Fresh Slices

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  At the top of the stairs, the Hudson River, visible in the distance beyond the West Side Highway, was silver in the moonlight. A cool breeze from the water blew under the new, high-end hotel that straddled the High Line. From floor-to-ceiling windows, notorious for evening exhibitionists, very few people watched Margot or me. Tonight would be special. I had a key for her to my town house on Jane Street, a block over from Gansevoort. I wanted her in my neighborhood. Close. My hands were sweating.

  She stepped out of a clump of laurel into a patch of moonlight that outlined breasts that shimmered in a see-through blouse. I reached for her. She slipped through my fingers, stepped backward, swung her legs up onto a metal chair like the ones they have in Paris parks. I caught a glimpse under her skirt and moved in for more. She stepped out of reach, onto the railing that rims the park. Her smile was triumphant, one bare foot on the black welded steel of the old trestle, the other on the newer stainless steel.

  An unwelcome thread of anger wormed its way into my anticipation. She had stolen the initiative. I had to up the ante. Before I could even think what was next, she dropped and disappeared. Goddamned heart attack time. She called from the top of the next set of stairs to the street. “Wait there. Don’t follow me.”

  What could I do? In my worst moments, I knew I needed her. I had everything a man could want: friends, sort of, money, a town house to die for, an art collection that was beginning to attract attention from the right people. I had every gadget known to man, plus, my most cherished possession, a reputation for ruthlessness. How had she twisted me around her finger? I’d never let that happen before Margot. I’d never needed anyone’s approval. No way. She really loved me. I knew it. I felt it. I am never wrong.

  An old couple was staring at me. I recognized them as artists who lived in the subsidized artists’ housing, Westbeth, the huge building dominating the southern end of the High Line. I glared at them, and they moved on. I was in no mood to be reminded of my dear departed parents. Losers. Made art, but never had a penny to call their own. I turned to look over the railing into the street below. Margot was there, under the corrugated metal awning of the old meatpacking shops. The bed-headed dude from the bar was with her. She looked up at me as he buried his face in her breasts. She waved. “Tomorrow morning, before nine. Be there.”

  Damn her. It was time for this game to be over. I was the one who went home with her, laid out the lines on her coffee table, undressed her, made her beg. She’d said I was the best she’d ever had. No reason to doubt it.

  On the way to my neighborhood bar, I remembered our trip to Cancun, a honeymoon of sorts, although she hadn’t liked it when I called it that. No power games for two weeks. What had gone wrong, since then? I spent the rest of that night in the bar on my corner, nursing memories and scotch. I texted her, again and again. “Where RU?” My rage grew as her silence mocked me. “Where RU? You can only push me so far, girl. Remember that.”

  I was there, on the High Line Saturday morning, God help me. The sun was high in its blue heaven, and all was right with the world. Not! She hadn’t answered any of last night’s messages. I texted every twenty minutes, as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

  I saw the wavelets on the Hudson and the daisies in the patch of grass at my feet, but they had no effect on my mood. I lay back on a wooden lounge chair, provided by a famous fashion queen’s donation to the High Line. I’d had three lattes and a chocolate croissant since I’d changed my clothes and left my house in the wee hours. I couldn’t go back. The contractor was there, renovating the back deck, putting in a new Jacuzzi. But just as I was thinking about going to the Tenth Avenue diner for a proper breakfast, I saw Margot strolling down from the Seventeenth Street entrance. Every eye was on her. Even the tourists abandoned their cameras, as she passed. She was stunning, hair gleaming, skin translucent, like water with a tinge of pink sunlight glimmering on the surface. She was a sight in a gold tube top, grey shorts, and sandals. Those blue eyes told me she loved me. She was happy to see me. Yeah, but for how long?

  “Don’t think you own me,” she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek. She pushed my feet aside and sat at the end of my lounge chair.

  I’d always been a sucker for conflict. My move. I played laid back, mildly interested. “Whose idea was that?”

