Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1)

by Gina LaManna

  “Don,” I called, pushing open the door. “I need a bathroom.”

  “Sorry, Kiddo, it’s busted in there.” Don, a man sturdier than a solid oak bookshelf and with about as many words printed on his body, wiped a low ball glass.

  “Like, honestly.” I bent in half. “Don, I swear to God I’m not picky. I’ll take a sink. A hole in the ground. You name it.”

  “It busted an hour ago, girlie,” Don said. “There’s shit and sewage all over the place. You’re better off pissin’ outside.”

  “Do you see what I’m wearing?” I squealed. “Impossible.”

  “In boca al lupo,” Don and a few others yelled after me as I waddled from the bar.

  I’d need it, I thought. The saying meant ‘water in the mouth’ in Italian, which somehow transferred to Good Luck. Now was not the time for me to ponder why. There was a response I was supposed to call back – kind of like when someone says Knock Knock, you say Who’s There? But all of my bodily resources were going towards keeping my stomach from exploding, and exactly zero percent was going to my brain.

  “Yes,” I gasped aloud. “Drug store.”

  I pushed open the door to the CVS that was a few buildings further down the street.

  I reached the register and put one hand on my hip and one hand on the checkout lane. I tried to smile, which came out as a grimace, and I knew I was failing catastrophically at looking ‘normal.’

  “Could I use your bathroom key?” I asked, my voice cracking with effort.

  “Sorry, you have to be a customer.” The bored night clerk eyed me like he might a three-day-old banana peel stuck to his shoe.

  “I am! I come here all the time. I get my birth control pills here.” I smiled.

  The man scrunched his nose, as if he didn’t believe I was in any danger of getting pregnant or needing birth control in the slightest.

  “I don’t always look like this.” I gestured towards my unconventional attire. “I promise.”

  “Sorry,” he drawled. “No beans.”

  “Fucking beans!” I said, much too loudly. Okay, it bordered on yelling. I revised my tone and spoke at a low, even pitch. “I need a bathroom, pretty, pretty please.”

  The man just rolled his lips outward and shook his head ‘no way.’

  I gimped away from the drug store. There was one place left on the block – a gas station. But it’s darkened windows and ‘Cl s d’ sign spelled out my dismal future.

  “Fine,” I said to the world. “Have it your way. You asked for it, Mother Earth. I tried to be polite.”

  Making my way back to the van, I scouted high and low for decent cover. But as this was a fairly residential area without much foliage, I was pretty much out of luck.

  The one decent sized hedge was located at the boundary between Andrey’s place and his neighbor’s. Exhaling my breath but still holding in everything else, I crossed the street and made my way nonchalantly towards the hedge, but by now I was walking like a ninety-year-old woman after hip surgery. My bladder was full to bursting. When I made it safely across the street without seeing a single person, I decided to forgo any thoughts of subtlety and jog-limped to the bushes. I crouched down on the side furthest from Andrey’s house, and then stood up quickly realizing my mistake.

  I was wearing one-piece pajamas, which didn’t exactly lend themselves to easily squatting to take care of business.

  I groaned, but I really didn’t have a choice. My jaunt across the street had made the liquid in my bladder swirly, and I was either going to pee or vomit. There was no other alternative.

  I un-zipped myself and stuck one leg out in the darkest corner of the bushes, bent my knees and balanced like a champ. An audible sigh escaped my lips.

  Until – voices sounded behind me.

  “Do you hear that?” a man’s thick accent spoke at the same time a car door slammed shut. I hadn’t even heard the car approach, I’d been so concerned about my stomach issues.

  As painful as it was to stop Operation Free Lacey’s Bladder, I did it. I couldn’t risk my sugar bomb coffee ruining the whole stake out. So, I bit the bullet. I aborted Operation Relief and stuck with Project Camouflage.

  I cleaned up quickly with the Kleenex I’d nabbed from my purse and zipped myself up until the zipper reached the stubborn snag. I crouched behind the bushes and tried to make myself invisible.

