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I toss a crumpled bill down on the bar.
“You keep that in your underwear?” Mykah snorts, trying to smooth out the bill.
“I don’t wear underwear. Would you keep you gun in a ziploc? No. You gotta keep the important things accessible.”
“If you sit at the bar, the men will think you’re selling something,” Polina warns me.
“Maybe I am … primo drug chef for hire. Going to the highest bidder.”
I lean back against the bar, scanning the room through the thick haze of smoke. Ismaal Elbrus is puffing up a storm, surrounded by his usual bevy of beauties. A few of thekachkiare here, though luckily not the one they call Cujo. If he’s looking for Adrik, I sure as fuck don’t want him to catch sight of me. I don’t know if Zakharov knows I was present when his son was shot, or even if he’d recognize me—I’d rather not find out by getting chucked in a trunk of a Soviet bodybuilder.
The club is relatively quiet, since it’s only a weeknight. The most commotion comes from a table in the back, where a motley assortment of gangsters are playing Texas hold ‘em.
My ears perk up when I hear a familiar voice barking, “Ya skazal tebe, Klim, nikakikh grebanykh zastol'nykh razgovorov!” I told you Klim, no fucking table talk!
Craning my neck, I see the dark hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakable outrage of my favorite ex-girlfriend.
Her antagonist, the chatty Klim, is a scrawny Slav with earrings in both ears and an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He throws an amused look to his compatriot across the table, remarking, “I’m allowed to make conversation.”
“Not about your cards,” Ilsa snaps.
“Take it easy.”
“I’ll take it easy when you pay me what you owe me from last week.”
“Last week! You got a miracle ace on the river … that was a bad beat and you know it.”
“It’s not a miracle, it’s probability you dumb shit. And you’re still gonna pay me.”
Ilsa’s face is flushed, her voice low and guttural. If I’m not mistaken, for once in her life she’s drunker than I am.
Because they’re speaking in Russian all the way across the room, I lose the thread of the argument whenever they lower their voices. From what I observe, the two Slavs are trying to take advantage of Ilsa’s inebriated state to win back some of the money she’s taken from them. They’re communicating across the table in hints and signs, while Ilsa grows more and more indignant.
Fair play is everything to her. If you really want to piss her off, the quickest way to do it is to cheat.
I don’t know which straw breaks the camel’s back, but Ilsa leaps to her feet, upending the table, sending cards and chips and cash scattering everywhere. The Slavs howl in outrage, along with the other four players at the table. There’s a mad scramble for the muddled money, the players snatching up everything they can reach and stuffing it in their pockets. Klim is shouting in Ilsa’s face. Steel flashes as his buddy pulls a knife.
I’m running over. Mykah is faster, putting one hand on the bar and vaulting over it before I’ve taken two steps.
“I told you Ilsa, if you flip one more fucking table—”
“I’ve got her!” I interject, grabbing Ilsa by the arm. “I’m taking her home.”
“What about my money?” Ilsa cries.
“Leave it,” I hiss in her ear. “They want to shank you.”
“Fuckin’ try it!” Ilsa hollers, leaning over my arm to swing at Klim. “You skinny little bitch baby bastard—”
“Alright, he got the message,” I say, hauling her away while Mykah blocks the Slavs from stabbing us in the back on our way out the door.
Ilsa is both taller and heavier than me, and neither one of us is sober. Trying to help her up the stairs is like a piece of spaghetti trying to lift a meatball—we’re not meant for this.
I’m hurrying her along while doing my level best not to puke. All this exertion makes my head spin. The street tilts back and forth like a teeter-totter.
I wave down the nearest cab. It pulls up to the curb, covered in so many scrapes and dents that I’m wondering how our driver still has his license. Not the best advertisement for his services. Worried the Slavs might come up the stairs looking for us, I shove Ilsa in the back seat and fall in after her.
We’re a tangle of arms and legs, looking for seatbelts that apparently don’t exist.