  Silence, as she eyed my offerings: a bagel with a schmear, a latte, heavily sweetened the way she liked it, sitting innocently on the bench beside me. Margot sniffed the bagel. She licked a little bit of cream cheese and held it out on the tip of her tongue. “Bite?”

  The cords of resolve to stay away from her, to make her beg, stiffened. I imagined them snapping, whipping through the soft air to break the wings of butterflies.

  “Where’s your little pal from last night?” I asked.

  “Got scared and ran home to his girlfriend,” she said. “Are you coming to the club tonight? You want to watch, don’t you?” She drank her latte.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “You know me. I’m a sucker for the game.”

  “Good.” She smiled, got up, stretched so I could see the length of her body, her belly ring pushed out above her shorts. She finished the latte. She came around to the side of the wooden lounge, sat down, and pushed me to the edge, snuggling next to me. I had all I could do to keep from reaching for her. Her head fell against my shoulder. “God, I’m tired. Too many late nights. Tonight, it’s just you and me.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. I got up.

  I took a tube of sunblock off the table. I began to stroke her legs, covering the pale skin with cream.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Do me.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t seem to stay awake.”

  I covered her arms, hands, and face, slowly, remembering each contour, memories leaping at me from every surface. I reached inside her tube top, smoothing lotion onto her round breasts and stiff nipples. She protested a little but her mumbles made little difference to my excitement. Mine was the touch of ownership. I would be the last to touch her, if you didn’t count the medical examiner. There was enough Seconal in her latte to put her to sleep permanently. I covered her eyes with a pair of sunglasses I’d brought from home, carefully wiping them clean of prints. She could lie in the sun all day, and no one would think anything of it. The windowless brick wall painted with red lips by the fashion designer, a backdrop, smiled down on her. How long it would take for someone to suspect she was dead was anybody’s guess. The sun would keep her body temperature high, confusing the time of death. I’d be long gone, no trace, at Belmont Raceway, looking for a different thrill.

  THE BRIGHTON BEACH MERMAID

  Lina Zeldovich

  TANYA Kremin, once a respected Moscow lawyer and now a reluctant American call girl, walked into a dilapidated motel on Brighton Beach Avenue, the Russian enclave of New York City. She trudged up the stairs, her heels clacking on the cheap linoleum floor, and found the room. Her stomach churned as she forced herself to knock on the door. The experienced girls had advised her not to look, not to think, and not to panic. She wasn’t nervous, but she was disgusted. “God, please don’t make him ugly and smelly, or I’ll throw up,” she thought.

  Tanya had never dreamed of making her living in a miniskirt and a low-cut blouse, but when a bomb planted in her Moscow apartment had gone off three months ago, she’d had to run for her life and leave the country. She had signed a dancer’s contract with the International ShowBiz agency, and landed in the Brighton Beach Mermaids cabaret. The contract hadn’t mentioned entertaining clients in private, but the club owner had his own plans for her classic Slavic beauty. He had already threatened to send her back to Moscow if she didn’t play by his rules.

  The door opened and Tanya surveyed her customer. To her surprise, she didn’t find the man ugly, but borderline appealing. He had a high forehead, short, dark hair, and a pair of sharp eyes that took a snapshot of her like a digital camera. Under different circumstances, she even might’ve liked the guy, but he was a client, and that was enoug
h to make her nauseous.

  “Come in,” he invited her. “What’s your name?”

  Tanya introduced herself, walked in and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  “I’m Simon,” he said, and pointed at a table and two chairs. “Have a seat. Let’s get the money out of the way.”

  Tanya sat down. The girls warned her not to touch a button before seeing the right amount. Simon took out two one-hundred dollar bills, and placed them on the table. That was fifty dollars too much, and she wasn’t sure how to react.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Talk to me,” Simon said, with a strangely inviting smile. Something was wrong in the way he was looking at her. His eyes studied her face, rather than her body.

  Tanya thought he wanted her to talk dirty, but her mind was blank. Simon reached out and patted her on her shoulder, his face so close Tanya felt his breath. She winced.

  “I watch your mermaid dance every night,” he said. “You’re very good. You like working in the club?”

