by Gina LaManna
“Sick,” I said, unable to help myself. Neither of the lovebirds noticed.
“An Italian not close to his family? I don’t buy it.” Carlos shook his head.
I stomped my foot. Nobody could infuriate me like Carlos. “We’re in the twenty-first century. There are all sorts of different types of family. There are gay people, mixed race marriages, adopted children. There’s the Internet and cell phones, and, for crying out loud ,Google! Without the THE! And shit is a friggin’ word, of course it’s accepted.”
My outburst had pulled Butch’s lips away from his lady friends’, and he gaped open mouthed at the exchange. Auntie Nora blushed a shade of crimson as she watched from the corner.
With a voice like ice – steely and unemotional – Carlos spoke slowly. “You shouldn’t see him again.”
“What? You can’t say that! It’s not up to you who I date and who I go out with. You’re not my parents. You’re my boss – and that has nothing to do with my personal life.”
My shouts went unanswered as Carlos moved to the living room for his post lunch shot of Grappa and espresso during his favorite radio program.
I turned to the quiet, shocked kitchen. “Auntie Nora, I can’t bring anybody over. I’m not bringing Andrey this evening if he’s going to act like that again.”
Auntie Nora came over and gave me a squeeze. Her head came up to about my shoulders, but she was plump and cuddly and gave some of the best hugs in town.
“You don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of that man. You just show up and we’ll have a nice, quiet dinner.” With a firm, feisty expression, Nora patted me on shoulder and marched off in search of Carlos.
“Well, I’ll see you later.” I gave a finger wave to Butch and company as I headed out the front door to the sound of muffled voices coming from the living room. One of them was Nora’s, and she did not sound happy.
I had work to do before my dinner date with Andrey.
** **
“Why was Carlos so suspicious of him?” I moaned to Clay at the laundromat.
Clay looked up from the computer. It wasn’t his day to work, but he’d agreed to cover for Nicky. Clarissa or Marissa had gotten sick and Nicky needed either a babysitter or a cover for the laundromat, and Clay had made the obvious choice.
“Beats me.” He shook his head. “Surprising. Even though Carlos is a nutcase and an asshole – not in that order – he’s usually a good judge of character.”
“You liked Michael, didn’t you?” I hated the feeling of misgiving creeping up in my stomach. I was a twenty-eight (nine) year old woman. I shouldn’t care what my lunatic grandfather thought of my choice in men. Especially when I wasn’t even dating them. People seemed to keep forgetting that fact.
Clay scrunched his nose and peered closer at the screen. “Look at this.”
I crept forward fully aware he hadn’t answered my question. But when I saw the screen, my question was blown away into smithereens.
Clay had pulled up some forum, all in Russian, that seemed to be a Wanted type of list. And at the top was a face I recognized from my first night dressed in the sexy baby onesie. “That’s Andrey’s Uncle.”
Clay nodded grimly and hit a few buttons to translate the page into English. Thanks to Google, we were able to read an incredibly poor translation of the site. But the garbled bits we took away weren’t good.
“Vadim Mikhaylova – age sixty-two – Wanted For: the murder of multiple babies-” he read out loud. “What? Is this right?”
I looked over his shoulder, not sure how I could help translate. I didn’t read or speak or understand a bit of Russian. “Oh, that word means bimbo. It’s mistranslated. Wanted for the murders of multiple hookers,” I clarified.
Clay raised his eyebrow.
“It’s similar to the Italian word for prostitute,” I mumbled, not wanting to explain exactly how I came to know the Russian word for hooker.
“This list goes on for a long, long time,” Clay scrolled through multiple pages of notes. I caught a few words here and there: weapons trafficking – shooting – anti-government – Russian Mafia – America.
“So, we’ve got ourselves a winner,” I said.
“I don’t know about that.” Clay looked up. “This guy is dangerous. But he’s also not the mole. He’s in way too deep.”
“But he’d make the perfect mole! He’s at the top so he’d be able to tumble the whole Bratva ring in Uptown.”
Clay grimaced. “Something’s just not right about that. Why would he have been talking about the mole like he was the other night?”