  “A dog? You think?” A different voice said, this one higher pitched.

  “I think, maybe. Go, look.”

  “Just a dog, Vadim.”

  “Be careful – no names. You no know who’s hearing us.”

  I heard the other man cluck his tongue quietly, but he refrained from speaking. I caught a glimpse of them. The younger man was definitely Andrey. I’d stared enough at that blonde hair, blue eyes and nice body to know him anywhere. The other man was short and stout, a thick, grizzly mustache masking most of his features.

  And then – oh no. Andrey turned and walked straight towards me. He shuffled his feet slowly, only headed my way to appease the older gentleman.

  I held my breath as the Russian poked around on the far side of the bushes, half-heartedly kicking his feet in the underbrush as if trying to scare away a mouse. I dared not move a muscle.

  Mercifully, he turned around and headed back towards the house. I exhaled my breath – but carefully, since I still kind of had to go to the bathroom.

  “Other side,” the old man instructed, his eyes peering suspiciously at the bushes.

  Andrey turned around and walked backwards, his eye roll only apparent from my direction.

  He drew close and my heart thumped, feeling like it was going to bust up my zipper even more than it already was. His footsteps crunched the dried leaves on the ground, and the seriousness of what was about to happen hit me suddenly. I couldn’t let myself be caught by these men. Who knew what they’d do to me for information. Information that I didn’t even know!

  In a snap, I decided to be proactive. Sitting here in silence would look suspicious – so naturally, I turned, stuck my butt out at the oncoming Andrey and made the most disgusting barfing noises I possibly could produce.

  I stood and turned around just as Andrey jogged around the hedge, staring at me with those wide, clear eyes.

  “Howwwdy, there. I’m Lacey.” I slurred my words and stuck my hand out for a shake. I stumbled as I took a step forward.

  Andrey’s eyes traveled towards my chest-region, and I realized that while I’d been bent over the paperclip had popped open and exposed my bra to the world. He coughed and looked away, his eyes averted like a shy kindergartener.

  “Jacket?” He shrugged off his expensive looking leather jacket.

  “Nahhhh. Late night for youuuu, toooo?” I giggled as if I was the most hilarious thing to happen to the universe.

  “Party!” I did a little dance, and then immediately remembered that if I’d actually just vomited, the last thing I’d be doing is flouncing around like a sorority girl bubbly on champagne. I was a better actor than that. I quickly focused on a time when Blake and I had made mini White Russian drinks and took them like shots. We hadn’t moved from bed for two days – except to take turns vomiting and then showering. It was not a pretty snapshot in the life of Lacey Luzzi.

  I wobbled a little on my feet and tried to wink at Andrey, but I let my eye droop lazily, and as I stumbled forward, I let my hand grab him lightly around his wrist. When I was drunk, I was best friends with quite literally everyone in the world.

  “Hi,” I cooed. “I’m really sorry, I’m not normally like this.” I blinked slowly, and offered a shy smile. “I promise you. The night just slipped away from me, and…”

  I trailed off, as if feeling dazed. Then, I remembered my place. “You know how it goes?” I offered up a flirty laugh. “I’m so sorry. I owe you about a million dollars for being nice to me. A million bagillion.”

  I gave a firm nod.

  Andrey’s mouth hung open slightly until a sharp voice called, “What
is it?”

  “Iz just a drunk girl,” Andrey said. “Probably lost her directions.”

  “Lovely accent,” I said. “Is it Australian?”

  “Russian,” he said. “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I live in the neighborhood.” I gestured vaguely. “Just went to a costume party and took a detour home.”

  I gave him a cheesy smile.

  In exchange, he gave me a confused look. “What you are?”

  “Huh?”

  “What. Costume. You. Are?”

  “Oh, uh. I’m a… baby. Get it?” I stuck my thumb in my mouth.

  “Sexy baby.” He smiled, eyes twinkling.

  I wrinkled my nose, feeling like the translation had been faulty somewhere along the line.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “I’m going home now.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Uh, no.” I shook my head. “Thanks though. I can walk. Fresh air, you know.”

