by Naomi West
"Club soda," I say. "Twist of lime."
He picks up on the hint of Polish accent in my voice and his features tighten; he understands who I am and what I'm likely here to do.
"I don't know if you're a little lost, but in a bar like this, you don't order a ‘club soda with a twist of a lime.’"
He's staring me down, trying to intimidate me. It's not working. I've wiped tougher men than him off of my boots.
"Club soda with a twist of lime."
His eyes narrow. The other patrons at the bar have picked up on the tension in the air and are now looking our way. His gaze still fixed on me, the bartender removes a glass from the rack of filthy, unwashed glasses and places it on the bar. Aiming the drink gun over it, he clicks the button for a brief moment, sending a splash of fizzy liquid into the glass, most of it sloshing over the side. Then, he reaches into the plastic barrier over the sink that catches anything that's not liquid and withdraws an old, used lime, which he plops into the glass. He places the thing in front of me, and now I can see the lipstick and fingerprints on the tumbler.
"There ya are, friend," says the bartender.
The men around us are snorting and talking amongst themselves.
"Anything else I can help ya with?" asks the bartender.
"Yeah," I say, pushing the glass to the side. "I'm looking to speak with the owner."
The bartender crosses his arms over his broad chest and leans against the drink shelves behind him.
"Well, you're speakin' to him now."
"I wanted to make a complaint about the customer service," I say. "Do you have a comment card I could fill out?"
The bartender narrows his eyes into even narrower slits, the dull green of them dark and menacing.
"Listen, you Pollack piece of shite—I don't know what you got in mind comin' in an Irish shop like mine, but I suggest you turn around and walk right back out the way ya came before things take a turn for the rough."
Now the men around us are watching with giddy excitement, as though we're a TV show about to get to an action scene.
"Easy," I say, holding up my hands. "I'm just here to do some territory negotiation."
"'Territory negotiation,' huh?" he says.
He looks around.
"Lucky for you, I'm in charge of not just this bar, but the half of this damn neighborhood. So if you want to negotiate, then I'm the man you want ta be speakin' with."
"Wonderful to hear," I say.
"But let's take such business matters of the barroom floor. I've got a lovely little office in the back that's much more …amenable to such topics of discussion."
I know where this is going.
"Well, then," I say. "Let's not waste another minute."
The bartender turns his massive frame toward the door leading to the back, and I follow him through.
# # #
Around fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the back rooms, the eyes of the patrons on me. My knuckles are sore from the fight and my jaw aches from where one of the Irish thugs lying in wait got the drop on me. Fighting three men at once was pushing it, but nothing I couldn't handle, especially since, judging by the smell and their motor skills, they'd all been pounding whiskey since they woke up this morning. And as I stood over the owner, the broken pool cue in my hands and the pair of thugs lying unconscious behind me, he found himself more than willing to negotiate Polish expansion in the neighborhood.
"Bartender's taking a nap," I say to the patrons over the blaring music. "Drinking on the job's never a good idea. He said to help yourselves to whatever you wanted before he went out."
The men all share a look that seems to suggest that they know that something isn’t on the level, but that as long as there is free whiskey, they couldn’t give less of a damn about the details. They snatch a pair of bottles from the runner just behind the bar and start pouring. I duck to the side of the bar and down a quick shot of something strong, hoping to numb the throbbing of my knuckles. Then I make a quick exit out of the front door before the men start with the old Irish drinking songs.
Sitting in the driver's seat of my car, I can't help but shake my head as I realize what I'm getting myself, and the family, into. The Donahues might be able to write off a few incidents like this as the normal sort of friction that's existed between the Nowaks and them for as long as anyone can remember, but once they learn that it's not just one or two businesses getting hit, but a whole string of them, they'll learn quickly just what's going on.
Before I can consider the situation further, my phone rings; It's my father.
"You did it?" he asks.
"Yeah. The owner at Flannigan's got the hint. Really got it."
"Excellent," says my father. "I knew that you'd be more than capable of doing what needs to be done for our family."
I say nothing, my mind on the violence that lay ahead.
"Trust your father," he says, seemingly picking up on my trepidation. "These next few weeks are going to be a little …rough, certainly. But once it's all over, and the Donahues have been run from this city, our family will grow more prosperous than we've ever thought possible. And you'll be able to enjoy the fruits of our labor with that lovely young woman of yours."
"I understand," I say.
He's right, and I know it. If I want Alina and me to be together, then this is what must be done.
"And you haven't forgotten your mother, of course. Think of this as not only doing what's best for the family, but honoring her memory."
