by Reid Astor
"No, Viola," he says, quite sure that it is far too early for this. For a fence planting criminal mission or for comforting stressed-out employees. For anything. "As a matter of fact, I need you more than ever."
Just as he speaks, his vision catches a black Toyota roll up in front of the cafe and park in what is blatantly a no-parking zone. Niklas innately groans; in the three years that he has run the shop no one has ever done that, and there is only about one logical contender to start now. In his apron pocket, his phone whirs.
He needs to get that damn car out of the damn no-parking zone.
Throwing a look between the boy and Viola, he promptly raises an arm and points to Etburn, ignoring the slightly offended look that twists across his face. "You- you're a trainee," then to Viola, "and you- you're showing him the ropes. Effective now." And, not stopping to see their reactions, he goes to the door, slipping out his phone as he power-walks.
"i need to show you something. unknown number, 08:27"
The air is fresh outside, dry and cool on his face. He can feel it taking the must off of him one breeze at a time. Sadly, it's not a time to appreciate nature. "What do you want?" he asks the man that peers out at him, feeling a curl of contempt run through him.
Of course Lars would be the aviator-wearing Rayban type. Of course.
"Didn't I say? Get in," Lars speaks all too briskly for the hour. Niklas can only conclude the man must be on something, because without coffee, no one should rightly be that cheerful at eight in the morning. He’s playing music, for goodness’ sakes. "I'll explain as we go. Have some things for you."
He crosses his arms. "I'm working."
"No you're not."
Niklas sighs, feeling his shoulders slump with defeat. "Give me a minute." He goes back inside, takes off his apron and crouches behind the counter, ignoring the confused looks Viola and the kid give him.
He considers the undersides of the front counter the precious sanctum of all essentials a shopkeeper would ever need. In that small and musty space rest photocopies of all official papers, the shift log, the tried-and-true check-writer pen, the notebook that holds all the secrets to The Menu, spare keys to everything in the store behind a false drawer, and a taser gun wrapped up in a plastic bag in a bag of trail mix that he stuck there a year ago after an encounter with a violent drunk.
Today he's taking the taser.
"Shop is yours, Viola," he says as he paces out, tearing off his standard cafe polo on the way and straightening up the shirt he's wearing underneath. It seems like it may be a hot enough day to do with just that. He tries not to think about the flash of the look of horror on her face dashed across the door reflection as he leaves, and if she says anything, it’s muted by the squeaking and the bell.
He’s a little sorry. But then, he always believed she was stronger than she looked, and throwing her with that punk will be a perfect standing proof.
* * *
"Alexei N. Baranov," Niklas breathes as he reads the file, surreptitiously lowering the passenger seat window an inch at a time when Lars isn't looking until he can breathe actual air. Whether the man knows it or not, his otherwise immaculate car smells like a filthy hotbox, and the dust stirred up from the old folder is not helping. He reads, "Six feet one, two hundred five pounds. Brown hair, gray eyes. Trade analyst. Outstanding performance record." He flips through host of loose paper to the front of the folder, stares at the mugshot of the sickly-looking man in the picture, and the large company logo. Bacchus Trades, Inc. The words sit just above the large, stamped watermark of TERMINATED pounded across the surface of the paper. "Who are Bacchus Trades?"
Lars takes a drag from his third cigarette and turns down the music playing on the sound system. "Wine shipment. Merchants. An affiliate of our dear lady ol’ Lana Morris. Couer's a coast city, remember, sweetheart?" he says, gesturing to his right at the coastal horizon stretching out before them. "Fair game for trade."
My father worked for Svetlana? "Is that where you're taking me?"
The man gives a snort. "Are you- ah, shit, who am I kidding, you're always serious. No, I'm not taking you to fucking Bacchus Tradings. That would be dumb as hell."
"Then where are we going?" Niklas asks.
"Shipyard. Read your file," Lars grunts, and turns the music up as if to indicate the end of the conversation.
He leans forward and slips the volume knob of the system counterclockwise, looking to the man pointedly. "I took the kid in."
"Good." He doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Smartest decision of your life, especially after saying something that stupid to Lana last night."
"Does she really have ties to the mob?"
The laugh that escapes the man's lips is not quite a laugh, more like a defeated motion towards it. "'Ties to the mob'? She told me you were a street boy, not a Godfather movie fan or some shit like that."
"Tell me what I'm supposed to expect when she's trying to port stolen goods through my store. When my father… When my father is associated with her, according to this. What does ' renovation' even mean to her? Why is she only using me now?"
"Tell you what," Lars says, "I'm just an associate, Nikky. I don't know what Lana is doing. I honestly don't care about that, officially all I'm here for is to pull some money in, snag some paperwork and get your little property renovated. I just know you were stupid to let her help you. Lana never helps someone without eventually holding them to it."
"Is that what she's doing for you?"
