by Ryan Schow
Atlas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Neuromelanin? Vampire’s Kiss? Blood elixirs? Has everyone lost their freaking minds?
“So you just grab kids and drain a…a gland or something?”
“You terrorize them, get their adrenaline going.”
“You’re telling me these people drink children’s adrenaline?”
He nodded, but then he said, “Not people. Monsters.”
“Why?”
“You assholes are so preoccupied with staying young, having your boners long after you need them, and with torturing and raping kids. It makes sense for Vanko to try to make money with VK. Dasha, too. Maybe.”
“He sells VK to Americans?”
He laughed and said, “It’s the newest thing. First the pet rock, now this. In America, they say there is a sucker born every minute. America is full of suckers. Europe, too.”
“What happens to the children after you do this to them? Drain their pineal gland?”
Mykola shrugged his shoulders as if he didn’t know and didn’t care.
“You’re being serious right now? This is for real?”
“There is a black market for anything. In America, it is for fetuses, girls, guns, drugs—you name it, there is a market for it. We know about you. We don’t mind you because you show us the way to do things here. But you are lazy, entitled, and arrogant.”
“Which makes us easy marks.”
Grabbing himself sexually, Mykola said with a growl, “This is your brain here.”
Shaking his head, Atlas turned and left. Mykola called out, “If Oleg needs me to sell again, I have lots of customers asking for more.”
Atlas jumped up, grabbed the top of the brick wall, and started to pull himself over the ledge. But then a gunshot rang out and something bit into his calf. He dropped back down into the yard, rolled out of the fall, then went prone and fired two suppressed rounds into Mykola’s gut.
The man hunched over, a small pea-shooter dropping from his hand. The Ukrainian fell over on his side, staring at Atlas with pained, surprised eyes. He put a third round into the man’s forehead.
“Son of a bitch!” he swore. Sitting up, he pulled up his pant leg, saw where the shot had notched the inside of his calf.
Stupid, he thought.
How long had he been out of law enforcement? Certainly not long enough to botch a weapons check on a scumbag he should have fleeced. He managed to get to his feet in time to see Mykola’s wife opening the door.
He recoiled from the sight of her. She was a bomb-sniffing dog if ever there was one. Looking first at him, then at her husband, she went really still. When she put those beady, ugly eyes on him, it was with a face that had become one gigantic scowl.
“Go back inside,” he told her.
Ignoring him, she walked over to Mykola’s gun, picked it up, then started to turn to Atlas.
“Don’t do it!”
She didn’t listen. Atlas pulled the trigger a fourth time. The woman’s mouth was fixed in an angry slash the minute a bullet blew her teeth out of the back of her skull.
“Dammit,” he said, cursing himself again for the sloppy weapon’s check. These were two lives he hadn’t wanted to take. Two lives he could have saved had he been more thorough. He looked at her dead body, took a moment. “I’m so sorry.”
When he turned to scale the wall again, he did so with clenched teeth. The pain in his calf was sharp enough to make him think twice. When he dropped down on the hood of the taxi, he stepped wrong, twisted the ankle on his good leg and fell off the car. He hit the ground hard, got the wind knocked out of him. Lying there in the dirt like a fish out of water, he fought through the crappiness of what just happened.
Inside the car, he thought he heard the driver laughing. When his chest loosened and he found he could breathe again, he sat up, pulled himself to his feet, then limped to his side of the cab.
“Get a good laugh?” he asked the driver as he got in.
“I am not the kind of man to laugh at other people’s pain,” he replied, stoic, “because if I did, all I would do all day was laugh. Here, there is only pain and struggle. You wouldn’t—”
“I know, I wouldn’t understand,” he said, holding up a hand for the man to stop. “Take me to Tavria V by the city center.”
The driver navigated through more run-down neighborhoods, passing by old men and overweight, sluggish women. Children were the only signs of life he saw, and it made him so sad to see them, he felt like he was having a moment.
“There are two different sides to Odessa,” the driver said, “the side you see as a tourist, and the side you don’t see because you do not live here.”
Had the city merely fallen on hard times? Did it even know what good times were? “It’s really sad seeing so much poverty,” Atlas finally said.
“We only know different when we travel to nicer countries, or when we get to see the wealthy foreigners at the beaches, spending their money like it grows on trees.”
Atlas didn’t like the driver. But the driver wasn’t that fond of him either. The only people who would like him were those who could take advantage of him. And Kaylee. If he could find her. He knew that out in the more difficult neighborhoods, the disparity in class and culture would be met with hostility if he tried to befriend these people. But he couldn’t think like that, or about that, for there was nothing he could do for them. The best he could do was find Vanko, squeeze that bitch until his head popped off, then get Kaylee and head back home. This is bigger than Kaylee. This was about Alabama, redemption, a way to do one last thing for his wife—give her their daughter back.
In Tavria V, he got the items he needed, both for his personal hygiene and to fix up his leg. After that, on a whim, he grabbed some steaks. Before paying for them, at the last minute, he went back for a handful of herbs. He asked that the meat and herbs be separated into two equal packages. When he got back in the taxi, he handed one of the steak packages to the driver, who looked inside, then back at him, surprised.
