Wolf

by Kelly Oliver

  “Vanya. You can’t smoke in here. Put that damn thing out for God’s sake.” He couldn’t believe the little punk had the nerve to come to the hospital.

  “I’m so sorry, Cousin.” His voice broke, and he almost sounded like he would cry. “I didn’t mean it, chuvak.”

  “Didn’t mean what?” Dmitry asked, narrowing his brows.

  “Didn’t mean to burn your house down.” Vanya was flicking his lighter as fast as he could, a berserk metronome. Click…Click…Click…Click…Click.

  “YOU burned my house down?” Dmitry jerked so hard he ripped out his IV line and the damned machine started sounding a steady alarm. Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Why? Why, Vanya?” He began tearing at tape, wires, and tubes to free himself from his bed. He was lunging toward Vanya when a stout nurse whipped open the curtain and marched into the room.

  “What’s going on Mr. Durchenko?” For a large woman, she moved fast as she marched over to his bedside and stood over him glowering. “What are you doing out of bed?” She asked and then grabbed him by the arm and practically threw him back into the bed. Up close, he saw that her stern upper lip sported a downy mustache. “Do I smell smoke? Have you been smoking? No smoking in the hospital.” She scowled and shook her head as she jabbed the IV back into his arm. He let out a yelp. “Don’t leave your bed again,” she barked. “I’m going to check with the doctor about authorization to sedate you just to make sure.” As she stomped out the door, her large backside eclipsed the light from the hallway.

  “Vanya, get your ass out here.” When the gangster popped out of the bathroom, Dmitry hissed, “You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on, why the hell you burned down my house and killed my wife.”

  “Right, Cousin. I’ll take you to Sabina.” Vanya peeked around the curtain, out into the hallway, and then pulled a wheelchair from the corner up to the side of the bed. “The coast is clear, chuvak. Get in the wheelie-chair and we’ll blow this bitch.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you answer me. Sabina? Is she….”

  “Yes! Now get in the chair before that fat Siberian boar comes back.”

  Naked under his hospital gown, and barely able to stand, let alone walk, Dmitry had no choice but to comply. Once he was in the wheelchair, Vanya sped through the corridors so fast Dmitry wished he had a helmet, or at least shoes. His cousin showed no concern for his toes as they rounded corners or crashed through swinging doors. Dmitry chuckled. They must have looked a sight, a wiry tattooed gangster racing a battered patient through the hospital. A few nurses and aides glanced up as they zipped by, but none of them seemed fazed. No doubt they had seen stranger things in a city this size. Vanya sailed the chair into the elevator just before the doors closed. A well-dressed woman gave them a dirty look as they rolled onto the ground floor. As the wheelchair broke through the emergency room doors and emerged into the mild night air, Dmitry heard the mustachioed nurse yelling after them.

  Vanya put the brakes on the chair and helped him into the passenger seat of his black SUV, and then maneuvered the wheelchair into the back of the Cadillac Escalade as if he’d done it a million times before. “My granny’s in a wheelie chair,” he explained. “I take her to Dairy Queen on Sunday after church.” He knew his cousin wasn’t as tough as he looked, but he had no idea he was such a softie. Dmitry buckled his seatbelt and braced himself. If Vanya drove the SUV like he steered the “wheelie-chair,” he was in for a rough ride.

  A familiar tongue licked his cheek. “Bunin! Sobaka, what are you doing here?” The Husky was wagging his tail and stroking Dmitry’s arm with his paw. Dmitry smiled at his cousin. “Ironic that I named Bunin for a harsh Realist who depicted peasant life as brutal, violent, and stupid, the very opposite of this sweet, docile, smart, pup.” At the sound of his name, Bunin wagged and licked so hard it shook the car.

  His cousin shrugged, flashed his golden grin, revved the powerful engine, and swerved onto Central Road.

  After reaching between the seats to give Bunin a big hug, Dmitry asked, “What’s going on, Vanya? Where did you find my dog? Why did you burn my house?” But he didn’t ask the one question he most wanted to ask, “Is Sabina okay?”

  “Chuvak, I told you. It was an accident,” Vanya said in Russian. With one hand, he took a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, put it between his lips, replaced the pack, flipped open his lighter, and lit the cigarette, all in one graceful movement.