He ‘tsk’s. "Maybe it is. But it looks a bit like a favor to me, too, putting someone like you in my hands." The man shoots him a grin, and sends Niklas brushing the plastic of his taser beneath his pocket just to remember it's there. "But read the file some more. I know I make great conversation, Nikky, but I didn't break into Bacchus Trade warehouses to have your poor daddy go ignored."
He glances back to the file, thumbs through the mugshot. Alexei Baranov looks older in it, and like he'd put on weight, but the face staring back at him still reminds him strikingly of his own. He peruses through to the back ends of the pages, through logs of evaluations filled with standard words and an occupation summary that looks like complete jargon. Position: trade analyst. Trade analyst his ass. At the very end of the file sits two slips of paper, one the same uniform aged cream as all the rest, and the other a pristine white.
One is a two-week's notice. The other is a death certificate. Niklas inhales sharply, audibly.
Lars, picking up on him, asks, "What's up?"
"He's dead. He died seven months ago."
"Let me guess, he didn't 'analyze trade', either," the man says derisively.
Niklas slams the file against the dashboard, feeling the papers within crushed against the force and bent in an almost even half on his lap. He sits very still for a moment, shuts his eye, measures the air coming in and out of his lungs and doesn't think. Lars, he realizes, is pulling over.
"We're here."
"A moment," he says, vision screwed close. "Give me a moment."
There is a sigh on Lars' end, and the gentlest sound of a burning, sucked cherry. The engine purrs on, but he can hear both the windows raising, and only then is there the clicking turn of keys. In Niklas' shut eye, light saccades in in flickers of red, and no matter how hard he tries he's coming back to the world.
Lars' door is pushed open and the hum of distant machinery dances in with a whip of fresh, salty air. "Ya know, you never asked to actually meet him."
He opens his eye and looks at the man, at the long stretch of poured concrete all around them and the silvery ocean beyond all of that. "You're saying I already thought he was dead?"
The man takes another thoughtful drag, one leg already out the door. "Yeah, why not. Wouldn't be the first guy to wish his dad dead. How'd he die?" Without waiting for an answer, he reaches over into his lap and yanks the folder out, going through it himself to the end before pausing on the right page, giving it a strange, tense sort of stare. "Internal hemorrhage in suprar
enal regions and blunt force trauma to the prefrontal cortex. Exciting." With a dismissive wave, he shuts the folder and shoves it on the dash. "Come on, get out, we're here. You need a cigarette or something?"
Niklas ignores him and drags himself out of the car, slamming it shut behind him and looking around. The salty air greets him with an enthusiastic brush against his ears.
The shipyard is desolate for a weekday morning, a mere concrete field speckled with shacks filled with piles of anchor chains and supplies and a single mini-barge mounted on the hard by a row of large wooden beams. He's never been, but he'd imagine a port city would have livelier by way of shipyards. Lars has his back to him, facing the sea.
"What was it you wanted to show me?"
Lars turns and gives him a thoughtful glance, before shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over his end of the car. Through his white shirt, Niklas can see the ghost of a full back tattoo. "I lied," he says. "This is you paying for the files."
Niklas pauses. "What is it you want?"
The man takes a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it down and crushing it beneath his boot. "Nothing. Just this, and your conversation if you're so inclined."
"You took me off work for this." And I’ve just found out my father’s dead.
"Hey, I want what I want," he sounds almost sheepish at that. "Listen, Lana isn't very forgiving for people who get in her way, I don't know if you've figured that out yet. Next time you see her you owe her a big fat apology."
"I don't need you to tell me that."
"Okay. Then answer some questions of mine. About yourself."
"Why? You dig up everything there is to me to start with, why should I tell you?"
"Maybe I want to be told instead of having to dig it all up," Lars says.
"Bly-" he catches himself. "You can fuck yourself, Verdura." And with that, Niklas reaches for the car door to retrieve his uniform shirt and his father's file. He can't afford a taxi, not really, but he doesn't want to be here.
The Toyota honks once as the locks click in place. When he looks up, a small smile is climbing on Lars' lips. "We had a deal about your father. You're gonna have to learn how to start paying me, Nikky, or I'm just gonna have to call off this investigation of mine and stick to real business. And I just don't want to do that to you." He paces around the car briskly and comes around to him, hovering at the side-view mirror and cocking his head to the side.
Niklas tries hard not to look as irritated as he is. "You said you would be flexible on the price."
He steps in so close that the smoke on him thickens the air. "Is this really so much to ask of you? Fine, I don't want your time," he laughs, ignoring the discomfort in Niklas's expression at how close they are together. From this distance he can see just about everything there is to the man, from the scar running from his temple to his brow to the pores of his olive skin to the lank lock of black hair that's fallen from the swept-back order and into Lars' brown eyes. He can tell that Lars is only about an inch taller than him, but his smell- the cigarette smoke and the starch of his obviously fresh clothes- dominate the entire space.