I opened my mouth to offer a reason, but Clay silenced me with a finger. “Lacey, you didn’t hear this guy. Our man Vadim was pissed. Like absolutely about to lose his shit furious.”
“Hmmmm.” I tapped my thumb against my lips. “Maybe I’ll ask Andrey about his Uncle tonight. See if he has anything to say about it.”
“I think you should cancel tonight.”
“What? No.” I gave him an openly shocked look. “It’s our best chance to get another lead. What else do you have?”
“We could stake out Vadim’s house and see what happens instead.”
“Oh,” I grinned. “You will.”
He nodded. “I’ve been priming my baby for the occasion. But promise me you’ll be safe and smart with Andrey.”
“I’ll be with Carlos. His house is the safest in the city. What can happen in a house with bulletproof windows, an army that could kick America’s ass and an arsenal that rivals Cuba’s in your basement?”
Clay gave a hesitant nod and dropped the subject, but the uneasiness in his face matched the queasiness in my stomach.
** **
I left the laundromat having totally forgotten to ask him about Anthony. The shooting the previous evening seemed so long ago with everything that’d happened since. I debated going to the gym, but took a detour home first. I wasn’t up for a workout. Or a confrontation. I’d had enough of both recently.
I opened my door and ignored the bullet holes in the hallway. I dumped some food in Tupac’s bowl, even though he didn’t come out to so much as mew a hello. I migrated towards my room, and whether it was lack of sleep or over eating or all the workouts I’d been doing the last few days, I collapsed onto my bed. I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was dark already and nearing 7:30.
“SHIT!” I yelped. “DINNER.”
I had missed messages on my phone, but no time to check them. The only one I opened was from Andrey, which read SEE YOU SOON!
As an afterthought I opened the one from Clay also, which said: HANGING W THE OLD MAN. G-LUCK.
We rarely used code, but I figured this was his attempt at telling me he was set in position at Andrey’s Uncle’s place. For all Clay knew, I was already at dinner and Andrey was lurking over my shoulder, off-handedly reading my messages.
I rushed into the bathroom to fluff my hair and swipe on some lipstick before I rushed to my Kia – my yellow sweatshirt still loyally waiting in the front seat – and drove to Carlos’ house. I pulled into the driveway with a bad case of déjà vu.
I heard an engine behind me and turned to see Andrey put his car in park a few feet back. He opened the door, but missed the first time he reached to shut it. His hands trembled.
“Hey, you,” I said. I was determined to put him at ease. Determined the second family extravaganza would be better than the first. “Don’t be nervous. They’re excited to meet you.”
I grabbed his hands in mine. He was shaking so heavily that I worried he was having some sort of weird seizure. “Uh, you okay?”
“Y-yes,” he said in his accent. “Very good. Thank you for invited me. Your family.”
It seemed his English worsened the more nervous he felt, and I prayed upon any and every god that Carlos would leave Andrey’s accented speech alone.
“Come on in.” I took his hand firmly and led him inside, waving to Harold and whizzing past the guards with a razor sharp tongue. My stomach had fi
lled again with butterflies banging against my ribcage, and I was filled with the sudden and overwhelming realization that I had no idea whose hand I was holding. Some stranger that’d given me a ride to an apartment he thought was my home when he thought I was drunk? Everything I’d told him had been a lie. I felt a sudden desire to turn around and rush through the door crashed over my head like a broken egg. What had I gotten myself into? And why had I dragged Andrey into it with me?
I was hardly appeased as Auntie Nora whipped the door open with a false smile, her lipstick touched up, cheeks re-polished and hair re-puffed. “Welcome!”
I led Andrey into the kitchen and the sight seemed eerily staged. Butch and his lady friend stared blankly, Nora bustled to the corner where she stirred a bubbling pot of gravy and Carlos leaned back and sipped his limoncello easily, a keen eye cast in our direction. It was as if they hadn’t moved all afternoon. Not that I’d moved either (once I’d reached my bed), but still.
Andrey bowed his head and murmured “Hello” at the floor.