  “The Pope asked me to follow you. I was just watching from your back porch. I guess there was a gas leak or something. Flames and then boom.” Vanya waved his arms around, and then glanced at his cigarette and stamped it out in the already overflowing ashtray.

  “I saved your life, Cousin. I convinced the Pope not to tell the Oxford Don we found you.” Vanya’s hands were shaking as he lit another cigarette. “I had to promise to get those pictures in exchange.”

  Dmitry pulled his hair as hard as he could to keep from screaming. “You burnt my damned house. And told the Pope about the paintings. Why?”

  “Look, I’m sticking my neck out for you, Cousin, but I don’t want to get my head chopped off. You’ve got to give them pictures to the Pope if you want to live. Come on Dima, they’re just stupid pictures. ”

  “Those paintings are worth millions, you idiot.” Dmitry shook his head. “Where are you going? Brentano Hall is the other way.”

  “Me and Bunin got a surprise, Cousin,” he said with a flash of gold.

  “Tell me what’s up. I’m not in the mood for surprises.”

  Vanya pulled into the parking lot at University Hospital and slid the mammoth Escalade into a spot marked FOR COMPACT CARS ONLY.

  “OK, party-poop, chill out.” He tapped another cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and blew out a perfect ring of smoke. “Bunin pulled Sabina out of his doggie-door and we brought her here.” At the sound of his name, Bunin wriggled between the seats and licked Vanya’s face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Jessica arrived at Brentano Hall, she found Jack waiting for her outside the backdoor, smoking a joint.

  “Whoa. Holy Hollywood makeover, Batman. You look amazing.” He grinned as he passed her the smoke. “Is it true what Nietzsche says, vanity keeps the well-dressed woman warm?”

  “Try hot.” She wished she could give him a makeover, but it was too late for that. They’d have to take him as is.

  She fixed the broken Gucci strap with duck-tape, and sloshed around the basement getting everything set up for the big game, unfolding tables and covering them with green felt cloths, cutting limes and lemons to garnish the drinks, counting out stacks of poker chips, and making sure she had the guy’s preferred liquors.

  As she worked, she thought of family poker games back home when her grandfather would stake her ten dollars and she’d mix his Mac and Coke. She’d been weaned on Canadian whiskey and poker. Her mom claimed Jessica’s first words were “straight flush.”

  As a kid, she’d loved staying up past her bedtime to play cards, and hang out with the grownups, especially her grandfather. She had been only seven or eight, but he’d treated her like an adult, talking to her about the great chain of being, the elusive meaning of life, and the doubtful existence of God. Even though he had only a grade-school education, she’d known for a long time he was the first real philosopher she’d ever met.

  When everything was ready for the big game, Jessica paced back and forth in front of the bar, tempted to throw back a shot of whiskey to calm her nerves.

  She’d just picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and was about to pour, when the actor, Vance Hamm, arrived. He was tiny, much smaller in person than he looked on the big screen. As usual, he brought his $15K Shuffle Master because he didn’t trust any human being to shuffle the cards. She juiced his carrot juice, added some lime and two ice cubes. As the rest of the guys sauntered in, she mixed drinks, served snacks, and did whatever else they asked her to do. If one of them had asked her to wipe his butt,
she might have done it, anything not to mess up Lolita’s big poker game.

  She folded bills into neat piles and exchanged money for colorful chips, not the cheap plastic numbers she’d grown up with, but heavy duty compressed clay like they used in the casinos. Nine guys sat around the table smoking cigars, drinking booze, and stacking their chips.

  The air was tense as they waited for the last newbies to arrive, Northwestern University’s star quarterback, Kurt Willis. He’d been the number two NFL draft pick a few weeks before. Lolita had told her that he liked to drink screwdrivers because beer slowed him down and the orange juice provided vitamin-C. Vance was pacing around the table, chopping at the bit, probably eager to take the quarterback’s signing bonus. She tried to distract him by asking about his latest film, but that was the last thing he wanted to talk about. He was firing up the Shuffle Master when Kurt finally showed up.

