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Barron shrugs. Philip shakes his head.
The sidewalk outside has the kind of stillness that comes only very early in the morning, and in that stillness I think the restaurant looks oddly majestic. Maybe I have bad taste.
Anton twists a key in the lock and opens the door. We walk into the dark room.
“You sure no one’s here?” Philip asks.
“It’s the middle of the night,” says Anton. “Who’s going to be here? This key wasn’t easy to come by.”
“Okay,” Barron says, “so this place is going to be full of tables and political people. Rich bored folks that don’t mind kicking it with gangsters. Maybe some workers from the Volpe and Nonomura families—we’re currently allying ourselves with them.” He walks across the room to point to a spot underneath a massive chandelier hung with a few huge blue crystals among the clear ones. It glitters, even in the dim light. “There will be a podium and loud, boring speeches.”
I look around. “What is this?”
“Fund-raiser for ‘Vote No on Proposition 2.’ Zacharov is hosting it.” Barron looks at me strangely. I wonder if I was supposed to know that.
“And I’m going to just walk up to him?” I ask. “In front of everyone?”
“Chill,” Philip says. “For the millionth time, we’ve got a plan. We’ve been waiting too long for this to be idiots, okay?”
“My uncle has some very specific habits,” says Anton. “He’s not going to have his bodyguards close to him, because he can’t have his society folks or the other families thinking he’s afraid. So instead of guards he gets high-up laborers to take turns as his entourage. Philip and I are scheduled to be up his ass for two hours, starting at ten thirty.”
I nod my head, but my gaze strays to the walls, to oil paintings of houses with chicken legs scampering beside women riding cauldrons through the skies, all reflected in massive mirrors. All our movements shimmer in them too, so that I keep thinking I see someone else moving when it’s only myself.
“Your job is to keep an eye on us after that and wait for Zacharov to head to the bathroom. He wants it cleared when he uses it, so we’ll be alone. That’s where you’re going to give him the touch.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“There are two men’s bathrooms,” Anton says, pointing. “One has a window. He’ll pick the other one. I’ll show it to you.”
Barron and Philip head toward a glossy black door stenciled in gold with the image of a man on horseback. I follow.
“We go in with Zacharov,” Philip says. “You wait a few minutes and then go in yourself.”
“I won’t be in the room,” Barron says. “I’ll be outside—with you—to make sure everything goes smoothly.”
I push the door and walk into a large bathroom. A mural of tiles takes up the whole far wall, an enormous bird of red and orange and gold flies in front of a tree covered in what look like cabbages but I assume are just really stylized leaves. The hand dryer is attached to that wall, but someone has painted it almost the same gold as the tiles. Stalls are along one side, urinals on the other, and a stretch of marble countertop filled with shining brass sinks.
“I’ll play Zacharov,” Anton says, and goes to stand at the sink. Then he looks at me, and I think he realizes he’s about to be mock-assassinated. “No, wait. I’ll play me. Barron, you be my uncle.” They change places.
“Okay, go ahead,” Anton says to me.
“What do I say?” I ask.
“Pretend you’re drunk,” says Barron. “Too drunk to notice you’re not supposed to be there.”
I stagger from near the doorway up to Barron.
“Get him out of here,” Barron says in a fake accent that I think is supposed to be Russian.
I extend my gloved hand and try to slur my voice. “It’s a real honor, sir.”
Barron just looks at me. “I don’t know if he’d shake.”
“Sure he will,” says Anton. “Philip here will say that Cassel’s his little brother. Try again, Cassel.”
“Sir, it’s a real honor to be here. I really appreciate the way that you’re doing your part to make workers safe so that we can exploit all the little people.” I hold out my hand again.
“Stop being a comedian,” Philip says, but not like he really means it. “Concentrate on the money and how you’re going to get your fingers on his skin.”