  “I’m delighted,” Tanya said sarcastically. “My life-long ambition has finally come true.”

  Simon chuckled.

  “You have a sense of humor, and your English is remarkably good. Did you study it in college in Russia?”

  The girls told Tanya that clients didn’t like educated chicks, because they felt inferior with intelligent women.

  “Me try to learn fast,” she said, purposely making a mistake.

  Simon chuckled again, and she knew she didn’t fool him for a second. She wasn’t sure what to do, but someone banged on the door, shouting in a language remotely resembling Russian. Simon pulled Tanya up and shoved her into the bathroom.

  “Stay here! I gotta settle this.”

  Tanya locked the bathroom door, just as the unexpected visitors stormed into the room. She heard two new voices. She heard yelling, cursing and punching.

  “Shit,” Tanya cursed, too. She couldn’t believe it was happening to her again. She had given up her career and entire life for her safety, and now, she was caught in the middle of a stick-up, maybe even murder! It wouldn’t take the men long to figure out there was an unwanted witness.

  Tanya heard a knock on the bathroom door and froze.

  “Open up,” said the man. “Or I’ll break the door and kill you.”

  Tanya lifted the heavy porcelain lid off the toilet tank, flattened herself against the wall, and pushed the latch open with her elbow. The man barged in, and she smashed the toilet lid on his head. He sank to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “What the hell?” Tanya heard the second intruder roar. She raised the lid again, but he never entered the bathroom. She heard a punch and more cursing. She peeked, and saw Simon deliver a blow to the man’s chin. The man collapsed. Tanya shot out of the bathroom, and finished him off with her porcelain weapon.

  “He’s got the key in his shirt pocket,” Simon croaked, and she realized his left hand was handcuffed to the table. He had a red mark under his eye that was already turning blue.

  She found the key and un-cuffed her client.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Simon barked.

  He grabbed her hand, and they ran till they were out on the street and far away from the motel. They were both sweaty and short of breath. Simon dragged her into a small café, and they piled into a booth.

  “Good job,” he breathed out, with an awed look. “Never thought of a toilet lid as a weapon. Those Bulgarian scumbags caught me by surprise.”

  “Who are you?” Tanya asked. “Why are they after you?”

  Simon’s eyes scrutinized her face again, as if he tried to read her mind.

  “I’m Simon Doherty,” he finally said. “I’m a Federal Prosecutor.”

  Tanya couldn’t help but laugh. “So, in America, prosecutors hire hookers and get attacked in motels? Not quite what I expected from your legal system.”

  “I work undercover,” Simon explained, producing a badge from his pocket.

  Tanya examined the picture. “I can’t believe I’m talking to a prosecutor who had to haul his ass from some scumbags. It’s ironic.”

  “Why is it ironic?”

  Tanya looked Simon in the eye. “Because I am a Russian State Prosecutor, and I had to haul my ass away from the mafia hit men who killed two other prosecutors I worked with. We had enough evidence to put a Moscow don away for life, and he knew it. He put out a contract on my two partners and me. All three of us were to be killed the same day, but my car broke down, and the bomb in my apartment went off before I reached home. Next morning, the newspapers declared me dead. Before they realized their mistake, I was gone.”

  “Dancing at Brighton Beach Mermaids?”

  “Bingo.”

  A waiter showed up, and Simon ordered two shots of vodka.

  “That explains a lot,” he said. “You don’t look and talk like the rest of the girls. I knew I made the right choice when I asked for you.”

  Tanya gave him a dirty look.

  “It’s not what you think,” Simon said. “It’s not about bedding, it’s about bugging. I need you to stick a little mic pin into Pavel Rublev’s jacket next time he comes to Mermaids. Pavel does money laundering, gambling and drug trafficking, plus he’s suspected in several murders, kidnappings, and torture. He wants to settle a cash-flow issue with his drug distributor, so he’ll sneak out during the show and return just before the club closes, to ensure his alibi. If you bug him before he leaves, I swear he’ll never return.”

  “Pavel’s six-foot-three,” Tanya said. “He’ll snap my neck like a twig.”