“This is Andrey,” I said loudly. “He was nice enough to give me a ride home the other day. I invited him over for dinner as a thank you.”
I smiled at Andrey, who gave me a watery grin in return, still not making eye contact with anyone in the room
“How nice,” Auntie Nora gushed. “Sit down, sit down. Food’s ready.”
We sat. We ate. Talk didn’t wander into a dangerous territory until the cookie platter was unearthed.
We’d passed the time querying Butch’s lady friend about where she’d flown during her stint as a flight attendant, probably back in the day where her hair was natural and her wrinkles ironed out. The conversation was equally boring and safe.
Carlos had behaved. He’d even refrained from giving Andrey the death-stare throughout dinner, despite his Russian heritage. Carlos had simply sized him up, gave a curt nod and dug into dinner, apparently more interested in the linguine than any of us, which worked quite well for me.
But it was my fault. It was like an itch I just needed to scratch even though I knew it’d puncture the wound. It was irresistible. The question bubbled and simmered inside like the pasta sauce on the stove until I couldn’t control it anymore.
“So, do you live with your Uncle?” I asked Andrey.
Andrey looked up, surprised that a question had been directed his way. Was it fear that caused his hands to shake? Nerves? His spoon clattered to the plate drawing a curious gaze from Carlos.
I quickly hurried to clarify. “I saw you come home with them the night I met you, and I thought I heard you call him Uncle, but I could be wrong.”
“Yes. I live with my Uncle.” He turned his head back to his plate.
“What does your Uncle do?” I asked.
Carlos gave me a curious stare. Andrey lifted his head looking positively frightened.
“Lacey, don’t pressure him,” Carlos said. “You don’t have to answer, Andrey. She’s prying.”
What? I shot my grandfather the most confused, disgruntled look I could form on my face. Since when was he all for making our guests comfortable? Was he trying to make my job more difficult? It dawned on me – he was trying to make things difficult. That was just like Carlos – throwing wrenches and obstacles in my task just for kicks and giggles. Or could it be possible, however miniscule the chances were, that Carlos respected this guy?
I opened my mouth to say something. I didn’t yet know what, when my phone vibrated against my leg. I peeked under the table as Auntie Nora swooped in to save the day asking Andrey if he’d heard of a game on The Google called Words With Friends.
I managed a glimpse of the message without drawing attention to myself. It was from Clay.
MAYDAY. TXT WHEN UR ALONE.
“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I blurted.
Auntie Nora nodded with a confused look. “Good job.”
She turned back to Andrey to finish explaining this mysterious, virtual scrabble board.
Once in the bathroom I texted Clay:
KK. GO.
His response was immediate:
GET OUT OF THERE. DROP ANDY OFF. UNK IS BAD GUY.
I texted back:
OF COURSE HE IS. WE KNOW. SO?
Clay: UNK MEETING WITH MIKE. NOW. BAD NEWS. GET DREY AWAY.
What? Was I interpreting that right? Uncle was meeting with Michael? That was impossible. Michael had no Russian blood in him. In fact he had nothing to do with Russians except that he liked to bet on sports with them once in awhile, which wasn’t a crime. Well, it was, but not a bad one on a scale of minor to unforgivable.
What could it mean if Uncle and Michael knew each other? I was tempted to loop Andrey into the whole thing to see if he had any insights, but that was too dangerous if he was living with Uncle Vadim. I didn’t know their relationship. I reminded myself once more that both Michael and Andrey were essentially strangers, and I needed to stop treating them like we were dating. ‘Cause we weren’t.
I poked my head out into the hallway while I typed a response to Clay. I stopped typing when I heard Andrey’s voice.
He announced, shaky but firmly, “I tell you something. I need to say something. Yes? Is very, very important. How you say it? Critical.”
I listened up, assuming he was addressing Carlos. I forgot all about my response to Clay and crept closer to the kitchen. I stuck my head around the corner just in time to see Carlos nod, giving the green light to whatever Andrey had to say.