“Not all pompous pricks are pricks,” Atlas said with a smile. “I will still pay you your fare, but this is to show you my appreciation.”
The man looked touched, so taken aback, Atlas wondered if he would tear up. He imagined he wouldn’t, though, because when life grinds you to the bone every day, emotion becomes the enemy of endurance.
“Thank you very much, sir,” he said, less hostility in his voice.
“Take me back to the first drop-off, please. Where my friend lives.”
“Yes, sir.”
They drove back to Kofi’s house. On the way, he phoned the man and said, “I’m on my way back to your place.”
“I’ll meet you outside,” Kofi replied.
By the time he arrived, Kofi was there, waiting. When he pulled up, Atlas asked the driver, “Can I use you again?”
“If you pay me today, I will trust you pay me tomorrow,” he said in clunky English. “Either way, I appreciate the steak.”
“How much?” Atlas asked.
The driver told him the total; Atlas paid double. He had a fat stack of money from Mykola, and no reason to hoard it for later, so he didn’t mind being generous. The driver looked up at him and everything about his expression changed.
“This will go a long way with my family.” His eyes started to water at that point. It seemed as though he was not used to such generosity.
“Part of the money is to pay the fare, the other is to forget you ever saw me if anyone asks.”
He paused for a moment, let Atlas’s message sink in. “About the gunfight before?”
“What gunfight?” Atlas asked.
The man smiled and said, “Yes, what gunfight?”
He opened his burner phone and said, “Enter your number in here. I will call you in the morning.”
He did so, then he handed the phone back to Atlas. Atlas then stored the number in the number nine slot. “Enjoy the steaks, my friend.”
“You as well,” he said in
English.
“By the way,” Atlas said, “what is your name?”
“Fadey Bondar.”
“Thank you for the ride, Fadey.”
When he got out, he met Kofi with a smile, then handed him the steaks.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Dinner.”
Kofi looked up at him with the same look on his face Fadey wore. “I didn’t give you that much money.”
Atlas reached into his pocket, pulled out the original fold of cash Kofi had given him, then handed it back, along with a few extra bills from his new fold.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
Atlas began limping toward the entrance, Kofi falling in next to him and looking at his leg. “Apparently, Mykola Danko owed Oleg some money. I collected it in full.”
“What about Kaylee?”
Atlas shook his head. “I think Oleg just wanted me to take out Danko. Sort of a final fuck you to us both.”
“So what about this money you have?”
“It’s operational money, depending on what’s required of me.”
“And what do you think will be required of you?”
“I think I’ll need to buy some girls some drinks, and eventually I might need to pay for sex.” Kofi’s handsome face went white. Frowning, Atlas said, “Yes, I’m referring to underage sex, Kofi beans.”
“Well, thank you for the steaks and the extra money.”
“If I have any left over when this is done, I’ll put it in the Kofi can for later,” he joked, not letting up.
Now it was Kofi’s turn to frown. “If you weren’t being so generous, I promise you, I’d make you sleep on the back patio.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
ATLAS HARGROVE
After dinner with Kofi, Katryna and their son, Maxim, Atlas felt himself fading hard. They were good company, but Kofi’s wife, Katryna, seemed hesitant to speak around him. Almost like they’d invited someone from the mob to dinner hoping they wouldn’t be killed before dessert.
When he finished eating, Atlas said, “Katryna, this was delicious. I’m so grateful for what you’ve done. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”
She gave a cautious smile, then said, “I appreciate your contribution as well.”
Her formality concerned him. Atlas could see how anxious Kofi’s wife seemed to feel, and he didn’t want that. In her defense, he did look like a thug. Enough that it would be a problem trying to mingle in the social scene. After offering to help clean up and being turned away (Katryna had said, “Clean up after dinner is Maxim’s job”), he retired to the apartment’s sole bathroom.
Standing before the mirror, he looked hideous, like someone who beat people to death for a living and had gotten his just deserts in return. In the bedroom he shared with Maxim, on a bed that almost held his full height, he called Cira.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, not even bothering with the formalities.
“Not really.”
“So why are you calling me?”
“I want to go to a club, and I need you to go with me.”
“Now you’re talking!” she said.
“For real?”
“You denied me ALL of Saint Petersburg, so while I’m here, if you want to take me to a club, you can. Just don’t expect anything from me at the end of the night.”
“You’re not here, so you can’t see me rolling my eyes, or shaking my head.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “I think I can actually see you frowning.”
She laughed lightly into the phone, then said, “I am, but I’m also smiling. I thought it was just going to be me and room service tonight.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I need some clothes.”
“Borrow some of Kofi’s clothes.”
“Have you seen the height difference between us? And the broadness of my chest versus his?”
“Before you fall in love with yourself, relax already. Send me your measurements and I’ll pick you up something downstairs. But since you’re acting like a bitch, it’s going to be more like an hour and a half.”
