To start at the beginning of the story, go here.
I started to mumble through the latest head trauma. Oleg ordered me to be quiet. “I do not need you to tell me any more. I only wished to see if you would lie. I already know the truth. There is only one thing I wish from you. Where is Mikhail?”
The ghost of Mikhail popping up again made me laugh out loud. Oleg lined the sights of the pistol on my face telling me he didn’t appreciate the frivolity.
Before he hit me again I asked, “What?”
“Mikhail Otari. He went with you on an errand and no one has seen him since. He is one of my men. Where is he?”
I pushed the pain around on my face, trying to mimic confusion. “You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s gone.”
Oleg leaned in. “Where did he go?”
I stared at Oleg over the sights of his pistol and found the thread of a lie, began to pull on it. “I took care of him for you. He won’t be coming back.”
Oleg’s eyes reddened around the edges, promising anger wasn’t far behind. “What?”
I raised a hand to indicate a misunderstanding. “Mitnick said to take care of him. He said you wanted him gone.” Pulling more on the lie, I wasn’t sure where it came from. It rolled out in whole cloth, as if Cheryl were weaving it in my head.
Oleg pulled away from me. “Why would I believe this?”
“Check the car I came here in. The gun I used is in the trunk.” I felt my reptile uncoil from my brainstem, shuddering with anticipation. “Or you could ask Mitnick.”
Oleg barked something at one of my escorts. I only understood the word, “Mitnick.” Oleg said something to the other one and he exited as well.
Oleg swore at me and then at Diamonds, who stepped close, brandishing his knife. Moving behind the desk, Oleg continued a steady stream of curses as he set down the pistol long enough to jerk his pants on. Cross spoke to him in a reasonable tone. Diamonds hovered near me, but didn’t stop me when I moved to sit on the chaise. I pretended to nurse my head.
More vory arrived. Oleg spoke in quiet, angry tones. Diamonds mingled among the new entrants, whispering orders to the junior gangsters as they filed in. Most moved to other furniture or stood in corners, some posing, others overly gregarious, each trying to wrestle nervous energy into being cool in front of the big boss. One was even dumb enough to sit near me. A few of the more sensible ones blocked exits.
I smeared the blood across my face to make it look like the blow from Oleg was worse than it was. I held my head, using the injury as an excuse to avoid eye contact, occasionally glancing around to get a better count of Oleg’s men.
I did this until I saw Pyotr muscle his way in. When he saw me, his eyes widened with recognition. I expected him to run off half-cocked and start swinging. He only smiled.
I gave a big, wide, dumb American grin right back to him. At the casino, I had always had to hold back, couldn’t hurt anyone too badly. There, in Mitnick’s house, it wouldn’t matter any more.
Through the interior door to the right of the desk, Mitnick appeared, Brick and Whip flanking him. Someone must have told him trouble was brewing because more of his men were with him. The vory cleared the floor so there were two unobstructed paths, one to me and one to Oleg, making sure Mitnick could see both.
The lines around Mitnick’s eyes collected themselves in worry, but that bright, white smile came out from behind his beard. He chided me. “What are you doing here?”
Oleg didn’t wait to be addressed. “I was asking him what became of Mikhail.”
Mitnick replied, “There was trouble, I sent Mikhail to help.”
“Then what became of Mikhail?” Oleg’s spoke like he might to a child, a high sing-song that promised punishment at its end.
Mitnick raised himself up, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet. He gestured to me, hand out, palm flat, waiting for me to put an answer into it. “Well?”
I did not return his gaze. “He was in Sartre’s service station when I lit the place on fire. You can ask Rotella – the cops have the body.”
The room went still, all of the restless energy among the men freezing cold. Mitnick only shook his head. “You told me that Mikhail died fighting Sartre’s men by your side. That he died as your comrade.”
Oleg didn’t let me answer, jumping into the widening breach between the truth and lies. “You knew Mikhail was dead?”
“I suspected Mikhail was dead,” Mitnick emphasized the first verb. “I had no proof.”
“The police, this Rotella, who you have had in your home, have his body. You could have known had you wanted.” Oleg spoke quickly, the red in his face turning purple.
Mitnick let out a long exhalation. I heard my lizard hiss, savoring expectation. “Things here are not as they are back home, Oleg. They are delicate and require patience. I would have found Mikhail eventually and sent him to you.”
“After you murdered him? That would have been kind of you.”
Mitnick’s eyes hardened in the same flinty way as they had at the bottom of the casino stairs Sartre had thrown him down. “Why would I have killed Mikhail?”
I interrupted. “You said he knew who killed Sergei.”
The forest of vory shifted in the wind between the two men, the surprise clear in Oleg’s voice. “You killed Sergei?”
“No,” I spoke loudly and clearly. “Nika killed Sergei. She got pregnant by a local boy and Sergei forced her to have an abortion. She killed him for it. Mitnick covered it up, but Mikhail found out about the whole thing and had to go.” I looked at Oleg. “I thought you knew all this.”
After the days of watching Mitnick’s carefully controlled persona, there was a pleasure in seeing it crack with the bounty of confusion and fear that this web of falsehoods produced. Mr. Smooth actually stuttered in the face of the lie’s enormity, which was enough proof for Oleg.
Oleg spit something in Russian and raised his pistol. Mitnick’s men closed ranks around him, causing the vory to move forward. Diamonds pivoting between us, not sure who to stab. With eyes off me, I scanned for a target of opportunity, knowing if Mitnick got control of the situation it would give away the lies I was weaving.
Mitnick lifted his hands, calling for calm. I was lucky he didn’t get any farther.
Photo courtesy of Hert Niks.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
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