The next thing I knew my phone vibrated and pinged. Andrey looked at me with wild, terrified eyes and Carlos glanced up with that thoughtful, calculating expression once more. Then a BOOM filled the air so forcefully I felt as if my ear drums had been banged right out of my ears. Almost instantaneously a plume of fire erupted from the driveway. The kitchen turned into pandemonium: Andrey lunged for me and dragged me to the floor – Nora ducked as her wine glass shattered and her spatula flew across the kitchen. Butch cowered behind his lady friend. It was only Carlos who approached the windows and looked outside.
“Get down!” I shouted. “They might shoot!”
Carlos shot me a curious expression. “Bulletproof.”
He turned back to the window and watched the driveway.
Harold entered the kitchen and bowed deeply. “Sir, there’s been an explosion.”
“Thank you, Harold. The guards will take care of it.” Carlos nodded at the Butler.
Harold gave me a wink – I swear nothing phased that man – and backed out of the kitchen.
“Whose car is it?” I asked as we slowly climbed to our feet. Nora brushed her dress and went to get a mop. Butch and his lady friend resumed eating. Andrey looked shocked that we could maintain any semblance of normal life after an explosion. Hey – it wasn’t everyday things got blown up and people shot at – but it was definitely a hazard of the job. Plus, Carlos’ house was an absolute rock of safety.
“Oh, nooo,” I whimpered. “My Kia.”
“Yours?” Andrey’s eyes flew open wider than I’d thought possible. “No.”
“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have invited you over. It’s complicated.”
“It is not me.” Andrey put his hands on my shoulder. He looked imploringly at Carlos. “I am not the mole. You and I, we understand loyalty. Do you understand me? I need to leave now. To keep your granddaughter safe.”
To my surprise, Carlos reached out and shook the Russian’s hand. Andrey watched his own hand move up and down, looking as if he was watching a movie that he was unaware he was in.
Then, he turned towards the door and strode outside. My car smoldered in the driveway, but Andrey ran right past it and jumped into his car.
Carlos’ cell phone rang. He answered it.
“Let him go,” he spoke into the phone.
Seconds later, Andrey pulled out of the estate.
I looked mournfully at Carlos. “I’ll never get married at this rate.”
Carlos strode a
round the outskirts of his stronghold looking as if he was thinking hard. “Go after him, then.”
“What?” I asked, incredulous.
And then he handed me the keys to his Bentley, and I knew he was serious.
I rushed outside and into the car and wheeled out the driveway. As I passed my car I saw a yellow bit of fabric float up into the breeze.
“NO!” I wailed again. “My favorite sweatshirt.”
“It’s alright, der, Lacey. Least you’re not blown up to smithereens, right Layla?” Butch pecked Layla on the cheek.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
We’re coming with,” Butch said. “I promised Layla here I’d show her a bit of action.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t come.”
“Nora said we can, and it’s her car,” Butch said.
I blew out a long, long breath.
Moments later I whipped onto the streets and tried to guess which way Andrey might have gone, mourning equally my blown-up car and my fried yellow sweatshirt.
Chapter 17
As I drove across town, I felt like a cabby giving a ride to two hormone-crazed teenagers who’d just discovered the joys of a sloppy make out session. I turned the car in the direction of his Uncle’s house. It was the only place I could think of that he might turn to at a time like this. Once again, I knew nothing about the man. A few blocks away I reluctantly skidded to a stop at a light. I flipped off the mind-numbingly slow van turning right in front of me, not realizing until a minute later that it was Clay. I began honking like a crazy woman until he pulled over.
“Where are you going?” I asked breathlessly.
“I didn’t get any response from you,” Clay said, rolling the window down. “And that jerk Andrey just came wheeling into the driveway like a maniac. I left to go see what went down at Carlos’.”
“Well, I need to talk to him,” I said grimly. “Carlos’ orders.”
“Is Carlos crazy? He’s trying to get you killed!” Clay waved at an irate soccer mom in a minivan as she honked relentlessly.
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “I think he’s trying to help. Andrey was about to tell Carlos something really important, and then my car blew up and he ran away.”