And he's not backing away.
"Kiss me, Niklas."
Niklas blinks, feels his jaw tense. "You said you would be flexible," he repeats, trying not to think to hard just what kind of request this man's made. Is he fucking with him? Is this a game?
Lars gives him a considering look. "I said that if you weren't willing to pay, I'd think of something else. I never said that something else would necessarily be better for you."
He touches the taser through his pocket, but keeps his eye trained on the man, so still he's going stiff. "I'll answer your questions."
"Yeah, I don't think so." Lars grips both his wrists at once with bruising force and yanks him into his body, head to head. And he thrusts him back against the car, a collision of bones, skin- lips.
Lars tastes like the morning and the tang of burnt leaves, and however hard Niklas tries to catch his breath in between the pressure of the man's lips on his, he can't- his entire body is on contact with Lars' and crushed by it, his wrists pinned beside his hips. And when he tries to turn his face away, Lars lets go of one hand and grips his jaw back into place so quickly, so forcefully he gasps.
There's no tongue, just the slightest nibble of his teeth on the flesh of his lower lip and then one more soft but firm press against his open mouth. Lars ignores how he's holding his breath, just lingers a little longer than he has to before he lets go completely and steps back.
Niklas is in disarray, draped over the car, and most definitely bruised in more places than one.
It's strange, but when he looks up, the look on the investigator's face isn't one of smugness or pleasure: just an earnest, studious expression. Like he's sorting out the entire experience himself while Niklas stands there and tries to catch his breath and a regain a little dignity. He'd completely underestimated how powerful the man was.
He’s fought before, so many times in his life, but so long ago- Lars, he thinks, has had the privilege in much more recent experiences. It’s in the way he moves and the artful angle and strength of him. Even something as close as a kiss feels like a fight.
"That-" he starts, shaking. "You're never-"
"Doing that again?" Lars enquires, voice distant. "I don't know. I kind of enjoyed that." And he just has to add, "And by what I was feeling I think you did a little, too."
The stars fill his vision for a second, just a second, before altogether receding as he reminds himself that this man is simply not worth it. He tells himself to calm down, that it was just a kiss, that this man is a psychopath and if all he wants is a kiss for valuable information, then what is the problem?
Lars is swaying on his boots and checking his phone surreptitiously, saying, "About Bacchus Trades, by the way? Not to spoil things for you, but your father was robbing them blind."
"I don't have to believe you." But he does. He doesn't know why, but he does. That can't be all my father did, Niklas thinks, for this all to be so covered-up.
"That's right. You don't. I can always provide evidence and charge you," Lars says, amused. "Hold on, my friend's almost here." He waves his phone in the air, though from that distance the text message upon its screen is unreadable.
"You lied again, then." Even as he speaks he can hear the distant roar of an engine cutting through the serene seaside air. It's a motorcycle- there's no mistaking that.
"I did. But I got paid anyway. Funny how that works out, isn't it?"
As soon as he's done talking Lars turns his back to him and to the source of the sound- and through the shacks and miscellaneous abandonment it emerges. Niklas thinks that if he had to describe just what shade of purple it the bike is, he'd start with the word 'poison'. As the rider approaches, Lars gives a noncommittal wave and paces back to lean beside him at the car.
It's as if he wasn't kissing him moments before, and that's as if it didn't happen. It's comforting.
The figure on the bike comes round to them, slowing down to a stop. They're fully geared in biking attire, from the large quilted leather jacket to the gloves and the helmet, and aside from the backpack, they're carrying nothing. They kill the engine, and the first thing they say upon tearing off their helmet is "It's too hot to be riding around like this."
The black hair hasn't even finished tumbling from her helmet down her back before Niklas has to choke back his surprise. She is strikingly beautiful and especially tall- and while her voice is deep and mellifluous, it is most definitely masculine. Bright blue eyes fall on him like a hammer and she frowns. "What?"
He finds himself standing a little straighter. "Nothing. I was... reconciling a woman like you on a bike like that."
She glances down at it, and a strange tenderness softens her expression. Niklas notices the rift of indented skin that runs like a slash from the bridge of her nose to her cheek and thinks that there is a lot of reconciling to be done about this woman. "Nice, isn't it?" she
says, stroking the ignition. When she does look away from it, it's at Lars- and with a distant but disapproving frown. "I brought what you wanted." She tears off the backpack and, without waiting to see if either of them will catch it, thrusts it away into the air.
Lars' hand shoots out and snatches it out of the air with alarming dexterity. "That's my girl. You're a darling, you know that?"
"No, I'm not, and you need to get some sleep. Who is the Russki?" she asks as she tears off the jacket and sets to tying it around her waist. Niklas catches view of the badge fastened to her belt, looks between them and swallows.
She's police.
"Friend of mine on a little operation," the investigator says without missing a beat, crouching and unzipping the backpack. "We're shopping for contractors to renovate a store."