  The stocky quarterback had scrawny Alexander Le Banc in tow, a Pit Bull with a Chihuahua. She intercepted them before they reached the table.

  “I’m sorry, Kurt, but the game is by invitation only,” she whispered, nodding towards Alexander then glancing over her shoulder at Vance. He was chewing on his straw, glaring back at her.

  “Look, Hottie,” Kurt said, lapping her up with his eyes, “Zander’s my personal assistant. He’s not here to play.” Then he winked at her and added, “Baby after this game, how ‘bout you and me play a hand at my place?”

  “You may be undefeated in regular season, but you’re not going to complete this pass.” Reevaluating how far she was willing to go to make these idiots happy, she tugged at the wet sheath sticking to her butt. Talk about a tight end.

  “Okay. Please take a seat.” She gestured toward the open chair, forcing a smile. “Screwdriver, right?”

  “Make it a slow-screw-up-against-the-wall,” Kurt winked again and high-fived “Zander.”

  “Screw yourself,” she said under her breath. “Alexander, could you come with me to the bar?” When they were out of earshot, she grabbed him by the arm and asked, ”What are you doing here?”

  “Kurt told you.” He looked smug. “I’m his assistant.”

  “And what exactly do you assist him with?” she shot back. “His homework?”

  “Not exactly.” He smirked. “Not that Alley-Oop doesn’t need help. Let’s just say I fill his prescriptions.” Alexander laughed his annoying high-pitched snicker. “I don’t suppose you’ve got my paper hidden under that dress?” She rolled her eyes and wished she could wipe the shit-eating grin off the arrogant little weasel’s face.

  “You didn’t read it, did you?” He sneered at her.

  “Excuse me miss, could you be a sweetheart and pour me a couple of fingers of Lagavulin?” Distracted, she’d forgotten to give Mr. Schilling his drink.

  “Of course, I’ll be right there.” Nicholas Schilling III was the only son of some billionaire Manhattan media mogul. He’d just moved to town and liked to drink expensive single-malt scotch, neat, of course. Lolita had instructed her to be especially attentive to him so she could cultivate him for one of the regular slots.

  “Yeah, sweetheart,” Jack said, “how about you pour me a whole hand?”

  She tottered from the bar to the table, a drink in each hand, trying not to fall off the Gucci’s. Handing Jack a water glass full of scotch, she said, “Here, that should last you a while.” He nodded and smiled.

  As she bent to set Schilling’s drink on the table, her heel slipped, and she grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. “Excuse me, Mr. Schilling,” she said trying to balance on the five-inch platforms.

  “Please call me Nick,” he said, turning to flash a billion-dollar smile. “You aren’t Lolita.”

  “Are you always so observant Mr. Schilling?” She couldn’t help herself. She was wearing a sticky black dress balancing on chopsticks, she hadn’t eaten anything all day except a slice of leftover pizza for breakfast, and this rich bastard was treating her like a waitress.

  “Only when it comes to the obvious. What’s your name?” Nick grinned. “And what’s that perfume? You smell delicious.”

  “Jessica James.” She white-knuckled the back of his chair for support. “Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino.”

  “Jessica James, Cinnamon Dolce, glad to meet you.” He extended his hand.

  When she released the chair to take his hand, she fell forward right into Nick’s arms. “Spicy and sweet,” he said as he stood to set her back on her feet, “my favorite.” Another strap popped off Lolita’s platforms as she stumbled backward, until grabbing onto one of Nick’s arms, she steadied herself, and he pulled her toward him. Confronted head on, his handsome features startled her. His blue eyes were framed by long dark lashes and arched brows, and his angular chin sported just enough stubble to offset his prettiness.

  Cheeks burning, she fought a nearly irresistible urge to touch his wavy chestnut hair. It looked so soft. His scent, citrus and juniper mixed with expensive single malt, made her light-headed, and she thought she might barf. He was still holding onto each of her arms, looking directly into her eyes, when Vance’s voice broke through the haze.

  “Hey Romeo, you gonna play cards or play paddy-cake?”

  “Hey, sweet and salty,” Jack said, with a sly smile. “How about some snacks over here? Stacking the deck makes me hungry.” She would have kicked him under the table if she could have balanced on one spiked heel.