Any doubts in my mind are cast aside at these words. The Donahues killed my mother, and we rewarded them with a peace treaty that has allowed them to grow rich and fat over the last decade. No more.
"You're right," I say, my words sincere.
"You're ready," he says. "Now, get back to the business at hand."
He hangs up. My eyes drift up, onto the downtown buildings that loom over me, the moon bright and full above. There's going to be violence, and I can only pray that Alina and I can make it through what's to come.
Chapter Fourteen
Alina
Sitting in the lounge on the first floor of Michal's house, I'm drinking a glass of wine and looking out over the long stretch of the backyard. It's nighttime, and the moon is a curved sliver in the cloudless sky. The grass of the property seems to have a silver sheen, and the water of the pool looks still and inviting. Over the last few days I've found myself getting a little more used to staying here; the house is huge and imposing, but now that I'm not stuck in the bedroom, it's starting to feel a little more comfortable.
Michal is often gone for work reasons, often arriving back late at night. It's always the same; I hear him come home, his dress shoes clicking on the floor, then make a beeline right to the laundry room. Then, there's silence, followed by the low rumble of the machines. Soon after, he appears in the living room dressed in casual clothing that I'm sure he didn't go out in, a glass of some kind of liquor in his hand.
My glass of wine in hand, I walk slowly through one of the many hallways of the estate, my eyes lingering on the paintings of landscapes and cities that are hung up on the walls. My footsteps echo through the space, making me feel like I've somehow gotten stuck in an art museum past hours. The home is beautiful, but in a cold, stark way.
It needs a woman's touch, I think, looking around.
But I chastise myself for the thought. I find myself continually needing to remind myself that this is not a safe place, and that while I'm starting to feel closer to Michal as time goes on, he's still a criminal. To allow myself to settle into this world would be to surrender myself to the possibility of the dangers that come with a lifestyle such as this sneaking up on me. I've heard third-hand about too many little hot-headed thugs back in Poland who'd gotten themselves in over their heads in the world of organized crime—the money, clothes, cars, and women lulling them into a state of almost narcotic bliss. It's as though they like to think that if they have all of the pleasures of the material world, the
y can’t really be in danger, right?
They were many, however, who had had their lives cut short before they'd even really begun. I try to keep these thoughts in my mind, preventing me from getting too comfortable. As time goes on, however, this does less and less good. I'm happy with Michal, and though I know I should be plotting my escape, the greater part of me doesn't want this. I've begun to care for Michal, my feelings for him growing strong with each passing day. And it's clear that he feels the same way.
Why shouldn't I be happy? I have a job, a wonderful place to live, and Danica and I are becoming fast friends. She's even planning on introducing me to some other girls in Philadelphia so I can have girlfriends when she heads back to the city. And on top of everything, I have a man who cares for me. Everything that I'd wanted is here.
There's just the one detail that threatens to spoil the whole thing.
I make my way to the kitchen and sit down at the massive L-shaped kitchen island, my eyes tracking over the granite countertops of dark gray and the numerous appliances of stainless steel. I hate this part of the evening, waiting here for Michal and wondering when he'll get back. After pouring myself another glass of wine, I head into the living room and fall into the soft cushions of the dark, leather couch across from the TV. I flick the thing on, but have a hard time paying attention. It’s a difficult situation, being surrounded by so much comfort, but being unable to find peace of mind from constant worry about the man I care for.
After I realize that I won't be able to pay attention, I hit mute on the TV, pick up my glass of wine, and walk out to the backyard, taking a seat in one of the many lounge chairs, my eyes moving along the twin rows of lights that border the property.
I hate this part of the day. My mind can't help but imagine the terrible things that could be happening to Michal at this exact moment. His goal has been to disrupt the Donahue's operations in the city. I imagine that this would be a difficult thing to do under normal circumstances, but according to his father's wishes, Michal is expected to keep his operations a secret from the Donahues, not letting them know that it's his family responsible for the attacks and sabotages on their businesses. My stomach begins to feel sick once again, and I find myself wishing that he would just tell his father that it is too much—too dangerous.
I find that I want it both ways: I want the life that Michal's work can allow, but without the danger of the work. I take another sip of my wine, hoping the alcohol will calm my nerves. Then I check my watch and see that only a little time has passed since I checked it last. Is this any life to lead? I find myself wondering. A life where the man who I care for at risk of death with each night that he goes out? Nights sitting around the house, hoping that this isn't the evening when I get a call from his father, letting me know that Michal was killed?
It makes logical sense to run. After all, there are cars in the garage and I know where the keys are. I could pack everything up right now, take some money from Michal's stash, and drive toward California. I'd be safe.
But it's not what I want. I want Michal, and I want him at my side right this instant.