“Thanks for being so sweet,” he said. “Oh, one more thing…”
“Yeah?”
He hung up the phone on her and laughed to himself. When he got up and went out into the living room, he saw Katryna reading a book and Maxim finishing up in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have something I can use to trim my hair, and perhaps this?” he said, gripping his beard like it was a problem. He was sure he still had blood in his beard, but then again, he could be imagining things.
She nodded, set her book down, then disappeared into the back room. She returned a moment later with a pair of industrial-looking hair clippers and a long black cord.
“Clean up the hair,” she said. “The cord will reach into the bathtub if that’s easier.”
“Do you have any coffee as well? Something strong?”
She nodded. He thanked her, then went into the bathroom and pulled off his shirt to a smattering of bruises. He plugged in the clippers and got into the empty tub. He turned them on, startling at the sound. His first lawnmower wasn’t that loud! Shaking his head but knowing this was necessary, he appraised the dangerous-looking blade and realized there were no height adjustments. It was just the guard. Meaning if he wanted a haircut, all of his hair would come off, leaving behind nothing but a shadow of stubble.
“Damn,” he said.
He finally lifted up the front of his hair and began to cut it all off. When he was done, he collected the hair, put it in the oversized garbage can, and shut the lid. Looking in the mirror, he looked more like a Russian thug than ever. He trimmed his beard back, and when he was done there, he now resembled a fighter who wasn’t all that great at winning.
“Still a low-life,” he said to his reflection.
When he returned with the clippers, Katryna gave him a different look.
“What?”
“I think maybe this is worse?” she said in English. “But better on the eyes.”
He looked at Kofi, who said, “That’s how she says she likes the way you look without offending her husband.”
Kofi glanced at her and she turned red. On the old butter-colored couch, Maxim covered his mouth and laughed.
“That is not exactly what I was trying to say,” she said, nervous.
“Oh, yes, it is,” Kofi replied.
Looking at Atlas, appraising him with a different eye, she finally said, “Fine, that is what I was saying.”
Atlas smiled and said, “Well, thank you. I appreciate the honest feedback.”
“The girls still won’t like you,” Kofi said. “But the hustlers will.”
“That’s all I need.”
Cira showed up right on time with some clothes that looked too new, and a bit too nice. Appraising his new look, she smiled and said, “If I was into hot scumbags, you’d be my boo in a hot minute.”
“What does that even mean?” he asked.
“It means what Katryna means,” Kofi said with a frown.
He laughed to himself. Then, turning to Maxim—who was clearly enjoying all this—he said, “Women these days.”
“Women these days,” he repeated in a voice that was as cute as it was innocent.
“These won’t work,” he said as Cira handed him his clothes.
“Why not?” she asked. “They weren’t cheap, and they’re in fashion.”
“These aren’t pervert’s clothes.”
Everyone fell quiet at the statement, especially Katryna. To Kofi, he said, “Does your wife know why I’m here?”
He shook his head, then glanced over at Cira and asked, “Does she know what you’re planning?”
“What exactly are you planning?” Cira turned and asked, almost as if she deserved an answer and was pissed off that it hadn’t shown up already.
&nbs
p; “Same thing I’ve been planning. To find Kaylee. And to make sure Leo’s guy finds Alabama.”
Shrugging her shoulders, to Kofi, she said, “However he accomplishes that is his issue. Right now I just want to dance.”
“Well, then, let’s go already,” he said.
“Just waiting on you to get dressed,” she replied, “so I’d say the same thing to you.”
While he was getting dressed, he heard Cira ask Katryna, “How do you feel safe in this place?”
“The men know Kofi will kill them if they touch me or Maxim.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” she replied. “Still, this neighborhood is a bit scary.”
“Compared to what?”
“America.”
“I’ve never been to America.”
Atlas finished getting ready, then sauntered into the living room and tried not to eat up the praise he saw in Katryna’s and Cira’s eyes.
“And suddenly I don’t exist,” Kofi openly mused from the dining room table.
“Women these days,” Maxim said again.
“Speaking of women,” Katryna said. “Do not be nice, polite, or respectful. Ukrainian girls like a rude man who can solve problems.”
“That’s me,” Atlas joked.
“They are not into men who are necessarily smart, or flashy, or boast about having a lot of money. That is why you see lots of beautiful women with ugly men. I just got lucky with my Kofi.”
“The hustlers make you think you can have a one-night stand,” Kofi added, “but a real Ukrainian woman will take weeks, if not months, to be courted.”
“So be rude, but crafty, right?” he asked.
“And don’t look like you’re trying to get laid,” Katryna said.
“What’s laid?” Maxim asked.
“Nothing,” Kofi and Katryna said at the same time.
The Ibiza Beach Club was absolutely hopping. Girls and guys were packed together, dancing, and there was the kind of Vegas light show going on that had him thinking if he tripped on acid, he’d be stumbling around the joint like a drunk, asking for directions to the spaceship.
“This is great,” Cira said into his ear. Her close proximity to him didn’t go unnoticed. She practically had her lips on his ear.