  Vance shot him a dirty look. “You better not be stacking the deck, friend.”

  The room had gotten too hot and Jessica needed a drink. She hobbled back to the bar and made a strong whiskey and Coke with plenty of ice.

  She was enjoying her first mouthful when Charles Henrotin, the richest and most important man in the game, asked for another cocktail. He was the Head of the Stock Exchange, a tall man with a neat mustache. She made him a Manhattan just the way he liked it, shaken in a cocktail shaker, Peychaud’s Bitters and a dash of Maraschino cherry juice to “sweeten the pot.” She smiled politely at the old man’s joke. After she had refreshed everyone’s cocktails, she returned to her own. Ah, nothing like a Jack-n-Coke to take the edge of a nerve-wrecking evening.

  Alexander was hovering around the bar, and when she tried to swat him away, he started grilling her again her about his final paper. As if on cue, Nick called her over to the table. “Sit next to me for luck, Cinnamon Dolce.”

  “Lolita doesn’t allow…” she stammered unsure of what made her more nervous, Alexander’s grade-grubbing or Nick’s icy-blues.

  “As we’ve already established,” Nick interrupted, “she isn’t here. Sit down. I won’t bite, I promise.” He leaned back, reached for the extra chair, and dragged it over to the table next to him.

  She staggered to his side, wondering why he’d mentioned biting her. Thankfully, the Frappuccino had made her skintight dress more forgiving as she levered herself into the chair next to him. With one hand, he moved the chair closer until her bare arm brushed against his burgundy wool blazer.

  The quarterback and the actor were going head to head over a monster pot, when actor Vance Hamm went all in. “Since you’re new, I’ll give you a break,” he said. “I’ve got the nuts on this one, pal. So you probably want to fold.”

  Kurt looked dubious. “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

  “I swear to God, kid. I swear on my mother’s grave that you don’t want to call this hand,” Vance chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “Unless you want to lose that hefty signing bonus.”

  When Kurt shrugged and threw his cards into the middle of the table, Vance laughed demonically and flipped his hole cards over to show a measly pair of threes. Kurt easily had him beat with two pair. She’d seen Vance pull off this bluff before. He was an actor for Christ’s sake. Kurt lunged over the table. “Why you little dickhead!”

  “Dinner will be delivered soon.” Jessica tried to distract the agitated players. “Would you guys like to take a break?”

  “Hell no! We’re just get
ting started.” Vance danced away from the table to avoid the quarterback’s grasp.

  Jessica downed the rest of her Jack-and-Coke. “Anybody wannaother,” she drawled. The slur in her words caught her off guard. She’d only had one drink, so she couldn’t be drunk, but when she stood up to get more cocktails, she was queasy. She tried to hold onto the chair, but brought it down on top of herself as she crashed to the floor. She scrambled to get up, but the room was spinning. Lolita would be furious. She’d ruined the game.

  Kurt the quarterback rushed over to her and sliding his thick arms under her back, scooped her up off the floor in one smooth movement. “She’s drunk. I’ll see little miss gets home okay.” He headed towards the door cradling her in his arms, and Alexander trailed behind. Struggling, she tried to free herself from his grip, but everything was hazy as if she were looking through a thick cloud of her mom’s cigarette smoke back home sitting at the red Formica kitchen table in the rundown trailer park.

  “What the…Are we playing poker or not?” Vance threw his cards on the table.

  “I think the game is over for tonight,” Nick said, stepping between Kurt and the door. “I’ll take Miss James home.”

  “I’ve got it covered, pal.”

  “I don’t think so, pal.” Nick pulled a tiny gun from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Okay, dude. She’s all yours,” Kurt said as he dropped her. She hit the floor with a hard thud. The impact should have hurt, except it didn’t. Like a spectator watching a movie, nothing was actually happening to her but to someone else, someone who only looked like her from above.

  “In my book, the man with the gun, no matter how small, always gets the girl,” Jack said, throwing the rest of the deck into the middle of the table.

  The last thing Jessica heard before she passed out was Vance yelling. “This friggin’ takes the cake. I’m calling the poker Tsarina right now. She’s got some explaining to do.” Then, everything went black.