping your word is important, especially to me. How were you to get him the money?”