  “Not if you dance off the stage, sit on his lap, and give him a hearty hug.”

  Tanya winced. “Dancing off the stage means you’re available for an auction. Drunken moneybags can bid on you. The winner gets you for the night.”

  “I promise you’ll be out of Mermaids before the auction happens.”

  Tanya grinned. “What else can a guy chained to a table by a couple of criminals promise me?”

  The waiter brought the drinks, and Simon belted down a shot.

  “How about a good immigration lawyer who’ll get you a green card, plus an LSAT book for your law school exam, and your passport resurrected from the depths of Andrei’s safe,” Simon offered. “Andrei took it from you for an identity check, and never returned it, right? You’re stuck here, because you got no papers.”

  Tanya bit her lip. “How do you know?”

  Simon pushed the second glass toward her. “He does it to all his girls.”

  Tanya refused the alcohol. “I drink when I have something to celebrate,” she said with a sigh. “Now, why did you choose me? Just because my English was good?”

  Simon took the drink.

  “You had no fear in your eyes,” he said. “It’s rare among immigrants, especially women who work at nightclubs. You can do this.”

  He downed the second shot.

  DRESSED in a shimmering blue, mermaid tunic with a low décolletage and a train skirt flowing three feet behind, Tanya descended the stage stairs, gracefully moving to the music. The mic pin was tucked at her waist, hidden inside the folds of fabric. Pavel sat at the center table with his two bodyguards, while Simon watched her every move from the back of the room.

  Too nervous to even look at Pavel, Tanya started with the rightmost table occupied by Boris Rastin, an old, widowed restaurant mogul, desperately sought by every dancer in the club. She made a few provocative moves, and Boris’s forehead swelled with beads of sweat. She let him tuck a fifty into her skirt, and moved on to Misha Dubrov, a limo company owner, previously married to a stripper, who vanished once her green card came through. Misha was said to be dumb, so the girls hoped he’d make the same mistake twice. Too drunk, Misha had trouble sticking bills into Tanya’s cleavage and kept stepping on her train. She shook him off, put on her most charming smile, suppressed her shakes, and headed to Pavel.

  Pavel had sharp, narrow eyes, and coarse hair tha
t started low on his forehead then spiked up like porcupine needles. He wasn’t easily amused, but Tanya did a shoulder shimmy inches away from his face and succeeded in changing his scowl into a sultry smile. She hid the pin between her fingers and wiggled onto his lap. Pavel wrapped his huge hands around her torso and squeezed so hard Tanya caught her breath. She threw her hand around Pavel’s neck, and pushed the pin into the back of his jacket collar while he tucked a hundred-dollar bill into her top. She slipped out of Pavel’s grip and danced away, never losing her charming smile. She ran up the stairs, and disappeared behind the curtain as the music ended.

  The changing room was full of girls dressed in lace, feathers, and fake leather. Everybody wore high heels and lots of make-up. Tanya found her bag under a costume pile, snatched her cell phone, and texted Simon. “Done.” The reply came instantly. “Great job.”

  “Great job!” she heard from behind, and twitched. Andrei stood next to her, arms wide open. “That’s my girl! Betcha you’re getting an auction.”

  “I must change for my second mermaid number,” Tanya said, escaping Andrei’s hug. “Have you seen my pink tail?”

  When she entered the stage, encased in skintight rose with five feet of trailing plastic, the center table was empty. Pavel had left.

  THE Brighton Mermaids’ living quarters occupied the building’s basement, held about forty people, and looked like Army barracks. Tanya climbed into her bunk, stretched out on the ragged sheets, and texted Simon again. “Any news?” She waited, but the answer never came. Either Pavel was still in the middle of his ‘settlement,’ or Simon’s people were in the middle of Pavel’s apprehension.

  Tanya pulled a heavy LSAT book from under her pillow and tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. The drunken girls below yapped about their hunt for American husbands. The bookmark she held in her hand was the business card of the immigration lawyer Simon swore would get her citizenship. She pictured herself passing the bar exam and her vision blurred.