  I knew this man was probably a terrible mobster who’d done lots of bad things; for crying out loud he had on a leather jacket that nobody with a nine to five could afford, and the black backpack strapped to his arms was too clean and crisp to have ever been used as a satchel or a man purse, or even hiking gear. His shoes were expensive, even though they had white crap sprinkled over the toes – wait a second. White powder? I resisted the urge to lick my finger and wipe it against his shoes and taste it to see if it was some of ‘the good stuff.’

  But then I looked up and both my stomach and my heart were twirled in a kaleidoscope of confusion – his eyes were so sweet, and darn it he had manners! Why did all the good ones have to be evil these days?

  “No, I drive you.”

  “Ummm,” I hesitated, looking frantically towards the van. Clay’s face was plastered to the window, his head dwarfed by the monster headphones. I shrugged in his direction. Clay’s face turned a shade of white I thought possible only for cadavers.

  “Come.” Andrey led me back, and I took the opportunity to study the backpack strapped to his shoulders. It was dark as the pupils of his handsome eyes, and as clean as his shoes were dirty. There were no logos or identifiers on the outside, the perfect bag to transport stolen goods, I thought. As we approached the front of the yard, I noticed another figure stepping out of the car in which they’d arrived. He looked oddly similar to Andrey, and I did a quick double take to make sure I wasn’t actually as drunk as I was pretending. I swung my head back and forth – nope – not dizzy enough, I was definitely sober.

  “I’ll be back, Vadim,” Andrey said.

  “No,” the man growled. “She’s trash. Leave her. Come inside.”

  “We’ll finish this later,” Andrey said. He took of the backpack around his shoulders and handed it to Vadim. After a flurry of Russian, Vadim shot me a piercing look. The man that looked like he could be Andrey’s twin approached Vadim and whispered in his ear. Vadim snapped back and the man slunk inside the house.

  Then, Vadim gave Andrey a tongue lashing punctuated with fast, staccato words as sharp as if he’d taken out a whip and rapped it against the cement.

  Andrey looked away, and again I was taken by his quiet defiance. Instead of shouting back at Vadim, he muttered a soft phrase in Russian. I was trembling in my onesie, but Andrey showed no sign of fear or intimidation, but at the same time, his relaxed stance and averted eyes showed no signs of confrontation, either.

  Vadim eventually retreated to the town home, casting a murderous glance over his shoulder. I couldn’t help but smile at Andrey as he lightly touched my elbow and guided me easily into his shiny black car, a far cry from my banged up Kia.

  “Could I turn the heat on?” I asked, forgetting that I was supposed to have a drunken blanket on.

  “Yes. Seat heat buns.” He smiled proudly.

  I nodded, confused. However after a few seconds sitting in awkward silence while he stared at me expectantly, I smiled.

  “Yep, my butt is getting hot.” I gave him the thumbs up. “Thanks.”

  “Hot butt.” He smiled again.

  Wow, that smile was cute. If he wasn’t my enemy…

  Andrey put the car in drive and looked at me expectantly.

  “OH. That way.” I gestured again for him to drive straight. I had no idea where I was taking myself. It was possible I could try to find Meg, but she’d still be closing up at the bar. I wracked thoughts for other options. However, all productive brain activity halted when I noticed the huge, white van following us, its brakes squeaking at every turn.

  I needed to distract him. “Who was that other guy? He looked related.”

  “Yes. My brother.” Andrey didn’t look happy, and didn’t expand.

  I let it pass – I knew how difficult Family things could be, first hand. I didn’t pry.

  Andrey’s eyebrows scrunched closer together as Clay whipped through a red light to keep on our tail. I winced, telling myself I’d have to give him a lesson on how to properly follow a moving vehicle without waving red flags and shouting ‘Here I Am.’

  An idea popped into my head. I knew where to go. “Take a left, then a right.”

