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Okay. Respect seems to be an important topic for drunk Russians. A couple of the previous dudes talked about it too—in the context of how much of it they have for Art.
Speaking of Art, he launches to his feet. “Look, bud.” His speech is slightly slurred, but his eyes are dark and flinty. “I’m the only man who does anything to her. Ever. Is that clear?”
Is he acting? Either way, why does this make me feel even warmer in my chest?
The guy straightens his spine.
Skunk. Are we about to have a drunken brawl?
“Mr. Skulme,” the dude says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean disrespect.”
Art seems to calm down. “It’s fine. How about we drink one more shot and forget about it?”
We down the vodka, and when the guy leaves, Art sits back down and whispers to me, “I think it’s time we head over to the airport. I fear people might be coming to the banya now just to get my autograph.”
I look around.
He might be right.
This place that was pretty empty before is full now… that or I’m seeing doubles and triples. Oh, and the new people—or double-vision people—are all sneaking looks our way.
I leap to my feet.
Whoa. Head rush. Maybe I did that too fast.
Before I can lose my balance, Art grabs my hand.
Ah. The handgasm to rule them all.
He leads me to the locker room, but for some reason, he doesn’t walk in with me.
Boo.
In a haze, I shower, which doesn’t clear my mind as I hoped.
Wrapped in a towel, I’m stumbling over to my locker when a woman turns up in my way.
She looks like one of the Russian models I spotted earlier, only way overdressed for the location. And even thinner. And oddly familiar. And pissed off.
“Korova,” she hisses at me with a nasty expression before shouting in rapid-fire Russian that I wouldn’t be able to follow even if I were sober and spoke the language.
When she’s done, as if to punctuate her point, she slaps my cheek.