And right at that moment, as though the universe had been listening to my pleas, I hear the front doors open then shut, a low chime sounding through the house. I spin around in my seat, watching with eager eyes as Michal walks in. I feel relief and joy all at the same time. But I want to play it cool. Turning back toward the pool, I take a slow sip of my wine, barely able to contain my excitement.
Through the open back doors, I hear him make his usual walk to the laundry room. He returns a bit later, dressed in more casual clothes, as usual, and makes his way to the kitchen. I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye, and I'm suppressing every urge to run up to him and throw my arms around his shoulders.
When did I become like a little girl having her first love? I find myself wondering.
Soon, he leaves the kitchen, a glass of wine in his hand. I then hear him walking toward the backyard, my heart racing in excitement with each step. Soon, he's standing at the threshold of the backyard.
"Wrong time of the day if you're looking to work on your tan," he says, his voice sardonic.
I smile. "I was feeling restless; lounging by the pool sounded nice."
"That does sound nice," he says, still standing behind me. “Though pools work better when you're actually in the water."
Strange as it sounds, it hasn’t occurred to me at any point during the time that I’ve been here that I can actually get into the pool. I can’t think of any reason why this is. Perhaps it seems too indulgent.
"I could go for a swim," he says. "What about you?"
"Um, sure," I say, a little surprised that a dip in the pool is what he wants after a night of doing God-knows-what.
"You bought those bathing suits with Danica; I think it's time you actually wore one for its intended use."
With that, he disappears. He's back ten minutes later, and this time, he walks past the threshold of the backyard and steps onto the patio in front of the pool. I see that he's dressed in nothing more than a small, black Speedo that leaves very little to the imagination. His perfect, sculpted body is on full display and the hefty bulge of his crotch demands my attention. It takes all the will I have to pull my eyes off it.
"Here's yours," he says, draping a black one-piece over me. "There's a changing room right over there."
Not thinking about the fact that we've already seen each other naked, I dash off to the room and put on my swimsuit. Looking over the tight, black one-piece, I'm pleased with the purchase. It shows off the curves of my slender body and doesn't put too much on display. Unlike Michal's little ensemble.
I walk back to the pool and Michal is standing on the edge of the water, the basin illuminated by underwater lights that he'd just turned.
"I see my money was well-spent," he said, his eyes looking over every bit of my body.
All I can do is blush. Turning his attention back to the pool, he dives in, hitting the water with almost professional skill and swimming to the other end, bursting out when he arrives, his dark hair slicked down and his muscles sheened with water. I still can't stop staring.
"You …have an okay night?" I ask, unsure how to phrase the question.
"It was fine," he says, his tone brusque, sending the signal that he doesn't want to talk about it.
But I do.
I walk over to the pool and dip my toes in. The water is the perfect temperature. I sit down on the edge and submerge my legs.
"Can you …tell me what you did?"
Michal turns to me, his face serious.
"Why? What do you want to know?"
"I mean …" I struggle for the right words, but change my mind, deciding not to be diplomatic. "I just want to know you're safe."
Michal takes in the words, thinking them over. Then, he swims off to where I'm sitting and rests his hands on my bare legs, his wet skin cool against mine.
"You don't have to worry about anything," he says. "I'm doing a little extra work for my father, expanding our business. It'll all be over soon."
"'Expanding your business,’" I say, annoyed at the euphemism. "It's going to get you killed."
His face turns grim. "What I'm doing, I'm doing for you—for us. Yes, you're right that it's dangerous and that I'm putting my life on the line some nights, but it's what needs to be done."
I feel a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I'm happy to hear that he's being honest with me and that what we have seems to be so important to him. But on the other, hearing confirmation of my worst fears—that any night he might simply not come home—makes my stomach tie into knots.
He spreads my legs apart and moves his body between them.
"You don't have to worry about anything. I'll soon have the situation with the Donahues resolved, and once we have control of the city, there won't be anything that we'll have to worry about."
I still have my doubts, but looking down at his green eyes, I sense a vulnerability that Mich
al rarely shows. I sense that he wants me to know how much I mean without saying it, letting his actions do the speaking for him. And I understand.
"But enough talk; come on in. The water's perfect."
Before I can respond, a sly smile crosses his lips. Placing his hands under my bottom, he lifts me up with ease and drops me into the water with a light toss. I let out a playful shriek as I go under, the water cool and refreshing. I pop out of the water, my hair soaked and heavy on my shoulders. Michal flashes me another sly grin, and somehow, like magic, all of my fears have vanished like vapor. Maybe it's his unflappable confidence, but something about Michal just makes me feel safe, like I have nothing to fear.