  But Andrey wasn’t listening. His face was contorted in concentration, and instead of turning left, he whipped a u-turn and sped off in the opposite direction. I subconsciously patted my pockets, thinking I could dial Clay and leave the phone on so he could hear my directions, but realized with a sinking sensation in stomach that I’d left it in the front seat of the car, back when I’d gone out to do my business, so long ago.

  “What are you doing?” I gripped the sides of the car as he raced through an alley, knocking a garbage can on its side.

  “We have company.”

  I stared at him, wondering if all of his English would be drawn straight from movie quotes.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to do this. I know practically everybody in the Twin Cities. I grew up here. I’m sure it’s just a friend being stupid.”

  He glanced at me, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

  For a moment, my heart froze. What if he knew who I was? What if he was taking me somewhere to lock me away forever? How had he found out?

  When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I will get my beautiful girl home safely.”

  “Aww, honey, how sweet of you!” I gushed. I fanned myself. Honestly, this guy.

  Andrey whipped in and out of the alleys of Minneapolis, apologizing every time he saw my hand reach for the stabilizer. Soon enough, Clay was nowhere to be seen.

  ** **

  “Now, where are you going?” he asked. He leaned over and rested his hand on my leg. Or rather, my furry knee. I picked a few stray leaves out of my quickly deteriorating onesie.

  His English was better than I’d initially thought – it was just the tough idiosyncrasies of the English language that tripped him up. But then again, didn’t the subtleties of English screw us all up at one time or another?

  I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye and began giving him directions to my ex-boyfriend’s house. Blake and I had parted on less than stellar terms a few years before, but like everyone, we ran into each other once in awhile in the bar scene, which would end in a sloppy hook up about fifty percent of the time. He’d been my introduction to bad boys – a sports car driving, music bumping, jersey wearing, tattooed vice for nearly two years.

  He was the closest person to this area, and the only person I felt comfortable enough with breaking into their place to use the phone. If he happened to be out, well, I knew the loose windows from experience.

  When we pulled up in front of the post-college dwelling, Andrey didn’t even blink an eye.

  “Welp, thanks!” I pulled the handle to swing the door open. It was locked. “Uh…”

  “I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he said. His sweet smile contradicted his firm words. I was extremely confused. Was this guy one of the bad eggs? Or did he just not speak English very well and did not understand that trapping people in their car was
kidnapping?

  “Will you date me?” he asked.

  “Go… on a date?” I asked.

  “Yes. Date. With your hot buns.”

  I smiled. I knew I shouldn’t. But when he said hot buns I just wanted to give him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. If that should lead to something else, well so be it. Plus, it could give me a one-of-a-kind insider’s perspective on the Russian mob. “I’d really like that.”

  “Really?”

  Before I could correct myself and tell him ‘Sorry, but I don’t date strange mobsters,’ he lifted my hand and kissed it gently. His lips were soft.

  “I should go now,” I said, yanking my eyes from his.

  “No.” His eyes darkened. He exited the car, walking around to the other side and pulling my door open. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have such great manners. Most Americans believe chivalry is dead.”

  He nodded, but it was obvious he didn’t understand a segment of what I’d said. Language barrier, I reminded myself. Chivalry was a three-syllable toughie.

  “I’ll walk you up,” he said.

  “No – that’s not necessary.” I freed myself from his grasp.

  “Okay, then. I watch til you get safe inside. I stand here.”

  “Perfect.” My pulse raced. “What a sweetheart.”

  He smiled again and I walked towards the door. How I’d get inside, I had no idea. Even if Blake answered, how would I explain myself in two seconds, so that Andrey didn’t suspect it wasn’t my house?

  I pounded on the door. Knowing Blake, he’d be on the verge of a hangover. It would take a herd of elephants to rouse him from bed.

  I pounded again, offering a weak smile up to Andrey. I waved my fingers.

  “Roommate,” I called back to the Russian. I shrugged my shoulders. “I left my keys at the bar… dumb mistake.”

  He nodded with a patience I found rare in men.

  I pounded again. “Blake, open up.”